Dream Eyes

map.
    “That’s it,” he said. “Six towns, six deaths, all by natural causes, all within the past eighteen months or so. The names of the deceased match the names on the map. But if someone has started killing again with the camera, there’s one big difference this time.”
    “What?” Gwen asked.
    “None of the victims was a practicing psychic, real or fake. According to the obituaries, none of them was making his or her living by claiming paranormal talents.”
    “I don’t know why the pattern is different, but someone is killing again, the same way Zander Taylor did—by paranormal means.” Gwen drummed her fingers on the table. “Evelyn somehow stumbled onto the truth.”
    “The murderer realized she was tracking him so he killed her?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    Judson thought about it. “He took her computer and cell phone, hoping to get rid of any traces of her research that might lead the cops to him.”
    “He couldn’t have known about the map and where it was hidden,” Gwen said. “Either that or he was unable to get into the mirror engine to retrieve it. I told you, not everyone can handle the psi in that machine. But this doesn’t make sense. Why the change in pattern?”
    “We know that Taylor is dead,” Judson reminded her. “Different killer, different pattern, different kind of prey. But there will be something that these six victims had in common, trust me. We just have to find the common thread.”
    “Whoever he is, he must be one of the locals here in Wilby,” Gwen said. “Someone who knew about Zander and decided to emulate him. Maybe a copycat killer?”
    “Maybe. In addition to the likelihood that the killer is a local, we know one other thing about him.”
    Gwen looked up from the map, understanding heating her eyes.
    “The killer has enough talent to work the camera,” she said. “We’re looking for another psychic.”

Twenty-one
    E lias Coppersmith arrived in a massive, shiny black SUV with heavily tinted windows. Gwen stood with Judson inside the lobby and watched the big vehicle glide into a vacant slot in front of the inn.
    “Your brother, Sam, drives a black SUV, doesn’t he?” she asked.
    “Yes. Why?” Judson wasn’t paying much attention to the question. He was watching the SUV.
    “Just curious,” she said. “Because you drive a black SUV, too. Same brand, I believe.”
    “Company discount,” Judson said.
    More likely something in the DNA of the Coppersmith men that inclined them toward large vehicles endowed with the souls of trucks, Gwen thought. Other rich guys drove flashy red Ferraris and Porsches.
    From inside the inn, it was impossible to see the occupants of the vehicle, but she was mildly surprised when the passenger door opened. A big, lean, silver-haired man who could have been cast in the role of the town marshal in a classic western movie climbed out.
    “That’s Dad,” Judson said. “He’s early. Must have left Seattle at zero-dawn-thirty. Wonder who’s behind the wheel? He probably picked up someone from Coppersmith Security before he left.”
    “Your father is so paranoid about that geode that he brought an armed escort?”
    “Trust me, knowing Dad and his opinion of Hank Barrett, it’s not just the escort who will be armed,” Judson said.
    She thought about the pistol strapped to Judson’s ankle and wondered if going about armed was another Coppersmith family trait.
    “I’d better go out and let him know he’s got the right place,” Judson said. “I’ll be right back.”
    He crossed the lobby with a few long, easy strides, pushed open the glass door and went outside.
    Gwen studied the family greeting scene through the lobby windows, firmly suppressing the faint, wistful sensation that fluttered through her. There was no big male hug exchanged between Judson and Elias, she noticed. But the bond between father and son was so strong that she could sense it even from where she stood. The power of a close-knit family, she thought. There was nothing else like it.
    At that moment, the driver’s-side door of the SUV opened. A lithe, elegantly slender, good-looking man with platinum-blond hair cut in a crisp, military style alighted from the cab with a dancer’s grace. He was dressed head-to-toe in fashionable and very expensive black—black turtleneck, black trousers, black loafers. Gwen knew that all of the attire came with designer labels.
    Delight spilled through her. She had family, too. The only difference was