Vision Impossible

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE PSYCHIC EYE MYSTERY SERIES

  Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye

  Better Read Than Dead

  A Vision of Murder

  Killer Insight

  Crime Seen

  Death Perception

  Doom with a View

  A Glimpse of Evil

  THE GHOST HUNTER MYSTERY SERIES

  What’s a Ghoul to Do?

  Demons Are a Ghoul’s Best Friend

  Ghouls Just Haunt to Have Fun

  Ghouls Gone Wild

  Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, July 2011

  Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2011

  All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Laurie, Victoria.

  Vision impossible: a psychic eye mystery/Victoria Laurie.

  p. cm.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51691-1

  1. Criminal profilers—Fiction. 2. Women psychics—Fiction. 3. Women detectives—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.A94423V55 2011

  813’.6—dc22 2011004011

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Acknowledgments

  Acknowledgments are the ultimate FB status or Twitter post—they allow everyone to see all the special people in my life, and how amazingly supported I’ve been over the years. Were it not for the names listed below, there would be no Abby Cooper and certainly no M. J. Holliday, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

  To start: Allow me to humbly bow before my wonderful and amazing editor, Ms. Sandra Harding. Sandy is this incredibly talented and gifted editor who is so levelheaded, grounded, and sensible that I sometimes just call her for a girl chat. (Heh, heh . . . and I’m sure she loves that!) She’s brought a wonderfully calm and reflective voice to bear in the process of creating the Abby and M.J. books, and I’ve come to consider her opinion, thoughts, and probing questions invaluable to my writing process. Thank you, Sandy. I think you’ve added the missing ingredient to the books, and I’m so, so, so grateful to have you in my corner.

  Next: my agent, Jim McCarthy. You know, I gush about Jim at the beginning of every single book, and after sixteen of these puppies, I’m wondering what I haven’t said that I might be able to say this time! In truth, Jim is every author’s dream agent. He’s personable, informed, a crackerjack negotiator, smart, witty, clever, and the best muse I could ever hope for. Plus, the guy speaks fluent “Victoria,” which makes him invaluable just for that! Many a conversation has started with, “What’s that guy who was in that thing?” I don’t know how he always seems to know which guy and what thing, but he does, and I love him for that and so much more.

  My marvelous copy editor, Michele Alpern, who somehow managed to squeeze this manuscript into her already overpacked schedule. You’re always my first and only pick, Michele, so don’t you ever quit copyediting, ya hear? ☺

  My publisher, Claire Zion. Thank you for your continued support and unending enthusiasm. I’m SO blessed to be under the NAL umbrella, and your support has meant everything to me.

  Also from the NAL team: editorial assistant Elizabeth Bistrow and publicist extraordinaire Kaitlyn Kennedy—you guys are simply fabulous, and you’ve provided such wonderful assistance and expertise. I’m equally grateful to have you in my corner!

  Special thanks also to my own personal “Team Laurie,” Katie Coppedge and Hilary Laurie—or my sistahs from other mistahs. Thank you for working so hard behind the scenes and for filling in the gaps for me. Also, thank you simply for being extraordinary women with unwavering enthusiasm to face the day and put a little sunshine into mine. I love you oodles and oodles, ladies.

  I. J. Schecter, aka “Idgie Bibbles”: Thank you for helping me with that tricky Canadian speak and for providing some navigation in and around the greater Toronto area. I’m grateful for that and for all the fabulous anecdotes you send me, which always bring with them an added laugh and a smile. ☺

  Finally, extended thanks to my family and friends, with a few honorable mentions to those of you who have given extra special support to me and the books, and you are: Mary Jane Humphreys; Nora, Bob, and Mike Brosseau; Karen Ditmars; Leanne Tierney; Dr. Jennifer Casey; Tess Rodriguez; Shannon Dorn; Suzanne Parsons; Silas Hudson; Pippa and Betty Stocking; Juan Tamayo; Ric Michael; Drue Rowean; Thomas Robinson; and Neil and Kim Mahoney.

  Hugs and love,

  Victoria

  Chapter One

  For the record, burying a dead body is a lot more work than it looks like on TV.

  Also for the record, burying a dead body while wearing a clingy cocktail dress and heels, and in the pouring rain—darn near impossible. Of course, I had help, which could be
why we eventually got our dearly departed dude six feet under. (Okay, so maybe it was more like two feet under, but who’s really measuring at that point?)

  “I think that’s good,” said my oh-so-gorgeous fiancé as he patted down the mud, leaves, and scrub covering our dead guy.

  “Thank God,” I said, holding my hands palms up to let the rain wash some of the mud off. And that’s when I realized my engagement ring had slipped off. “Son of a beast!” I gasped. (Yes, I’m still not swearing, which, at times, proves most inconvenient.)

  “What?” asked my sweetie.

  Before answering him, I dropped to all fours and began to feel around frantically in the mud. “My ring! I’ve lost my ring!”

  My fiancé threw aside his shovel and came to squat down next to me. “When?”

  Tears welled in my eyes and my heart raced with dread. “I’m not sure,” I admitted, still scratching at the mud with my fingernails.

  “Hey,” he said gently, taking my wrists in his hands to stop my frenetic search. “If it’s in the grave, we’re not going to find it now. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “But—” I began.

  “No buts. Now come on. They’ll catch on that we’ve killed the head of the guard any minute now, and they’ll come looking for us. We have to put some distance between us and them.”

  I was still crying, however, and I couldn’t get over losing the most precious thing I owned. “Please, Rick?” I begged, using the name easily now. “Just give me a minute to look; I promise if I don’t find it in—”

  And that’s as far as I got before the woods all around us erupted in gunfire. Rick pulled me to him protectively. I stared into his deep brown eyes as he growled, “Move!”

  He got no further argument from me; we surged forward and I stuck close to him as we darted through the underbrush. We ran for probably a quarter mile, and I tripped and slipped almost the entire way in my heels. The darn things had no traction, and if Rick hadn’t been practically carrying me, I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it that far that quickly.

  We stopped to catch our breath and listen for signs of a chase behind us. I did my best not to quiver in fear while he scanned the area. In the distance I could hear the occasional pop of a gun, but nothing seemed close, and for that, I was grateful. I eyed my sore, muddied, blistered feet and wished that my black pumps were ruby red and I could click them together to go back home.

  “You ready to move again?” Rick asked me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  No, I thought.

  “I can see a structure about twenty yards that way,” he told me. “I think it might be a hunting lodge or a log cabin. We can make it there and hide out till they’ve finished looking for us. It’ll also give us some shelter from this rain.”

  “Yippee,” I said woodenly.

  Rick smiled in sympathy and took my hand. “Come on, babe. It’s not far.”

  Now, you’re probably wondering what mess I’d gotten myself into this time—right? Let me take all that suspense out right now, and admit that it was a doozy!

  It all began a few weeks prior to our mad dash through the forest, at a time when I was feeling . . . well . . . patriotic.

  Of course, when you have three high-ranking members of the FBI, CIA, and armed forces telling you that your country needs you, it can be a powerfully convincing argument.

  You see, several weeks before, there was a breach in our national security of epic proportions. Something was stolen that was so crucial to our country’s safety that it left each and every one of us vulnerable.

  What was it? you ask. Well, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.

  Ha, ha, ha! Kidding! I’ll divulge all; but let me at least start again at the beginning, which, for me, was on a beautiful late-April day in downtown Austin when I was called to a meeting at the FBI field office, where I was a civilian profiling consultant. That’s really just a fancy way of saying that, as a professional psychic, I assisted the FBI by pulling warm clues out of the ether on cases that had long since gone cold.

  At this particular meeting was my sweetheart—Assistant Special Agent in Charge Dutch Rivers—his boss Brice Harrison, his boss FBI regional director Bill Gaston, and a lieutenant colonel with the air force, along with some steely-looking dude from the CIA.

  During the course of that meeting, it became evident that something of great importance had been stolen off a military base and was then summarily smuggled out of the country. The good news was that the item had been traced to Canada. The bad news was that everyone agreed it would not be there for long.

  Now, naturally our government wanted its property back, and so they’d sent two CIA agents into Canada to retrieve it. Those agents’ true identities were discovered, however, and I understand that their demise was swift and most unpleasant . . . something I’d rather not think about, actually.

  Anyway, when it became evident that the task of retrieving the article in question was more formidable than first imagined, Bill Gaston thought of me.

  I debated the idea of becoming a spy for about two whole minutes, something in hindsight I’m still sort of regretting, but I’d agreed, and Dutch and I had flown to Washington, D.C., the following week.

  We’d been met at the airport by a lanky young agent with red hair and lots of freckles. He reminded me of Opie. “Agent Rivers and Ms. Cooper?” he asked, spotting us immediately from the faces in the crowd surrounding the luggage carousel.

  Dutch extended his hand. “Agent Spencer?”

  Opie shook Dutch’s hand warmly. “Yes, sir,” he said, offering me a nice smile too. “Our car is this way.”

  We trailed behind Spencer, toting our luggage to a waiting black sedan. I swear, if the FBI ever wants to blend in right, they’ll need to add a few Priuses to the fleet.

  Spencer loaded my bag into the trunk and we were on our way. “Are you taking us to headquarters?” Dutch inquired.

  Spencer shook his head. “No, sir,” he told us. “I’ve been told to bring you to the CIA central office.”

  I gulped. I grew up at the height of the cold war, so I still think of the CIA as an agency staffed with seriously scary people willing to do anything for the cause. But I held my nerves in check—I mean, I didn’t want to appear all fidgety and nervous on my first day of spy school; how uncool would that be?

  We arrived at the CIA central office and Opie handed us off to a female agent dressed in a smart black pantsuit, a crisp white shirt, and no emotion on her face whatsoever.

  She took us through security before seeing us to a large conference room, where nearly a dozen men and one woman were already seated.

  The woman stood when we entered, and I noticed she was at the head of the oval table. “Good morning,” she said cordially. “Agent Rivers, Ms. Cooper, please come in and join us.”

  The agent who’d shown us in backed out of the room and closed the door. I felt Dutch’s hand rest on my lower back as he guided me to the only two available seats left at the table. My mouth went dry as I took my chair, but when I saw FBI director Gaston sitting across from us and smiling warmly, I breathed a teensy bit easier.

  It struck me then that the table was arranged somewhat by rank. The woman at the head of the table was obviously running the show, and she was flanked by two gentlemen who I’d guess were in their midfifties but seemed full of authority. The authority vein trickled down the table from there.

  I also couldn’t help noticing many steely eyes were focused my way. I could also see a little disappointment in a few of their expressions while they assessed me head to toe. Not the first time I’d experienced that reaction, and likely not the last.

  “Welcome to Washington,” the woman at the head of the table said into the silence that followed our sitting down. “I’m Christine Tanner, and I’m the CIA director of intelligence here in D.C.”

  I smiled and nodded to her, and Dutch did the same. And that was it for pleasantries, because Tanner promptly got down to brass tacks by cli
cking a button on a handheld remote, which caused the conference room to go dark except for the projection of a slide onto a screen at the other end of the room. “Ms. Cooper, as you have cleared our security background checks, we feel it wise to educate you on the nature of the security breach we encountered a few weeks ago.”

  I focused on the slide, which showed an aerial view of a large air force base. “This is a military outpost in southern Nevada. On the morning of April sixth, during a routine flight test, one of our military drones went missing.” I heard a click and a new slide showed the image of an unmanned drone aircraft like I’d seen on the news used in air strikes against enemy militant fighters in Iraq and Afghanistan, although this one looked much smaller and sleeker in scale and on its top were mounted a small camera and what looked like a small rifle.

  “The pilot claimed that midway through the test flight, the operating system on the drone failed, causing it to stop responding to his commands, and eventually crash somewhere out in the desert.”

  So far I was following. The air force lost a little drone. Got it.

  “It is not unheard of for the operating systems on these aircraft to fail, especially since this model was a prototype.”

  “It’s smaller than most of your regular drones, right?” I asked.

  The colonel nodded. “It’s also the latest in whisper technology. It’s powered electrically from a lithium battery, and the drone is virtually silent, which allows it to get within a hundred feet or so of its target without being seen or heard. Because of its advanced technology, this model would be very expensive to replace, and this particular drone was carrying something of great importance, so an extensive search was immediately conducted to retrieve whatever remained of the drone and its cargo.”