Page 13 of Preying Game

No. What he’s doing is giving me physical training. Running. Climbing. Stuff like shooting baskets. Climbing a net. Once he thinks I’m ready, he’s going to turn me loose outside—at least I think it’s outside—and hunt me. We’re in a big house. I’m assuming it’s on a big estate. And I guess it’s in an isolated location.

What? he gasped. Just to make sure he’d heard her right, he repeated what she’d said. He’s going to hunt you and kill you?

Yes, she answered again.

That’s . . . inhuman.

Yes. Like I told you, nobody knows I’m here. He says they think I died in a freak rock slide and I’m under thousands of tons of rubble.

Christ!

I get meals in my cell. Someone cooks them, but maybe it’s him. They’re awful. No salt. No seasoning. No frying. I suppose it’s what you’d call healthy food.

Is there anything you can tell me that would help me find you?

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and his pulse pounded in his temple. Last time the conversation had cut off abruptly. Was she still there?

Alice?

I’m sorry. I can’t think of anything. He sensed her dragging in a breath and letting it out. Okay, well, it’s an old house, I think. Or made to look old. In the dining room the furnishings are antique. Or they’re good reproductions.

What can you see out the window?

Nothing. The shutters are closed.

Damn. Do you know when he’s planning the hunt?

No, but like I said, he implied he might move it up.

We’ll figure out how to get you away from him. He wanted to believe it. He knew she did too.

Her mental voice turned tentative. I asked you a little about it last night. How is it that I’m able to talk to you like this?

He cleared his throat, then realized he was only stalling for time. This may sound weird, but I work for a security agency where a lot of the agents have . . . he tried to think of how to put it. Special powers.

You mean superpowers? Like Superman or something?

Now he heard the skepticism in her inner voice.

Not like superheroes, he answered quickly. Frank Decorah, the man who runs the agency, recognizes people with unusual talents. There are several of us who can communicate mind to mind. I’m not the best at it. I’ve used the talent to help find kidnap victims. But in the past, it was always over short distances. He sighed in frustration. I don’t even know where you are.

Right. But how did we . . . make contact? I mean, I was sending out a message in my mind, hoping against hope that someone would hear me.

And I did. I was working on a car. I kept getting static on the radio. And then I heard your voice. I don’t know how it happened, he added quickly. But somehow it was the reverse of what I’ve done in the past. You reached out to me.

Not to you, she put in quickly. I was desperate for someone to help me. And you were there. Thank God, she added.

Yes, thank God.

When he’d found kidnap victims before, he’d done it by lying down in a dark room with his eyes closed and sending his mind out to a victim that Decorah Security was trying to find. The link might not be strong. But he could strengthen it by getting physically closer, usually in a van—with someone else driving. He had always been the active agent in reaching out. And sometimes he’d established a rapport with the victim. But he’d never felt as personally connected as with Alice. He wanted to keep talking to her now. But when he looked at his watch, he was shocked at the time.

It’s after 1:00am he said.

That’s late. I have no way to tell time here.

If you’re going to be doing physical stuff all day, you have to get some sleep.

I know, but I don’t want to stop talking to you. You’re the only human contact I’ve had since I got here . . . except with him. Please, can you stay a little longer?

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