“You found that trail?”
“Not me. The Foundation has experts who specialize in tracking financial operations. But although they’ve come up with hints and clues, there is still a lot we don’t know about the project. It’s hard to make a big research operation like Bluestone vanish, but I’ve got to hand it to whoever was in charge of closing down the project. He or she did a hell of a job. All we’ve got at this point are rumors, legends and some scattered artifacts.”
“You think that Morrissey and the man who killed him were searching for the Fogg Lake lab the night that Olivia and I witnessed the murder.”
“Yes.”
Catalina picked up a sleek black pen and tapped it gently against her coffee mug. “Let’s go back to my original question. What makes Ingram’s and Royston’s deaths so important to the Foundation?”
“We’re paying particular attention because there are some new rumors circulating in the underworld market. There are indications that someone is trying to find one particular lab. Of all the facilities, it was the one that was treated as the most highly classified. The code name was Vortex. It was a real black box operation.”
“Why was it special?”
“It was focused on developing technology designed to weaponize paranormal energy. There are some hints in the archives that suggest the Vortex lab may have been successful or, at the very least, came up with a few working prototypes.”
“Do you think the Fogg Lake lab was the Vortex operation?”
“We don’t know. It may not be the Vortex lab, but I think whoever is searching for Vortex has taken an interest in the Fogg Lake facility.”
“Assuming it even exists.”
“You and Olivia and I, along with everyone else who can trace their ancestors back to Fogg Lake or the Bluestone Project, are evidence that it existed,” Slater said.
Catalina eyed him closely. “What’s your connection to Fogg Lake? I grew up there. I don’t remember an Arganbright family.”
“None of my people are from Fogg Lake but the residents of your hometown aren’t the only ones with a connection to the Bluestone Project. A wide range of paranormal research was carried out in all of the labs. The Arganbrights carry the results of one of those experiments in our DNA.”
A shiver of intuition crackled through her. “Well, well, well. I’m going to take a flying leap here. You think the Arganbrights were affected by experiments done in that mysterious Vortex lab, don’t you?”
Slater hesitated and then shrugged. “There is some family lore indicating that my grandfather may have worked in the Vortex lab. We’ve never been able to prove it because he didn’t survive the closure of the labs. My father suspects Granddad was killed by someone who thought he knew too much. What we do know is that there’s a strong psychic vibe in the bloodline and that it showed up first in my father’s generation. Everything after that is pure conjecture.”
“Do you think the explosion on that night was caused by some sort of paranormal weapon? A bomb, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Slater got to his feet and put his empty mug on the counter. “Ready to go talk to Gwendolyn Swan?”
“Yes.” Catalina rose and walked around the end of the desk. “Where is her shop located?”
“Pioneer Square.”
“That’s not far from here,” Catalina said. “It will be faster if we walk.”
She went to the window and looked down at the street. A van marked with the familiar logo of a local TV station was just pulling up in front of the building. The passenger-side door opened. Brenda Bryce got out. A man with a video camera emerged from the van. They headed toward the lobby doors.
Catalina turned away from the window. “We’ll use the loading dock entrance in the alley.”
Slater glanced down at the TV crew. “You do have a problem with the local media, don’t you?”
“Yep, thanks to good old Uncle Victor and Roger Gossard.”
“Don’t worry.” Slater picked up his pack. “I’ll handle security on the street so you don’t have to waste a lot of energy running hot. On the way you can tell me what you did with a fork last night.”
CHAPTER 12
The escape through the alley went off without a hitch. It was a relief not to have to walk down the street with all senses firing. With Slater handling security, as he called it, Catalina discovered she could allow herself to relax somewhat for the first time that day. No more stepping over hot prints on the sidewalk. No more flinching every time a person with a disturbing aura drew near. No more confrontations with Brenda Bryce and her crew.
True, she found herself checking the faces of those around her, searching for two people who looked enough alike to be twins, but aside from that she felt she could let down her guard, at least for a while. As long as Slater is keeping watch.
Okay, it was weird to have a bodyguard from the Foundation at her side, but her life had taken a weird twist.
Under other circumstances the vibe of an energy field as fierce as Slater’s would have made her deeply uneasy. She had never been so close to such a powerful aura. But now that she had recovered from the shattering jolt that had arced through her when they had collided, she was surprised to discover she had already adjusted to his unusual aura.
Adjusted might not be the right word. The truth was, she found it exciting to walk down the street with Slater Arganbright. Thrilling, even.
That was probably not a good sign.
The fact that he was from the Foundation was a serious complication. The reality, however, was that she had no choice but to accept help from the secretive organization. Victor Arganbright had the kind of resources she might need to try to save Olivia.
She decided her reaction to Slater’s nearness could be attributed to the fact that her own energy field was badly frazzled from recent events. A person couldn’t perceive their own aura, so she didn’t know how hers looked to Slater or to anyone else who could detect human energy fields. But she had a bad feeling that her aura was probably sparking and flashing like a busted neon sign.
Sooner or later the crash will hit. You couldn’t go flat-out, as she had been doing most of the time since the scene at Marsha Matson’s house, without paying a price. Energy was energy, and she had burned a lot of it lately. The fact that she hadn’t gotten more than a couple of hours of fitful sleep during the night only made things worse.
“I get that you read the scene at your client’s house last night,” Slater said when she finished her story. “You picked up on the fact that Hopper had a weapon and that he was behind the door. You rescued your client and yourself. Nice work, by the way.”
“Thank you. We try to be a full-service agency for our clients.”
He smiled a little. “I’ve got one question.”
“The fork.”
“Why did you happen to have one in your handbag?”
“I owe your uncle for that,” she said.
“You don’t sound overly grateful.”
“After I read the Ingram crime scene for him six months ago, your uncle thanked me and left town that same day. I played the good citizen and contacted the police. I told them there was reason to believe that Ingram had been murdered. They investigated the death. No evidence was found. Case closed. But word got out that a woman claiming to be psychic had called in a tip about a possible murder. Brenda Bryce ran with the story. That’s when things got complicated for me. Some very odd people started showing up at the career counseling firm where I worked.”
“I heard something about that.”
“I became a media sensation here in Seattle for about twenty-four hours. But that was long enough. Most of those who tried to get an appointment with me wanted lucky numbers for the lottery, or they wanted me to tell their fortunes. The ones that really gave me the creeps were the folks who asked me to contact spirits on the Other Side.”
Slater shook his head. “Some people still believe it’s possible to talk to ghosts.”
“I tried to explain that being psychic is not the same thing as being a medium and that anyone who claimed to be able to contact a ghost was either a fraud or seriously deluded. I pointed out that if I could predict which numbers would win the lottery I would have played them myself long ago and retired to a beach in Hawaii. And then there were the so-called paranormal researchers who wanted to study me, as if I were a lab rat.”
“In other words, thanks to Uncle Victor, you ran headfirst into the buzz saw that most of us with any drop of talent try to avoid.”
“Unfortunately, one of the nutjobs who read about me in the papers concluded that I was a demon straight from hell. His name was Earl Plunkett. He called himself a demon slayer. He stalked me for a while, and then he came after me one evening as I was leaving a restaurant with Olivia.”
“Ah, I think I’m getting a psychic vibe about the fork,” Slater said.
“Olivia and I were having drinks and dinner and talking about our plans for an investigation agency. Plunkett was outside the restaurant in an alley. I caught a glimpse of his aura. So did Olivia. We had planned to walk back to our apartment building, but we decided to call a ride instead. We waited inside the restaurant until the car arrived. At the last minute I realized it might be a good idea to have some sort of weapon. I grabbed a fork off the table.”
“What happened?”
“We hurried across the sidewalk to jump into the car. Earl the Demon Slayer ran out of the alley. He had a knife in one hand. I managed to block him with the car door. That jolted him long enough for me to jab the fork at his eyes. He panicked and ran. The cops picked him up less than twenty minutes later.”
“Is he in jail?” Slater asked.
“Of course not. He’s out on bail. But so far he has stayed away from me.”
“Damn. Victor did not do you any favors, did he?”
“He paid his bill, but that’s about all I can say on his behalf. Considering that you’re family, I’m sure you have a much kinder view of him.”
“I dunno about that. He and his husband, Lucas, kept me locked up in the attic for a month.”
That brought her to a halt on the sidewalk. “What?”
“Long story,” Slater said. “Let’s save it for later. But thanks for clarifying your feelings toward Victor. I think I’ve got a fairly good understanding of why my uncle thought you might not be thrilled with the idea of assisting me.”
He resumed walking. She had to hustle to catch up.
“And I’ve got a very realistic understanding of why I need you to help me find Olivia,” she said.
“Allies as long as we’re facing the same enemy, is that it?”
“Looks like it,” Catalina said.
Slater stopped at the entrance to a dark, narrow passageway between two equally dark buildings. “Swan’s shop is halfway down this alley.”
Catalina eyed the uninviting thoroughfare. “Picturesque. I’ll give it that much.”
“Antiques shops like quaint locations.”
“There’s quaint and then there’s eccentric.”
“Anyone who deals in paranormal artifacts is, by definition, eccentric,” Slater said.
“You’re a collector.”
“Yes.”
“Is that your way of telling me that you are eccentric?”
“I don’t know if I am or not,” Slater said. “Eccentric is one of those labels that other people slap on an individual. I doubt if true eccentrics view themselves as eccentric.”
“Good point. Do you consider Gwendolyn Swan eccentric?”
“She’s quite normal for a dealer who specializes in paranormal artifacts.”
“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”
“Sorry,” Slater said. “It’s the best I can do.”
“How did you become acquainted with her?”
“A couple of years ago Lucas discovered that she was acquiring artifacts with a paranormal vibe for certain clients. Victor sent me here to contact her and see if she was the real deal.”
“I take it she was.”
Slater smiled ruefully. “Let’s just say that the first time I walked into her shop I dropped several thousand dollars on a nice little Roman ring set with a stone engraved with an image of Medusa. The damned thing was only worth a few hundred bucks at most. It didn’t even have a Bluestone lab provenance. It was a couple of thousand years older. But I couldn’t resist the vibe of the stone.”
“In other words, Gwendolyn Swan saw you coming?”
“Ms. Swan not only has a talent for picking up paranormal artifacts, she’s a natural-born saleswoman. Trust me, you’ll be lucky if you get out of her shop today without buying something.”
“I grew up in a town full of artifacts with a paranormal provenance. Heck, my neighbors are living artifacts. I’m one. So is Olivia. I have no interest in collecting stuff that has a psychic vibe, believe me. All right, I get why you are interested in Gwendolyn Swan, but what makes her useful to your uncle?”
“A river of hot gossip flows through the underground market in paranormal antiquities,” Slater said. “Much of the work of the Foundation depends on that kind of gossip. Gwendolyn Swan is an excellent resource because she is among the first to hear all of the important rumors.”
“Does she charge a fee for the information she provides?”
“Sure,” Slater said. “No such thing as a free lunch in the paranormal underworld.”
CHAPTER 13
Gwendolyn Swan was in the basement, struggling to drag the body into the vault, when she heard someone bang on the front door of the shop. She ignored the muffled noise, hoping the customer would notice the Closed sign in the window and go away.
She tightened her grip on the dead man’s ankle and leaned into her task. She managed to haul most of the torso inside the vault. Only the head and both arms were still outside.
The pounding on the front door continued, more insistent this time. Collectors. They tended to be obsessive.
She was breathing hard and her forehead was damp with perspiration by the time she finally got the rest of the body over the threshold. She slammed the heavy door shut and set the lock.
The pounding was still going on upstairs. With a sigh she paused in front of an old looking glass that glittered with dark energy and checked her hair. She looked like she had just finished a workout.
She took a moment to remove the hair clip, shake out her shoulder-length, honey-brown hair and reclip it into a neat twist. She took off the full-length leather apron she had put on to deal with the body and dusted off her jeans. The crystal in the locket around her neck glittered briefly in the old Victorian mirror.
She paused at the foot of the steps to survey the basement. Everything appeared to be in order.
The pounding upstairs continued.
“I’m on my way,” she called.
She hurried up the steps, opened the door at the top and went through the back room and out across the sales floor.
Damn collectors.
She plastered a cheerful, welcoming smile across her face and opened the front door of the shop.
She dropped the smile immediately when she saw who stood on the step.
“Slater Arganbright,” she said. “Well, well, well. I heard you had gone into seclusion and were probably painting watercolors at Halcyon Manor.”
“You know you can’t always believe everything you hear, Gwendolyn,” Slater said. “This is my consultant, Catalina Lark. Catalina, meet Gwendolyn Swan.”
“How do you do?” Catalina said.
“Your name rings a bell,” Gwendolyn said. “Would you happen to be Catalina Lark the fake psychic, who told the cops that she was sure someone had been murdered?”
Cata
lina winced. “I am never going to live that down.”
Gwendolyn mustered some reluctant empathy. “I realize things must have been rough for a while after the media got ahold of that story.”
“Very rough,” Catalina said. “But, hey, Victor paid his bill.”
Gwendolyn gave her a grim smile. “Sorry to say there is always a risk of becoming collateral damage when you get involved with the Foundation.”
“Believe it or not, I had already figured that out,” Catalina said. She eyed Slater. “Halcyon Manor?”
“I’ll explain later,” Slater said. “Sorry to bother you, Gwendolyn, but I’m working a case for my uncle. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Gwendolyn gave him her brightest smile. “You know me, anything for the Foundation. Come on in.”
She stepped back to allow her visitors through the front door, took a quick peek outside to make sure there was no one lurking nearby, and closed and relocked the door.
She went back across the room to put the barrier of the sales counter between herself and the man from the Foundation.
So much for the rumors about Slater Arganbright. He was not only very much alive, he was evidently stable enough to navigate a city street. Of course, that particular test set a very low bar. There were a lot of crazies on the streets of any big city, including Seattle.
That said, there was definitely something different about Slater, she concluded. She could see auras, but she didn’t have a strong talent for reading them. Her psychic strengths lay in another area. To her senses the energy fields around people appeared as little more than a pale glow. The brightness varied somewhat depending on the health and vitality of the person. As far as she could tell, Slater was relatively strong, but it looked like some damage had been done.
“You know I’m always delighted to help you find an interesting piece for your private collection, Slater,” she said, “but you make me nervous when you’re working a case for your uncle.”
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