Bad Vibrations: Book 1 of the Sedona Files

by Christine Pope

“For real.”

  It had been twenty years since Otto first appeared to me and told me what my “true path” was intended to be, but I’d known there was something different about me for some time before that. “I guess I was twelve. Oh, there were times when I was younger that I got odd feelings about things, or told people that something was going to happen, and it did, but Otto first showed up on my doorstep when I was in middle school. He sort of explained what was going on.”

  “That must have been a shock.”

  “To put it mildly. As if puberty wasn’t tough enough.”

  He laughed then, just as the waitress appeared with our entrees. She shot an apologetic smile at us, as if she knew she was interrupting.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  Both Paul and I shook our heads, and she scampered away.

  The food smelled amazing, and I couldn’t resist just digging in. Paul did the same, so for a few minutes we ate in silence. I could practically feel my depleted tissues soaking up all the protein and Omega-3s and all the other good stuff in that delectable hunk of filet. I had to revise my opinion of the Rainforest Cafe upward a few notches. The place might have felt like the Enchanted Tiki Room on crack, but the food was excellent.

  “It’s interesting, though,” he said, after we had done some serious damage to our respective meals. “I’ve worked with some psychics, and the ones who channel other beings have often said they’ve been in contact with spirits from other dimensions, or intelligences that claim to be from other worlds. And yet you’ve never experienced anything like that?”

  I shook my head; my mouth was still full of red snapper and mango salsa. After I swallowed, and took a sip of chardonnay, I replied, “No. Otto is definitely an earthly spirit. I’ve met some other psychics who have said the same thing, that the beings they’re channeling are definitely otherworldly in origin, but that’s never been the case with me. And I’ve never had contact with any other intelligences besides Otto. I don’t know if that makes me a deficient psychic or what.”

  There might have been a touch of defensiveness in my last words—over the years I’d often wondered as well why I only spoke with Otto…and I’d had one or two snippy practitioners make disparaging remarks about my limited repertoire of psychic guides. At the time I’d attempted to brush them off, telling myself that this wasn’t a competition. Even so, I couldn’t help questioning these supposed “abilities” of mine and how strong they really were.

  Then again, considering the grief he was able to cause me all on his own, I supposed I should be glad that I didn’t have a whole bevy of spirits hanging around and clamoring for attention.

  Paul said, “I definitely wouldn’t call you deficient.”

  That look was back in his eyes, the one I wanted to think of as admiring. Ginger probably would have looked at him boldly, inviting more. Since I was definitely lacking in flirting skills, instead I glanced back down at my plate and pretended to be gathering up a choice mouthful of mango salsa. After an awkward pause, I said, “One woman I met a few years ago at a New Age fair said I was bottling myself up, that I needed to open myself to new experiences. But I don’t agree. When you’re dealing with the paranormal, sometimes if you open the door too wide, you risk letting all sorts of bad things in.”

  “Like those kids who play with Ouija boards.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know if it’s the Devil—I’ve never met the guy—but not all intelligences are benign.”

  “Apparently not.” His expression sobered, and I knew he must be thinking of Alex Hathaway, dead for a reason neither one of us could discern.

  At that moment Paul’s jacket pocket began ringing, and he reached in and pulled out his cell phone. “Hello.”

  Of course I couldn’t hear who was on the other end of the line, but somehow I knew it had to be Jeff, a certainty that had more to do with the fact that no one else had the number for Paul’s pay-to-play cell than because my psychic powers had decided to kick in.

  “We can be there in ten minutes,” he said, and shut the cell phone. He peered past me into the main section of the restaurant. “Have you seen our waitress?”

  “No, but we can probably just guesstimate the tab if it’s that urgent.”

  “It’s not. Raymond has a few things he found that he wants to discuss with us, but he certainly hasn’t cracked the code, as it were.”

  At that moment, our waitress did appear, probably to do the customary “how are things going?” check-in. She looked a little surprised when Paul requested the bill, but nodded and said she’d take care of it right away.

  Maybe she’d seen something in his face that I hadn’t, because she did return with greater than usual haste and set the bill down on the table. He and I both reached for it at the same time.

  “I said I was taking you out to dinner,” he protested.

  “And how much cash do you have left?” I countered. “I’m carrying a lot more than you—might as well make yours last longer.”

  Slowly he withdrew his hand, but I could tell he wasn’t happy.

  To mollify him, I asked, “How about I make you take me someplace fancy when all this is over?”

  He smiled then, just the tiniest bit. “Deal.”

  The damage wasn’t all that bad; I dug a couple of twenties out of my wallet and tucked them into the leatherette envelope next to the bill. Only a few swallows of chardonnay remained, so I finished off my glass and set it down as Paul drank the rest of his water. We both slid out of the booth and headed toward the parking lot.

  California was still a week away from Daylight Savings Time, so full dark had fallen by the time we emerged from the restaurant. The wind had picked up, catching at my hair and most likely making it look wilder than ever. I shivered and wished I’d brought my leather jacket with me.

  Paul was quiet as we walked out to our rented car. Maybe he was thinking about what Raymond had found. I found myself wondering the same thing, but didn’t really feel like discussing it. Whatever he’d discovered, I had the feeling it couldn’t be good.

  To my surprise, Paul walked me around to my side of the car instead of simply hitting the remote to unlock the doors and leaving me to fend for myself. I didn’t have time to ponder this outburst of chivalry, however, because instead of pulling out the car keys, he reached for me and drew me toward him, even as he bent and pressed his lips against mine.

  This action was so unexpected—just a further indication that a good part of my talents seemed to have abandoned me—that for a second or two I couldn’t even react. But then I realized just how good it felt to have his arms around me, how firm his mouth was, how he tasted faintly spicy and better than I could have ever hoped for. He held me like that for what could have been just a minute or maybe half an hour. It was hard to tell, with the way my head was spinning.

  He pulled away a few inches and said, “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not?” I managed, glad I was able to string even two words together.

  “With everything that’s going on, with what’s at stake—” He shook his head. “Kissing you in the parking lot like I was back in high school isn’t exactly a mature reaction to the situation.”

  My lips still tingled from the touch of his mouth. “So why did you do it?”

  His shoulders lifted. “I kept looking at you during dinner, wondering. I suppose some part of me just said the hell with it.”

  “Then say the hell with it again,” I told him, and the words were barely out of my mouth before he bent down and kissed me once more, his hands tightening on my arms, holding me tightly as if he was afraid someone or something might come along and snatch me away.

  No chance of that. It would take an act of God to pull me away from Paul, that much I knew. The familiar sensation was back, the one of absolute certainty. Whatever else was going on, and whatever dark forces might have forced us to flee here where no one knew us, I did know I was meant to be with Paul. Crazy, sure—I’d known the man
for less than forty-eight hours. But the same still, quiet voice that had guided me through my counseling sessions seemed to have returned long enough to tell me I had finally found the one man who took me as I was and expected nothing more…and nothing less.

  His pocket buzzed against my collarbone, and I jumped, breaking our contact. He shook his head, then reached in and pulled out his cell phone.

  “Yes, Jeff, we’re on our way. Just had to…wait for our check.” And he closed the phone and stuffed it back in his pocket.

  “You are such a liar,” I told him, even as he clicked the remote to unlock the car, then opened the door for me.

  “It wasn’t a complete lie. We did have to wait for the check.”

  “A whole three minutes.” But I got the point, and lowered myself into my seat as he went around to his own side of the car.

  Neither one of us said anything as he started the engine and then backed out of the parking space before pointing the Camry toward Fourth Street and Raymond’s lab. Somehow, though, it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. The pressure of his lips seemed to linger on mine, and I smiled a little as I stared out the window at the streets passing by. Whatever might still be waiting for us, I knew Paul had feelings for me, feelings strong enough that he’d acted on them, even though logically both of us should have known to keep our libidos in check until we’d gotten the rest of this mess sorted out.

  At the moment, I was very glad neither one of us had turned out to be all that logical.

  Nothing seemed to have changed appreciably as we pulled into the parking lot at Lampson Labs. The Prius and the shabby white van were still in their respective places, and the front office was still noticeably empty, the fluorescent lights within glaring out through the open blinds. Paul and I got out of the Camry and went in, heading toward the back of the building.

  We found Raymond and Jeff in one of the labs, Raymond with his eyeballs apparently glued to a complicated piece of equipment I guessed was some sort of microscope, although it appeared to be an order of magnitude greater in complexity than the sorts of microscopes we’d used when I was at college and taking my required biology coursework. Jeff hovered a few feet away, and shot us an irritated glare as we entered the room.

  “Nice of you to drop in,” he remarked.

  I barely refrained from raising a guilty hand to my lips, as if Paul’s kiss had left an imprint there. Which was just silly, since I’d done a quick reapplication of lipstick on the way over.

  “What have you got?” Paul asked, his tone mild. You’d have thought he was the one who’d had the calming glass of wine with dinner.

  At that point Raymond lifted his head from the microscope, but slowly, as if reluctant to turn away from whatever he was inspecting. “It’s definitely alien,” he said.

  Paul’s eyebrows went up slightly. “How do you know?”

  “Are you a biologist?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then,” he replied, as if that explained everything.

  It was my turn to throw an aggrieved glance in Jeff’s direction. “You called us back here because you said you had something important to tell us. So what is it?”

  “It’s alien,” Jeff said, “but it’s not exactly biological. That is, it appears to be an engineered virus of alien origin, but in a nanotech delivery system. We’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “No one’s seen anything like it,” Raymond mumbled, his face planted back on the microscope as if pulled there by some irresistible force.

  “So what does it do?” Paul asked.

  “We don’t know yet for sure,” Jeff replied, after throwing a quick glance at Raymond, as if guessing that the biologist wasn’t about to provide the answer. “We just thought you should know it’s definitely not spray-tan oil.”

  No kidding. I didn’t pretend to understand exactly what they were talking about, but I could tell from the furrow between Paul’s brows that he had gotten some of it, and didn’t appear to be precisely encouraged by the news.

  “This delivery system,” he said. “I assume it’s intended for quick absorption through the skin?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “But you don’t know why.”

  At that point Raymond did look up from the microscope. “Not yet. If you think you can do any better—”

  “Of course not,” Paul broke in. It seemed to me he’d been mostly thinking out loud, not actually trying to impugn Raymond’s research abilities. “Ms. O’Brien and I will continue our side of the investigation,” he went on. “Let us know if you find anything else.”

  “No problem,” Raymond replied, sounding sour even for him. “It’s not like I’m planning on sleeping tonight.”

  There didn’t seem to be much of a way to reply to that, so I sent him what I hoped was a reassuring look, even as I wondered what the hell Paul thought we could investigate. I’d been under the impression that we’d pretty much hit a dead end…at least, until we got more information out of Raymond.

  But I kept my mouth shut as Paul made his curt goodbyes and went back to the car. It wasn’t until he’d pulled out of the parking lot and had us headed back toward the freeway that I asked, “So do you have some hot leads I wasn’t aware of?”

  “No,” he said briefly. “Which way to get back to the motel?”

  “North on the 15, and the 210 west.”

  There was still a good bit of traffic around the onramp because of the influx from Ontario Mills, but we made it onto the freeway without incident. A few miles passed by without either of us saying anything. It wasn’t until we’d transitioned to the 210 and were headed toward Pomona that I said, “So what do you think that nanovirus is for?’

  “I’m not completely sure.” He had his face forward, his attention focused on the unfamiliar roadway. “There has to be some connection with the film industry, but I’m just not seeing it right now.”

  “Film industry?”

  “Look at the clientele at Lotus. You yourself said a good number of the people who patronize that spa are individuals with influence in the movie industry. And Alex Hathaway told you that his girlfriend had suffered a complete personality change after going to get her tan. So let’s go with Jeff’s earlier theory, that the spray tan provides a means to get this nanovirus—if that’s what it truly is—into a human host. Maybe you were right when you said earlier that Alex’s girlfriend was simply a mistake. It doesn’t mean there aren’t others being infected, people who have far more power than an out-of-work actress. What do you think they might be trying to control?”

  I wanted to tell him that it was silly to believe aliens would really care enough to take over a bunch of studio execs, but a cold little chill somewhere in the midpoint of my spine told me he wasn’t just engaging in a bit of blue-sky thinking. It figured my spider sense would kick in just when I really didn’t want to hear what it had to tell me. Of course I didn’t have any direct contact with the film industry, but I knew many people who did…and from what I’d heard, the people who ran Hollywood were scary enough on their own without being taken over by aliens in the bargain.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, it just doesn’t make any sense that aliens would care about the movies one way or another. They’re just a bunch of flickering images in the dark.”

  Flickering images in the dark…

  It struck me then, the way these things sometimes did, as if they’d been sent down a pipeline by God or the universe or whatever else you wanted to call it. Far more than a notion—a certainty, the inescapable realization that what my mind had just whispered to me was the absolute truth.

  I didn’t remember making a sound, but I must have, because Paul looked over at me sharply. “Persephone? Are you all right?”

  “No,” I replied. “I really don’t think I am.”

  He reached down from the steering wheel with his right hand and wrapped his fingers around mine. “What is it? Did you sense something?”

  There was a lot
to be said for being with a man who just accepted your psychic powers and didn’t joke about them or try to exploit them. “I think I know what they’re doing.”

  “What?”

  I swallowed against the sick taste in my throat and hoped my dinner would stay where it was. “They’re not here to destroy us,” I informed him. “They’re here to control us.”

  Chapter Eight

  Surprisingly, he didn’t appear all that startled. “What makes you say that?”

  “I just know.”

  “How?” A pause. “Is Otto back?”

  “No,” I replied, sounding a little testy. Did Paul really think I couldn’t have one flash of intuition without my spirit guide’s help? “This one just came to me—as things did before Otto showed up, and still do on occasion. Thank God, since it looks like Otto’s permanently relocated to the Bahamas or something.”

  “So what does your intuition tell you?”

  “Just that the aliens are looking for a way to control us, and it’s connected to the movies somehow. Or actually, movies and television.” I shut my eyes then, drawing myself into the dark. The interior of a car barreling down a freeway at seventy miles an hour was perhaps not the best place for peaceful contemplation, but one worked with the available materials. That sensation was there still, accompanied by a rapid succession of images, some from films I’d seen recently, others snippets from television shows. And from all of them vibrated a sense of wrongness, a flicker at the very edge of perception no one would have ever known to look for. A dissonance began to build in my mind, pulsing at some subsonic level that caused a throbbing pain to build in the bone behind my ears.

  Unable to endure it a second longer, I opened my eyes. At once those painful harmonics disappeared, and I let out a hitching little gasp.

  “Persephone?” Paul asked, his tone sharp with worry.

  “I’m okay. Get off at the next exit.”

  He must have heard the tension in my voice, because he only nodded and then maneuvered the car over to the right, pulling off the freeway at Towne. From there he seemed to recognize where he was, because he didn’t ask for any further directions as he headed south toward Foothill and the motel where we were staying.