Fired Up

the hostage emerged, unharmed. When police entered the house they found Sawyer on the floor, unconscious, having apparently suffered a seizure.
    A few months later a follow-up story appeared:
    . . . The thirty-one-year-old suspect in the murders of an Anderson Point couple confessed to the killings but was found incompetent to stand trial. He was ordered committed to Winter Cove Psychiatric Hospital, where he likely will spend the rest of his life.
    Three weeks later there was one last piece. It was a small one:
    Richard Sawyer, the confessed killer of an Anderson Point couple was found dead in his room at Winter Cove Psychiatric Hospital, the victim of an apparent suicide . . .
    It took a little more digging to turn up the name of the murdered couple’s daughter. There was a photo of her leaving the courtroom with Chloe. Most of the tattoos were discreetly covered by a coat, and the makeup had been toned down, but he recognized her easily. Rose.
    He closed the computer and went to stand at the window, looking out into the night. He thought about the rush of psi he had sensed when he went through the door of the burning house. The energy had come from Chloe. She had just reached out to touch Madeline Gibson’s shoulder.
    “Well, now, Chloe Harper,” he said aloud. The words echoed in the silence of the cold steel-and-concrete space. “What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived when I did tonight? Would Madeline Gibson have suffered a mysterious bout of unconsciousness like Richard Sawyer? And here I thought the only thing a dreamlight reader could do was read a little dream psi. What secrets are you hiding?”
    He stood contemplating the darkness for a while longer. Eventually he went into the bedroom and took out the bottle of sleeping meds.

13
    A seething darkness filled the abyss. She looked into it and knew that no light could ever penetrate the depths. This hunger that was tearing her apart could never be satisfied.
    It was his fault. He was responsible for arousing this insatiable need. But he was walking away from her. Telling her that he did not want her; that she could never have him.
    If that was true then no one else would have him either.
    THIS WAS ALL WRONG. NOT HER ENERGY. NOT HER DREAM.
    Chloe came awake with a start. Her heart was pounding and her nightgown was damp with sweat. Instinctively she reached for Hector, but his warm, heavy weight was missing from the bed. Belatedly she remembered that he was still at the hospital.
    She took a few more deep breaths. Gradually her pulse calmed. What had happened tonight was just bad luck and bad timing, she thought. She’d been running wide open when she’d touched Madeline Gibson. At that very instant, thanks to Jack, Madeline just happened to be plunging into a terrible dreamscape.
    There was no such thing as telepathy—no way she could actually dream another person’s dream. But the currents of dreamlight given off by an individual when he or she dreamed were much stronger than when the person was awake. In the active dreamstate the dream psi was not only deposited on everything the individual touched, it saturated the atmosphere around the dreamer.
    Ever since she’d come into her talent in her teenage years she had been uncomfortable just being near someone who was dreaming. Physical contact with the person made it a thousand times worse.
    Tonight when Jack had directed that blast of energy at Madeline he had, in effect, forced Gibson into a full-blown nightmare. And Chloe had been touching her at the time. The shock had been as bad as the one she had gotten last year from Richard Sawyer when she’d put the bastard to sleep.
    Bad luck and bad timing, that’s all. Stuff happened when you were in her line of work.
    But the experience had given her a firsthand look at Jack’s emerging talent for generating nightmares.
    Interesting.

14
    “MORE TEA?” PHYLLIS ASKED.
    “Yes, thanks.” Chloe held out her cup and saucer.
    At home in her apartment she drank her tea out of an oversized mug, but here in her great- aunt’s elegant old mansion on Queen Anne Hill, delicate china, fine crystal and polished silver were the rule. Of course, it helped that Phyllis could afford to pay a full-time housekeeper to maintain her luxurious lifestyle.
    Hector sprawled in front of the window overlooking the garden, which, in turn, overlooked Elliott Bay and downtown Seattle. He appeared oblivious to the refined things that surrounded him. He wore a dashing