“No, of course you wouldn’t have, but you didn’t love him, Julia. What you felt was immense gratitude toward him, not a passionate, full-bodied love, the sort of love a young woman would heap on a man who’d caught her heart, no, you cannot say that, not with any honesty. But gratitude, you overflowed with gratitude since August joined you to your dead son, provided you comfort in your time of need.”
Julia, Cheney saw, looked shell-shocked. She nearly tipped off the huge silk pillow. Then she stared straight ahead, as if unable to move. She said finally, “I know August didn’t tell you about Linc. He wouldn’t. It would be a betrayal of me. How do you know Linc died? How do you know August was there with me?”
Soldan Meissen gave an elaborate shrug. The crimson robe nearly fell off one thin shoulder. “I know many things, my dear. August didn’t tell me, not exactly. I am telepathic, something August accepted, though it frustrated him that he was unable to channel that power within himself.”
“Or you did a bit of Googling,” Cheney said, eyebrow arched.
Ancilla gave Cheney a dirty look.
Julia said, “Did August ever try to connect with you telepathically, Soldan?”
Soldan nodded, gave a dainty cough behind a narrow hand that sported three plain gold bands on his fingers. “Yes, of course, but he couldn’t connect to me. As I said, he didn’t have that particular ability. It was all by chance that I happened to wander into his mind when he was thinking about your boy. I removed myself immediately. I never said anything about it to him. Agent Stone, I would not stoop to Googling to find out a person’s secrets. I am psychic, nothing less than that, I assure you.”
Cheney said, “And did it come to you that Kathryn Golden was abducted today?”
“No, it did not, I regret to say. Perhaps if it had I could have done something. I did, however, see the special report on television. My poor Kathryn—all beautiful breasts and a lovely mind, two exceptional attributes in a psychic,” Soldan said. “Ancilla, I know you dislike Kathryn, but there is no reason for you to. Please bring me a cup of oolong. My Asian delight makes my throat dry.”
Ancilla, a huff in every step, left the room, her mules slapping on the tiles.
“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with Kathryn’s abduction? ” Cheney asked him.
Soldan said nothing, merely frowned after Ancilla. “I told her to wear soft-soled shoes. I dislike the noise, but she said her footwear was none of my business. Can you imagine that?”
“Why don’t you zap her with a single bloody thought?” Cheney asked.
“When I become God perhaps I will be more inclined to smite down those who deserve it,” Soldan said, and even gave Cheney a full-bodied smile, showing a gold molar. “I am thinking that when this occurs, Agent Stone, your torments will begin.”
Julia said, “Soldan, when did you last see Kathryn Golden? You’ve known her for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Certainly, but it’s been some time since we’ve seen each other. The three of them—since August was killed, they formed this precious little clique—Bevlin, Wallace, and Kathryn. Too good for me, the frauds. The report on the television said she was possibly abducted by this man, Makepeace, the man who wants to kill you, my dear Julia. I can’t imagine why he’d want that lovely albatross around his neck. What on earth good would Kathryn Golden be to anyone?”
“Maybe Makepeace wants his own psychic,” Cheney said.
“Ha, Agent Stone.”
Julia said, “Do you know, Soldan, it seems that all four of you, even the three you seem to dislike so much, you all adored August. Why is that?”
“How can you ask that, Julia? You knew his powers firsthand. You saw how he brought comfort and enlightenment to so many disillusioned souls floundering in pain. He simply radiated goodness and peace.”
Cheney asked, “Did you ever see or read Dr. Ransom’s journals?”
“Oh no, that wouldn’t ever do,” Soldan said, and puffed.
“Kathryn also mentioned August’s journals,” Julia said, frowning, “but I never saw them, never even knew about them. I certainly never found them when I was going through August’s things.”
“Such a pity. Ah, my oolong. I trust it has only one Splenda in it?”
“Of course, Sol.”
“Thank you, Ancilla.”
He carefully set his hookah pipe on a small dish and sipped his tea. Then he took two more sips and sighed in pleasure. He looked at them. “I have told you as much as I can. I have been as honest with you as I can. I will ask you to leave now. I must have my rest.”
Ancilla was standing in the doorway, tapping one mule.
Cheney said as he rose, “Thank you for seeing us. Would you be willing to tell me your real name?”
“My name is only the slightest modification of the actual name my beloved parents bestowed on me at my birth.”
“What was that name, sir?”
But Soldan Meissen only waved his hookah at them. Cheney gave him a small salute, took Julia’s arm and followed Ancilla out of the pasha’s chamber.
CHAPTER 46
Tuesday night
Today has been one of the strangest days in my life,” Julia said. She yawned, stretched, and leaned against the wall of the Sherlocks’ upstairs hallway, her head resting just below a painting of a young girl repairing a fishing net.
“And one of the longest,” Cheney said, resting his hand against the wall beside her head.
Her eyes suddenly brightened, and she leaned close, whispered against his ear, “You want to know what would actually have been more fun, if I hadn’t been so terrified—car racing on the beach.”
He laughed. “Don’t forget that, it’s even better in a dune buggy.”
“You got him away from us, Cheney, that was a really good plan you had.” She sighed. “I only wish I’d been a better shot.”
“No, I was the one who should have nailed him.” He lightly trailed his fingers down her cheek. “Anyone else I know would have been scared stupid, but you were enjoying yourself.”
“Are you seeing me as some kind of maniac like you?”
“I’m thinking a maniac is a good thing in some settings. Actually, though, what I’m seeing right now, right in front of me, is a very beautiful woman.”
She gave him a brilliant smile, both exhaustion and excitement clear in her eyes, at least to him. Now wasn’t the time. He stepped back. She said, “Is that an example of a maniac talking?”
Cheney shook his head. “No, that’s the plain truth.” He streaked his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
She laughed and smoothed it down, her hand resting a moment on his cheek. “Cheney—”
“You know, I was thinking Wallace sure read Dix right this evening. His frustration is building fast.”
“Poor man, I can’t say I blame him. The not knowing if his wife was alive or dead for over three years, I can’t imagine going through that. And he still doesn’t know where she is. You’ll find out, Cheney, I know you will.”
He could do nothing but stare down at her, and marvel at the utter certainty in her voice. He said, “That deal with Wallace—I have to say we got what I expected. Exactly nothing.”
She nodded. “But you know what I found fascinating? It was the way Wallace looked at Dillon—with acceptance, only it wasn’t really that, maybe some sort of recognition, no, that sounds absurd. I don’t know.” She gave a big yawn, clapped her hands over her mouth, and said through her fingers, “I’m sorry. Long, long day.”
He took her hands, looked at the length of her. “It’s time for you to get some sleep. Me too.”
He dropped her hands, opened the guest room door, and pushed her inside. “Nice room,” he said, looking around at the pale yellow walls and the white bedspread, and started to close the door.
“Hey, wait, don’t go just yet,” she said, holding the door open, but then she stalled. What was she to say? I’ve known you for all of five days and I want to jump you?
She managed a smile. “So much has happened to me since Thursday night, it’s really set me to thinking about my life and what I was going to do with it.
“When I met Sean Savich, I saw Linc in him and I wanted to cry, and forget about the past and the future both. I was sucked right back into that black hole of grief. But then that adorable little boy took my hand, told me he beat his mama at computer games, and he began explaining the strategies of a game called Pajama Sam. And I laughed, couldn’t help myself, and I climbed right back out of that hole.” She paused a moment. “Do you know he told me his dad was giving him a skateboard for his next birthday? He said his dad had been a champ a way long time ago, and he was going to give him lessons. I wanted to yell at him never to get near a skateboard, but then I realized, perhaps for the first time, that what happened to Linc . . . it had been a stupid accident, tragic and heartbreaking, but no one’s fault, and it was over, not forgotten, never forgotten, but over, no one to blame, certainly not the skateboard Linc loved so much.”
“So what did you say to Sean?”
“I told him when I came back east, I wanted to drop by and take a few skateboard turns with him and his dad. I told him I had a few moves that might astonish him. He told me that would be cool, and he high-fived me.”
He slowly drew her into his arms and held her, his hand against the back of her head, and pressed her lightly against his shoulder. “He’s a great kid. I’ll bet Linc was a great kid too. Did Linc look like you, Julia?”
She pulled back and he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. Then she swallowed and smiled. “Nope, Linc looked just like his father.”
“I think I heard Sherlock say the same thing about Sean.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Cheney, for getting sentimental on you—”
“No, no, shush, it’s okay.” He hooked her hair behind her ears and cupped her face in his palms. “There’s so much going on here, Julia, so much we still have no clue about. I hate not being in control and I know you feel the same. But everything will be resolved, you’ll see. Now, we’re both very tired. Do you think you can sleep?”
“Oh yes, but I’d probably sleep better if—well, never mind that. If you find you can’t sleep on your monk’s cot down in the Sherlocks’ gym, you can always lift some weights. You’re such a puny little guy, after all.”
He laughed. “Mrs. Sherlock told me the cot wasn’t too bad, she’d slept there once when she was so mad at her husband even three guest rooms away was too close to him. Don’t worry, Julia— Makepeace has no clue where you are. Even Frank Paulette doesn’t know, which means no leaks through the SFPD.”
“I’m not worried, at least not right this minute. Cheney—it’s odd, isn’t it? Look where we are on a Tuesday night, all that’s happened, how we met all of five days ago.”
“Nights,” he said, “it was five nights ago.” And Cheney couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and kissed her mouth, felt warmth and acceptance, and a leap of excitement that could have easily brought him down. He had to leave her but he didn’t want to. This was really bad timing. He pulled back, touched his fingertips to her nose, smoothed her eyebrows, and wanted to ask her to tell him all her secrets. But now wasn’t the time, dammit. “Good night, Julia.”
Julia felt suddenly so alive she could jump right out of her skin, and here he was saying good night to her? Five days—who cared if they’d met an hour ago? “Oh my. Well, good night, Cheney.”
“Don’t worry, Julia.”
He stood, unmoving in the hallway, until she closed her bedroom door. Earlier, Wallace Tammerlane had looked at the two of them and said something about life continually amazing him. Wallace didn’t know a single blessed thing about amazement.
Cheney walked slowly down to the gym, eyed the narrow cot, and sighed. It would be a long night, even if there were only a short number of hours left in it.
In the next guest room down the hall, Dix was lying on his back, his arms crossed beneath his head, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, trying to ground himself, to order his squirreling thoughts, but it was difficult. They’d only arrived in San Francisco yesterday, and between then and now they’d done nothing but work and talk and talk. He supposed he’d agreed with Savich that he shouldn’t see Thomas Pallack, but he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to take that old man’s wrinkled neck in his hands and squeeze until he told the truth.
He still didn’t know a single thing. Bless Sherlock for recording their interview with Thomas Pallack. He’d played it twice. He wanted to face Pallack down, he wanted to find that damned bracelet. What he wanted, dammit, was the truth. What he wanted was to find Christie.
But all he could do was lie there, stewing, his problem-solving ability dead in the water.
He liked Julia Ransom, didn’t want Makepeace to kill her. He wondered what had happened to the kidnapped psychic, but his brain just kept neon-flashing Charlotte and Thomas Pallack, and he wanted to know so badly he didn’t think he could stand it. Maybe he should force himself to finally call Charlotte, maybe make a date to meet at the Hyatt, although in his gut, he knew he wouldn’t find out anything useful. Charlotte was way too smart. The only thing he’d get from her was more syrup-sweet lies. It was very possible too she was using him to gain information just as he was her.
Ruth came up on her elbow beside him. “I miss the boys and Brewster.”
“I do too.”
“We’ll find out everything soon, Dix, have some faith. You know patience is one of a cop’s main virtues, so stop making yourself crazy. I know all this is complicated and Julia Ransom is now in the mix with this Makepeace character, but we’ll find out about Christie. Keep the faith.”
He brought Ruth against him, momentarily distracted with her warm breath on his neck. “It’s hard,” he said. “Now my mind jumped to David Caldicott. I know if he left willingly it was because he was involved in Christie’s disappearance and our visit scared him badly.”
“So you think he took off, maybe left the country?”
“Or he didn’t leave willingly,” Dix said. “He told someone that you and I had been to see him. You know it had to be Pallack, there’s simply no one else. And Pallack panicked? About what?”
“David’s been missing only a day and a half. You spoke to the Atlanta detective who’s on the case.”
“Yeah, the cops blew off Whitney Jones’s pleas for help yesterday, stating the party line—a day hadn’t even passed, and did they have a fight, was there another guy, another girl? But then, bless her heart, Whitney was bright enough to tell them about David meeting with the FBI.”
Ruth grinned down at him. “That sure woke them up, and a very good thing. You know they’re digging to locate him since the FBI is involved, for whatever reason. What did you tell the detective?”
“A bit of the truth, enough to whet his curiosity.”
Ruth said, “Well, if they can’t find him, I know we will, Dix.”
He chewed on his misery for a moment, then Ruth said, “What did you think of our séance this evening?”
What he’d felt had been stark moments of anger—at being there wasting his time, having to deal with what he couldn’t explain, couldn’t see, didn’t want to begin to accept, but he said only, with some contempt in his voice, “I was too tense even to be entertained by Tammerlane’s show. It was a waste of time. On the other hand, I finally got to meet a couple of crackpot psychics. ” He added, “They were interesting characters, I’ll have to admit that.”
"So you think it was all B.S.?”
“No,” he said, “that’s oversimplifying it. But all the discussion about telepathy, Wallace Tammerlane sitting over there, humming, for God’s sake, trying to communicate to another psychic, and all of us sitting on the sofas, holding hands like a bunch of dummies, with the light dimmed.” He sighed. “All so Tammerlane could reach Kathryn Golden with his mind.”
And he snorted his disgust. Ruth was so charmed she kissed him. She raised her head, touched a fingertip t
o his mouth, and said, “You certainly have a way of cutting right to the heart of things, don’t you? Haven’t you told me how you sometimes felt Christie close by and you told her things about what was happening with you and the boys?”
“That’s nothing more than my subconscious self trying to find some comfort.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Go to sleep, Dix.” She kissed him again, settled back against his side, her head on his shoulder, and about thirty seconds later she was down for the count herself.
In the last room down the hall, Savich quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock over Sean’s head. He was snuggled between them, his toy Porsche Carrera tucked against his chest, snoring lightly. “I like the bright red,” Savich said, sighing. He could still see his own beloved Porsche exploding in a raging ball of flame in the midst of utter chaos that black night at the Bonhomie Club, leaving nothing to salvage but a single shiny hubcap that had rolled down the sidewalk. The hubcap was hanging on the wall in his garage.
Sherlock said, “It’s been what, three months? I’m thinking you’ve mourned your Porsche long enough. Maybe it’s time for you to graduate from driving my Volvo. My Volvo feels your pain, and it lowers her self-esteem when you compare her to the Porsche, and find her so lacking. I heard one of the agents say driving the Volvo was going to break your spirit.”
Savich very nearly shuddered whenever he had to drive the stalwart Volvo. He fondly recalled the sheer power of his Porsche, its temper when another car got too close, its spurt of insane speed when he needed it. He sighed. “It always seems like we’re up to our ears in something—like now. Here we are in San Francisco dealing with psychics and assassins.”
“We’ll get through it, we always do. Hey, maybe by this weekend.”
“That might not be so crazy. Things are coming together fast now.”
“I know, they are.” Sherlock kissed him, then leaned over to kiss the back of Sean’s small head. “He’s got so much black hair, just like yours.” Beautiful smooth shiny hair, not a single twisty curl or kinky wave, not like hers. “He’s out,” she whispered, and settled in. “I’ll take him back in a moment.”
The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15 Page 23