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been located.”
    Maggie looked at her husband with raised brows. “Did he answer my question?”
    “Not exactly.”
    Relenting, Bishop said, “No, I haven’t told Nash—or anyone else outside the SCU—that I have an agent in Tennessee and that she located Jacoby days ago. The instant Nash is informed of Jacoby’s location, he’ll mount a full-scale operation to get his fugitive, with the director’s blessing; everybody wants that ten million found. I’m less concerned with recovering the stolen money than I am with determining the extent of Jacoby’s psychic abilities. For now, at least.”
    “And she doesn’t know yet?” Maggie asked.
    “Not as of her last report hours ago. She says the whole area around him is dark, and she didn’t mean it was because he’s in a cabin in the woods. Something out there, something in or around Jacoby, is producing a lot of negative energy, but so far she hasn’t risked getting closer to try to figure out whether it’s Jacoby—or something or someone else.”
    “Energy with a purpose?” Maggie asked.
    “Also something we don’t yet know. But negative energy is usually being channeled or otherwise controlled, especially if it’s confined to one area or person.”
    Mildly, John said, “You might have warned us the armed felon we were hired to find was also likely to be psychic. Or was it part of your master plan to have a Haven operative on the scene?” The question wasn’t as mocking as the words made it seem.
    More practically, Maggie asked, “Is that why you sent only one agent instead of the usual team? Because we were sending an operative?”
    Again not exactly answering the question, Bishop said, “I knew Luther would be the operative chosen to go in. And he needs to be there.”
    “Why?” Maggie asked.
    “To save my agent’s life. After she saves his, of course.”

THREE
    Owen Alexander scowled at the newcomers he undoubtedly didn’t regard as guests, even generations of “good breeding” failing to overcome his open hostility. “Anna claims you don’t charge a fee,” he said the moment the door of the impressive library closed behind the equally impressive, old-world butler who had escorted them here and announced them.
    Hollis was still trying to get over being announced in a private home and said almost absently, “No, I never charge fees.”
    “Then why do it?” he demanded.
    She looked at him, momentarily startled. The literal truth, that she was an FBI agent trying to get a handle on her abilities and figure out how best to use them in investigations, wasn’t something she was free to share—exactly—so she said, “I . . . want to help people.”
    “By lying to them?”
    DeMarco shifted his weight almost imperceptibly, perfectly aware that Hollis had a temper and didn’t suffer fools gladly.
    Her blue eyes narrowed as she studied Alexander. “As far as I know, no spirit has ever lied to me, so I’ve never passed on a lie. They seem to be beyond that sort of petty human thing once they’ve died.”
    Alexander blinked, clearly startled. “Most of your sort say ‘passed’ or something equally euphemistic,” he said.
    “Kindly don’t lump me into a group, Mr. Alexander. I also don’t use tarot cards, crystal balls, tea leaves, read palms, go into trances, or insist anybody hold hands around a candlelit table. I don’t ask for birth dates so I can use what most people know about their horoscopes to get a few easy and pseudo ‘hits’ without really trying. I just utilize the natural energy of my mind, which happens to be sensitive to a specific frequency, and use that tool to open a door so spirits can come through and talk to the living. Assuming they want to. I often wonder why they bother.”
    Like now.
    She didn’t say it, but it hung in the air between her narrowed gaze and Alexander’s glare.
    DeMarco eyed the two of them, noting the disparity in size between Hollis’s slender, almost frail-looking form and