"How did you help my father?"

Subconsciously, she stroked her mother's brooch as she thought. "Occasionally, when he was stuck on a serious case, he would bring me in after the forensic team had left the scene and the place was deserted. Sometimes I would be able to catch a glimpse of an echo left behind. On a good day I might be able to see the last few moments of a victim's life through their eyes."

"What the h.e.l.l is that like?"

Jane pondered the question for a moment, still stroking the brooch. A few days ago, she thought that she knew everything about her gift, but now she was dealing with a whole new set of parameters. "It was okay. It used to be that I could see but I couldn't feel anything ... like watching a bad movie."

"Used to be?"

"This time, with this killer, it's all... different somehow. It's why I had to find you, why I had to get involved."

"In what way?"

"This time it's like someone else is in control and, for whatever reason, their gift seems so much stronger than mine. Now I'm not looking through the victim's eyes, I'm looking through the killer's. I can feel what they feel; I can smell and taste things as well and it's all too real."

"What's with the brooch?"

"It belonged to my mother; it kind of acts like a focusing aid. It helps me concentrate, I guess."

"And feel closer to her? I'm guessing that she gave you this..., gift?"

"Yes. It came from her side of the family."

"And your father?"

"He left when I was young."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I seem to have nothing but good memories of him to keep me company."

"This..., this vision thing," Danny said, searching for the word. "Is it just a one-way street?"

Jane smiled at his brain as it worked like his father's. "I tried it once," she admitted. "I followed his trail back to the source and tried to get a peek at the guy's reflection in a bathroom mirror. He smashed it and gave me this," she said, holding up her still bandaged hand.

She felt his eyes viewing her carefully, evaluating her words, expressions and body language for any telltale signs of deception.

"What can you tell me about him?" he finally asked.

"No physical description, I'm afraid," she replied slowly, arranging her thoughts. "You guys will know better than I do about height and strength I'm guessing, from the autopsy reports. I can say, however, that he's quick and nimble and he's big and strong but lean with it. He moves in an athletic fashion and he's always in control. He's older too, at least around our age if not a little older. He's mature and intelligent, and careful - he's very careful. He's not going to make mistakes at a crime scene."

"Do you know how he's choosing them?"

"There's a bloom on the victims, a special kind of glow that only he can see, but I doubt if the victims are connected to each other."

"What about the original Crucifier case?" Danny asked pertinently.

"Honestly, I don't know what the connection is, but I think that there is one."

"Do you think..., Jane? JANE?" But Jane was suddenly gone as her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped on the sofa.

Alan Holmes stood back as the man poked around under the bonnet of his car. The good Samaritan had started to pull around on a few things under there, every now and then telling him to "try it again", at which point Alan would turn the key to another hesitant coughing whine of the struggling engine.

"Sorry, pal," the man shrugged, emerging. "I think that your problems are more than I can handle."

Alan's heart slumped at the news. His bank account was already taking too much of a hammering from his ex-wife and daughter. He did a quick mental calculation about just which number he could call from his little black book of ageing divorcees that he could tap for some cash.

"Could I give you a lift anywhere?" the guy asked. "There's a garage up the road a little way. I think that they've got a tow truck."

"Sure. Thanks," Alan replied as he followed the man over to his car.

The evening was still humid and his shirt was starting to stick to his back as he climbed in. There was an odd smell in the guy's car that Alan caught as soon as he sat down on the plastic wrapped seat.

"Sorry about the smell," the man said, catching the look of displeasure on his face. "I work for the water board; they have me going down all sorts of horrible places. I guess I've kind of gotten used to the smell. I have to use the plastic sheets to make sure that I don't get any kind of c.r.a.p on the leather."

"I'm Alan, by the way."

"Frank," the man replied. "So what line of business are you in?"

Alan started to open his mouth to speak, just as a flash of silver caught his eye. The movement was so quick that he didn't even see the knife until it had sliced his throat and was on the way back. There was a moment that seemed to last a lifetime between the blade's edge and the gasp for breath. There was no pain, only the confusion of an animal catching the scent of a storm and knowing that something monstrous was looming. Then his hands were flying to his throat as his blood began to erupt and spray the inside of the windscreen. He rocked back and forth violently in the pa.s.senger seat, desperately trying to cram his life back in through the hole but feeling the tide washing him away.

Jane could taste the coppery metal in her throat as the car filled with death. The vision had struck her so fast that she'd not had time to prepare herself for the killing. There had been no easing in, no slowing pendulum to take her over the threshold and into the spirit world. Then she realised that this was happening now; this man had just murdered another victim and was showing her the footage on a live feed.

She snapped out of it as quickly as she had entered. She felt herself being shaken which only added to her sense of nausea. "Easy, easy," she slurred, holding up a hand to stop Danny from rocking her shoulders. Thankfully, he let go.

"Jesus, I thought that you were having some sort of seizure," he said, concerned.

"I'm okay," she replied unsteadily. "Just give me a moment." Slowly, the world stopped spinning and she began to regain control.

"Was that..., was that a vision?" he asked as he sat down again.

Jane nodded in reply.

"Was it the same killer?"

"Oh yes, but he was being careful again. He wants me to know that this was his work, but not you."

"Who's dead?"

Jane took a minute to think. She tried to place her thoughts in order and review the footage. However unpleasant her thoughts were, she had a job to do. She saw the spray of blood from the vicious throat wound and ignored the revulsion in her gut. She rewound the images until the moment before the killer had struck and she recognised the victim. "His name's Alan something. I've got his card around here somewhere."

"You know him?" Danny asked with a touch of suspicion.

"He came into the store where I work a couple of days ago and he came back to ask me out this afternoon. I took his card because I was going to ask you to look into him. You know, just in case he was more than he seemed."

Danny sat back in the chair with pensive concentration etched across his face. "You thought that he might be the guy and now he's dead. Sounds like the killer doesn't want to wander off down the wrong track. But why did you say that he doesn't want the police to know it's him?"

"The crime scene will be different. There will be no posing of the body, no symbol carved into his chest. The body will just look like a violent attack and your bosses will not link it to the others. And don't forget, this is his first male victim," Jane finished.

"This..., Alan guy ... that makes it seem like it's kind of personal to you. If you know the victim, then you must know the killer?"

"No," Jane said, considering the premise. "I don't know him, not yet. But I get the feeling that he knows me. He knows what I can do and he knows how to get around any barriers that I put up, and I have no idea how he can do that."

"So then you're not a whole lot of good to me then?" Danny sighed.

"He's going to keep on showing me these things, Danny. He's going to keep killing until we catch him or he's done."

"What is it that he wants? Do you at least have any idea of that?"

"He's searching for something, or more accurately someone. But every time that he thinks he's found her, he's wrong and his rage is getting out of control. I'd expect an escalation in his brutality, Danny, and more women are going to suffer until we find him."

"We?"

"I'm in this, Danny, whether you like it or not. I'm in it until the end now, and there's no way out."

The message was waiting for Danny by the time that he got home. The little red light was blinking ominously on his home phone and he immediately checked his mobile, only to find that it was still set on silent.

He had switched the mobile over to silent just before he'd reached Jane's house; he realised that he was now thinking of her in first name terms. Part of him still wanted to believe that he had been an unwitting spectator at her latest show, but the performance had surely been too real to be faked. The way that she had suddenly slumped and her eyes had rolled back in their sockets, exposing pure white orbs, had been frightening. There had been a sudden electricity in the air like a bolt of lightning and he'd felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. He wasn't completely sold on her legitimacy just yet. He had 8 years of pent up anger, but he could certainly see why his father had used her.

He pressed the play b.u.t.ton on the machine and waited for what was normally bad news.

"Boss, it's Landing," his sergeant greeted him. She sounded like she was eating something as her words were a little m.u.f.fled. "Just to let you know we got a call from a trucker who found a body at a lay-by just outside of town. Looks like some bloke was after a little queer s.e.x at the public toilets and p.i.s.sed off the wrong guy."

Danny held his temper at her choice of words; the woman may well have been a pit bull and a valuable member of the team, but her terminology often seemed a couple of decades out of date. He knew that given his own s.e.xuality he tended to be p.r.i.c.klier towards the occasional offensive remark or comment. As long as he wanted his private life to remain private though, he had to choose his battles; besides, the woman had come a long way since they had first started working together.

"Looks pretty much like an open and shut thing here, Boss," Landing continued. "Guy's been stabbed and his wallet's missing but there was a driving licence in his car at the scene... Alan Holmes. Wilson is out at the scene processing, should have the gory details for you in the morning. With all of the Crucifier stuff going on, it seems kind of nice to realise that there are still some ordinary nasty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out there," the sergeant joked, before hanging up.

Danny pondered the message. A small part of his brain wanted to believe that Jane was somehow working with killer, setting up her alibi with a detective inspector, no less. But he couldn't bring himself to believe that.

His mind was still trying to work its way around the edges when he felt a hand slip around his neck. He tensed to fight, but the hand was soon followed by an expert nuzzling mouth.

"Come to bed," Nathan Earl whispered seductively in his ear.

Danny wanted to sit and think but his boyfriend's hand started to work its magic and he gave in. Maybe what he needed was a little distraction and not such a good night's sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS.

Randall checked his reflection in the car's rear-view mirror and popped another strong mint into his mouth. The sweet probably did little for the powerful whisky breath that was wafting from his innards, but he figured it was better than nothing.

The meeting with the police yesterday afternoon had proved that Superintendant Chalmers was worried enough to start making threats. He had been on the end of enough threats in his career to know a bluff when he heard one but Ramsey had started freaking out on the way back to the car. Gone had been the all-conquering ball-breaker and Randall couldn't help but wonder what she might be afraid of. She had been further infuriated when she'd checked the small recorder in her handbag only to find that the sound had been blocked somehow.

He arched his back and stretched, trying to gather a little momentum into the day, but it was still early and he felt like he was fading already. Despite all of Ramsey's anger, he could sense that she was going to take a back seat for now and he was thankful to Chalmers for that. The superintendant seemed like a man unsure of himself when making threats, but to give the man credit he had organised the meeting well and had played his role well. Randall had wanted no part of it and kept his hand to himself. He was well aware of his present poor appearance and wanted the cop to keep on thinking of that.

The good thing about Ramsey taking a break was that he was now free to use the paper's resources unimpeded, just as long as he ran everything by her first which suited him fine. He wanted the complete story and not chunks of it splashed across the daily paper.

He walked slowly up the pathway to the house, pulling himself up straight and taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts. There was a middle aged PC standing outside the front door of the house who nodded as he approached.

Randall took the envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it discreetly to the cop standing guard. The man took it with a well-practised sleight of hand, making the money disappear into his coat.

Randall waited as the PC tapped gently at the door. After a few brief moments, someone approached and opened it. A woman stared out with a strained face that had seen too many tears and suffered too much grief.

"Mrs Genovese," the PC said kindly. "This is Mr Zerneck. I thought that he might wait with you until your husband gets back. He works with The Globe; he was thinking about doing a piece on your daughter's life, a very tasteful look back at her life and faith."

Randall stepped forwards as the woman nodded through a haze of prescription drugs. The cop was known to The Globe for taking backhanders when they needed information or access. Mr Genovese was meeting with the funeral parlour for the arrangements after Lana Genovese's body had been released by the police He followed the woman through to the lounge where she put out a hand on the back of the sofa to steady herself before she slumped into an armchair. The walls were full of framed photographs of Lana, the girl who had left the Crucifier's lair only to be given a mere stay of execution. A time machine of images flowed along the walls and lined the tops of tasteful furniture. Parents relieved beyond measure to have their daughter safely returned and a second lease on life, only to have it all so cruelly s.n.a.t.c.hed away from them. Randall wasn't the most empathetic man in the world, but even he could see the evil nature of false hope.

"She was a beautiful young woman," he offered consolingly.

"She was our whole life," the woman said in an odd toneless voice. "When she was taken all those years ago we felt like we were the ones who'd died. We prayed so hard for G.o.d to bring her back. My husband was convinced that we'd done something wrong, that we'd brought this upon ourselves. He was a lay preacher. No one should have been closer to G.o.d, or at least that was what he always thought. After Lana was s.n.a.t.c.hed, he saw it as a punishment for his arrogant pride..."

"But she came back," Randall prompted after the grieving mother went silent.

"Yes, our little girl came back and we praised G.o.d for his mercy. Our lives suddenly started again and the future opened up. I remember thinking that we would have just lay down and died if we'd had to bury her. But our girl was given back to us and we promised to never let her out of our sight again." She broke down into dry sobbing heaves as Randall could only sit by uncomfortably, waiting for the storm to break.

He was taking notes and his Dictaphone was rolling in his pocket, but he wasn't here for a human interest story; he was an investigative journalist and he wanted facts, the cold emotionless truth. "Tell me about the Lana of now," he asked as she stopped crying.

"We couldn't have asked for a better daughter," her mother sniffed. "She was a studious girl, always had her nose in a book. She wanted to be a vet, she loved animals and was planning her university studies around that. She always wanted to help those in need."

"What about friends? Boyfriends?" Randall probed.

"She was a good girl," the mother stressed firmly. "She was a child of G.o.d and not interested in the sins of the flesh. She was pure and would remain so."

He could feel the mother's fiercely protective nature - not just of her daughter's good name, but of the family honour and that of the parents. The word from inside the police was that Lana was practically a saint according to those who knew her, but Randall's nose had twitched at the mother's overly quick reactions. "She was a beautiful girl," he mused, taking a different tact. "She must have had her admirers, however much she would have ignored them."

The mother watched him carefully. "She was a good girl."

"I have no doubts about that whatsoever, Mrs Genovese. Everything that we have heard indicates that she was nothing but a credit to you and your husband. You raised a fine girl. I'm sure that even when the boys came around sniffing she would have been gentle in her rebukes."

"Thankfully the dogs never quite caught her scent and when they did we almost always saw them coming," the woman said proudly.

"Almost?" Randall probed gently.

"There was one boy, from bible camp no less, who managed to worm his way into our lives for a short time."