Part 8 (1/2)
”Special,” Genny said.
”Quite a story. The two richest men in town in love with a girl everyone thought was crazy. And she proved them right when she chose a poor boy over either wealthy man.”
”You're a cynic,” Genny remarked as if the realization had just come to her.
”If you were truly psychic, you'd have known that already.”
”That's where you're wrong. People who possess any type of sixth sense aren't all-knowing or all-powerful. And most of us have a very difficult time controlling our special gifts, whatever they may be.”
”I've heard that explanation before. It gets people like you off the hook when they're wrong.”
”People like me? People who possess a sixth sense?”
Dallas snorted. ”People who claim to have a sixth sense.”
”Yes, of course. We only claim to be gifted, but none of us really are. Is that your take on it?”
”That's what I know to be a fact.” He stole a quick glance at her, then returned his full attention to the road ahead.
”So you've known others like me?”
”A few who claimed to be psychic, telepathic, precognitive, whatever the h.e.l.l you want to label it.” He paused for a couple of seconds, then said, ”But none of them were anything like you, Genevieve Madoc.”
”Who was it that closed your mind to the possibilities that there's more to life than what we can perceive through our five senses?”
Dallas huffed. ”There's no point in our discussing this. We'll just go around and around in circles. How about we simply agree to disagree?”
”All right, then. For now.”
He didn't like the sound of that. He figured Genny believed she could change his mind. She couldn't. Not unless she turned out to be exactly what she claimed to be. And that was highly unlikely.
Several minutes later they drove into Cherokee Pointe, population 10,483. He instantly got the feeling he was entering Mayberry, U.S.A. Moderate traffic flowed along the slushy streets, but only a handful of people trudged up and down the sidewalks. They drove past a remodeled hotel that had probably been built in the early part of the twentieth century. A myriad of little shops lined Sixth Street.
”Take a right at the next red light. We'll go past my friend Jazzy's restaurant and bar on the way. Then take a left off Loden Street and go two blocks. You can't miss the courthouse on Main Street. It's a big white building with huge white columns.”
”Your friend Jazzy, who believes you're psychic, is a local restaurateur?”
”Jazzy's a local businesswoman. She owns Jasmine's, the best restaurant in town, as well as Jazzy's Joint, which is Cherokee Pointe's version of a cross between a pub and a roadhouse. And she's part-owner of Cherokee Cabin Rentals.”
”Hmm...”
Dallas turned right, drove past the two establishments owned by Genny's friend Jazzy, went two blocks and then took a left on Loden. He could see the courthouse up the street. A three-story brick structure painted white, with a bell-tower dome and impressive Ionic columns on three sides. The building sat in the middle of the block, flanked by the local fire and police departments.
”You can park in the rear,” Genny said. ”Everybody knows my truck, so we won't get a ticket.”
”Being the sheriff's cousin gets you preferential treatment, huh?” Dallas said jokingly.
Genny laughed.
Dallas parked the Trailblazer alongside a department vehicle in the shaded parking lot at the rear of the courthouse. He killed the engine and turned to Genny. ”I want to thank you again for taking in a stranded traveler last night. If you hadn't been so gracious, I'd have been forced to sleep in my car.”
”You would have frozen to death,” she told him. ”Anyway, you're quite welcome.”
Dallas opened his door, stepped down, rounded the hood, and was standing by the pa.s.senger door by the time Genny opened it. He held out his hand, which she took, and helped her onto the icy pavement. He held her hand for a fraction longer than necessary, then released her abruptly.
”In case I don't see you again after today...thanks, and...well, just thanks.”
”You've already said that.”
”So I have.”
She placed her hand on his upper arm. d.a.m.n! He actually thought he could feel her body heat through his s.h.i.+rt, jacket, and overcoat. Logic told him what he thought he felt was impossible, but his senses insisted it was true. The warmth in her palm spread up and down his arm. He stared into the depths of her black eyes and found himself unable to speak.
As if sensing his unease, Genny lifted her hand from his arm and said, ”Let's go talk to Jacob.”
Dallas simply nodded, then allowed Genny to lead the way into the courthouse. He followed behind her as she went inside the back door, down a marble-floored corridor, and to a rotunda with curving staircases that led upward to a second-story mezzanine and downward to the lower level.
”The Sheriff's Department is this way,” Genny said. ”It's not far.”
Within minutes, they entered the outer office, where a clean-cut young redhead with a freckled face and a welcoming smile hopped up from behind one of the three desks and came rus.h.i.+ng toward Genny.
”Hey there, Miss Genny.” The obviously smitten deputy grinned like an idiot. ”What brings you into town in weather like this?”
”I came to talk to Jacob,” Genny said, then turned to Dallas. ”Special Agent Sloan, this is Deputy Bobby Joe Harte.” She smiled at the boy. ”We need to see Jacob right away. Is he in his office?”
”Yes ma'am.” Bobby Joe surveyed Dallas from head to toe, then swallowed hard. ”But I guess since there's been a second murder-”
”There's been a second murder?” Dallas asked.
”Yes sir. Didn't you know?”
”Another sacrificial murder?” Dallas's heartbeat hummed loudly inside his head.
Genny grasped Dallas's arm. ”Let's talk to Jacob. He can tell you what you need to know.”
”He's on the phone with the crime lab in Knoxville,” Bobby Joe said. ”Just knock before you go in.”
Genny smiled warmly, and Bobby Joe Harte melted like an ice-cream cone dropped on a red-hot sidewalk in July. Dallas felt sorry for the deputy because he understood all too well the lady's spellbinding appeal.
Outside the sheriff's office door, Genny lifted her hand and knocked softly several times. Dallas stood tensely at her side, wondering just how forthcoming Butler would be to an agent on unofficial business.
”May we come in?” Genny asked. ”I have Agent Sloan with me.”
In two seconds flat, the door opened all the way, and standing there was one of the most intimidating-looking men Dallas had ever seen. Jacob Butler had to be at least six-five. With shoulders that spanned the width of the door and arms and legs like tree trunks, his weight would probably tip the scales somewhere between two-fifty and three hundred. Add to his impressive size a pair of slanting green eyes set in a leather-tan face that looked like it had been chiseled from granite, and shoulder-length jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and you had a man whose mere presence cautioned others to tread lightly.
”Genny.” Jacob's deep baritone voice sounded like sandpaper being sc.r.a.ped over metal. His face softened ever so slightly. ”Are you all right? What are you doing in town, with the roads in such bad shape?”
Before she could reply, Jacob glanced over her shoulder at Dallas. His eyes narrowed speculatively and his brow furrowed.
”Jacob, this is Dallas Sloan, the FBI agent you spoke to on the phone last night before-”