A UCLA professor teams up with an LAPD homicide cop and a reluctant psychic to smoke out a diabolical serial killer, in this stylish, high-concept thriller reminiscent of "The Eyes of Laura Mars."

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Chapter One

Lisa's head snapped forward with such force that it almost hit the coffee table. Within moments she was sweating profusely, and the room seemed to pulsate around her.

The evening had started routinely enough, save her exhaustion from the Latham meeting. The accounting firm where she worked, Engle & Loren, had been pitching the Latham Oil account for two years, and today they'd had a meeting with the company's decision makers. The six-hour "dog and pony show" had been in Latham's conference room, where the ceiling lights glared off a polished table directly into her eyes.

It was almost 9:00 p.m. when Lisa dragged herself into the bedroom of her West Los Angeles apartment. She dropped her clothes onto the floor, shook her blond hair free of the barrette, and splashed cold water on her face. She didn't have the energy to dry her face before moving to the living room, where she fell onto the tan couch and let the soft material envelop her.

Lisa had two reports due tomorrow, and she knew that if she didn't get to them quickly she'd risk zoning out for the night. So she stifled a yawn, folded one leg underneath her, and spread out the thick set of financials on her chrome-and-glass coffee table.

An hour or so later, it began. The episode started like the others: images flashing in her head like photos under a strobe light; visions striking her so rapidly that she sensed them more than saw them. She knew these incidents passed within a few minutes if she just relaxed, so she took a deep breath and laid her head back against the couch.

The first images were from her childhood. The petite Filipina nurse, from the hospital where Lisa had been taken after her injury. The AstroTurf thrown unevenly across a mound of freshly dug dirt. And a red-haired girl she couldn't quite place. All remnants of her psychic experiences twenty years earlier.

Suddenly she was seized by a new image: a tableau caught in a powerful camera flash, then shrouded in shadows after the burst of light. As she realized what she was seeing, her head involuntarily snapped forward, and she felt a jolt of electric current rip through her.

Lisa didn't recognize the young woman in her vision. A blond girl, apparently in her twenties. The woman was trapped in an empty room, screaming and running from an unseen terror. She couldn't find a place to hide, so she curled herself into a fetal position and covered her eyes, as if that could somehow shield her.

Lisa tried to look away, yet felt as if her head were being held, forcing her to watch. The spasms in her body became so intense that she fell roughly to the floor, scraping her face against the coarse carpet.

The images continued their assault. The nurse; the redhead; the AstroTurf; the terrified young woman who seemed to be pleading for Lisa's help. Film clips projected on top of each other. Their soundtracks screaming for her attention. She began to pound the sides of her head with her fists, hoping it would jar the visions loose.

Several minutes later, the wave of images began to break apart. Feelings returned to the tips of her fingers, and as soon as she had enough control, she pushed herself to the window and flung it open. Then she took deep gasps of the cold night air, as if she had broken the surface of a dark pool just before drowning.

She had been foolish to think these episodes wouldn't intensify. Her attempts to deal with them on her own now seemed impotent, almost silly.

She had to do something more drastic.

And she had no idea what.

The figure watched from across the street, camouflaged in nighttime shadows. Adopting a mutt from the pound had been a brilliant stroke; everyone looks friendly and innocent with a puppy on a leash, and it's natural to stop and let them do their thing on the grass. So, night or day, you can look around all you want and be practically invisible. The last dog had been better; cuter, less conspicuous. This one had matted black hair and scratched constantly. Not that it mattered. The little bitch would get left on the streets later tonight, just like the others.

Across the street was the woman with shoulder-length hair. She was laughing and walking up to her apartment with that tall man. He looked like a wimp who couldn't protect her, yet everything had to be right. Which meant nobody else around. So if the wimp didn't take off in the next few minutes, it would have to be tomorrow night. Or the next. There was always time to do it right. And never time to do it over.

The dog strained against the leash, trying to run toward the couple across the street. As the dog's collar tightened, the mutt started coughing. The young woman glanced toward the sound, and the figure retreated into the shadows. After staring for a moment, the couple went back to their conversation.

Finally, the woman kissed the tall man on the cheek. As she turned to watch him amble away, her face was backlit by the porch light. She looked perfect. The best one yet. Sometimes the anticipation was almost as orgasmic as the event.

A light went on in the young woman's bedroom. The bedroom with a window she never locked.

A few moments later, the little dog scampered away, dragging the leash behind it.