Catalina hurried around her desk and crossed the room.
“Goodbye,” she said. She opened the door. “And please remember what I said. You should thank your own intuition. You saved yourself because you were smart enough to sense that you were being conned.”
“Right.” Marsha gave her a wry smile. Tears glittered in her eyes. “Think that will keep me company at night?”
“I’m sorry,” Catalina said again.
There was nothing else she could say. Sometimes she suggested that clients consult a counselor or a therapist but her intuition told her that Marsha would not take that advice well.
Marsha strode down the hall to the reception area. Daniel Naylor, ensconced behind the sleek receptionist desk, jumped to his feet and opened the outer door for her. She brushed past him and disappeared out into the hall.
When she was gone, Daniel closed the door and looked at Catalina.
“Is Ms. Matson depressed or just mad as hell?” he asked.
Daniel was in his early twenties and possessed the computer skills that Catalina and Olivia lacked. They had grown up in Fogg Lake, after all, where high-tech phones, laptops and other cutting-edge devices did not function well, if at all. Sure, they had picked up a working knowledge of computers in college, and they were becoming increasingly competent with the various programs required in the course of the investigation business, but there was no way they would ever become as nimble on the Internet as someone who had grown up wired to his tech, playing online games and navigating social media.
In addition to his skills, Daniel had a gift for putting tense, nervous clients at ease. He also had style. As if by magic, he made the casual street gear look that characterized Pacific Northwest fashion appear effortlessly cool.
“She’s both depressed and pissed off,” Catalina said.
Olivia emerged from her office. She had grown into a striking woman endowed with an artistic, bohemian vibe. Today she wore rust brown wide-legged trousers that flowed with every step. She had topped it off with a sleek long-sleeved silk blouse in deep yellow ocher. Her auburn hair was cut in an artful wedge that framed her hazel eyes and delicate features.
Next to Olivia and Daniel, Catalina always felt like a fashion failure. She had tried to find an appropriate style; really, she had worked hard at it. Olivia had taken her shopping innumerable times. But somehow nothing had ever felt right except her uniform of basic black. Today she was wearing black trousers, low-heeled black boots and a black crew-neck top. Her dark hair was caught back in a stern twist at the back of her head.
Olivia folded her arms and lounged in the doorway. “Marsha Matson is definitely pissed off.”
“She’s got every right to be angry,” Daniel pointed out.
“Yes, but I worry that she’ll confront Hopper face-to-face,” Catalina said. “I tried to reinforce the idea that he could be dangerous if cornered but I don’t think she was paying attention.”
“You did all you could do,” Daniel said.
“He’s right,” Olivia said. “All we can do is offer advice. It’s not your fault if Marsha Matson doesn’t follow through on your suggestion of how to handle Hopper.”
“Right,” Catalina said. “Now if only I could convince myself of that.”
Olivia sighed. “If only. Well, let’s just hope she calms down before she does anything rash, because I agree with you. Hopper is volatile.”
“I’ll give her a call later and see what sort of mood she’s in,” Catalina said.
Daniel glanced at his watch. “It’s after five. Unless you need me for something else, I’ll be on my way.”
“That’s it for today,” Catalina said. “See you in the morning.”
Olivia waited until the door closed behind Daniel before she turned to Catalina.
“Well, this is the big night,” she said. “Emerson is cooking for me at his place. I’ve got to pick up the wine. Wish me luck.”
“You know I wish you all the luck in the world, but are you sure you want to go through with your plan? Emerson’s a nice guy. The two of you enjoy each other’s company. Why take the risk of messing up a good thing by dropping the bombshell on him?”
“I can’t wait any longer, Cat. Things are getting too serious between us. It wouldn’t be fair to string him along. And to be honest, I need to know if our relationship is going to go somewhere good or if it’s doomed.”
“You think he’s the one, don’t you?”
“Maybe. I hope so. I know he’s attracted to me. He’s kind. Thoughtful. He cares about art and he’s got a good relationship with his dog. A man’s relationship with his dog says a lot about him. In addition, his aura is stable. Healthy.”
“You know as well as I do that you can tell only so much about a man by viewing his aura,” Catalina said. “Granted, Emerson Ferris is not a sociopath, and he’s not mentally fragile, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be comfortable accepting the truth about you.”
Olivia straightened her shoulders and got a determined look. “If he can’t handle my psychic side, then I need to know now. Until I see how he deals with it, I’m trapped. I can’t move forward with our relationship until I’m sure it’s right for both of us.”
“You know I understand,” Catalina said. “But I’m so afraid he’ll react badly. You were devastated when that bastard McTavers told you that you needed psychiatric help. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
Olivia’s brows rose. “The same way you were hurt when you realized Ben Thaxter wanted to use you as a test subject for his crazy research project?”
Catalina held up both hands, palms out. “I admit I screwed up when I got involved with Thaxter, but I learned my lesson. Just because a man is curious about your psychic vibe doesn’t mean he doesn’t secretly think you’re delusional.”
“It’s not like things worked out for you when you hooked up with someone who did understand and accept your talent,” Olivia said. “Roger Gossard used you until he was afraid you’d become a liability to his business. When he concluded that you were a threat to his brand, he couldn’t throw you under the bus fast enough.”
“Okay, that relationship didn’t end well, but there were extenuating circumstances. Once again, lesson learned.”
Olivia’s expression softened. “You got over Thaxter and Gossard and you will try again. Give me some credit. If Emerson tells me he thinks I should check into a psychiatric hospital, I will be hurt but I’ll survive, just like you did.”
“All right. I’ll shut up now.” Catalina crossed the room to hug her friend. “I really hope things go well tonight.”
Olivia returned the hug. “I know you do. Don’t worry, if it turns out to be a disaster, you’ll be the first person I call. I’ll stop by your apartment for some therapeutic wine and sympathy. But if you don’t hear from me this evening, you’ll know Emerson took the news well and that I’m spending the night at his place.”
“Right.” Catalina took a step back. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay?”
“Careful?” Olivia’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t tell me you’re concerned that Emerson might be dangerous.”
“No, of course not. I just want you to protect yourself.”
“I can’t,” Olivia said gently. “Not in the way you mean. But I can be strong. That’s all that matters.”
Catalina smiled. “Yes, that’s all that matters.”
CHAPTER 3
The need to contact Marsha Matson had become too intense to ignore.
Catalina stopped her small car in the circular driveway of Matson’s home and sat quietly behind the wheel for a moment, absorbing the feel of the scene. There was nothing that jumped out at her, but she finally decided that things just felt off. Maybe it was the fact that the only light in the house emanated from somewhere deep inside. Probably my imagination. She had done too much crime scene work,
she decided. It made a person jaded.
She left the car engine running and got out. Again she took a few beats to try to figure out what was bothering her. She could not identify the vibe, but whatever it was, it was not good.
There was only one way to find out if the client was all right.
Leaving the driver’s-side door open, she went toward the imposing entrance. It was nearly eight in the evening, but it was April, so there was a little light left in the sky. The short, dark days of the Pacific Northwest winter had passed. The long days of summer were on the horizon.
Marsha Matson’s home was located in an exclusive neighborhood in one of the little boutique communities clustered around the shoreline of Lake Washington. The residence was a testament to Matson’s real estate success. It loomed two stories tall and sprawled across a large chunk of property.
Catalina was sure that there was a lot of electronic security.
The lights over the three-car garage revealed that all the doors were closed. There were no other vehicles in the driveway. If Marsha was home, she was alone. That was a good sign, Catalina thought, but she could not shake the uneasy sensation that had been riding her hard all evening. She had called Marsha three times over the course of the past few hours. On each occasion she had been dropped immediately into voice mail.
There could be any number of reasons why Marsha, a businesswoman who lived on her phone, might not be taking calls that night. One possible explanation was that the anger that had glittered in her eyes that afternoon had been transformed into an equally powerful depression.
Catalina went to the front door and paused to look up. Sure enough, a small camera was discreetly tucked under the eaves of the roof.
She hesitated before pushing the doorbell, still not certain that she was doing the right thing.
The vision whispered across her senses the instant her finger touched the doorbell.
Rage—murderous, howling rage—coalesced into a ghostly vision. She saw a man coming up the steps. He was the source of the wild fury.
Catalina gasped and instinctively jerked her finger off the bell. Now the darkness that gripped the interior of the house took on an ominous aspect that could not be ignored or explained away.
Common sense dictated that the smart move now was to call the police—assuming they would bother to respond. The last crime scene case she had worked for Roger Gossard had given her a reputation as a flake as far as law enforcement was concerned.
She hesitated, uncertain what to do next. Her intuition warned her that if Marsha was still alive it might be a bad idea to leave the scene. The intruder, assuming there was one, might feel compelled to carry out even more violent action in an attempt to silence his victim before the police arrived.
Catalina opened her purse and took out the dinner fork that she kept inside.
The door opened a scant few inches. Marsha appeared.
“Catalina.” Marsha’s voice was hoarse with panic.
The hall light was off but there was enough illumination emanating from the outside fixture to reveal her stark features. She stared at Catalina, desperate and terrified. It was clear now that she was not alone in the house. Angus Hopper was inside. That was the only thing that could explain the fear in Marsha’s eyes.
A vision of Marsha lying dead on the floor, blood streaming from her slit throat, whispered across Catalina’s senses. She suppressed the dreamlike image with an effort. Marsha wasn’t dead—not yet, at any rate.
“Marsha,” Catalina said, “what’s wrong?”
“What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer your phone,” Catalina said. She clutched the fork very tightly. “I was worried about you.”
“Go away,” Marsha pleaded. “I don’t want to see anyone tonight.”
But her eyes sent a different message. Her gaze shifted briefly to her right. Catalina knew then that Hopper was standing just out of sight on the other side of the door. She had to assume that he was armed.
“All right,” she said. “If you’re sure you want to be alone?”
“Yes.”
Catalina threw herself against the partially open door, slamming it inward with all her weight. Marsha stumbled back. There was a heavy thud when the door struck the man who had been concealed behind it.
Caught off guard, he was shoved hard against the wall. There was a muffled grunt. An object clattered on the tile floor.
Marsha yelped and rushed out the door.
“Run,” Catalina shouted. “The car.”
Marsha did not hesitate. She leaped down the steps. Catalina whirled around in an attempt to follow, but a big hand clamped over her arm and hauled her back. She did not try to free herself. She went with the momentum and rammed the fork upward in the general direction of her captor’s eyes.
Startled, Hopper slackened his hold on her arm. Instinctively, he lurched back out of reach of the fork, but he did not release her.
“Bitch,” he shouted.
Catalina stabbed again and again, wildly this time, going for whatever she could reach.
She knew she had connected with flesh when the fork met resistance. She kept jabbing. Hopper yowled in pain and rage, and suddenly she was free. She ran through the doorway. Marsha had the passenger-side door of the car open.
“Get in, get in,” Catalina shouted.
Marsha bolted into the car and slammed the door shut. Catalina got behind the wheel, dropped the fork, closed the door and hit the lock button.
Hopper had taken a few seconds to pick up his knife, but he was moving fast. He reached the passenger side of the car an instant after the locks took effect. Blood flowed from the fork wounds on the side of his face. He wrenched the door handle. When he discovered that it wouldn’t open, he pounded on the window with the hilt of his knife. Catalina heard glass crack.
She stepped hard on the accelerator. The little car leaped forward. In the grip of an unthinking rage, Hopper tried to cling to the vehicle. He managed to hang on for a couple of yards before he was thrown aside.
Catalina aimed the car down the driveway, heading toward the winding street. She gripped the wheel in both hands. She was shivering with the unnerving energy of raw adrenaline. She managed to make the call to 911 and promised to wait in a safe location until the police arrived.
Marsha stared straight ahead throughout the short, terse conversation with the emergency operator. When Catalina ended the call, Marsha finally emerged from her trancelike state.
“You were right about Hopper,” she said. “I should have taken your advice. But I was so fucking angry. I called him and told him I knew everything about him and that I was going to file charges.”
“What did he say?” Catalina asked.
“Nothing. He just hung up on me. The next thing I knew he was at my door with a dozen roses and a bottle of champagne. I couldn’t believe it. As if I was going to fall for his lies again. He didn’t take out the knife until he was inside.”
“Are you all right?”
“No, but I will be, thanks to you.” Marsha glanced down at the console between the two seats. “A fork? Really?”
“People think it’s odd if you carry a knife or a gun in your handbag.”
“But they don’t take much notice of a fork.”
“No,” Catalina said. “They don’t.”
“Have you ever had to use it before tonight?”
“Once,” Catalina said.
“What happened?”
Catalina focused on the narrow road. “I’m still here.”
“I think I’ll get myself a fork. Hell, make that a gun.”
CHAPTER 4
I’m afraid that Catalina Lark might be something of a problem,” Victor Arganbright said. “And not just because she comes from Fogg Lake.”
Slater Arganbright contemplated the fev
erish heat and energy of the casino lights on the Las Vegas Strip below the penthouse window. From where he stood in his uncle’s office at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the city, he had a spectacular view. It was two thirty in the morning, but in Las Vegas the night was always on fire. What intrigued him now, as usual, was the darkness of the desert that lay just beyond the city.
He had been awake when Victor had summoned him with a cryptic phone call. That was not an unusual condition for him these days. He had not slept well since the last case. Things had improved a little—the nightmares came less frequently now—but it was still the norm for him to snap into wakefulness on a rush of energy every morning around two. Sometimes he was able to go back to sleep. Sometimes he was doomed to stay awake until dawn.
Still, there were signs of progress. They no longer had to keep him locked up in the attic. Baby steps.
He turned around to confront his uncle.
“Tell me about Catalina Lark,” he said.
Victor grimaced. “It’s complicated.”
Victor was in his early midfifties and in excellent physical shape, which he attributed to a regimen of daily laps in his indoor pool, a mostly vegetarian diet—he did eat fish on occasion—and red wine at dinner. He had the strong, bold profile and fierce amber eyes that ran in the male line of the Arganbright family.
Today Victor’s features were set in the grim expression that was his default mode these days. Five years ago, when he had assumed the helm of the Foundation in what some of the staff referred to as a hostile takeover, he had been energized by the daunting task of transforming the secretive organization into a modern, smoothly functioning operation. He’d had some success, but in the past few months he had become obsessed with what he was convinced was a mortal threat, not only to the Foundation but to the country.
The problem for Victor was that with the exception of his husband, Lucas, no one else believed the danger actually existed. The truth was that rumors questioning Victor’s stability were starting to circulate among the Foundation staff. Some wondered if he had fallen down the rabbit hole of a conspiracy theory. That theory had a name—Vortex.
The Vanishing Page 3