Bishop lifted his eyebrows and waited.

Hollis sighed. “A lot of people are feeling a lot of things, Bishop. Mostly fear. I dunno if this town could set a land-speed record for gossip or it’s just because there are so many psychics around who can pluck news out of the air, but the fact there’s a threat seems pretty universally known.” She considered. “Or felt, anyway.”

“You’re really picking that up through all the shields?” Finn asked. With his shields up, he had no empathic sense other than a very low-level anxiety in the townsfolk.

“Well, catching it, more like. It’s all being thrown at me. I dunno why my receiver is suddenly at max wattage, but it is. Or maybe just because my so-called shield really isn’t, most of the time. Mostly there’s a lot of white noise, especially here, because it’s another thing that happens when there’s a lot of energy all about and too many feelings to sort through—”

Her eyes widened suddenly, then narrowed and grew, if possible, more intense. Her face drained of color. She seemed to be looking at something in the distance. She winced. Then, softly, she said, “Oh, shit.”

“Hollis?”

She drew in a deep, slow breath and let it out shakily. “I think . . . I think our unsub does have Cole Ainsworth. He has somebody.”

“Where?” Bishop asked.

She closed her eyes, concentrating, fighting to grasp elusive threads of knowledge that showed up bright against the dark despair trying to weigh her down, that horrible sense of a victim all too aware of his own agonizing fate. “I can’t tell. Maybe . . . north of here? The other end of the valley. North, northwest. The mountains at that end. Not close.”

“Anything else?”

“Pain. Horrible pain. Fear. Terror.” Her voice was very steady. “Panic. A sense of being alone . . . nobody to help. There are woods all around, I think. Really strong sense of being helpless, of being . . . doomed.” She blinked and looked at Bishop, saw him. Hardly being aware of it, she shivered. “It moves in and out. Like a door opening. And closing. Maybe what I’m getting is from a psychic whose shields keep slipping, but with too much fear or pain, or too little control for that to matter. Being psychic, I mean. Not calling out for help, just feeling. God, he’s so afraid.”

“ ‘He’?”

Hollis fought to get a grip on what she felt, but for a while all she could do was sit there and endure the cold waves of terror and agony. “I think . . . yeah. He. I’m almost sure.” She drew another shaky breath, still struggling. “It’s . . . more than murder. What I’m feeling . . . it’s getting worse, stronger.” Her face went suddenly blank, wiped of all expression, only the luminous eyes starkly alive, and she added evenly, “Torture.”

Finn swore, not softly.

Bishop said, “We knew our arrival here could make him move faster. Maybe it has. Maybe he sees us as a challenge rather than a threat.”