Ryker Townsend – Psychic FBI Profiler Series
Redemption for Avery
When he sleeps, the hunt begins.
FBI Profiler Ryker Townsend is a rising star in Quantico’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, but his dark secret could cost him his career. When he sleeps, he has visions of his next case. He sees through the eyes of the dead, the last images imprinted on their retinas. His nightmares are riddled with clues he must decipher to hunt humanity’s Great White Shark—the serial killer.
While he’s investigating the shocking slaughter of a seventeen-year-old girl at Big Bear Lake, the tormented soul of another dead child appears to him in broad daylight. Twelve-year-old Avery Reed reaches out to Ryker—a disheveled and haunted girl, unable to speak—held earthbound out of love for her grief-stricken brother, Sam. Avery’s presence draws Ryker into a sinister conspiracy and she has a desperate message for her brother, if she can make Ryker understand.
Navy SEAL Sam ‘Mozart’ Reed has been haunted by the brutal death of his little sister Avery when he was only fifteen-years old. He vowed to seek and destroy the killer who splintered his family, wiping out everything he’d ever known. Nineteen years later, his darkest wish came true when he found Hurst, her alleged killer, and stopped him from murdering one last time. But when Mozart learns the FBI has reopened Avery’s case, he fears the worst. His SEAL team may have ended the carnage of a serial killer years ago, but for the first time, Mozart has doubts that Hurst had been the man who took Avery’s life. A heartless predator is still butchering young girls. Mozart’s worst nightmare is back with a cruel vengeance.
I dreamed about a girl, her pale skin glimmering in moonlight, mottled by drying flecks of malevolent crimson. The pungent smell of the earth underneath her body mixed with the odor of something rotting in a nearby bog. The stench made looking at her worse, if that were even possible.
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The atrocities committed on her once perfect young body robbed her of dignity as she lay naked and displayed with her face battered. She did not possess all her internal organs, yet despite that fact, her milky eyes locked on me and followed wherever I moved in her deathbed of bulrush grasses, as if she were still alive.
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
As her soul left her body, she must’ve reached out to my fertile receptive mind as I lay asleep in my bed in Woodbridge, Virginia. This was how I’d come to terms with my gift. I’d chosen to believe that the dead touched me while I slept, and by sheer logic, the dearly departing must know how to find me. That’s far better than assuming my mind was an open portal to an alternative world of non-breathers—and that while I slept, I went looking for them. That would’ve been impossible. My sense of direction isn’t that keen, even when I’m upright.
At times when I’m exhausted, I can sense—and even see—the truly desperate souls make contact while I’m awake. This can be highly unnerving. The dead have little regard for polite behavior, but I sensed this girl would be the exception. She would wait for me to come to her. She’d made her wishes known. The rest would be up to me, even though I had no idea how I would accomplish such a feat.
She could be anywhere.
From our brief encounter in my dream, the isolated terrain where she died did not look familiar, but I had faith our face-to-face would indeed happen. She would make sure of it and I would soon know her name. Once the dead find me—with their single-minded, unearthly purpose—they never backed off.
When my morning alarm sounded at six, I lay wide awake and stared at the ceiling of my bedroom, still thinking of her.
“I’ll find you. I promise.”
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