by Kay Hooper
“Is it increasing? Building up?”
“I think so.”
“Can you see a source?” he asked, still frowning slightly at the unique capture of sheer energy.
“Not from here.” She looked at her partner. “The thing is, whatever’s holding in the energy does seem to have made a dandy shield for it, not as tangible as actual glass but every bit as . . . enclosing. No telling how strong it is, how impenetrable, until we’re down there. I’m assuming we can get through unless and until we find out differently. But once we’re down there, once we’re inside, all that energy is bound to affect us even through our shields. I just don’t know how.”
He looked at her and smiled. “Once more into the breach.”
“You never used to say things like that,” she observed with her own faint smile. “At least, not that way.”
“Complaining?”
“No. Oh, no. It’s been interesting to hear more just-outside-New-Orleans in your voice these days.” Then, more soberly, she said, “I think we’d better use the phone in the SUV and call Bishop before we get any closer to that thing. I’ve got a hunch that communicating with Base may prove to be even more of a problem than usual.”
“The chief deputy and sheriff got through,” he noted.
“Yeah. From a landline in the sheriff’s office. I could be wrong, but I’m betting electronics are already being affected, especially communication. Which means it’s a good bet cell phones, if they work at all, won’t reach outside the valley even in the short amount of time we generally have to use them. I’m not even sure the sat phones will work. We may be restricted to using landlines ourselves.”
“And landlines are becoming more scarce in these days of cell communication. Could be a problem,” DeMarco noted thoughtfully.
“Yeah. And we’re likely to have problems using our tablets, laptops, and other equipment as well, especially if we need to use Wi-Fi or otherwise connect to the Internet or FBI databases. It’s something Bishop needs to know before he sends the others in. Something they all need to know. Be as prepared as they possibly can be. Protect themselves as far as they possibly can. What I said to Victoria is . . . probably going to be an understatement, at least for some of them. That energy, positive or negative, is awfully strong. And except for Victoria, none of them has a really strong shield to protect them from it.”
“Think Bishop may think twice about sending them in?”
Hollis shook her head immediately. “He wasn’t all that forthcoming—as per usual—about whatever he and Miranda saw when the rest of us got blasted, but I’m willing to bet he’s certain we all have to go down there, no matter what the risks are, to any of us. As certain as we are. We all have to be in Prosperity.”
DeMarco looked at her a moment, then glanced back out over the very peculiar valley and the dome of energy they both could already feel. “I guess we’ll find out if there’s anything . . . sentient . . . about all that energy,” he said. Then he returned his gaze to his partner, brows rising slightly. “Or do you already know that? I’m not picking up anything, but I’ve never been able to read anything other than human minds.”
“From here, it’s almost impossible to say much of anything definite about it, not the source or sources, not whether there’s any kind of mind behind it, or why it’s only now causing trouble.” Hollis paused. “Except that it’s energy, strong energy. And growing stronger. And that it’s going to cause more very bad things to happen.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Positive.”
“Clairvoyance?” His tone was matter-of-fact.
“Not sure. Which is a little unsettling, but not all that surprising. I haven’t really learned to differentiate between the newer abilities. So maybe it’s something I’m feeling. Or maybe it’s something another sense is trying to tell me.” She sighed. “Dammit, I hope I get the hang of this soon.”
“You will.”
Darkly, she said, “It’s more likely something else will pop up to confuse me even more and you know it. I just don’t want precognition. Seriously. I think I can handle just about anything but that.”
“I,” he said, “think you can handle anything you have to.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Still in a dark tone, but with bright eyes, she said, “In the future, when we speak of this, and we will, just remember that I’ve given you many chances to escape.”
“I appreciate that. But I’m not going anywhere except with you.” He smiled, thoughts and awareness flowing easily between them below the level of words.
Hollis drew a breath, muttered something under her breath about rotten timing, then said briskly, “Okay, then let’s call Bishop. And tell him stuff he probably already knows anyway.”
* * *
• • •
YOU KNOW YOU want to, Elliot.
Elliot Weston blinked, frowned, and shook his head a little, trying to ignore the voice in his head that had been a whisper at first, a nagging little thing like a tune stuck in his head.
It was louder now. More distinct.
More . . . tempting.
He tried to concentrate on his job, on the virtually automatic spiel as he led the young couple through the carefully staged, nice little suburban home he was trying to sell them.
“As you can see, the three bedrooms are a nice size, and there’s a full basement that could easily be converted into whatever extra space your family might need—”
You always want to. Such silly questions they ask. Wasting your time . . .
“How is the school district?” Lorna Simmons asked somewhat anxiously.
Elliot looked at her. She had a clipboard and had been making notes, clutching pens of four different colors in one hand. He smiled. “It’s excellent. Prosperity may be a small town, but the name is accurate, and the town council feels strongly about education. So the schools get the best of everything, from the best teachers to the latest equipment.”
Stupid cow.
Charles Simmons, walking into the master bedroom to explore, asked, “Is there enough hot water in the showers? I really hate running out of hot water.”
“No problems there,” Elliot replied, still smiling. “The house has one of those newer systems that heats water instantly as it’s needed. Even if clothes are being washed and more than one person is taking a shower, there’s plenty of hot water.”
Stupid bastard.
“Electric or gas?” Simmons asked.
“You have an efficient combination in this home. The cooktop and water heater are gas, while the HVAC system is electric.”
“Is there an HOA?” his wife asked, still anxious, as she made a note in blue on her clipboard. “I mean, are there rules about what colors we can paint the outside, and what flowers we plant, like that?”
“There’s no official homeowners’ association in this neighborhood,” Elliot assured her. “Just the usual ordinances and zoning common in any residential neighborhood. I can assure you the people who live here are very laid-back, very easygoing. I live a few streets over myself. Terrific neighbors.”
Come on, Elliot. You know you want to do it.
Trying to ignore that increasingly insistent, even seductive voice in his head, Elliot said quickly, “Beautiful tile work in the master bath, as you can see. And plenty of closet space. And the master’s here at the back of the house, of course, so it’s very private, and you can hardly hear anything from outside, not traffic or the neighbor’s dog, or anything troublesome.”
“There’s a leash law, right?” Simmons demanded.
“Certainly. No roaming dogs; we have a strictly enforced leash law. This development was carefully planned so that all the backyards are fenced, with plenty of room for the kids and for the family dog. And there’s a nice dog park just outside the development where n
eighborhood dogs can play and get to know each other. We also have several good vets in town who can take excellent care of family pets.”
“I hope the people on either side here don’t have dogs that bark all night.”
He’s one of those. Those assholes who believe whatever they want should be law.
“No, I can assure you it’s a very peaceful neighborhood.” He wondered why the other man looked more and more ugly, with eyes a weird color and too many teeth in his mouth.
He’s an animal, Elliot. You can see that.
Lorna Simmons, her voice increasingly strident to Elliot’s sensitive ears and her face beginning to remind him strongly of an aunt he’d disliked his entire life, said, “I couldn’t bear living in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, I just couldn’t. I have an artistic flair, Charles always said so, and I’m very particular about my surroundings. They have to work for me. Colors we choose, and I have to have my garden gnomes in the flower beds!”
Elliot, listen to her. That voice could cut glass. You know you don’t want them anywhere near your family. You don’t want them anywhere. You know that.
Charles Simmons rolled his eyes slightly at the mention of gnomes but said, “Long as nobody tells me I can’t wash my car in my own damned driveway and play music while I do it, I’m fine with neighbors. There are services available to cut the grass? I’m a busy man.”
“Several lawn services work in this area of town, very good ones,” Elliot promised, his smile beginning to feel horribly unnatural and an odd, red mist sort of drifting between himself and the very demanding couple.
“The kitchen really is lovely,” Lorna Simmons said, a pleading note adding to the stridency as she looked anxiously at her husband. “Just what we’ve been looking for, darling.”
“I’m not sure about that carpet in the living room,” he countered.
“Carpet is easily removed,” Elliot murmured, wondering if his teeth were gritted the way they felt. Why did everything seem to be turning red? Why could he feel his own heart beating, harder and harder?
“Hardwood floors underneath?”
“In this particular home, no, but—”
“So there’s another added expense,” Charles Simmons said bitterly, his very ugly face even more ugly wearing a grimace.
Go on, Elliot. Do it. You know you want to.
“The price will have to come down quite a bit to cover the cost of laying hardwood—”
You know you do. That’s why you brought your gun.
* * *
• • •
HAVING BEEN TOLD by the FBI unit chief he’d spoken to that a team was very nearby, Archer had asked that the feds come directly to the Gardner home, the same request he’d made when he spoke to one of the state medical examiners who worked, she told him, out of Asheville and could get a lift at least partway to Prosperity in one of the MAMA—Mountain Area Medical Airlift—choppers. So the help he had called in was near.
Near enough that there was still some sunlight when a big, black SUV pulled to the curb in front of the house not more than a couple minutes after a discreet white van parked in the driveway behind Ed Gardner’s car. A man and woman got out of each vehicle, all casually dressed without a suit or tie in sight, and only Archer’s experienced gaze could detect that both feds wore guns under light jackets.
The guy fed wore a big, silver cannon in a shoulder harness.
The four newcomers met in the center of the yard, obviously acquainted.
“Hey, Jill,” the slender brunette said as she and her tall, blond partner reached the other pair. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“Hollis. Reese. My assistant, Austin Messina.”
As Archer approached them, he saw the feds nod to the ME’s partner, who was fiddling with some piece of equipment and who nodded with an absent smile in return, and then the brunette asked, “What happened to Sam? That last case make him rethink his career options?”
“Sort of. He’s with your bunch at Quantico for a few months. Special training. After the last time, we figured it wouldn’t hurt.” She wasn’t very big, was very pretty, and didn’t look like messing about with dead bodies would be her specialty, but it was clear the two feds obviously respected her and felt comfortable with her.
Archer wished he felt comfortable. About anything. He wished he felt something other than the queasiness that lay in the pit of his stomach and an overwhelming sense of dread.
“Sheriff Archer,” the brunette fed said when he reached them, rather discreetly flashing her credentials in perfect sync with her partner, then reaching to shake his hand with a good grip. “I’m Hollis Templeton. My partner is Reese DeMarco. Sorry for the obvious Fedmobile sticking out in this nice neighborhood, but we tend to carry quite a few supplies and such, so it couldn’t be helped.”
Archer, feeling a bit swept along in her briskness, merely nodded as he shook hands with her partner, then nodded again and shook more hands when Dr. Jill Easton introduced herself and her assistant to him.
“Do you want to get started first, Doctor?” he asked her.
“I imagine Hollis and Reese will want to study the scene for a bit first, Sheriff. We’ll be getting our equipment out and getting suited up in the meantime.” Her partner was already sliding open the side of the van, which was clearly crammed—neatly—with more rather enigmatic equipment and supplies.
As she stepped away to join him, Archer looked at the two feds. He had never shared the hostility toward federal cops that some of his peers so often felt and too openly displayed, but he had also never worked with feds on a case, so he looked at them a bit uncertainly. “I’m not sure what the procedure is from this point, Agents,” he told them. “Then again, I’m not sure of anything today.”
Hollis Templeton nodded, her expressive face showing rueful sympathy. “More often than not, we tend to play it by ear. The sort of cases we get invited to assist in tend to be of the very weird variety, Sheriff. Beyond horrible. Not something local or even state cops have much experience with. Sometimes the usual law enforcement training just doesn’t cover it.”
“My chief deputy said you belonged to some kind of special FBI unit, and I talked to your unit chief, but . . . I guess I never figured there were enough . . . weird crimes to call for that.”
“You’d be surprised,” she told him earnestly. “There’s a lot of strange and crazy in the world. The Special Crimes Unit teams tend to be pretty busy.” Her very bright eyes, their blue color definitely unusual, studied him for an instant as though looking for something.
Archer had no idea whether she found it.
“You’ve kept the scene intact?” Her voice was brisk again.
It wasn’t really a question, but Archer nodded. “Except for the removal of Leslie Gardner to the hospital, everything inside is . . . just as we found it.”
“She’s still out?”
He nodded. “I have a deputy staying with her, and so far the report is she’s sleeping. Just sleeping. Except that the doctors can’t wake her up.”
Reese DeMarco said thoughtfully, “It might be a good idea to ask the doctors that they not try any . . . extraordinary means to wake her up. Let it happen naturally if at all possible.”
“Why?” Archer asked blankly.
“Because we don’t yet know what we have here,” the big blond man—former military, Archer was willing to bet, just from the way he stood and the knife-sharpness of his blue eyes—said in the same quiet, pleasant voice.
His partner added, “Memory’s a tricky thing. If she’s forced awake before she’s ready to be, we may lose information we badly need to understand all this.”
“I hope somebody can understand it,” he muttered, then gestured slightly and led the way to the front porch of the home. “I have two deputies sitting in their cruiser across the street, but so far none of the neighbors
have tried to get closer. Just standing out in their yards, most of ’em, staring.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Templeton murmured.
“Should have put crime scene tape up, I know,” Archer said, trying not to sound defensive.
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, her tone interested rather than in any way critical.
“Honestly? Didn’t think of it right away. None of us did. Shock, I guess, as unprofessional as that is. Too many years living in a town where crimes that require tape just don’t happen. And when I did think of the tape, it seemed . . . to add more obscenity to this. This was a very quiet, very peaceful neighborhood. I just . . .” He shook his head, adding in a more certain voice, “I hope you both have strong stomachs.”
Matter-of-fact, DeMarco said, “We’ve seen the initial photos your chief deputy took, Sheriff. We know what to expect in there.”
Archer wondered if they did, photos or not, but simply nodded and led the way into the Gardner house. He stopped a foot or so outside the doorway to the living room. “I’ll stay in here, if you don’t mind,” he said. “They have a landline phone here in the front hall; I’ll use that to relay your request to the hospital about Leslie Gardner.”
Hollis Templeton gave him another very direct look, then said, “Radios and cell phones aren’t working?”
He grimaced slightly. “Not reliably. Been having trouble with both off and on for the last few days, maybe a week, and it’s been getting worse. Cell company says there’s some interference, and they’re working on the problem. My technical people are flat-out baffled about the radios. But they’re trying to figure out the problem with those, and we’re in contact with specialists—who seem just as confused as we are. In the meantime, only landline phones are dependable, and we’re lucky to have one here. Lots of people just rely on the cells nowadays.”