by Jayne Castle
Today, in addition to the scarf and glasses, she had taken the extra precaution of slipping out of the museum through the loading-dock entrance before she had hailed the cab on a side street.
"Mr. London is going to be the ex-Guild boss very soon," she said crisply. "You won't be seeing my picture in the papers much in the future." Thank heavens, she added silently.
"You sure you don't want me to wait? Don't mind doin' London's wife a favor." The cabbie winked. "Never hurts to be on the right side of the Guild."
"Not necessary, thanks." She made to turn toward the high gates that barred the drive of the huge estate.
"Could I have your autograph for my wife?" the cabbie asked. He thrust a blank receipt and a pen out the window. "Here, I'll hold your umbrella for you. If you could just sign this for me, she would be really thrilled."
Lydia hesitated and then surrendered the umbrella. "I've got a better idea," she said, digging into her purse to pull out one of her business cards. She scrawled her name and a short note on the back and handed it to him. 'Take your wife to Shrimpton's House of Ancient Horrors to see the Harmonic book. This will get you in through the VIP entrance so you won't have to stand in line."
"The VIP line? Oh, man, wait'll I tell Betty." He bobbed his head. "Thank you, ma'am. This is gonna make my Betty's day."
"May I please have my umbrella back?"
"Oh, sure. Sorry. You're sure you don't need me to wait?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay." He rezzed the engine. "You have a good day now, Mrs. London."
"Thank you."
She waited until the cab was gone before she tromped through the rain to the high gates and pressed the buzzer.
"May I help you?" a graveled voice asked politely.
"Lydia Smith… London to see Mr. Hepscott. I have an appointment."
"Yes, of course, Mrs. London. I see you are on foot. There's a sheltered area just inside the gates. Please wait there after you come through the gates. I'll pick you up in a moment."
"Thanks."
The massive gates swung open. Lydia walked through them and along the drive to a small stone gazebo. A moment later a tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man dressed in formal butler attire arrived in a cart.
She was whisked to the grand entrance of the mansion and ushered into a vast reception hall. Her dripping rain-coat and umbrella were taken from her and she was shown into a handsomely appointed library.
"Mr. Hepscott will be with you in a moment," the butler assured her before retreating from the room.
As soon as she was alone, Lydia set her purse and portfolio case down near a low table and went to stand at the wall of windows. The views from the big estates along Ruin View Hill were generally acknowledged by real estate agents to be the finest in the city. The claims were true, she thought. But as spectacular as the sight of the Dead City was from up here on the ridge, she much preferred to live in the Old Quarter where she could pick up the wispy traces of psi power.
Speaking of stray bits of psi energy.
She could feel some right here in this room. Curious, she opened her senses more fully. Small currents of power definitely hummed in the atmosphere. It was rare to pick up traces this far from the Old Quarter.
She searched the room, looking for the source. Then she saw it: a wide, gleaming glass case filled with a large number of alien artifacts. Even a cursory glance from across the room assured her that it was an excellent collection. The remnants of psi energy clinging to so many ancient relics massed together was enough to stir her senses.
She started toward the glass case and stopped when the door opened.
"Good afternoon, Lydia."
Gannon Hepscott walked into the room. He was dressed in a white shirt and a pair of white slacks. White shoes, a white belt, and a white silk scarf at his throat finished the outfit. His silver white hair was tied back at his nape, as usual.
"It's nice to see you again," she said warmly, meaning every word. It was a great relief to return to her normal work schedule.
Gannon shook her hand and motioned her to the sofa. He looked concerned.
"I understand you've been rather busy since we last met." He frowned. "I trust you were not injured during your adventures down there in the catacombs?"
"I'm fine, thanks. It's been a little hectic lately but things are quieting down. I'm delighted to be able to resume work on your project. I know we lost a little time but I think we can make it up fairly easily."
"I'm not worried about it." Gannon walked to a leather-and-polished-wood cabinet. "Can I offer you wine or rez-tea?"
"Tea sounds great." Lydia opened her portfolio to take out her notes and sketches. "It's a little damp outside."
"I noticed." Gannon picked up a pot and poured tea into two delicate cups decorated with charming garden scenes. He brought the cups and saucers to the low table and set them down.
Lydia opened her notebook. "You'll be happy to know that this morning I received a call from a private collector who is rumored to own three remarkable quartz wall panels," she said briskly. "Seems that she is in rather dire straits financially and would like to find a buyer for the panels."
"Excellent." Gannon lowered himself into one of the gray leather chairs. "You were able to keep my name out of it?"
"Yes. As far as she's concerned she's dealing with a knowledgeable, moderately wealthy collector who appreciates the value of the panels. But I made it clear that we'll walk away if she tries to drive the price out of sight. She's willing to negotiate."
"Given your recent experiences with private collectors, I'm amazed that you're still willing to do business with unknown parties over the phone."
She grimaced. "The tabloids certainly made a big deal out of how I was kidnapped and carried off in an alien sarcophagus."
"It made for great newspaper sales but it must have been terrible for you."
"It would have been a lot worse if I hadn't been unconscious while I was inside that coffin."
"I can imagine. It was extremely fortunate that your husband stumbled onto the scheme shortly after you disappeared and was able to follow your kidnappers."
"Mmm." She concentrated on organizing some photos of a quartz urn.
Emmett had decreed that some details about the rescue operation were to be kept quiet. One of those concerned Fuzz's role in the affair. "If scientists find out that dust-bunnies might be able to form psychic links with humans, there will be a rush to start experimenting on the little furballs in every lab in the Federation." The thought of innocent dust-bunnies being turned into research subjects had been too terrible to contemplate.
The other detail that Emmett had ordered kept top secret was Cornish's involvement in the rescue. "The Guild owes him a favor for showing me Maltby's hidden entrance to the catacombs," Emmett had said. "Cornish may eventually come to grief because of his drug habit and his dealings in illegal antiquities, but it won't be because the hunters gave his name to the cops."
The Guild always repaid favors, Lydia thought.
Gannon studied the photos of the urn. "Do you mind if I ask how London was able to find you down there in the catacombs? The media said the Greenie operation had gone undetected for several years. Yet your husband managed to locate you almost immediately. It was an amazing feat."
"Everyone knows that the Guild has its ways," she said lightly.
Gannon nodded. "Someone must have seen the sarcophagus being loaded into the van, got suspicious, and followed it."
"Probably. Emmett wasn't clear on that point. The Guild likes to keep its secrets."
He chuckled. "You mean even Guild boss wives are kept in the dark about some things?"
She moved one hand slightly. "I'm afraid so. I'll be happy when Emmett steps down, to tell you the truth. Being a Guild boss wife is not all it's cracked up to be."
"I can understand why you would feel that way." Gannon leaned forward to pick up one of the photos. "This is a very nice piece."
; "The price is even nicer. The dealer hinted that the owner is desperate to raise cash."
Gannon tossed the photo down with a decisive air. "Let's get it."
She made a note. "I'll make the call later this afternoon. We don't want to look too eager."
Gannon settled back in his chair and studied her with a considering expression. "I don't suppose, given your connections with both the Guild and the university, that there's any chance of acquiring a couple of items from that library chamber for my project?"
"Are you kidding? The university has put up so many guards and barricades around the entrances and exits of that chamber that the place looks like a crime scene. Only authorized personnel can go in now and I'm not on the list."
"I might be able to pull a few strings and get you appointed to a consulting position."
"It wouldn't do you any good. If I got on as a consultant, I'd no longer be able to work for you. It would be a conflict of interest."
"Ah, well, it was just a thought." There was a discreet knock. Gannon frowned slightly and glanced toward the door. "Come in, George."
The door opened. The butler loomed. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but Mr. Anderson is on the phone."
"Thank you, George, I'll take it in my office." Gannon got to his feet. "Will you excuse me for a moment, Lydia?"
"Of course."
Gannon left, closing the door behind him. Lydia waited a moment and then rose and crossed the room to the antiquities cabinet.
The closer she got, the stronger the pulse of psi energy. She did not understand why it would be this thick. Granted, so many relics grouped together could create a trickle of power but not as much as she was picking up.
And then she caught it, the unmistakable aura of illusion trap energy. It was coming from the bottom bookshelf on the right-hand side of the cabinet.
She crouched down and saw a row of books. Behind the volumes there were dark shadows. A lot of dark shadows. Illusion trap energy crackled gently.
She took out a couple of books and saw the chunk of green quartz that was anchoring the shadow. The trap was small, but extremely complex. Nevertheless, she was able to de-rez it in seconds.
When the unnatural shadow evaporated she saw a clear box containing a half dozen recordings. Not the new amber audio discs that had appeared on the market a couple of years ago, but the older synch wave tapes that had been used for twenty years before that.
Each tape was sheathed in a plain, unmarked cover.
Ice-cold perspiration trickled down her ribs.
She listened intently but heard no footsteps in the hall outside the library.
Very carefully she opened the lid of the storage box and took out one of the tapes. The envelope that protected the recording was not marked with any of the familiar commercial music studio brand names. Instead, someone had used an ink pen to write simply Number 5.
She quickly replaced the recording and took another one out of its envelope. Number 6.
What was it Karen Price had said when she had called to talk about her old roommate? "Burgis was obsessed with only two things. One of them was pulse-rock music. He went so far as to rent a studio so that his band could record a half dozen tapes.…"
It was getting hard to breathe. Lydia was intensely aware of the enormous silence of the big house.
She had to get out of here, she thought. Right now.
She shoved the second recording back into the storage container and closed the lid.
She was about to reset the trap when intuition made her hesitate. She had no way to protect herself on the way out of this big house. What if the butler tried to stop her?
The little trap might come in handy.
Gingerly she picked up the chunk of quartz that anchored the ephemeral psi energy. It looked harmless now but she could feel the core of the illusion trap pattern resonating around it. Unless she deliberately destroyed it, the snare would continue to pulse, ready to be reset and re-triggered.
Quartz in hand, she leaped to her feet and ran to the table where she had spread out the photos and her notes. She put the still-resonating stone into her purse and gently reset the trap. She shoved her paperwork back into the portfolio, grabbed it and the purse, and rushed toward the door.
It opened before she was halfway across the room.
"I'm sorry, Lydia, but I really can't let you leave," Gannon said with polite regret.
Heart thudding in her chest, she stared at the mag-rez gun in his hand.
"There seem to be a lot of those around these days," she said hoarsely. "Part of your underground cache, I assume?"
Gannon shook his head. "I've been so damned careful for so long. I'd really like to know what it was that gave me away."
Chapter 34
Emmett crouched beside the twisted and broken body. The remains of Foster Dorning were sprawled in the alley behind the City Center Parking Garage. A large trash container partially obscured the dead man. The rain that had been falling steadily all morning had soaked Dorning's clothing and sluiced off much of the blood. His personal phone lay in the muck nearby.
"Who reported it?" Emmett asked.
Verwood juggled the oversized umbrella he was using to cover Emmett and the body. "A delivery truck driver found him a few minutes ago. He notified the garage attendant who sent for me. Figured you'd want to know."
"Someone call the cops?"
"I told the attendant to take care of it. They'll be here any minute." Verwood looked at the body. "His assigned parking space is on the top floor of the garage. You think maybe he got out of his car, got disoriented in the rain, and fell over the edge?"
"No." Emmett rose slowly. "I think it's a lot more likely he was pushed. What the hell was he doing here at headquarters in the middle of the night?"
Verwood shrugged. "Who knows? Looks like the Guild is going to be in the news again this week. Never a dull moment, huh?"
Sirens hummed in the distance.
Emmett leaned down and picked up Dorning's personal phone and dropped it into his pocket just as the first police car turned into the alley, lights flashing.
The car doors opened. A familiar figure got out.
"Detective Martinez," Emmett said. "What a surprise."
"Personally I'm trying to look on the bright side," Martinez said. "At least your wife isn't involved this time."
Fifteen minutes later Emmett managed to escape Martinez's clutches.
Upstairs he walked into the reception lobby and dropped the phone on the desk in front of Perkins.
"The last number he called is blocked," Emmett said. "I assume you can get around that little obstacle?"
"Of course, sir. I'll have an address for you in a few minutes."
"Thanks." Emmett went toward the door of his office. "I'm going to call Wyatt. Let me know as soon as you track down that number."
Inside his office he reached across the desk, grabbed the phone, and dialed Wyatt's private number. Mercer answered on the first ring.
"Tell me everything you can about Sandra Thornton," Emmett said.
Mercer was silent for a moment. "Something else happen?"
"Dorning is dead. Apparently he fell from the top of the garage here at headquarters."
"Seems a little unlikely," Mercer said dryly.
"Struck me that way, too. I think someone is getting rid of loose ends. Talk to me about Sandra."
"You think maybe she was a loose end?"
"Yes. Lydia is right. The coincidences are getting a little too thick on the ground. What did you know about her? Where did she come from? Where did she go to school? Any family?"
"I slept with the woman for a time, Emmett, I didn't make her my best friend."
"She must have said something about her past during that time."
"Let me think for a moment."
The line went silent. Emmett leaned back against the desk and waited. A sense of urgency was building in him.
"She was stunningly beautiful," Mercer said after a w
hile. "But not in a glamorous way, if you know what I mean. There was a sort of sweet, pure innocence about her. Hard to describe. She seemed fragile in some ways and in others she was sophisticated beyond her years."
Sophisticated in bed, for instance, Emmett thought. All he said was, "Go on."
"I remember one night when I arrived at her apartment, she seemed sad," Mercer said slowly. "It was unusual for her to be down. One of the reasons I enjoyed her company, aside from the fact that she was lovely, was because she was always in a cheerful, upbeat mood. Not one of those whiney, demanding, clingy types."
"I need hard information, not your personal impressions about her personality."
"That night, I could tell she had been crying and drinking. Her face was all red and puffy. There was some obnoxious music playing on the stereo."
"What kind of music?"
"Some of that screaming-loud, high-rez stuff that no one my age can take for more than five minutes without going crazy."
A tiny alarm bell went off somewhere. "She say anything about the music?"
"She mentioned that the songs she was listening to went back to her college days. I got the impression she had once been involved with some young man who had had his own band."
Emmett stilled. "She say anything else about this guy?"
"I don't think so. She turned the music off right away. We had a couple of drinks together and that was all there was to it."
"She ever mention where she went to college?"
"Not that time. But a month or two later we happened to catch a late-night sports report on the rez-screen. The announcer was giving the results of an upset game between two college teams. Old Frequency College had pulled out a last-minute save. Sandra got excited and said something like 'Go, Freaks. "
"Did she attend Old Frequency?"
"I asked her that. Instead of answering directly, she brushed the question aside. I got the impression that she didn't want to talk about it. I figured maybe she had dropped out or flunked out and didn't want to admit it."
"And now she's dead, along with Master Herbert and Dorning," Emmett said softly. "That makes three. Someone is definitely mopping up."