Eye of the Beholder

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  She turned back. There was just enough of a glow coming through the tent to make out the figure of the aura reader.

  “Hmm,” the reader said eventually.

  “I take it we don’t have interesting auras?” Trask said. He did not sound overly concerned at the prospect of having a dull aura.

  Alexa sensed that his attention was on the shadow play taking place on the wall of the tent. She wondered if he was watching for the outline of the man in the jester’s costume.

  “On the contrary,” the reader said. “Both of you have extremely intriguing auras.” The dark outline of her veiled head turned toward Alexa. “Yours is strong and bright. The hues have great clarity and energy.”

  “I take it that’s good?”

  “Yes.” The reader turned toward Trask. “Your aura, sir, radiates a degree of power that could be dangerous in some people. It requires a lot of control, but I see that you’ve got enough to handle it.”

  “I’m into control,” Trask said easily.

  “The hues are dark,” the reader continued, “but they are clear and pure.”

  “The result of good, clean living,” Trask said absently. He was still watching the shadows on the tent fabric.

  The reader cleared her throat. “I should mention that I sense an element of tension in both auras.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” Trask said. “We’re just sitting here getting our auras read.”

  Annoyed by his rudeness, Alexa poked his shoulder. “Ignore him,” she said to the reader. “He’s hungry. I promised him we’d get a bite to eat right after we finished this.”

  “I understand. Go feed him.”

  Trask turned back, scowling. “Is that all there is to the reading?”

  The reader moved slightly. Bells tinkled. “I could elaborate on how well-matched your auras are. Great yin-yang stuff going on. Together you’ve got darn near a full spectrum.”

  “Is that anything like a full house in poker?” Trask asked.

  “In the metaphysical sense,” the reader said. “I can also give you the details on how the light, bright colors in the lady’s aura complement the dark shades in yours, sir, and how the tesla psychic currents harmonize. But I’m sure you two already know all that.”

  Alexa stared at her. “Why would we know anything about it?”

  There was a short, charged pause. The outline of the reader’s head swiveled again as she looked from Alexa to Trask and back. “Sorry. I assumed that the two of you have a, ah, personal relationship.”

  “Relationship?” Trask repeated ominously. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Calm down,” Alexa muttered.

  He ignored her. He kept his gaze on the hapless aura reader. “Have you been talking to someone about us?”

  “Of course not.” The reader sounded indignant. “I’m a professional. I’ve got standards.”

  “Are you connected to the Institute?” Trask demanded.

  “No,” the woman said quickly. “I’m an independent operator. I just rented booth space for the fair. That’s all.”

  “Then what’s all this talk about a connection between Alexa and me?”

  “Hey, I just read ’em the way I see ’em.”

  Alexa groaned. “Trask, I really don’t think you want to go down this road.”

  “The hell I don’t,” he said. “I want to know exactly what she knows about us and how she knows it.”

  “It’s no big deal.” The reader turned up the lamp. “I’ll try and explain it without getting technical. The fact that your aura has begun to resonate strongly with the lady’s in certain ways is usually an indication that two people have established a mutual bond.”

  “A bond,” Trask repeated in a perfectly neutral voice.

  “Yes,” the reader said. “A bond.”

  Alexa thought about the uneasy partnership she and Trask had formed. “I think you could say we’ve been through a bonding experience of sorts.”

  Trask gave her a strange look. “Is that what you call it?”

  “For want of a better phrase,” Alexa said demurely.

  The reader hesitated. “Uh, look, sorry if I put my foot in it. I figured you two were already engaged or, at the very least, involved in an affair or something.”

  Trask regarded her in Sphinx-like silence.

  “Good grief.” Alexa went hot all over.

  “I knew this stuff was garbage,” Trask said grimly.

  “Look, are you implying that I didn’t give an accurate reading?” A belligerent, defensive tone had entered the reader’s voice. “It’s not my fault that the two of you came in here with a couple of auras that have obviously begun to resonate.”

  “No,” Alexa said cautiously, “it’s not your fault.”

  “Judging by your reaction,” the reader snapped, “I assume you’re trying to keep your relationship a secret.”

  “The thing is—” Alexa began.

  “In my opinion, people who are involved in illicit love affairs shouldn’t wander into an innocent aura reader’s booth, ask to have their auras read, and then get indignant when the reader tells them what she sees.”

  “It’s okay, really, it is.” Alexa scrambled to her feet. “No one’s blaming you.”

  “I should hope not. Like I said, I’m a professional. I’ve got standards.”

  Alexa nudged Trask, who still had not moved. “Come on, we’d better get going. We’ve got a lot to do tonight.”

  “Hold it.” The aura reader put out her hand. “That’ll be fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty bucks?” Trask finally emerged from his frozen state. He surged to his feet. “For a carnival show fortune-telling session? Forget it.”

  “I didn’t tell your fortunes, I read your auras.” The reader rose from her cushion. “Furthermore, this is no carnival sideshow. It’s a serious business and I resent the implication that I’m a huckster.”

  “This is a psychic fair.” Trask swept out a hand. “Hell, all the booths are run by hucksters.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion.” The reader’s veils shivered with the force of her icy indignation. “But I’m entitled to my fifty dollars. The sign out front clearly states the fee. If you didn’t want to pay the price, you shouldn’t have come in here.”

  “Pay her,” Alexa said through her teeth.

  Trask’s jaw clenched in stubborn lines. “I’ll be damned if I’ll fork over fifty bucks for a two-bit performance.”

  “This was your idea,” she reminded him.

  “I’m not about to let this… this charlatan take advantage…”

  “Okay, okay, stop making a scene.” Alexa fumbled with the catch of her satchel. “We’ll split it.”

  “It’s not the money, it’s the principle of the thing,” Trask declared.

  “Sure.” Alexa got a twenty and a five out of her wallet. “That’s what people always say when they’re too cheap to pay the tab.”

  “I am not cheap, damn it.” Trask dug out his wallet. “I’ll pay for the reading.”

  “Just worry about your share.” Alexa handed the reader the twenty and the five. “I wouldn’t dream of forcing you to pay for my half. After all, this is a partnership, isn’t it?”

  “I said I’ll pay her.” Trask ripped the two bills out of the reader’s fingers and slapped them back into Alexa’s hand. Then he gave the woman fifty dollars. “There. Satisfied?”

  “Yes,” Alexa said.

  “Yes,” the aura reader said.

  “Terrific. Let’s get out of here.” Trask shoved his wallet back into his pocket, seized Alexa’s arm, and hauled her toward the entrance of the tent. “I think we now know why there was no line of people standing in front of this booth. Who in their right minds would pay fifty bucks for an aura reading?”

  “We did,” Alexa said.

  The aura reader slipped the bills into her veils. “You get what you pay for.”

  Trask did not bother to respond to that. He yanked open the tent flap and ushered
Alexa outside.

  Once back on the garden path they blended quickly into the crowd. Alexa glanced around. She saw no sign of the man in the jester’s costume. She relaxed slightly and looked at Trask’s grim face.

  “I realize that was a bit awkward,” she said. “Nevertheless, I think you’re overreacting.”

  “Fifty bucks to have some fortune-teller tell us that we’re having an affair? Give me a break.”

  “She wasn’t a fortune-teller,” Alexa said patiently. “And she didn’t exactly tell us that we were having an affair. She said she just assumed as much because our auras resonate in certain ways.”

  Trask gave her a speaking glance.

  Alexa exhaled deeply. “I think we’ve exhausted that subject. Let’s get back to business.” She surveyed the group of fair-goers on the path. “I don’t see our jester friend.”

  That got Trask’s attention. He looked over his shoulder. “Neither do I.”

  “Probably a false alarm.”

  “A false alarm that cost me fifty bucks,” Trask muttered. “Resonating auras. What bull.”

  Alexa glared at him.

  “Okay, okay.”

  “The main activities of the evening are about to begin.” Alexa glanced at her watch. “Webster’s talk will start soon, and then they’ll set off the fireworks.”

  “Let’s work our way toward the seminar building.”

  Alexa acquiesced with a sense of relief. She decided not to tell him that she had a strong hunch “resonating auras” was psychic-speak for falling in love. She was having enough trouble coming to grips with the ramifications of the aura reader’s words as it was.

  30

  He had been right about the effect of Bell’s speech and the timeless allure of fireworks. The combination of attractions had emptied out the seminar building. Even the receptionist had left his post to wander outside.

  Trask stood in the shadows of the darkened hallway and took morose satisfaction in the knowledge that at least this part of the evening was going according to plan. After it was over, he would worry about the way the phony aura reader’s mumbo jumbo had poleaxed him.

  He glanced down the hall behind him. It was shrouded in shadows. Only the lobby of the building was lit.

  It had been easy enough to get into the seminar facility without being noticed. He had simply joined the crowd milling around the Dimensions bookshop. When the others had left to see Bell, he had slipped into the nearest men’s room and waited a few minutes. When he had emerged, he had the place to himself.

  But not for long, he thought. He had to move quickly.

  He adjusted the strap of the computer case on his shoulder and started along an unlit corridor. The passage was lined on each side by twin rows of glass-paneled office and seminar room doors. Assuming nothing had changed since the time Alexa had spent here, Radstone’s office was up ahead and to the left.

  He had made the decision to search Radstone’s files first because everything he had indicated that it was Radstone who managed the Institute’s money. And money was at the core of this. It was the only motive that explained both his father’s death and Guthrie’s as well.

  He reached the junction of two hallways, turned, and started along the corridor that led to his destination.

  A squeak sounded, unnaturally loud in the darkness. He recognized the noise immediately. It was the sort that was made by the soles of a pair of running shoes on hardwood floors. It emanated from the intersecting hallway.

  So much for the theory that he was alone in the seminar facility.

  Trask halted and looked at the door directly across from where he stood. There was a small sign printed on the translucent glass, but he could not read it in the dim light. He had to get out of sight. Whoever was coming down the hall might decide to turn right and walk along this passage.

  He crossed the corridor in two strides and tried the doorknob. It refused to turn in his hand.

  He swore silently and tried the next one. It, too, was locked. He was thinking up reasonable excuses for hanging around dark corridors when he passed a third door. This one did not have a glass panel in it. It opened easily.

  He caught a glimpse of a toilet and a gleaming washbasin before the door swung shut, leaving him in absolute darkness. It looked like he’d picked the women’s room this time. At least it made a change of pace.

  It occurred to him that he was spending a lot of time in rest rooms this evening. He hoped that was not a bad omen.

  He heard the squeak outside in the hall and knew that whoever had come down the intersecting corridor had turned in to this one. It had been close. Five seconds later and he would have been seen, Trask thought.

  He wondered who had just walked past the rest room door. A member of the Institute’s faculty, possibly. Someone with an office in this hall. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he turned on the lights?

  Trask waited until the squeaks had receded into the distance. Then he counted to ten and cracked open the rest room door. He glanced down the shadowy length of the corridor.

  There was a figure at the end of the hall, barely visible in the darkness. As Trask watched, the dark shape disappeared through the doorway into an office.

  Trask reviewed the map in his head. Radstone’s office was at the end of this hall. First big deduction of the evening: It was Foster Radstone himself who had walked down the hall in squeaky running shoes.

  In the dark.

  So much for searching that office. The only option left was Bell’s. That meant backtracking to the intersection and turning left.

  “I got your message. What the hell do you want?”

  The angry, muffled voice came from the far end of the corridor. It belonged to Foster Radstone. Trask stopped.

  “Are you crazy? Get the hell out of my office.”

  Trask gazed into the shadows at the end of the hall.

  “You’re outta your fucking mind.” Radstone’s voice echoed through the glass panel on the door, loud and getting louder. “You can’t threaten me. Get the hell out of my office, you bastard.”

  Second big deduction of the evening: There was someone else besides Foster in the office.

  This was simply too interesting to pass up.

  Trask went silently back down the hall toward Radstone’s office. He glanced at the bottom of the door as he approached. No light showed beneath it. The glass panel was luminous, however. Inside, the office was flooded with moonlight and the glow of the lamps that lined the path outside.

  Why wasn’t Radstone turning on any lights tonight?

  He reached the door and saw the shadowy outlines of two figures etched against the glass. There was something wrong with the head of one of them. Strange, pointed shapes stuck out from the skull.

  The jester.

  As Trask watched, the jester raised one arm in an ominous movement. The shadowy fist clutched a small, blunt object.

  “No. No,” Radstone’s voice rose. “Wait. How much do you want? Name your price.”

  The jester mumbled something, low and incomprehensible.

  Trask decided not to waste time trying the knob. If the door was locked he would lose the element of surprise.

  He yanked the strap of the computer case off his shoulder and hurled the laptop through the glass panel.

  Someone screamed. Radstone.

  Outside, the first of the fireworks erupted, small bombs in the night. The sharp explosions mingled with the sound of breaking glass.

  Simultaneously there was another explosion, closer to hand. The figure in the pointed cap bolted for the window. Radstone crumpled to the floor without a sound.

  Trask reached through the jagged glass, wrenched open the door, and went in, fast and low.

  The jester had one leg over the sill.

  Trask launched himself forward. The toe of his low boot collided with Radstone’s outflung arm.

  Trask staggered, managed to catch his balance, and vaulted after the disappearing jester. He reached the wi
ndow just as the fleeing figure tumbled awkwardly over the sill.

  Trask grabbed for whatever he could catch hold of and succeeded in getting a handful of sleeve. The jester made a fist and lashed out wildly. Eyes glittered with rage and panic behind the holes in the mask.

  Trask turned his head at the last instant. The blow glanced off the side of his jaw. He tightened his grip on the jester’s sleeve and hauled backward.

  The jester twisted frantically. Trask heard thin fabric rip. He made another bid to get a better grasp on his opponent. His fingers snagged on a bracelet.

  The delicate band snapped. The jester slipped free and fled into the night.

  Trask put one leg over the sill, straining to keep the jester in sight. A groan from the man on the floor stopped him. Reluctantly he eased back into the room.

  Something hard crunched under the heel of his boot. He ignored it to cross the room. He found the light switch, flicked it on, and looked down.

  Foster Radstone lay sprawled on the carpet. There was an unhealthy grayish cast to his face. He was gasping for breath. Blood soaked the front of his turquoise polo shirt.

  Trask went to the desk and grabbed the phone. Given the size of the crowd on the Institute’s grounds tonight, there was bound to be some emergency personnel in the vicinity.

  He listened to Radstone’s increasingly labored breathing as he rattled off the details.

  “There’s an aid car standing by outside the front gate,” the operator said. “I’m dispatching it now.”

  “Tell ’em to hurry.” Trask hung up the phone and went to crouch beside Foster. He saw no sign of an exit wound.

  “Help is on the way,” he said. He shrugged out of his denim shirt, wadded it up, and shoved it over the hole in Radstone’s chest. “Who did this to you?”

  Foster gurgled. His eyes fluttered again. There was barely any color left in his face.

  He was not going to get any answers tonight, Trask realized.

  “Take it easy,” he said quietly. “The medics will be here any minute.”

  He glanced toward the window and saw the turquoise beads scattered on the floor. A Dimensions bracelet. He recalled feeling it snap in his fingers when he had tried to retain his grip on the jester.