“How high is she on Sweetwater’s to-do list?”
“Right at the top,” Fallon said, flat and brusque. “Seems Harry’s a tad irritated to find out that he’s got some upscale sensitive competition that he didn’t even know existed.”
“What if Grace is right about the Siren being an obsessive type? What if she becomes obsessed with Grace because of what happened on Maui?”
“Then we would have a problem,” Fallon agreed in the tone of voice one used to placate a kid who won’t stop asking questions. “But like I said, we’re talking about a pro. Trust me on this, she’s in the wind, long gone.”
Luther snapped the phone closed and tossed it onto the table. He turned his head and saw that Grace was watching him with her haunting green eyes.
“The Siren got Eubanks,” he said. “Fallon says Sweetwater will find her.”
“And until that happens?”
He closed his hand around her hip, savoring the firm, feminine shape of her as she lay curled beneath the sheet. “Until then you’re on vacation in Hawaii.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
The chef carried a large knife that looked like it had been designed to slice and dice something other than vegetables. The heavily tattooed waiter kept a gun strapped to his leg beneath his trousers. The auras of both showed above-average levels of psychic talent and unmistakable signs of permanent damage done by extreme violence. There was also evidence of an odd Zen-like acceptance of what they had done and what they knew themselves to be.
The Dark Rainbow appeared to cater to a weird crowd of misfit sensitives, most of whom looked like they had fallen off the edge of somewhere far, far away and washed up on the beaches of Hawaii. The majority of the customers had profiles typical of people whose auras had been scrambled, warped or badly dented. Most of them probably didn’t even know that they were psychic, let alone that their problem stemmed from that side of their nature.
So why do I feel right at home here? Grace wondered.
She sat with Petra Groves in a booth at the back of the room, adjacent to the swinging door that opened onto the hot, steamy kitchen. It was late afternoon. Behind the bar Wayne polished glasses with scary precision, as if each was a cartridge he planned to load into a rifle and upon which his life might depend.
Petra had explained that they were in the lull between the lunch rush and the dinner service. There was only one customer in the place. He had parked his rusty shopping cart containing a stained bedroll and a number of empty soda cans and bottles outside in the courtyard. Referring to him as a customer was pushing it, Grace thought, since he was getting a free meal.
“That’s Jeff,” Petra explained in low tones. “Head trauma while he was doing his third tour.”
“I can see the damage,” Grace said softly. “He’s low level. Looks totally paranoid.”
“Yeah. Doesn’t trust the VA. Probably just as well. Doubt the doctors would know what to do with a sensitive. When he gets one of his spells, he shows up here. Luther tweaks his aura a little. Calms him right down. On his good days, like today, he stops in and orders the fish and chips.”
“Which you serve him without charge?”
Petra shrugged. “He always offers to pay but we don’t need any more empty cans and bottles.”
“Judging by the lunch crowd, a lot of your clientele look like they should have an appointment with one of the Society’s shrinks.”
Petra snorted. “Most of ’em don’t even know the Society exists. What’s more, if they did find out that there was such a thing, they’d probably run like hell in the opposite direction.”
Grace nodded solemnly. “They become so paranoid they would probably fear anyone who tried to coax them into a clinical setting.”
“A few of them have good reason to be paranoid,” Petra said grimly. “A lot of our regulars got into trouble somewhere along the line when their psychic natures brought them to the attention of folks in white coats.”
“You mean when other people decided they were crazy?”
Wayne paused in his polishing, eyes as cold as those of the snake that crowned his shaved head. “Couple of ’em ended up in some damned lab experiments.”
Petra lowered her coffee mug. “We don’t try to play doctor here at the Dark Rainbow. Me and Wayne, we put off having kids and then found out we couldn’t have any. After we moved here, I guess we just started adopting folks like Jeff and Ray and the others. The customers come here the first time for a meal or a drink. They come back because they feel better when they’re here.”
Grace smiled. “And they feel better because the proprietors understand them and because the bartender has a special knack for calming them down.”
Petra blew that off with a slicing motion of her hand. “Luckily we don’t have to deal in empty pop cans a lot. Most of our crowd pays with actual cash. Enough about us. Let’s talk about you. Luther says we’re on the lookout for a female who can whack someone by singing opera.”
“I think so. Her songs sounded like operatic arias.”
“I’m into classic rock, myself. Wayne, here, is the one who likes opera.”
Grace looked at him, trying to conceal her surprise. “You’re a fan?”
Over at the bar Wayne picked up another glass. “I’m okay with it. Puts me in another place, y’know? Only been to a couple of live performances but I got a lot of CDs. This Siren. She any good?”
“Well, her singing certainly has a very dramatic effect on her audience,” Grace said. “But her psychic talent aside, I think she is more than good. Fallon Jones believes that she’s a professional hit woman, not a professional singer, but I’m not so sure. It may be the other way around.”
Wayne pondered that closely while he applied the towel to another glass. “Either way, Luther is right. You shouldn’t be running around on your own until J&J punches her ticket.”
Grace tried not to be stunned by the casual way he referred to killing the Siren. She cleared her throat.
“Does J&J actually do things like that?” she asked.
“Fallon Jones would never admit it,” Petra said. “But yeah, once in a while stuff like that gets done.”
The wall phone rang. Wayne ignored it. Petra shoved herself out of the booth and took the call.
“Yeah, Julie,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. Hope he feels better soon. Tell the little guy I said hi. No problem.”
She tossed the phone back into its cradle and heaved a sigh. “Julie can’t make it in tonight. Probably not tomorrow night, either. Her kid’s sick.”
“No dishwasher and no waitress,” Wayne said. “Comin’ up on the weekend. Busiest nights of the week. Figures.”
Petra shook her head. “These are the kind of personnel problems that come with success. We never used to have to worry about someone not showing up for work B.L.”
“B.L.?” Grace said.
“Before Luther,” Petra explained. “Who knew success was gonna be such a pain in the ass? We can squeak by without Julie but there’s no way I can cook and keep up with the dishes at the same time when we’ve got a full house.”
“I can wash dishes,” Grace said.
Wayne and Petra looked at her as if she had started speaking in tongues.
“I used to wash dishes for a living,” she explained. “Then I became a butler. You could say I’m a professional.”
TWENTY-NINE
Luther used a little subtle aura manipulation to coax out the last few stragglers shortly after midnight. He walked into the kitchen and found Grace elbow deep in soapy water. She wore an oversized apron that hung almost to her feet. Her hair was shoved up under a net. Her face glistened from a combination of steam and perspiration. She looked adorable. He wanted to take her into the back room and make love to her on a couple of sacks of potatoes.
“We’re closed,” he said. “Time to eat.”
“Almost finished,” she said. “I’m on the last pan.”
Petra yanked the badly yellowed chef ’s toqu
e off her head, tossed it aside and dried the sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm.
“Busy night,” she declared. “How’d we do?”
“Wayne is closing out as we speak,” Luther said. He looked at Grace. “You must be exhausted.”
“I’m okay.” She finished rinsing a large pot and used both hands to transfer it from the sink to the drain counter. “Just a little out of condition, that’s all. What’s this about eating?”
“We’re all hungry and usually a little wired after a busy night,” he explained. “We generally go over to Milly Okada’s place for some udon soup.”
“Sounds good to me,” Grace said. She dried her hands on a towel.
Luther looked at Petra. “We were swamped out there. How’d you two do in here?”
“Got ourselves a rhythm going,” Petra said, looking satisfied. “Worked swell. Grace is definitely an industrial-grade dishwasher. Looks like we’ve got our new Bud.”
“We all have our talents,” Grace said modestly.
They locked up, crossed the courtyard and walked the half block to Kuhio. Without any discussion, Luther, Petra and Wayne formed a protective phalanx around Grace. The four flowed as a cohesive unit along the crowded street.
The Udon Palace was almost empty. It would fill up rapidly later as other restaurants closed for the night and the staffs made their way there for a late-night meal. Milly Okada emerged from the kitchen. She smiled when she saw Luther.
“You’re back and you are no longer depressed,” she announced. She turned to Grace. “And this young lady, I think, is the reason why, hmm?”
Grace looked disconcerted. Luther hurried into introductions.
“Milly, this is Grace Renquist,” he said. “She’s visiting from the mainland.”
“Welcome to the islands, Grace,” Milly said, giving her an appraising look.
“Thank you,” Grace said politely.
“She needs a drink,” Petra said to Milly. “The latest Bud quit on us a few days ago. Grace, here, has been washing dishes all night.”
“So you’re the new Bud, Grace?” Milly chuckled. “You don’t look like a dishwasher.”
“I’ve had a lot of experience,” Grace said.
“Well, well, well,” Milly said softly. “Isn’t that interesting?” Before anyone could respond she waved them all to a nearby table. “Sit down, sit down. I’ll get the beers.” She looked at Grace, one brow raised. “Wine for you?”
“Yes, please,” Grace said. “Thanks.”
Luther pulled out a chair for her. Then he and Petra and Wayne arranged themselves around the table.
“Any luck tracking Sirens in the genealogy records this afternoon?” Luther asked.
“I made some progress during the after-lunch lull,” she said.
Petra leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “What makes you think she’s a member of the Society?”
“She’s a very powerful and extremely rare talent. That means there’s a high probability that she comes from a long line of sensitives. There’s a strong genetic component involved in powerful talents like hers.”
“In other words,” Luther said, “even if she isn’t registered, one or more of her ancestors with the killer talent may have been a member?”
Grace nodded. “Right. If I can get a fix on one of them, I might be able to jump from the Society’s genealogical records to other databases maintained by organizations outside the Society.”
Petra frowned. “The other genealogical databases wouldn’t tell you whether or not a person has a strong psychic talent.”
“No,” Grace said, “but it might help me identify a Siren’s descendants. From there I can determine if any had an unusual talent for singing.”
Wayne’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Sounds like a long shot.”
“It is,” Grace agreed. “But it’s something to do while we wait for word from Fallon Jones.”
Milly emerged with three beers and a glass of white wine. She came back a moment later with bowls of steaming udon soup and handed them around.
“Anything else?” Luther asked after Milly returned to the kitchen.
“Not much,” Grace admitted. “There are a number of references to members who possessed what was often described as a mesmerizing voice. But even today critics throw that term around routinely so I’m not sure it means much. I did find some entries concerning singers whose music can put people in a trance that resembles sleep.”
“I hear that happens a lot at the opera,” Petra said. “Maybe the talent isn’t so rare.”
Grace smiled. “The point is, I didn’t find any references to singers who can literally kill with their music. I sent an e-mail request to Fallon Jones asking him to grant me access to the classified section of the genealogy files.”
Luther picked up his beer. “There’s a classified section?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “A lot of the records pertaining to particularly dangerous or bizarre talents are highly classified. I’ve been allowed to work with them on occasion when Mr. Jones was trying to identify a suspect. I’m sure he’ll let me back into them for this search.” She inhaled the steam off her soup. “This smells very, very good.”
“Best udon on the island,” Wayne assured her.
Luther watched her use her chopsticks to pluck noodles out of the soup. He didn’t have to look at her aura to know that she was exhausted.
“You need a good night’s sleep,” he said.
She did not argue.
Wayne studied Luther. “So, what’s the plan here? Do we just whack anyone who shows up at the restaurant singing something we don’t like?”
“That could leave us with a lot of bodies to explain,” Petra observed. “Lot of bad singing out there.”
“I think the larger issue here is making sure that Grace is never alone until this is over,” Luther said.
“No problem.” Wayne went back to his udon.
Grace set her chopsticks very precisely across the soup bowl and looked at the three of them with a faintly baffled expression.
“It’s very nice of you to do this for me,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No big deal,” Petra assured her. “Makes for a change of pace.”
“Change is good once in a while,” Wayne said. “Keeps life interesting. Forget about thanking us. You’re with Luther.”
She flicked a quick, searching glance at Luther and then turned back to Wayne. “That matters?”
“Sure,” Petra said. “Makes you family.”
Grace sat back, hands tightening on the edge of the table, shock in her eyes. “But I’m not family.”
“You got your definition,” Wayne said. “We’ve got ours. If we say you’re family, then you’re family.”
Grace’s eyes glinted with tears. “I don’t . . . You don’t even know me.”
“Forget the mushy stuff,” Petra said. “Tell us more about Sirens.”
Grace grabbed her napkin, dabbed at her eyes and then cleared her throat a couple of times. She took a sip of wine and set down the glass, composed once more.
“I spent some time researching the subject of mythological Sirens in order to get some background. It occurred to me that some of the ancient legends might have a basis in fact.”
“Huh.” Luther looked up from his soup, intrigued. “You think there might be something to those old tales about sailors who were lured to their deaths on the rocks by the music of the Sirens?”
“Maybe,” Grace said. “According to the myths, there were some folks who survived the encounters. One story states that when Orpheus heard the Sirens’ music he took out his lyre and countered the effect by creating music that was more beautiful than the song of the Sirens.”
“In other words, he neutralized the energy of their music by setting up a counter-resonating pattern,” Luther said.
“Or maybe he just drowned out their song,” Grace suggested.
“Like using one of those wh
ite-noise generators to cancel out the sound of street traffic at night?” Wayne asked.
Petra brightened. “We can crank up the rock we play at the Dark Rainbow.”
“Can’t hurt,” Grace said. “But remember that we’re not dealing with just music here. The Siren is able to infuse her singing with psychic energy. I don’t think we should assume that even the Grateful Dead can cancel out those wavelengths.”
“Loud noise of any kind might make it harder for the Siren to concentrate, though,” Luther said. “And if she can’t hold a focus, all the psychic power in the world is useless.”
“True,” Grace said. “Also, no singer can stay on key if she doesn’t get the right auditory feedback, so she probably needs a suitable venue for one of her performances.”
“Any other ideas on how to handle her?” Wayne asked.
“Maybe. When Odysseus and his men sailed past the Sirens’ location, he had his sailors stuff beeswax in their ears so they couldn’t hear the music.”
“Simple, but effective,” Wayne said. “I don’t fancy the idea of walking around twenty-four/seven with earplugs, though. I like to use my ears.”
Grace made a triangle with her fingers and framed the stem of her glass. “There’s something else I think we can assume. According to what I found in my research, a very powerful Siren might be able to throw a whole theater full of people into a light trance but she can only project the full force of her killing talent on one, at most two people at a time. I saw proof of that at the hotel. I could feel it when she switched her attention from the maid to me. But when the elevator started to open, she panicked and fled. She knew she couldn’t control any more than just the two of us.”
“Stupid thing to do, trying to kill the housekeeper,” Petra mused. “Wonder what the hell she planned to do with the body?”
Grace contemplated that for a few seconds. “If it had been me, I would have put it into the housekeeping cart and taken it out that way.”
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