Quicksilver by Amanda Quick Page A

evaporate. It continues to oscillate in the atmosphere of a space and is absorbed into the surfaces of furniture, walls and floors.”
    “And looking glasses.”
    He inclined his head. “Yes, although I cannot perceive what you do when you look into a mirror. The physics of looking glasses are quite unique.”
    “I comprehend that both of us are sensitive to the residue of the energy that is laid down by violence. But why do we both feel the need to find answers for those who are left behind?”
    “I cannot answer that.”
    She swirled the brandy in her glass. “Do you think that all of those who possess talents like ours experience the compulsion to seek justice and answers?”
    “No, far from it.” He downed the last of the brandy and set the glass on the mantel. He did not take his attention off the flames. “There are people endowed with talents similar to our own who savor the atmosphere of murder in the manner of connoisseurs who appreciate fine art and great wine.”
    She nearly dropped the brandy glass.
    “What?”
she said, and gasped.
    Owen’s jaw hardened. He looked at her. A cold fire replaced the other kind of heat that had lit his eyes only a moment ago.
    “There are those who seek out the scenes of murder and horrific violence in order to indulge their senses in the sensations that were generated in the moment of death,” he said.
    It seemed to Virginia that the room chilled. “That is difficult to believe.”
    But she had sensed the unwholesome excitement of the killers when she had looked deeply into the mirrors, she thought. She had witnessed that terrible thrill through the eyes of the victims. Owen was right, there were those who savored the act of murder.
    “Some with talents similar to ours revel in violent energy to such a degree that they become addicted to it,” Owen said. “In order to satisfy their craving they do not merely seek out murder scenes, they create them.”
    “They kill.”
    “Again and again. With their talents.” He looked at her. “Those are the ultimate predators.”
    Comprehension flashed through her. “Those are the killers you hunt.”
    “Yes.”
    “It is the desire for justice that drives you.”
    The faint curve of his mouth held no trace of humor. “I cannot claim any such noble excuse, Virginia. I do not understand the need within me. I only know that I cannot escape it.” He paused. “It is an addiction of another kind.”
    She knew then that he was not seeking absolution. He was telling her a truth about himself, waiting to see if she could accept it.
    “I think,” she said, choosing her words with great care, “that we can turn to Mr. Darwin and the theory of evolution for guidance here.”
    Owen looked first startled and then he frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What in blazes does evolution have to do with this?”
    “Well, it occurs to me that nature has a way of keeping things in balance, and so does society. We have criminals among us, so it follows that there are those who are drawn to stop them. Such people perhaps become policemen or detectives, or they choose to study the criminal mind.”
    “I am not a policeman,” Owen said in a voice of stone.
    “If human predators with strong psychical powers have evolved, which is clearly the case, then it is also logical that there are those like you who have evolved to hunt them,” she concluded.
    Owen said nothing. He just watched her with his hunter’s eyes.
    She cleared her throat. “It is the way of the natural world.”
    “That is an interesting theory.”
    “I certainly thought so.”
    “Why are you bothering to search for a scientific explanation for the existence of a man like me?”
    She finished her brandy and set the glass on the mantel, alongside the one he had placed there.
    “I suppose it is because I would like to find a similar rational explanation for my own talent and the compulsion I experience whenever I am summoned to the scene of a violent death,” she said