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Holly%20Lisle%20-%20Last%20Girl%20Dancing%20(v1.0).html
"I'm running late. When you asked for a ride, I thought you said this would be
quick," Hank snapped, and Jess realized that quite a few people were watching
the two of them: the bartender, some of the customers, a couple of dancers.
"Did you at least get the job?"
"Yes. Don't know when I'll start, though."
"But you're done here for today?"
"Yes."
"Then let's get the hell out of here before I'm so late that I lose my job."
He glared at his watch and stormed out a step ahead of her.
He was convincing. She'd give him that. He'd tipped her to the fact that his
foul temper was an act with the comment about giving her a ride. But he was
quite convincing as a pissed-off man kept waiting.
He didn't say anything else until the two of them were in the car, and they
were actually back on the road. And then he said,, "Give me your hand."
"What?"
"Your hand."
Jess reached over and put her left hand in his right one, and saw him look
even greener than he had before.
"Now the other one."
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She put her right hand in his, and she thought he was going to have to pull
over.
"What or who did you touch in there?"
Jess started to blow him off with a smart-assed remark about psychics and
stupid voodoo shit. But Hank had managed to convince her that he had something
going on with his psychic tricks. So she closed her eyes and ran her mind back
from the time she walked into the place. "Doorknobs first the one at the side
entry, then both sides of the one in Teri's office. Desk and shelf, Teri's
office.
Shook Teri's hand. Chair, Teri's office. Railing in the corridor that the
dancers
and probably the other employees use. Railing going up the steps to Lenny's
office. Wall in Lenny's office. Lenny's hand. That was a bit less fun than
squashing live cockroaches with my bare fingers, incidentally. The housemom's
hand when I gave her my phone number. Railing on the other side when I was
coming down the steps. The door frame on the way into the room where you were
sitting. The exit doorknob on the way out." She sat very still for a moment,
remembering, making sure she hadn't missed anything. "A table on my way
through the back of the foyer to go up and meet with Lenny. I tripped on an
Oriental rug and caught myself on the table edge."
"Shit."
"Why do you ask?"
He glanced over at her. "Because you touched the killer, or something the
killer
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hoping we could narrow it down."
"I touched& You're kidding." She wanted to call him a fraud, or a fool, for
making such a claim. Except he wasn't presenting this to her in the way the
other psychic she'd worked with had. He wasn't closing his eyes and murmuring
things like, "I'm sensing movement through the Veil."
Jess had bought that whole dramatic act when she was so desperate to find
Ginny. She'd thought that someone would have to be a little different a little
odd to have more than five senses. She'd wanted to believe, too, because she
had run out of other hopes, and she needed something to believe in. She'd
eventually realized the psychic was a charlatan. But she'd assumed that all
psychics were like that one. Had Hank sounded anything like that previous
psychic, she would have had no trouble blowing him off.
But he didn't seem to have an ounce of pretense in him.
She shifted a little sideways in her seat so she could look at him better. She
had the scarred side of his face toward her. It was odd, but that side seemed
more like the real Hank to her. "You can't tell which of them it was? See into
their heads or something?"
"No. It doesn't work like that. I get& emotions and physical sensations,
sounds and smells and tastes, sometimes an idea of physical location. Shreds
of inner
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might not match outer personality at all, and in this case is likely not to."
He frowned. "A lot of it is physical sensation. It's hard to connect that to
an individual person, but sometimes I can get a specific piece of information
that's useful."
"What does it feel like?" she asked him.
"What?"
"Being psychic? What does it feel like to touch something and get impressions
from it?" She watched his hands as he drove and shifted, and watched the way
his feet moved over the clutch, the brake, the gas pedal. Comforting.
"Depends. Touching something happy doesn't feel like much of anything. Maybe a
little buzz along my nerves, along with flashes of sounds and pictures,
sensations, sometimes tastes or smells. Something nasty, though& " His voice
trailed off, and he negotiated an intersection before picking up the sentence
again. "When I touch a critical piece of evidence from a murder scene, it
feels like&
pardon me" he glanced sidelong at her before returning his attention to the
road
"it feels like a bad case of shit cramps. Can double me over sometimes.
Depending on what I'm touching, I can get the physical sensations of the death
itself, the pain, the fear, the anger, the lust, the perversion, sometimes
words and the screaming, smells and tastes the killer and the victim in their
final
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together. It can be horrible."
Jess stared at him, trying to imagine voluntarily doing anything that affected
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