The Reunited

TWO





Three weeks earlier

"NOW . . . if you’ll just put your hand . . . right about there . . .”

Special Agent Joss Crawford stood to the back of the group, his craggy face stoic, mouth unsmiling, eyes unblinking. It took all of his willpower not to laugh. Keeping a straight face through this joke was a rough gig, but he did it.

He wasn’t sure why he kept coming back here. He could get where he needed to go without this moron’s help.

There was a reason he kept doing the tour, though. He’d figure it out sooner or later. For the sake of his sanity and his patience, he kind of hoped it would be sooner. The idiot irritated the hell out of him.

“Do you feel it . . .”

Bored, he stared at the area the tour guide had indicated. Nope. He didn’t feel a damn thing.

“Yes, you feel it, don’t you? Most of you can just sense it . . .” the guide murmured, his skinny, ratlike face animated, dark eyes glinting in the lights of the flashlights. “That burst of cold, feel how it radiates. All around. Almost like a cold wind.”

It was a cold wind, Joss thought, bored. A cold front was projected to move through, and he had a feeling that had something to do with the sudden cool wind.

But he couldn’t blame everything on the weather.

Plenty of weird, though, could be laid at the feet of the guide. If anybody with eyes had bothered to look, they would have seen the clues all over the place. At least, he had.

He’d seen where the dry ice had been used.

He’d caught it when the guide had signaled one of his coworkers, too, and not a second later, there had been mysterious banging sounds when they’d stopped in the middle of an open field where supposedly hundreds of Seminoles had been slaughtered four hundred years earlier.

You can almost hear their cries, can’t you . . .

If the guide hadn’t had the timing wrong, Joss might not have been so skeptical.

All in all, he’d definitely gotten his money’s worth, he supposed. Joss took his amusements where he could, and they weren’t even at the highlight of the tour.

The Oglesby Cemetery.

Every step pulled him closer. Closer. Closer. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he heard the echo of her laugh. But then it was followed by the harsh, broken sound of her screaming. Pain. Darkness . . . torn away from her . . .

You’re going crazy, he thought wearily.

And if anybody knew why he was here, they just might try to get him committed. He certainly sounded crazy, he knew. Here to keep watch over the grave of a woman who’d died more than a century earlier.

Keep watch—just as he’d done dozens of times over the years.

* * *

“YOU, sir, have the aura of a man in need.”

Joss looked down to see the psychic-wanna-be standing in front of him, an anxious look on that skinny face, his hands clasped in front of his chest, his eyes hopeful, shining.

Aw, shit. He wasn’t the target for the night, was he?

Then the man lifted a hand . . .

Yes. He was the target.

Each time he’d done this tour, the guy had picked somebody out of his group to focus on. He seemed to think it added something to the show, Joss figured. Hell, Joss could really add something to the show. But he wasn’t in the mood to have some fake playing tricks on him, and he damn sure wasn’t going to go along with the gag, either.

Instead of responding, he just stared at him.

“And you’re so closed off,” Larry “Cap” Rawlings said, his voice heavy and mournful as he peered up at Joss.

Joss stood six-feet-five. Most people had to peer up at him. Normally, people kept some distance, but this guy was practically standing on his toes, so close that Joss could smell the garlic he’d eaten. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Cap had his head tipped so far back, one push against his chest and he’d be off balance enough to end up on his ass.

Joss amused himself with that image but didn’t let it show on his face as he continued to stare at the con artist. “What is it?” Cap asked again. “Why are you here? What draws you here? What do you seek?”

Oh, that’s a good guess . . . not. Most of these people here were seeking something. Either they wanted some sort of proof of life after death, or they wanted a thrill, or they just wanted something to do. A million other excuses, and a person didn’t have to be psychic to figure out the people here were seeking anything.

If this guy was a psychic, Joss was a prima ballerina.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joss said, keeping his voice flat, his face blank, and his eyes shuttered. He also deliberately crossed his arms over his chest and looked away—keep out, keep out, keep out—the body movements said it all. Assuming the guy knew how to read body language and had half a brain, maybe he’d just walk away and call it quits.

The guy didn’t have half a brain. Joss was guessing he was running on about a third.

“Oh, yes. Yes, you do. You seek answers, but you don’t even know if you believe in what you see before you. You don’t believe in the . . .” He paused dramatically and looked all around. “Gift.”

Joss had to bite back a laugh.

The . . . Gift? The moron probably didn’t even believe in psychic talent. It was real. Very real. He had a bona fide psychic standing before him, and Joss came with the freak gift of all freak gifts.

He was a mirror—he mirrored the gift of whoever he’d last connected with—partnered with.

And the last person he’d partnered with had been one of the telepaths on the special task force. Eyes slitted, Joss stared hard at Cap and caught a rush of thought. Current thoughts, recent thoughts, all of them coming together—organized chaos settling inside his mind, like they were just as much a part of Joss’s brain as Cap’s.

“Motherf*ck. I should have picked the old broad. She just wants to hear the same garbage old bitches always want to hear, but I get so tired of that tripe. This guy looked like he’d be more fun, but he’s not going to do a damn thing . . .

“If tips are good tonight, I’m gonna call Candise—she’s going to blow me so hard to make up for shortchanging me last time.

“Damn it, we need to get moving. If it starts to rain, half of these idiots will whine about a refund . . .

“Why in the f*ck couldn’t there have been any decent girls on this one . . .”

The wind grew sharper, colder. Lifting his face to it, Joss breathed it in. “Do we really need to stand around here while you try to play armchair psychologist, Cap?” Joss said. “I came out here to see the cemetery—I wanted to do the night walk through, and the only way to do it is with you. If it rains before we get through it because you wanted to chatter, I’m going to ask for my money back.”

Something ugly flickered in the man’s eyes.

Joss stared him down, and as the guide turned away, he smiled.

* * *

HE couldn’t get inside.

But he didn’t need to.

Just standing out in front of the little family mausoleum filled him with the strangest sense of peace, even as it flooded him with urgency.

When Joss was here, he didn’t hear her screams.

But he needed to find her . . . because until he found her, he was only half of who he needed to be.

He didn’t hear her screams, but he could remember the echo of her laughter.

The soft murmur of her voice, even if he couldn’t follow the words.

Here, he felt like he was closer to her.

Amelie . . .

Sighing, he sat on the single, small stoop and ran a hand down his face. Lost in the shadows, he rested his head against the column behind him and looked toward the door. It was dark and he couldn’t read the little plaques over the door, but he knew them.

Amelie had died first.

A few years later, her parents had passed on.

There was no other family. Just the parents, their daughter.

His Amelie.

He could keep watch over her all night. Seated there on the stoop in front of a mausoleum of a family long gone, he felt more complete than he did at any other time in his life.

And he could have stayed there, happily, for hours. Forever, even. But his phone intruded, vibrating in his pocket.

Joss ignored it, pulling to mind the memory of her face. He knew her face, had dreamed of her for so long. Longer than he could remember.

He’d had her face in his dreams for far longer than he’d known her name, but he knew her face, knew her name . . . knew that she’d cried over him. Once . . .

Eyes closed, he thought of the plaque that bore her name.

AMELIE CARRINGTON

BORN APRIL 1, 1870

DIED APRIL 1, 1890

Died on her birthday, twenty years . . . to the day.

Amelie.

The name was a song in his mind.

It whispered to him, called to him. And it had ever since the first time he’d seen it, back when he’d just been a kid, his first year in college, stumbling through here on a dare with his friends.

It had been pure chance that he’d found this place. He’d stumbled onto the porch, ended up much like he was now. And he’d looked up. Seen her name . . .

And it hit him.

Chance.

And fate.

Because he’d found the woman he’d dreamed of for so long. The dreams hadn’t started here. He’d always had those, but seeing her resting place had ripped open a hole inside him, like tearing open a floodgate.

He dreamed about a woman who’d died. And when he finally found her, it wasn’t her . . . she’d been gone for years. More than a century.

After he’d seen this place, everything got so much more intense, almost painful sometimes. Dreams that haunted him even when he was awake, the echo of her laughter chasing him at the oddest times.

He couldn’t go a week without the dreams. Couldn’t go a day without thinking of her.

All the while, he waited.

Obsessed.

Where are you? Am I going to find you?

Questions he’d asked himself for years. Questions that still had no answers.

Off to the left, he could hear the rest of the tour group—they were all walking around carrying coat hangers. Dousing rods, that’s what good ol’ Cap had called them.

Joss could have told all of them that Cap was wasting their time in this part. There weren’t any ghosts waiting for them. If there were any ghosts to be found, they were up in the newer part. Not here. Not that he could really see any ghosts, but that remnant energy was a buzz that a lot of psychics were sensitive to, and he wasn’t feeling it here.

His phone vibrated again. And again, indicating that whoever was calling was not giving up. Scowling, he pulled it out, thinking he should have left the damn thing in his car. But old habits died hard.

It wasn’t a surprise to see the name Taylor Jones pop up on the screen. But why in the hell was the boss calling him? He had a few days off. Not that the SAC would let a minor detail like that get in the way. The Special Agent In Charge didn’t let little details stop him.

Instead of answering it, Joss hit ignore and went to text him.

Busy. What’s up? Once he’d sent the message, he brushed a few leaves off the stoop, some debris. Once he’d almost brought flowers.

But he hadn’t. Because something—not a memory exactly—but something . . .

I would rather see the flowers growing than to have somebody cut them so they wither and die . . .

He didn’t want to leave her something that would have made her sad.

He thought about bringing something he could plant. Would that be okay? He’d have to check with the people who took care of the cemetery. They’d ask questions—a hassle, but he had some idea that she’d like something that bloomed. Yeah. He could almost see her smile over that.

His phone buzzed again. Aggravated, he glanced at the screen.

You’re needed. And my wife wants to know why you’re standing in a graveyard.

Joss scowled and lifted his head, emerging from the shadowed sanctuary of the crypt and studying the area just beyond the fence line.

Well, hell. He’d just been spotted by the rat-faced tour guide. Cap came scurrying his way, a tight frown on his face as he spied the phone. “You need to put that away. Those are very disruptive to the deceased. Spirits don’t like technology.”

“Really?” Out of pure curiosity, he texted Taylor back. Ask Dez if the dead care about technology.

The answer was almost immediate. Why in the hell should they? It doesn’t affect them, and the older ones aren’t even aware of it.

Glancing up at Cap, he smirked. “I have it on good authority that the dead don’t care about technology.” Resuming his perusal of the cemetery, he eyed the dim shapes of cars, shadows he couldn’t quite make out. Then he saw one car, idling a few dozen yards away, and he knew. When he saw it, he sighed and then looked back at Amelie’s crypt. He wanted to linger, say something, but he wasn’t about to give this guy any sign of his thoughts. He knew better than that.

I’ll be back, baby.

* * *

“YOU’RE into ghost tours now?” Dez asked as Joss came striding toward them. Up until three months ago, it had been Desiree Lincoln, but then she’d somehow lost her common sense and she’d married Taylor Jones. She was Desiree Jones now.

Joss tried not to hold that against her.

“Yeah. I wanted to do the real thing, but I figured Taylor would punch my lights out if I asked you out on a date to show me the real ghosts,” Joss said, flashing a grin at her.

Dez chuckled. “Nah. He’s not the violent type. I might punch out a woman for flirting with him, but he’s more collected than that.”

Under most circumstances, Joss would have agreed with her. Taylor was a cold bastard and nothing affected him—violence usually came because people got worked up over something. Jones didn’t do worked up, not really.

Dez was a different story.

Jones had hidden that pretty well from most people and that wasn’t particularly easy, considering how he was surrounded by psychics on a daily basis. If anybody could block out their thoughts, it would be Taylor. He had that control thing down pat. Were somebody to look up the word contained, they just might see Taylor’s picture next to the definition.

But Joss was around Taylor more than most of the others, and if the boss had anybody he’d call a friend, it was Joss. The two of them had spent many a long night together, and usually, Joss had his head jacked up with somebody else’s talent, a skill that let him read the heart, the mind, or both. Taylor wasn’t the easiest person to read, but eventually Joss figured out that the boss had feelings for Dez that were anything but cool and collected.

Speaking of the boss, he looked over at the car and saw the man of the hour. “You know, I’m supposed to be off. For like the next five days straight. I haven’t had many of those mythical off days lately, and I specifically requested a few days of personal time.”

“Yes, you did.” Taylor shrugged. “Sorry, Crawford. This just got dumped in my lap rather unexpectedly and it can’t wait. Your particular talents are needed.”

Joss snorted. “My particular talents are nonexistent. I’m a f*cking myna bird. I mimic everybody else. Find whoever I mimic and stick them in.”

“I can’t . . .” He shifted a look at Dez.

It was just a bare glance—a quick flick—and then his eyes were back on Joss’s face. But it was enough. Okay . . . so Jones wasn’t willing—or able—to send his woman into this? Was that it?

Dez sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. It was a little longer than she usually wore, falling almost to her chin. “He needs more than a ghost talker on this gig, Joss. But if he sends in more than one person, we’ll be made. And besides, I’m not exactly the . . . ideal . . . person to do this. And I’m assuming the other person isn’t going to work any better than I will.”

Joss had heard her. He had. But the one thing his mind focused on was “more than a ghost talker.”

A sinking sensation settled in Joss’s gut.

Without even look at the man, without opening his mind, he knew. “You’re going to mind-f*ck me again, aren’t you?”

Silence stretched out between them.

Finally, Taylor sighed. “Joss, I don’t have much choice. You’re the only man I’ve got who can do this. You’re the only agent I’ve got who can pick up any given ability at any given time; I need multiple abilities and I need them now.”

“Where?” He didn’t bother trying to talk his way out of it. There was no point. He was in this line of work because he had to be. He wasn’t in it for fun, for kicks, or for the money. If he was needed, then so be it. He was needed. After one last glance at the garden of stone, he looked toward Taylor. The pull had been stronger this time . . . so much stronger . . .

“Just an hour south. In Orlando.”