Line Of Sight. Рейчел Кейн

of the front window. The headlights had spilled over a dark empty road, a brilliant yellow line…

      …and a road sign.

      “She’s on Highway 347,” he said to himself. “She’s there now.” Because the view had still been washed with a faint tint of sunset, the far horizon not yet completely dark.

      He needed to tell somebody. Anybody.

      Stefan pushed through the crowd of bored reporters to the edge of the crime scene, where the uniformed officers were looking even more bored. Forensics was packing up, and the floodlights were going off. They were leaving.

      No sign of the brunette detective and her girl; long gone, he guessed. Out the other side, where there were fewer reporters.

      “Sir,” he said, and then louder, “Officer!”

      The nearest cop, who’d been speaking with two others, turned to look at him with a dead-eyed stare. “Stay behind the tape, sir,” he said.

      “I am behind the tape. I have—”

      “You’re leaning over.”

      “This is important, I know where they are! The girls!”

      He had all their attention now, an uncomfortable weight of it. “How do you know that, sir?” “I saw them.”

      “Where, sir?”

      “In a van, traveling on Highway 347. I don’t know if they’re going north or south…”

      “Back up, sir. How exactly did you see inside the van?”

      Oh boy. “I just know, okay? I know. You need to look for them on Highway 347, and hurry. They probably won’t be there long, and those girls are in danger. They’re going to get hurt.”

      He didn’t have to be a psychic to get the sense that the cops were not pleased with his explanation, although they dutifully took down all his contact information—home address, cell phone, everything but his brand of underwear. The male cop stepped forward and looked at Stefan from a height well above six feet. “You just know,” he said. “As in, what? You had a dream?”

      “A vision, actually,” he said. “Look, I need to talk to the detectives. I can help!”

      The cop nodded, but his face had shut down into an expressionless mask. “I see. I’ve got your name and contact information, sir. I’ll make sure it gets to the detectives.”

      “Highway 347—”

      “Yes, sir. We’ll follow that up.”

      The cop was humoring him. No question about it. Stefan felt a hot burn of rage, but it wouldn’t do any good to let it out; he’d get to talk to the detectives, all right, in handcuffs. Not so much a talk as an interrogation, probably.

      He needed to talk to Agent Rush.

      “Fine,” Stefan said and held up his hands in surrender. “Just check Highway 347. You know how to find me if you need more information.”

      Not that he had any more information, really. The glimpse of the road sign had been a pure gift of luck. It wasn’t exactly breaking news that the girl was terrified, or that she was in a van. Or that her friend had purple-streaked hair.

      Or that they were in real trouble.

      Stefan moved away, furious and frustrated, and tried to decide on his next move. He had no idea where Agent Rush had gone, and had no way to track her down. And he needed to talk to her, he just sensed it. She would listen to what he had to say, if he could just get past that thick defensive shell.

      And to do that, she had to want to talk to him.

      “Cops giving you a hard time?” asked a cool female voice at his elbow. He turned and saw a petite blonde dressed from the waist up in an expensive silk shirt and tailored jacket, and from the waist down in blue jeans and flats. She looked styled and coiffed and perfectly made-up.

      Television reporter, beyond any doubt.

      “A little,” he said.

      “I’m sorry, but I overheard what you said to him. You said you had information about the missing girls…? Something about Highway 347?”

      He smiled at her. She smiled back. It was purely a professional exchange; there was something about her that put him on his guard, maybe the slightly harsh glitter in her eyes, or the ambition he sensed coming off her in waves. Not a bad person, he sensed, but a driven one. Compulsively needing to win.

      He had no idea what game she was playing, but she clearly saw him as some kind of pawn.

      “How do you know I’m not one of the kidnappers?” he asked. Her eyebrows rose, and those brown eyes sparkled even more.

      “Are you? Because that would be one hell of a story.” She hastily tamped down her excitement. “Provided the girls were returned unharmed, of course.”

      “Of course.” He tried to keep the irony out of his voice. “I heard they’re both students at a local girls’ school.”

      “Private school,” the reporter said. “What do you know about the Athena Academy?”

      “Athena Academy?” he repeated blankly. He’d never heard of it. He knew about the goddess Athena, of course— “Nothing.”

      “You weren’t called in? Maybe by one of the alumni to help with the investigation?” She seemed to be fishing for something, dangling bait, but he had no idea what she meant.

      He shrugged. “I’m a private citizen. Not called in by anybody. How about you?”

      She gave him a knowing smile. “I have my sources. I got a tip early in the investigation.” Some of the light went out of her eyes. Too bad. They’d been quite pretty for a while, and now they were narrowing and hardening again. “But you’re just a guy who listens to the police band and hangs around crime scenes? Wastes the time of the police with false leads?” She was in pursuit of a completely different story now, one potentially damaging to him both personally and professionally. He needed to establish credentials, quickly.

      “No,” he said and stepped forward, forcing her to meet his eyes. “My name is Stefan Blackman, and I’m a psychic well known in Los Angeles, and if you want to put me on the air, I’ll tell you everything I know about the abduction of these girls. Including where the van was as of five minutes ago.”

      Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, then smiled. She held out her hand to him, and when he automatically took it, shook briskly. “Shannon Connor, ABS. I’ve certainly heard of you, Mr. Blackman. Don’t they call you the Network Psychic?”

      He hated that idiotic name, but he nodded. “I work for the broadcast networks, but not as a psychic. What I do for them really doesn’t involve psychic ability,” he said. “I just read the concepts for the shows and pick the ones I think will be most successful.”

      “But everybody says that your track record is extraordinary. Something like ninety-five percent, right?”

      He shrugged. “That part’s not visions. It’s just good sense.”

      “I like that. Save that for the camera, okay?” Shannon turned and waved at someone in the crowd, then made a pointing gesture toward a large panel van decorated with the ABS logo. A broadcast van. Stefan recognized the heavy extendable antenna mounted to the top of it. “Ten minutes to get set up, then we can tape. I can’t promise when it will air, though. Probably in rotation at the next news break. We’re in luck that Tory Patton’s off on maternity leave—I’m getting premium time, thanks to her getting knocked up. Next thing you know, I’ll be the anchor.” She winked, letting him know it was all in fun. Sort of. “Sound okay to you?”

      He hadn’t expected to land a full interview, not so quickly, but time was ticking away, and if he didn’t attract the attention of that cool, dismissive FBI agent soon, it would—he knew—be too late.