by Kay Hooper
“Afraid so. Relatively close to the North Carolina–Tennessee border, very remote, and the topography alone makes it unusually isolated even for that area.”
Which was saying a lot.
Grayson made a mental note to study a topographical map of the area tonight, for all the good it was likely to do him. And to unearth his good hiking boots as well as some basic but unobtrusive survival gear that had come in handy in past situations; he believed in being prepared for anything. He focused and considered a few potentially important questions.
“Psychics?”
“Our undercover operative doesn’t know for certain.”
That was a surprise. “Nobody’s been able to scan the place?” That had become a step Bishop virtually always took preliminary to sending in any of his agents, partly due to unpleasant surprises in the past—and partly due to the number of psychics they had discovered over the years, far more than they had expected to back in the beginning. Some, unfortunately, playing for the other side.
So now they had quite a few members of the unit who were virtually always able to determine the presence of other psychics in a given area without themselves getting too close. And that had come in handy more than once.
“I’ve sent three different people close to the area, and all they got was static,” Bishop said. “It’s something we’ve encountered before, and it’s never been a good thing; it usually means energy being used or contained, either by natural geography or by a psychic or psychics. The issue is that contained energy tends to interfere with our energies as well, even alter our abilities in a worst-case scenario, which has been known to cause problems for us—and with us.”
“Great,” Grayson muttered. He paused, then added, “Just how remote is this place, anyway?”
“You’ve walked the Trail, haven’t you?” The Appalachian Trail was a bit over two thousand rugged miles long and attracted both day hikers enjoying a day in the wilderness and thru hikers geared up and determined to walk the entire Trail.
Grayson nodded. “North to south when I took a year off from college; that took me seven months. South to north the year before I joined the SCU; that took six months. About average.” It had been a test of endurance and survival knowledge he had enjoyed, but even more, the second trip along the Trail had given him the solitary time he had needed to consider all his options and think about his future before taking a job in which the psychic abilities he’d spent a lifetime hiding would be incorporated into the toolbox of an investigator and cop.
“Then you know what a wilderness those mountains are, even with scattered towns and major highways crisscrossing them.”
“I know fugitives have vanished for lifetimes in those dense forests. I know I encountered some . . . strange people, and at least a few pretty strange small towns not far off the Trail during my hikes.”
“Then you’re probably more prepared than most to find your way to Salem, and explore the surrounding area if necessary.”
Grayson eyed his boss. “Uh-huh. So it’s that remote.”
Bishop went on as if he had not heard the question. “You’ve read the brief. A loosely organized group of militia members seems to be what passes for law and order there, at least for all intents and purposes, and word has it they have a low tolerance for lawbreakers. Which may be one reason the general crime rate is reportedly low. There is a sheriff over the county who apparently deputized at least some members of the militia in order to grant them law enforcement authority, but no sheriff’s office in Salem, apparently no regular visits to the town by the sheriff, and he was . . . less than forthcoming with information. We were warned to stay away. And not with any degree of subtlety.”
“Don’t we have to be invited in?”
“Normally. Officially. But two of the missings are from other states, so if any crime is involved, it crossed state lines; that would make it federal. And there are other . . . factors. We have more than enough reason to believe this situation is anything but normal.”
What the hell am I getting into?
“Don’t carry your weapon openly unless and until you’re certain that’s best; the laws in the state allow open carry, and you’ll be known to be hiking in rough territory, so your rifle will be expected. As for your handgun, we both know it’s best to figure out who else is openly armed and why before you decide to be. Don’t volunteer that you’re with the FBI or, indeed, any law enforcement agency, especially a federal one; conceal your credentials where they aren’t likely to be found unless you need them. Don’t lie unless the occasion calls for it, but if it calls for it . . . be creative. And don’t volunteer information. As I said, you’ll be taken to an appropriate spot just west of the Trail early tomorrow morning and dropped off there to hike the rest of the way, so you won’t be driving into town, but expect your room to be searched, possibly even bugged.”
“Bugged. In a small town in western North Carolina.”
“Best not to be caught by surprise by any . . . possibility.”
Salem
It wasn’t all that easy to sneak into a house in a nice little neighborhood in broad daylight on a Wednesday morning, but Geneva managed. She slipped around back unnoticed, automatically noting the yard clutter that indicated a home with children, like the big swing set and netted trampoline.
She also saw the water bowl meant for a sizable dog on the back deck, but since she’d already reached out telepathically, she knew they had either boarded him somewhere or else taken the family dog along on the very sudden “vacation.”
Last night, one of the three little Hicks girls had vanished, and today the rest of the family had left abruptly, all signs except the haste pointing to a vacation out of town.
No Amber Alert had been issued. In fact, as far as Geneva had been able to cautiously determine, there had been no police report at all, and if the militia knew or cared, there was no sign.
It was the same with Bethany’s school. If they had any doubts that Bethany was safely with her family, no one betrayed anything unusual. Geneva had gotten close enough to know that.
Yet, now, when she managed to slip into the Hicks house, bypassing a really good alarm system, she found a home that bore the usual cheerful clutter of a family—and signs that packing had been done in haste. There was a neat bedroom for Bethany—her name was on the door, as her two sisters’ names were on their bedroom doors, in cheerful Disney plaques with stardust and favored characters—and inside were schoolbooks for the current year, and clothing, toys. Everything neat, perhaps unusually so. Even that little suitcase with her name on it one would think she would have packed if visiting family away from Salem was neatly in the closet.
In her sisters’ rooms, clothing was a bit messy, and small suitcases with their names on them were not in the closets.
Every sign told Geneva that little girl had not left with her family. And yet not a single sign pointed to her having disappeared mysteriously. Other than one guilty little boy, nobody at all seemed worried about Bethany Hicks.
Except Geneva.
She stood in the approximate center of the house and opened her senses, trying to pick up something even though she knew she was alone in the house. A few times doing this job—a very few times—she had managed to pick up what Bishop called “residual thoughts” at a location. The more emotionally disturbed the person or people had been, the more likely they were to leave that sort of trace energy behind them, though even then it seldom lasted more than a few hours.
Geneva had the ghostly sense of bustle and hurry, of muted voices and anxious thoughts, even an initial panic that had climbed rapidly before being damped down by . . . something. And then . . . hurried but cheerful packing, bright talk of visiting family . . . down in Florida. In Florida, where it wouldn’t be cold. Just a short break, a little trip . . .
In the middle of the school year.
The ghostly
sense faded, then vanished. Geneva was standing in a very empty house.
With a very baffling puzzle piece to add to all the rest.
Quantico
Grayson frowned slightly at his boss. “Okay, we all know by now that you hold back information, for reasons we all have various theories about but seldom understand—at least until all the shouting is over. Would it do any good for me to ask you for hints of some kind of shit like that?” His tone was wry.
Deadpan, Bishop said, “No.” Then he smiled faintly. “All I can tell you is what I already have. Be careful. One thing concerns me most. We have three missing people. And if our information is correct, there have been three deaths of supposed hikers within the same window our missings were in Salem. Officially accidental deaths, as per the militia and the sheriff. The militia apparently discovered the bodies, and those were dealt with quickly and with no fuss. According to the sheriff, the bodies were cremated. He refused to identify them but insisted their remains had been returned to their families.”
“You don’t believe him.”
“I have a suspicious mind.”
“You think it was our missings.”
“Since it isn’t our jurisdiction, there was no way the sheriff was going to confirm or deny that, even if he could, which I doubt. He simply insisted the remains had been returned to family.”
“You believe he was lying.”
“I believe the official record is that careless hikers on or near the Trail at the worst time of year back in December, when there were at least two snowstorms, were killed in accidents that are hardly uncommon. As to what really happened . . . we’ve found no evidence or witnesses to say anything different.”
“You believe they may have been murdered.” It wasn’t a question.
“I believe it’s more than possible. And if our missings were lured there for some reason they refused to explain to friends, only to meet their deaths . . . People have always tried to summon power of one kind or another, and the commission of dark or evil acts quite definitely creates dark energy.”
“That static around Salem?”
“Possibly. If so, a definite warning flag.”
“So I should be prepared for anything—and everything.”
“That would probably be wise. Our motto if not our mantra.” Bishop’s voice became brisk again. “Salem is a very small town where strangers are bound to be noticed—and not especially welcomed, even for welcome tourist dollars. Though tourists do visit throughout the year, and the townsfolk accept them. They even grudgingly accept the occasional visitor who comes down off the Trail for a break of a few days or even a few weeks.
“That’s your cover, and it’s believable, especially this time of year and given the equipment you’ll have. There’s a B and B that actually caters to that sort of visitor. Use your real name, but remain as low-key as possible, at least until we know what we’re dealing with; if either the militia or the sheriff gets curious enough to check you out, they’ll find only information on an ordinary citizen who inherited a small company here in Virginia and is known to take time off every year to hike various trails and mountains.
“We do not want to make a law enforcement presence obvious. Or even detectable, if possible. For that reason, we sent in the undercover operative a couple of weeks ago; her orders are to scout the town and area, observe and gather information, but not take any action until you’re on the scene.”
“So I’m the primary?” Grayson wasn’t certain how he felt about a partner, however deeply undercover. He was a bit of a loner and hadn’t worked with a partner in . . . a long time.
“You are. But keep in mind she’s one of our experts in the occult and may notice signs you wouldn’t if that turns out to be a factor. She can also handle herself in any sort of situation I’ve known her to encounter, she can live off the land as well as you, she’s more than qualified with any handgun or rifle, and some of her early years were rough enough that she had to learn some down-and-dirty street fighting that taught her to use whatever weapon is near to hand when necessary to defend herself.” Bishop paused, then added almost musingly, “I once saw her take out a man with a high-heeled shoe.”
“A shoe?”
“Yes. And he had an Uzi.”
There was a warning, very uncomfortable bell going off in Grayson’s head. Because there were few agents in the SCU who specialized in the occult as most people understood that term. Fewer of those with extensive experience in either rough hiking and living off the land or fighting in deadly situations without standard weapons.
And there were even fewer SCU agents with those traits who were also experienced in undercover work, able to work alone, and comfortable operating without either backup or supervision, sometimes for months or even longer; that talent was a very specific one, and seldom needed on SCU cases.
Seldom. But not never.
“Bishop? Who’s the undercover agent?”
“Geneva Raynor.”
Trust Bishop to totally bury the lede.
“Shit,” Grayson muttered.
Outside Salem, Wednesday Night
Nellie had gone to bed early, hoping to sleep without dreaming, a forlorn hope. The nightmare had come swiftly, but this time, as she had once or twice before, she’d been able to wrench herself free of it before the worst of the fear gripped her. She had a feeling her odd abilities had helped her do that but didn’t want to think about it very much.
Now she was wide-awake and it was barely midnight. Dawn was still hours away, and Nellie knew she would not be able to go back to sleep. She finally let go of her dog and reached to turn on the bedside lamp, then leaned down to haul her big leather shoulder bag from the floor up onto the bed.
In a zippered pocket that wasn’t all that obvious unless you knew it was there, she found and withdrew an envelope, its edges yellowed with time. On the front of it was simply her name, in an unfamiliar printed handwriting.
Nellie
She opened the envelope slowly and pulled out a single folded piece of stationery, its crease showing signs it had been opened and closed many times before.
She had memorized the message nearly a year before, when her father’s attorney had shown up to deliver the note—ten years after Thomas Cavendish’s death in a somewhat inexplicable accident. She hadn’t been able to match the handwriting to any of the few examples of her father’s writing she’d had in her possession, especially since virtually everything she did have bore only his scrawled signature. That, at least, was the same, signed at the bottom, witnessed and notarized.
The message, according to the absolute certainty of his longtime attorney, who had been the witness, had come from Thomas Cavendish, had been written by him and delivered to said attorney formally and with specific instructions. Which he had obeyed scrupulously.
He hadn’t waited around to see what the letter said, and Nellie didn’t know whether to be glad or regretful about that. Perhaps he could have shed some light. Then again . . .
Nellie,
We’ve never been close, you and I, and I regret that. But there are reasons, good ones, which, unfortunately, you will have to discover for yourself. Reasons for which I cannot atone, because if you are reading this, then I am dead, by whatever means, and was not able to stop what threatens you now. Not able to save you. This letter has been delivered to you on your 29th birthday. Before your 30th birthday, you must go to Salem, where our family’s roots were deeply planted long ago, where my line and yours originated, and quietly seek out a man named Finn. He will know you. He may even seek you out. He can help you. He is, perhaps, the only man who can. Please, Nellie, go to Salem. And be careful. Trust your intelligence and your abilities, but hide your abilities as long as you can, for they will mark you to some as an enemy and to others as a tool. Use your mother’s maiden name, and avoid telling anyone you are a Cavendish. You will l
earn why soon enough. There are people who will try to stop you from doing what you have to do, and you must not allow them to, no matter what. It would mean your life. Trust no one but Finn.
I have always loved you.
Dad
FOUR
There had been many things in Nellie’s life that had baffled her, some she had either figured out for herself or else simply learned to live with. Like the crows that had been around her since childhood, their numbers increasing as she’d entered her twenties. And other baffling things that had remained unnerving mysteries.
Her father had remained one of the mysteries.
She studied the strange letter from him, absently smoothing the paper.
It was a weird letter.
Weird? Jesus Christ.
Nellie’s first impulse had been to tear it into tiny pieces and flush the whole thing, at least in part because her father had not been involved in her life for a long time, even before he had died. In fact, he had barely been a part of her childhood.
Still, she hadn’t destroyed this letter that came seemingly from beyond the grave. She had instead thrust it into the very back of a drawer in her bedroom desk and done her best to ignore it, forget it. Only to find herself, night after night, pulling it out and reading the message again, frowning, disturbed on a level so deep she couldn’t even explain it to herself.
She didn’t even know what it was about, for Christ’s sake!
Weeks, then months. But the closer she came to her thirtieth birthday, the stronger had been her uneasy certainty that she had to go to Salem. A town she had never heard of, far less been aware she had any personal connection to.
A specific town with a not-uncommon name that had been very difficult to find when all she had to go on was that her father’s family had its roots there.
Even in this age of information overload, there were some things so very specific or so old that they were simply difficult to find using anything handy like a search engine. She’d had to dip reluctantly into genealogy, and it had been time-consuming to find her father’s branch of the family tree and from there trace it back to a small town named Salem three hundred years in the past.