Contact. Evelyn Vaughn
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pain pills for old pains…had pins in his knees from that wreck, shrapnel from when he saw some buddy blown up—
She stumbled back, away from the uninvited information dump, away from her own freakishness. She caught herself with an elbow on the bar’s sticky wooden surface. Jazz music swirled back in around her.
When the bartender reached for her again—“You okay, kid?”—Faith ducked quickly back, avoiding contact.
“I’m—” But what could she say? She was a freak, strange enough that even her mom couldn’t explain it, strange enough that the most accepting friends she’d found so far were French Quarter psychic readers, not exactly mainstreamers themselves. That wasn’t new. But tonight, she was a freak with a missing roommate. “I have to go find my friend. I haven’t seen her come back from the restroom.”
Which lay across a sea of dancing, mixing, pressing people.
Not that Faith had a choice. Something was wrong.
Like a swimmer taking one last breath before diving into freezing water, she braced herself, then stepped into the dancing crowd.
Every person who brushed or bumped her brought a static jolt, a blare of fragmented sound, a blast of intense scent. Like being in a pinball machine. She was the metal ball, drawn by a force as sure as gravity in one direction while too many uncaring obstacles knocked her everywhere else. Zap. Ring. In the confusion, she got only flashes of real or imagined information.
This one told her husband she was at a girlfriend’s house. That one lost out on a raise. Another just tried E for the first time.
Faith gritted her teeth as she waded through them all, finally pushing into the moderately quieter back hallway with the pay phone and the bathrooms. The door marked Filles was closed, so she knocked. “Krystal?”
Nothing. Certainly nothing good. If she concentrated, Faith could hear a heartbeat, but there was something strange about it. Something…off.
She tried the doorknob. If she wound up invading someone’s privacy, she could always claim to be drunk. The door opened barely half an inch before catching, latched with an old-fashioned hook-and-eye to go with the Old N’awlins flavor.
It was enough for Faith’s gaze to track three things.
The back of Krystal’s pale-blond head, where it lay still on the linoleum.
The faucet, pouring water into the pedestal sink.
And a booted foot seeming to levitate upward off of that sink to vanish, ghostlike, into the ceiling.
Faith jammed her hand into the crack and sliced upward, hard. The hook snapped free. Then she was in the room, skidding to her bare knees onto the gritty linoleum beside…
Beside a human shape that used to be her friend, one of her new roommates. No.
Faith didn’t have to feel for a pulse. She could hear Krystal’s lifelessness in her silence—no heartbeat, no breath. She could see the purpling stripe, like a gory scarf, around her friend’s throat, could smell death amidst the usual toilet smells, a stagnant scent, along with the remnants of that cold, metallic fear and…
And something that turned her stomach even more harshly than this violent death. That scent was also an emotion, but one she’d never caught before. And it came from—
She looked up at where the booted foot had vanished—presumably with a killer attached—and at a white ceiling panel that hadn’t been replaced quite straight in its channel.
No time to think. If she stalled on the enormity of what must have just happened in here, like a normal human would, any chance she had of identifying Krystal’s killer would vanish.
Good thing Faith wasn’t normal.
Springing to her feet, she kicked the door shut and jammed the hook back into place—protect the evidence, right? Then she scrambled onto the sink’s edge and rose, stretching upward for the metal runner that supported the drop ceiling. She had to go on tiptoe, precariously balanced on porcelain, to wedge her fingers around the metal bar. The I-shaped runner gouged cruelly into the flesh of her hands. Wishing she’d done more chin-ups at the gym, Faith had to make do with swinging herself once, twice.
On her third try, she kicked a second panel loose and caught that runner behind her knees. Now she hung like a scantily dressed U, shoulders straining, but it was enough. Stepping her feet closer to her hands with awkward lurches, glad she’d worn running shoes instead of heels, she edged her knees close enough to give her leverage.
She wedged her head and arms up past the wood-fiber panel into the narrow crawlspace of the drop ceiling.
She heard a slither of movement, rapidly retreating.
Crawl was the right word for this suspended space, Faith thought, wriggling quickly in after the fleeing suspect. The drop ceiling, a precarious collection of acoustical tiles balanced on an exposed framework of metal channels, lay barely a foot below the wooden joists of the upper roof. Her view up here was obstructed not just by the darkness, which she could handle, but by lengths of taut hanger wire and aluminum air-conditioning ducts swathed in paper-wrapped, pink fiberglass insulation. But she could hear him—statistics told her it would be a him, as surely as did instinct and smell. She twisted in the direction of the telltale scuffling and caught a glimpse of retreating boot soles, barely ten feet ahead of her.
Faith launched herself after them, not on hands and knees but on thighs and forearms, her bare tummy and legs rasping across years of accumulated dirt. Her neck ached with the strain of keeping an eye on her quarry as she wriggled after him. The ceiling panels felt horribly unstable beneath her. They probably were—those yard-by-yard squares—barely an inch thick, suspended from the joists by mere wire. From beneath her she caught wafts of jazz music, shouted conversation, blurred heartbeats and breaths and mingling emotions. But ahead of her…
She heard the distinct rhythm of her quarry’s pounding heart and breathed in his smell as it faded from that strange, stomach-turning scent to surprise and distress at her pursuit.
Not surprisingly, he was bigger than her. The crawlspace was even tighter for him. It was slowing him down.
Faith was maybe eight feet behind him now. She dragged herself closer, digging with her elbows, scrabbling with her arched feet.
One of his shoulders glanced off a metal duct.
Now she was barely six feet behind him, putting her hips into it.
He had to flatten onto his stomach to avoid a low-hanging swag of electric wiring that had pulled free of its staples.
Now she was barely four feet behind him. She caught her hand on an exposed nail and barely noticed the slice of pain. She kept crawling.
He stopped. Why? Three feet, two…
Faith reached out her hand, ready to grab the killer by the ankle if that’s what it took. She doubted she could capture him alone, but she’d come to know evidence. She could damn well tear some vital clue off him.
But with the appearance of a sudden square of light, he vanished.
At least, that’s what it looked like. Even as she gaped, Faith realized that the man had punched out another ceiling tile and dived, headfirst, into whatever lay below.
Wriggling closer, she peered over the edge of the runner and saw metal racks, industrial-size bottles, cardboard boxes. Storeroom. She pivoted onto her hip, her shoulder brushing a joist above her as she rolled on her side and dropped her feet down first. Then she levered herself the rest of the way through the ceiling and let go.
With a light thud, she landed in a crouch on the floor below.
The storeroom was empty—of everything but storage, anyway. Faith shouldered quickly out the door….
And found herself behind the bar again. The man she’d been after could be anybody amidst the milling, churning crowd now. And the bartender wasn’t there to say who’d