Tangled Souls Read Online Free Page A

sliced into fragments and then thrown high into the air as if by a capricious child. He only saw the bits that floated by his eyes, and they were pitifully few. The rest streamed toward the dark cutting-room floor, untouched by his gift.
    He’d never been able to explain it, even to another psychic, for the vision process seemed to be unique for each seer. Some came by the gift in a series of gradual revelations, each vision building on the next. Others hit the wall, hard. His had been the latter, the Morelli crime scene the trigger. He’d seen what no man was meant to see—the torture, violation, and slaughter of two innocents; the fragments in vivid color, no intimate detail spared. That was the hell of his gift, his curse.
    As O’Fallon’s mind grew dark, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, hoping he’d be less likely to fall that way. The first piece drifted by: murmured prayers for forgiveness. He saw the powder-blue eyes of the deceased, heard Hail Marys, and smelled greasy pizza. He felt the man’s remorse, how he knew he would never grow old, never see his family again. Icy fear gripped O’Fallon’s heart as voices tumbled over each other, calling the dead man’s name.
    He saw a flashing image of a rosary, intricately carved and of considerable age, clasped in pale, shaking hands. Then he saw Benjamin’s face—tears washing down reddened cheeks, a thick strip of white at the neck.
    O’Fallon struggled to pull himself away from what was to come, knowing that if he remained he’d share the victim’s moment of death. He heard the protesting groan of the ceiling beam and then nothing. Mercifully, he’d been spared that final agony. A cold wind blew through him, chilling him to the marrow, as the screen went black. Silence enfolded him as he lost his ability to stand.
    O’Fallon found himself on his knees, shivering intensely, his forehead nearly touching the muddy brown carpet. He shook his head, and a spray of sweat flew in an arc. A wizened face appeared within his field of vision, accompanied by strong, alcohol-laden breath.
    “I thought I had it bad,” the man said, his voice full of boozy concern. He offered a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. Without hesitation, O’Fallon took a swig and let the liquor burn down into his gut.
    “Thanks,” he said, handing back the bag. He looked into the old man’s jaundiced eyes and felt reassured. This one wasn’t a crazy.
    “You okay now?” the wino asked, taking his own pull from the bottle.
    “Yeah.” His actions said otherwise: he rose unsteadily, using the wall for support.
    The old man stood as well, his knees creaking. He gazed upward at the severed rope, and sadness came to his worn face.
    “I’m sorry he’s dead,” he said, and shuffled into the hallway.
    His words reverberated within O’Fallon’s hazy brain. The old man seemed to care about what had happened in this room, and that might be a place to start. O’Fallon stared at the rope for a few moments more and then crossed himself, the final tribute of one member of his faith to another.
    “ Kyrie eleison , Benjamin,” he intoned. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

Chapter Three
     
    Gavenia glanced at her watch, then tapped the dial as if that simple action would result in her sister’s speedy appearance. She shifted positions to ease the cramp in her left thigh, her nerves bowstring tight. It was nearing seven in the evening and Ari’s plane had landed half an hour ago. Immigration, Customs—it all chewed up time.
    “Time I don’t have.” She took another long breath in a futile attempt to relax, gradually blowing it out through pursed lips. A sea of faces swept by her. Voices called out and reunions occurred, but her sibling was noticeably absent.
    “You couldn’t have waited until next week,” she muttered in supreme irritation. The day had been difficult enough, and she still had another client to meet.
    Where was she?
    Gavenia knew the source of her