The Collector

by Cameron

  Damn punk would have had just enough time….

  Rewind—play.

  And now, more bad news.

  Rocket knew he needed to be very careful about how he approached Mr. David with the facts. He didn’t want to just dump a bunch of information on the man.

  Mr. David might overreact. Rocket knew what it felt like to be pushed into a corner. That time with Ollie North, maybe if he’d handled things differently, if he’d been better prepared, he might still be part of this country’s great military.

  The fact was, Mr. David and his wife were like family. Rocket needed to watch out for them. Make sure that things worked out. And he knew Mr. David. He was a hothead. Especially when it came to his kid.

  In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Rocket knew it wasn’t Mr. David he needed to talk to.

  44

  When Seven barreled into the office, he could practically feel the steam coming out of his ears. Erika, no slouch, was ready for him. She swiveled around in her chair to face him.

  “Did you really punch him?” she asked.

  “I hope I broke his fucking jaw,” he said, seeing that she’d already gotten wind of what happened. No doubt that bastard, Smith, had called Erika from his cell. The fact that the reporter had robbed him of the element of surprise only heated up the fire in his gut.

  Erika stood, chin up, ready to take him on. “You’re lucky he’s not the type to sue.”

  “Are you kidding? After the story you just handed him?” He stepped toe-to-toe with his partner. “Why would he bother?”

  Erika gave him a steely look. “And now you’re pissed?”

  “Why’d you do it, Erika?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Seven. She has you by the balls. I’m supposed to stand back and let her take advantage?”

  “So that’s what this is about?” he asked. “You think you’re protecting me? You have got to be kidding!”

  “I’m talking about our partnership, okay?” she whispered. “The fact is—”

  She stopped herself and stepped closer. Lowering her voice, she continued, just as steamed as Seven, “The fact is, mi amigo, you’ve been screwing a witness-slash-possible-suspect and I’m not supposed to do dick about it? Listen up, Bucko. It’s not just your career you’re throwing away. This is my case, too, you know.”

  “Okay. I cop to that—I screwed up. But come on, Erika. You’re not the type for pillow talk. You called the bastard. You fed him the story—”

  “Damn straight, I called him,” she said. “And I’d do it all over again.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You just don’t get it. I have an instinct about this woman. You used to believe in my gut. Gia Moon is playing you. But suddenly, what I think doesn’t matter? Jesus, Mary and Joseph. How many years have we been partners?”

  “Maybe too many,” he said, half meaning the threat.

  Suddenly, she stepped in close, almost pressing against him. “You compromised yourself for this woman.” Again, she lowered her voice. “Remember your brother, Seven.”

  And there it was, the idea that he could never really trust anybody, just like Erika.

  She reached across him for her desk and picked up the folder that she’d been reading when he’d stormed in. “Agent Barnes dropped this by earlier. I just started reading, but I got the gist.” She slapped the folder into his chest. “Besides, I think you should read it first. It explains a lot.”

  He looked down at the folder. It had the name “Gina Tyrell” typed on the cover like some dossier.

  Erika picked up her jacket and purse from the back of her chair. “I’m heading out.” She looked him up and down. That expression on her face made him feel about as big as a cockroach.

  “The fact is, Seven,” she said, brushing past, “I don’t want to be here when you read it.”

  Seven stared down at the folder.

  Her name wasn’t Gia Moon.

  He felt as if his legs had turned to rubber as he dropped down into Erika’s chair.

  Gina Tyrell.

  Suddenly, all that information from Professor Murphy and Erika came slamming back into his head. The Lunites, the cult following for that psychic archaeologist, Estelle Fegaris, Harvard professor and self-proclaimed psychic. Her search for the Eye of Athena, claiming it had the power to tell the future.

  Fegaris. It was similar to the Greek word for moon: feggari. That’s why her followers called themselves Lunites.

  Gia Moon.

  Stella, her daughter. Short for Estelle.

  Gia Moon was the daughter of Estelle Fegaris and Morgan Tyrell, the famed parapsychologist who got kicked out of Harvard and started up his own center for the study of paranormal phenomena and the brain.

  And there was more. A lot more.

  The student implicated in Fegaris’s murder? His name was Thomas Crane. He’d claimed he was Gina’s fiancé. Twelve years ago.

  Stella was twelve years old.

  Thomas Crane stepped off the Gulfstream V. There was a nice breeze coming off the tarmac of John Wayne International Airport. He looked around, taking in a deep breath. Flying over, California reminded him of Greece. The rugged hills—the blue waters.

  It was nice of Gospel to send his jet. And yet the flight over had a bittersweet quality for Thomas. He’d been thinking how this could have been his life if Gina hadn’t screwed him over. He would still have his reputation as a top classical archaeologist and the half million Gospel had paid him for delivering the Eye. Maybe, if he’d played his cards right, Thomas might have even ended up with the Eye, too. That had been his plan, in any case.

  But then, you couldn’t beat that witch, Gina. She had the power to see the future. Without the Eye to guide him, Thomas had shit against her.

  Not anymore, he thought, walking toward the waiting sedan and driver—another courtesy, care of Gospel. Not ever again.

  Gospel hadn’t taken his calls in years. But when Gia Moon hit the papers and Thomas made the connection, Gospel was the first person he’d phoned. Suddenly, the guy couldn’t do enough for him.

  Something there, Thomas thought. He could hear it in Gospel’s voice. Even all these many years later, he could recognized the difference. No longer was Gospel some gazillionaire blowing him off as he had a decade ago. Gospel’s voice was just like it had sounded that first time when he’d contacted Thomas and Estelle about the Eye. There’d been a hint of desperation there.

  Thomas smiled, getting it. Fuck! What if Gospel lost the Eye? What if Gina somehow managed to take it from him?

  Watching the driver dump his duffel into the trunk of the Lincoln Town Car, Thomas settled in the backseat. It’s what made sense, he realized. That’s why Gospel had been so accommodating. Whatever you need, Thomas. Just like in the good old days, when he had something Gospel wanted.

  Thomas leaned back into the butter-soft leather. Well, maybe this time he would get it right. He’d get the Eye and kill the girl.

  Now wouldn’t that be a happy ending?

  He looked out the window at the landscape speeding by. He knew Gina would be expecting him. She had her “gift,” after all. But she wouldn’t disappear. Not again. Not when she had what she’d wanted all along.

  Now, she was important…she was headline news, taking her mother’s place like some psychic royalty.

  It was only a twenty-minute drive to Newport. Thomas waved off the bellhop and grabbed his duffel from the driver. He stared up at the impressive facade. Today, Thomas Crane was staying at the Four Seasons. In a suite.

  After he settled into his room, he walked out onto the balcony. He’d already called room service for a massage and champagne. Now, he watched the sun set over the water.

  He was thinking about the sunsets he’d watched with Gina in his arms. To think, for a minute or two there, he’d actually convinced himself he might be falling in love with the bitch.

  He wasn’t sure what he’d do about the kid. Maybe this would be one of those tragic double murders? He’d
have to think about it, play it by ear.

  He smiled at the knock at the door. Room service, with the champagne.

  At long last, he was in charge. And he couldn’t wait to see Gina’s face when she figured it out.

  45

  Gia stared out the floor-to-ceiling window of the highrise, admiring the panoramic view of the San Diego surf below. Here at the Institute for Dynamic Studies of Parapsychology and the Brain, it was always a day in paradise…even for someone living through hell.

  She’d arrived by car, driving down from Garden Grove. Morgan, of course, had offered the helicopter, but she preferred getting here on her own steam.

  She remembered when Morgan had opened his San Diego office. Gia had been studying at the University of California at San Diego, getting her doctoral degree in neurochemistry, Morgan being the motivating force behind her choice. If they were going to be partners at the institute, Gia needed to develop an area of expertise. For her, it would never be enough just to be only one of the subjects, a psychic providing data on brain functions.

  It was during one of his visits from back East that Morgan fell in love with San Diego. He’d promptly moved the institute here, claiming his old bones couldn’t take the Boston winters any more. But Gia always suspected he just missed her too much.

  She looked around the office, remembering well the Navajo rugs and colorful blankets accenting the institute’s leather couches. Morgan had fallen hard for Southwestern decor. He’d said it energized the spirit. Kokopelli, the mythic being depicted as a humpbacked flute player, had become a talisman for the institute.

  Morgan Tyrell was in his midseventies but looked a good ten years younger. He had bright blue eyes and an athletic build. As well as a medical degree, he had a Ph.D. in psychology, and was a millionaire philanthropist. He was also Gia’s father.

  He came to stand behind his thirty-nine-year-old daughter, staring out at the surf with her. “It’s been a long time, Gina.”

  “My name is Gia now,” she said softly, reminding him.

  Twelve years ago, it was Morgan who had helped her become Gia Moon.

  “Stella.” He shook his head. “She’s amazing.”

  “I know.”

  Gia smiled. Stella had been staying with her grandfather just over twenty-four hours. But her daughter always made an impression.

  “That’s some peculiar curse I have,” Morgan said. “To never meet my daughter or granddaughter until they’re in their teens, fully formed.”

  “She’s hardly that,” Gia said. “And neither was I when I decided to live with you instead of follow Mom on her travels.”

  He smiled benevolently. That was something she’d always loved about her father. That peaceful smile.

  “I missed you,” she said.

  “Then why stay away?”

  “It wasn’t safe.”

  He frowned. “I could make it safe.”

  “Such hubris, Daddy.” She turned to gaze at her father. “Besides. You look at me and you see Mom.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” he asked

  She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “It makes you sad.”

  He didn’t deny it. He and Gia’s mother had never married. Estelle had left without even telling Morgan she was pregnant, disappearing into her obsession to discover the Eye of Athena, Morgan claimed. But Gia had always thought there was more to it. A secret burden that her mother carried.

  Only a handful of people knew the real story behind her mother’s dedication to the Eye of Athena. Estelle had always been careful to keep the origins of the myth surrounding the artifact vague, the truth being much too difficult for the academics she valued so much to swallow.

  Gia knew the tale like a bedtime story. Once upon a time… How the women of her family claimed to be direct descendants of one of Gaia’s sybils. They called themselves the daughters of Sybil. That same oral history documented the existence of the necklace bearing a crystal with the power to enhance psychic abilities, a family heirloom lost long ago. Used for good, the crystal could help it’s bearer achieve great things. Used for evil, it would destroy you.

  For years, the Eye had remained just that, a bedtime story, part of her family’s heritage. But for Estelle, the Eye had become something much different. She was driven to discover the true origins of the artifact. With her strong gift and advanced degrees in classical archaeology, she’d set out to prove the Eye existed, to find the object and put it to use. Estelle believed that once ordinary people experienced a psychic vision—something that would be possible with the Eye—the paranormal would become accepted as a new science, a field that could forward the cause of mankind.

  When Morgan came into her life, as a colleague at Harvard, Estelle always assumed he’d been guided to her, so strong was her belief in fate. With Morgan’s help—a man trained in hypnotherapy—she was able to fall into the deepest trances, delving into the art of psychic archaeology. She used her guides to help her find the Eye in much the same way that Frederick Bly Bond used remote viewing to guide the excavations of the famous Christian shrine in Glastonbury—the most famous case of psychic archaeology.

  In return for Morgan’s help, Estelle allowed Morgan to record and study her psychic abilities. She also became his lover.

  “I adored your mother. Estelle was my soul mate. I never understood why she left.”

  “Hmm. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that you were sleeping with one, if not more, of your graduate students. Daddy, you broke her heart.”

  Now he looked injured. That was the problem with Morgan. He tended to create his own reality.

  Estelle had always maintained that Gia’s father was dead. She’d mentioned a plane crash when her daughter was old enough to press for details. But when Gia started having visions about her supposedly dead father, she questioned her mother further. Gia could describe Morgan in such vivid detail, she refused to believe he was dead. He would talk to her in her visions, telling he was searching for her—which wasn’t the case at all. Morgan had no idea she even existed.

  On her seventeenth birthday, she’d confronted Estelle, who’d finally admitted the famed parapsychologist Morgan Tyrell—her biological father—was very much alive.

  Hurt and angry, Gia left to go live with Morgan. It wasn’t until years later that she forgave her mother, spending summers with Estelle at her dig sites as one of her mom’s many shovel bums.

  “After I had Stella,” Gia said quietly, “I understood a little better why Mom did it, kept your identity a secret. I think she came to believe her greatest value to you was her work at the institute. And that’s not what she wanted. She loved you too much to be just a data point. When she had me, I think she didn’t want me to be hurt, like she’d been hurt.”

  He frowned. “Are you implying I would use my daughter, even my granddaughter? That I was some kind of threat like Thomas?”

  “Not that, Daddy. Never that. But it did occur to me that you might push Stella to accept her gift before she was ready.”

  “Granted, I can see she’s a powerful medium. But, honestly, I wouldn’t push a child.”

  “Really? Isn’t that what you did to me?”

  “You were almost eighteen years old, Gia. An adult. Stella is different.” And when she didn’t comment, he nodded. “So your mother convinced you. I am the big bad wolf, after all. Fair enough.” He gave her a tight hug, saying by the gesture that he forgave her doubts. He took her by the shoulders and tilted her head up to his. “You were blessed, and cursed, with ambitious parents. Nonetheless, you’ve sent Stella to me. So what’s changed?”

  “I need your help,” she said. “Again.”

  Twelve years ago, she’d found herself pregnant and on the run, her mother murdered. She’d called Morgan, who—with his money and powerful connections—had given her a new identity. A new life.

  It didn’t take her father long to put it together.

  “Thomas,” he said. “He’s found you?”

&nbs
p; “Last night, someone called me in the middle of the night. Each time, the caller ID screen read Private Caller. They called three times, exactly twenty minutes apart—just enough time for me to fall back to sleep if I was so inclined, which I wasn’t. There was music playing in the background, barely audible—‘Stairway to Heaven.’ Thomas called it ‘our song.’” She shook her head. “The caller hung up as soon as I said a word. If I stayed quiet, the music just kept playing.”

  Morgan was familiar enough with her gift to understand she hadn’t needed the familiar music to know who was on the other end of that line.

  Any father would warn his only child against holding herself out as bait, hoping to catch a killer—which was certainly Gia’s plan if she’d sent Stella to him. Any father except Morgan.

  He sighed, stepping over to the audio equipment. He began setting it up for a session.

  “Well then—” even with his hands shaking, he sounded upbeat “—we’ll just have to stay one step ahead of him.”

  46

  Carin had been given very specific instructions. She was to wait outside Morgan’s office until Gina was completely under. Only then would she be called inside as a witness.

  Spirit guides. The ancient Greeks called them daimons, spirits that intervened between man and the gods. Socrates was said to have had a daimon guiding him throughout his life. It was only later that the church changed all daimons into evil demons, and protector spirits became angels.

  Channeling, remote healing, depossession work. Carin didn’t care what label you put on what was about to happen. Communicating with nonphysical entities was as old as man himself.

  There was even a branch of science, neurotheology, that studied the effect of religion on the brain. Carin was familiar with the work of Dr. Michael Persinger, who had stimulated the temporal lobes of volunteers, using a weak magnetic field. His subjects had sensed a spiritual “presence.” People having temporal lobe seizures—temporal lobe epilepsy—experienced the same phenomena, religious revelations or hallucinations, even if they were atheists. In theory, the human brain was ready-made for a spiritual experience.