The Sinister Touch

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Guinevere nodded, staring down at the broken mirror. There was something unnaturally menacing about the simple damage, as if the shards of mirror were somehow more threatening than a broken vase would have been, perhaps because of the eerie effect the pieces caused when one looked into them. Guinevere gazed at her shattered reflection and shivered. “It’s the same sketch. Someone must have taken the mirror down from the wall and dropped something on it to make it break like this. Then whoever it was drew the pentagram.” She lifted her head, her gaze anxious. “Zac, I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, but we’re going to get some answers tonight.” He was already heading toward the door. “This has gone far enough.”

  “Zac, where are you going?” She didn’t like the grimness that enveloped him. In its own way it seemed as threatening as the mirror.

  “I’m not going anywhere. We, however, are going to have an informative little chat with Mason Adair. His problems seem to have become yours. And that makes them mine.”

  “But, Zac, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “I don’t really give a damn what time it is. Move, Gwen. I want those answers and I want them now.”

  “I don’t think Mason’s going to know any more about what’s going on than we do,” she protested, but she obeyed his summons, hurrying forward as he stepped out into the corridor.

  “Believe me, he knows a great deal more than we do.”

  “How do you know?” she demanded as he herded her quickly back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk.

  “Trust me.”

  “Uh-huh.” Guinevere stifled the remainder of her skepticism. Zac was hurrying her along at a brisk pace. She wished she’d had a moment to change into more comfortable shoes. Trotting along a city sidewalk in three-inch heels made one conscious of the social restraints imposed on females in this society, she reflected. “What if he’s not home?”

  “For his sake he’d better be home. I’m in no mood to wait around for him.”

  “Zac, you’re acting as if this is all Mason’s fault.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it is. Whatever part of it he’s not responsible for, you are. I told you to stay clear of him and this whole mess, didn’t I?”

  “You’re slipping into one of your unreasonable moods, Zac. When you get like this, you’re impossible.”

  “I’ll probably get worse as the evening wears on. All in all, it’s been a hell of a night.”

  She found out how he’d gotten into Adair’s apartment building the previous evening. When Zac reached the door now, he slipped a small wire out of his jacket pocket and in less than a minute had the security door open. Zac was good with his hands.

  He urged her up the stairs and at the top turned her down the hall toward Mason’s closed apartment door. In front of it Zac raised his fist and pounded imperiously.

  Embarrassed, Guinevere shot a look at the nearest apartment doors, afraid they would spring open to reveal irate tenants. “Zac, don’t do that, you’ll cause a scene with the neighbors. Try the door bell.”

  “Pounding on his door is infinitely more satisfying.” He raised his hand and slammed the wooden panel once more. It swung open before Zac could strike it again. Mason stood there dressed in only a pair of jeans. He blinked sleepily.

  “What the hell? Oh, it’s you, Zac. What are you and Gwen doing here at this time of night?”

  “We’re here to ask you a few questions.” Zac was already pushing his way inside, tugging Guinevere after him.

  “Well, sure, but why now?” Mason backed obligingly out of the way, his questioning gaze going from Zac’s implacable features to Guinevere’s apologetic expression.

  “I’m sorry about this, Mason,” she said. “But I’m afraid there’s been a slight, uh, incident over at my apartment, and Zac felt that perhaps you could shed some light on the situation.”

  “Shed some light?” Mason looked even more perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, and Gwen’s polite way of phrasing things isn’t helping to clarify the situation. Shut up, Gwen. I’ll do the talking.”

  Guinevere raised her eyes ceilingward in silent exasperation but said nothing.

  “All right, Adair,” Zac said, “I’ll lay this out in words even an artist should be able to follow. Gwen and I got back to her apartment tonight and found that someone had been inside. Whoever it was took great pains to crack a mirror and then draw one of those damn pentagram symbols on the broken pieces. The damage looked a lot like what was done to your painting the other night, and after what happened to you last night, I’m finding tonight’s little ‘incident’ too much of a coincidence. Whatever is going on comes under the heading of weird. You are the only one around who’s had some connection with weirdness. I want the whole story, including the rundown on that crazy group of witches you supposedly hung out with a couple of years ago.”

  Mason glanced helplessly at Guinevere. “Witches?”

  “I’m sorry, Mason,” she said softly. “I told Zac a little about that crowd you were involved with. I thought he might see some connection between them and what’s been happening to you.”

  “Don’t apologize, Gwen. I’m the one who should be sorry. I had no idea anything like this would happen.”

  “What exactly is happening, Mason?” she asked gently.

  He swung away in obvious frustration, starting to pace the floor in front of the arching studio window. Across the way there was a glow through closed mini blinds, reminding Guinevere that she must have left the lights on earlier in her kitchen. She didn’t recall doing so. Perhaps the intruder had switched them on while prowling through her apartment. It gave her chills to think of someone invading her privacy that way.

  “I’m sorry,” Mason said again, sounding shaken. “I’m really sorry, Gwen.”

  “Sorry isn’t going to get us anywhere.” Zac sounded completely untouched by Mason’s obvious distress. “Talk, Adair.”

  Mason stopped in front of a half-finished canvas, shoving his hands dejectedly into his back pockets. He shook his head. “Zac, I honestly don’t know what this is all about. That group I was involved with two years ago doesn’t exist anymore. At least none of the people who were my friends are still in it.”

  Guinevere thought back to something Mason had told her on the way back from the art gallery. “You said something about leaving it when some of the members started getting too serious.”

  Mason nodded. “I did leave it. So did just about everyone else.”

  “But there were some left in it?” Zac demanded.

  Mason hesitated. “Possibly.”

  “Possibly? Come on, Adair, you can be a little more specific than that. I’m not going to play twenty questions with you. I don’t have much patience left this evening. I want to know everything you know and I want to know it now.”

  Guinevere opened her mouth to urge Zac to lay off but changed her mind when she saw the relentless expression in his eyes. Nothing she could do or say at this point would deflect him. There was no point in trying. Mason looked at his canvas as if studying it in great detail. Slowly he began to explain.

  “I’ll tell you what I know, Zac, but it isn’t much. A couple of years ago some friends of mine got off on this occult kick. It was just a joke, an excuse to roll a few joints and drink a little booze, read some poetry, and, well, party. We were all struggling to make it with our art. Most of us were just barely scraping by, waiting tables or working in bookstores. We were a group with a lot of things in common.”

  “What did you have in common besides art?” Guinevere asked.

  “Oh, the usual. None of our families approved of either our career goals or our lifestyles. We were all living at the poverty level, and we kind of supported each other emotionally. When times got really tough, we supported each o
ther financially. It was a close-knit group for a while.”

  “And then some of you started selling your art?” Zac leaned against one high-ceilinged wall, folding his arms across his chest. His penetrating gaze never left Mason.

  Mason nodded. “Yeah. Patty started finding a market for her ceramics, and then Walt sold a few pictures. Sylvia got lucky with her prints. Nothing big, but enough to give everyone hope.”

  “And make a few people envious?” Zac didn’t stir from his position against the wall.

  “I didn’t think so at the time,” Mason said slowly. “I honestly didn’t think so. We were too close for that.”

  “Don’t feed yourself that line,” Zac told him. “Whenever a tight-knit group of struggling nonsuccesses suddenly starts producing a few successes, someone is going to get mad. Believe me. It’s human nature.”

  Mason glared at his painting. “As far as I know, none of the others ever had anything like this happen to them during the past couple of years. I was one of the last of the group to get lucky with my art. Why should someone wait until now to pick on me?”

  Zac shrugged. “Maybe because you’re getting lucky in such a big way. One of your paintings was hanging in Elizabeth Gallinger’s home tonight. Gwen tells me that’s the big time, Mason. A real sign of success. Maybe one of your ex-buddies resents one of the group breaking out in such a showy style. Who knows? We’ll get to that part later. Go on with your story about this cheerful little party club.”

  “Well, there isn’t much to tell. We got together on Saturday evenings at Ron Sandwick’s house.”

  “Where’s that?” Zac interrupted.

  “Up on Capitol Hill. One of those old-style places.” Mason grimaced. “Run-down neighborhood. Lots of atmosphere.”

  “Is that why you chose it?”

  Mason shook his head. “No. We used it because it was available. Sandwick had inherited it. But he couldn’t afford to keep up the payments for long. Not on a starving artist’s income. He put it up for sale almost as soon as it was his. But it didn’t move very quickly. The real estate market had been flat for ages, and that old place would have been a real millstone around anyone’s neck. All the old plumbing and electrical wiring needed repair, not to mention the decaying basement. Sandwick finally unloaded it through a real esate agent about six months ago. An all-cash deal, he said. He took the money and split for the South Seas to play Gauguin. He still owes me fifty bucks,” Mason added reflectively.

  Zac assimilated that. “Tell me exactly why the group drifted apart.”

  “A couple of new people joined,” Mason said quietly.

  “Who brought them into the group?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. I think they were friends of Sandwick, but to tell you the truth, it was never really clear. All I knew was that these two started showing up on Saturday nights and they were really into the occult bit. For them it was more than a joke.”

  Guinevere shot a glance at Zac, who was obviously about to ask another question. She slipped one in instead. “How do you know they were taking it seriously, Mason?”

  “Oh, they started insisting on the accuracy of the stupid little rituals we played with when we wanted to pretend we were reaching into the next dimension. They brought in old books that had specific rules for the way things should be done. Until those two came along we just lit a few candles in the basement, poured some wine, and did a little chanting. But they insisted on black candles and chants they got out of one of their nutty books.”

  “Did anything supernatural ever happen?” Guinevere asked, fascinated.

  Mason smiled wryly. “Of course nothing ever happened. How could it? Don’t tell me you actually believe in that kind of thing?”

  Guinevere shook her head hastily, aware of Zac’s derisive glance. “Absolutely not. I just wondered if anything, well, abnormal ever occurred during these ceremonies.”

  “Valonia and Baldric sometimes claimed they could see into the next dimension and claimed they were ‘feeding’ on power from it, but it was all a bunch of cow fertilizer.”

  Zac cocked a brow. “Valonia and Baldric?”

  “Those were the two who started demanding the proper rituals.”

  “Were they artists, too?”

  Mason paused, considering. “You know, I was never real sure what they did for a living. But I don’t think they were part of the Seattle art world, either the low end or the high end. I’ve never run into them since those Saturday-night gatherings at Sandwick’s.”

  Zac took a small pad of paper out of his pocket and started making notes. “Are they still living in Sandwick’s place?”

  “No. They never did live there as far as I know. Like I said, Sandwick sold the old house six months ago, anyway. Whoever Valonia and Baldric were, they couldn’t have afforded to buy it. They definitely didn’t have that kind of money.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. They were one step off the streets. Maybe not even that far. Baldric always wore a huge backpack, and Valonia carried a big satchel. I got the feeling that they lived out of both. They were pretty scruffy and sometimes a little hungry, too. The Saturday-night group broke up, and I never saw or heard from those two again.”

  “But you did keep in touch with the others?” Guinevere asked.

  “Oh, sure. To some extent. I know where most of them are. One or two moved down to Southern California. Sandwick left the country. A couple bought a house in the woods down in Oregon as soon as they started selling their stuff. And the other two are here in town. They’re doing okay. I was the last of them to start selling.”

  “The pentagram,” Zac said musingly. “Was that part of the Saturday-night rituals?”

  “Sometimes,” Mason admitted. “Pentagrams are a very common magical symbol. Traditional, even. But the ones our group used in the beginning didn’t have that jag of lightning in it. Valonia and Baldric added that little nuance.”

  “I assume Valonia and Baldric are the only names you knew them by?” Zac asked.

  “Yeah, and I’d be willing to bet that they made them up or got them out of one of their damn books on witchcraft. Who ever heard of anyone being named Valonia and Baldric?”

  Zac nodded and fell into a remote silence. Guinevere peered at him expectantly. She knew what was happening. He was slipping into one of his private trances during which odd little connections would be made inside his careful, methodical brain. When he came out of the contemplation, he would be aimed in the same way a glacier was aimed down a mountainside, and he’d be just as unstoppable. In the meantime Zac might stay in this disengaged mood for a very long time.

  “Zac?” she prompted, aware of Mason’s curious stare. “Zac? We’d better be going. It’s late and Mason’s told you everything he knows.” She touched his arm. She thought he was at least minimally aware of her.

  “The cops,” he said distinctly.

  Mason looked alarmed, and Guinevere understood instantly. “No,” she said. “We can’t call the police again, Zac.”

  “The hell we can’t.”

  “Zac, listen to me, if we call the cops again, news of this weird stuff is going to leak out. We both know that. Some sharp-eyed reporter is going to have a great time with hints of witchcraft surrounding a young new artist who’s exploding on the local art scene. Mason’s career is just getting launched. This sort of thing could ruin him before he’s gotten established. Do you think people like Elizabeth Gallinger will want to be associated with anything that even hints of the occult?”

  “Mason is free to do what he wants,” Zac said. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Well, let me assure you that any publicity linking me to some occult group isn’t going to do me a damn bit of good, either,” she reminded him forcefully. “Zac, please, you’ve got to treat this just as you would any ot
her business case. Your clients call on you precisely because they want to avoid awkward publicity. Think of Mason and me as being clients who want this handled discreetly.”

  Zac’s mouth twitched. “You and Mason can’t afford my usual fees.”

  “Zac!” Guinevere was shocked.

  He came away from the wall. “Forget it. A small joke. Stop worrying for now, both of you. I’m not going to call in the cops, but only because I don’t think they’d get very far as this point. There just isn’t enough here to go on. We need more information before we can turn it over to them. And I don’t want Guinevere’s name dragged into this mess, Adair.”

  The younger man nodded. “I understand. I don’t particularly want my own name dragged into it. I swear, Zac, I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on here. I just can’t believe one of my old buddies has gone crazy with envy. And Baldric and Valonia weren’t into art, so why should they be envious? I doubt if they would even know I’ve started selling.”

  Guinevere recalled something Carla had said. “My sister thought that some of the freeloaders who showed up at the gallery the other night weren’t all that happy to see you making it so big. And that Henry Thorpe person sounded as if he might have a back-stabbing sort of nature.”

  “Forget Thorpe. He had nothing to do with that group,” Mason said firmly.

  “But he knew about it. He’s the one who first mentioned it to me.”

  “He might have been aware that a few of us hung around together and got up to some weird things, but he was never close to any of the members. He wouldn’t have been aware of the pentagram with the bolt of lightning in it, for example.”

  Zac shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. I want both of you to understand something here. My main concern is Gwen. I don’t want her business reputation tarnished by having people gossiping about an association with witchcraft. But more importantly, I don’t want her physically threatened or hurt. From now on I’ll be staying with her at night, either next door or at my place. During the daytime, Mason, I want you to put your window to good use. We’ll leave the blinds in Gwen’s kitchen window open all the time. If you ever see them closed or if you see anyone moving around inside whom you don’t recognize, call me. Call Gwen, too, and tell her not to go into her apartment until I’m around.”