by Jayne Castle
“I wonder where Lancaster got the hired muscle,” he said after a while. “That pair sitting in the Shadow Bay jail this morning look like they came from the streets, but they don’t have the vibe of hardened criminals. And what’s with the griffin tats?”
“Some kind of gang symbol?” Rachel suggested.
Harry pondered that. “Maybe. But why would a slick con man like Lancaster get involved in a low-rent street gang? Doesn’t feel like his style.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “It’s not. But there is another kind of organization that fits with Lancaster’s para-psych profile perfectly. A cult.”
“Yes.” Harry sat forward abruptly, automatically reaching for his phone. He stopped, irritated, when he remembered that the phone service was still out. “No way to research that angle until we can get online or make a call to the mainland, but it makes sense. A cult that pulls in young street toughs would provide an excellent source of muscle for a guy like Lancaster, especially if he used the operation to recruit kids like those two, who both have a little hunter talent.” He finished the tisane and got to his feet. “I’m going to talk to that pair we’ve got locked up.”
“Okay, but I’ve got to warn you, I don’t think you’re going to get any useful answers from them, regardless of whether or not you use your talent.”
“Why not?”
“You saw them this morning. They were dazed and bewildered. They didn’t seem to remember anything of what happened.”
“They were faking it.”
“I don’t think so,” Rachel said. “I got a brief look at their auras last night and again today. There was something odd about some of the currents in both spectrums. I think you should let me observe the boys when you question them.”
“Now they’re just boys? What happened to young toughs and thugs?”
Rachel flushed. “I don’t know. They just seemed awfully young and very scared this morning.”
She was right, but that didn’t mean they weren’t young, scared thugs.
“What good will it do to read their auras?” he asked.
“I might be able to provide you with additional information.”
He thought about it. Maybe it was the effects of the tisane but it sounded like a reasonable suggestion.
“More information is always good,” he said. “But I can’t put you behind a one-way observation window. The facilities at the local police station don’t run to those sorts of amenities. You’ll have to sit in on the questioning.”
“That’s fine. I don’t like to work through glass, anyway. You know how it is with glass when it comes to the paranormal.”
He nodded. “Unpredictable.”
Everyone with an ounce or more of talent knew that in the field of para-physics, glass was one of the least understood materials because it possessed properties of both crystals and liquids, to say nothing of its reflective and refraction qualities. In addition, there were an almost unlimited number of variations of glass and glasslike substances ranging from the naturally fused versions such as obsidian to precision optics.
“Glass tends to distort aura readings because it masks some portions of the spectrum and it often alters the colors of certain bands of energy,” Rachel said.
“All right, you can sit in when I do the questioning,” he said. “But let’s get one thing clear. No matter what happens or what is said, you are not allowed to interrupt. Understood?”
“Absolutely,” she said a little too quickly. “I understand that you’re the expert when it comes to that sort of questioning.”
“Uh-huh.” Keeping her quiet while he was grilling the pair was going to be a problem. He pushed that issue aside and began to pace the kitchen. He needed a strategy before he confronted the two firebombers. “At this point, all we’ve got linking Vince and his pal to Marcus Lancaster are those tats.”
“And the fact that you were their target.”
He thought about that. “Maybe it’s all connected.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet, but it feels like there must be some link.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Rachel said. “Meanwhile, there’s something you should keep in mind about guys who go into the cult business.”
“What?”
“At the start, they view their organizations as profitable power trips. But sooner or later they start to believe their own press.”
Chapter 15
There had been no word from Rainshadow for nearly twenty-four hours. All Marcus Lancaster had been able to discover was that a storm in the Amber Sea had knocked out communications on the island. It had been difficult getting even that minimal amount of information because the clinic severely restricted access to outside news. Under normal circumstances, he relied on reports from his associate on the island, but now those had been cut off.
His intuition told him that something had gone terribly wrong. He could not let her escape.
“Tell me about your recurring nightmare,” Dr. Oakford said. “The one you say you’ve had ever since childhood.”
Marcus forced himself to pay attention. It was unsettling to discover that he needed to concentrate in order to employ his talent today. He should have been able to deal with Oakford without even having to think twice about it.
He must have done a halfway decent job of concealing his inner agitation, though, because Oakford was clearly oblivious. He conducted the therapy session in the same superficially calm, emotionless tone that he always employed. Marcus was not fooled. He could read voices and faces the way others read GPS maps. Beneath the surface of Oakford’s well-modulated, blandly professional speech patterns, currents of anticipation were infused with the need for positive feedback.
Marcus reminded himself not to smile. Smiling was not an appropriate response in this particular situation. What was the matter with him today? He had been handling Ian Oakford and the other members of the staff with exquisite ease ever since Rachel had left the clinic. He had been biding his time, performing the role of the model patient brilliantly and always, always keeping in mind that it was in his own best interests to remain at Chapman until the project on Rainshadow was completed.
It was getting increasingly difficult to fake his diagnosis, though. Today he had to rez a little talent just to get himself into the part. It was critical that he remain in character because Oakford wanted to talk about the recurring dream. That was dangerous territory because the dream was linked to his childhood.
He had gone to great lengths to bury his past—quite literally. Now here was Oakford trying to pry open the places where he kept his secrets.
Truth be told, the memories were very good. What a rush it had been coming into his talent as a teen, Marcus thought. What kid wouldn’t have reveled in the realization that he could make almost anyone believe almost anything, at least for a while? And what young male wouldn’t have savored the delights of being able to manipulate any girl into bed?
Later, in his early twenties when he discovered that he could pull off the perfect scam—that he could persuade seemingly intelligent, well-educated, sophisticated investors to trust him with their money—he thought he had found his true path in life. For a while he had convinced himself that the exhilarating sense of power that he experienced every time he added another financial trophy to his growing empire was enough.
But it wasn’t enough. He had begun to wonder if anything would ever be enough.
It was not until fate had led him to Rachel Blake that he had comprehended the shattering truth. She was what he required to fulfill his destiny.
“I’ve had the nightmares for years,” Marcus said. “They started when I was sent to the orphanage. I was twelve years old.”
Dr. Oakford consulted his notes. “That happened after the fire that destroyed your family’s home and took the lives of your parents.”
“Yes.”
Oakford occupied the chair on the opposite side of the table, the same chair that Rachel had sat in a
few weeks ago.
When this was all over, Marcus thought, Oakford was going to suffer an unfortunate accident.
“Walk me through your recurring dream,” Oakford suggested.
Marcus jacked up his talent a little, just enough to get a fix on the vulnerable wavelengths in Oakford’s aura. It wasn’t hard. The doctor was desperately anxious for feedback that would tell him that the experimental psi-drugs were working.
“I’m in my bed in my parents’ house,” Marcus began. “It’s night. I know that something terrible is about to happen. I want to warn my folks but I can’t speak. I can’t move. Can’t get out of bed to go down the hall to warn them.”
“Go on,” Dr. Oakford said.
“I lie there, frozen. I sense someone or maybe something coming down the hall. I know that whoever or whatever it is, it’s coming for me.”
“You’re not sure if the creature in the hall is human?”
“It’s the monster-under-the-bed thing, Doctor. You know what it’s like when you’re a kid.”
Oakford made a note. “Please continue.”
“I finally manage to get out of bed. I can’t go out into the hall because the monster is there. My only hope is to crawl out the window. But I’m moving in slow motion. I know I won’t be able to escape. I hear the door open behind me. I turn around.”
“What do you see, Marcus?”
“Nothing,” Marcus said. “I always wake up at that point.”
“When was the last time you had this dream?” Dr. Oakford asked.
Marcus made himself frown a little, as though he could not recall the exact date. The truth was, although he had dreamed the dream frequently over the years, it never went quite the way he had described it to Oakford. The real version had a slightly different twist and a very different ending.
“It’s been a while now,” he said. He blinked a couple of times and allowed his expression to clear, showing just the faintest hint of surprise. “Not for a couple of weeks, in fact.”
Dr. Oakford nodded. “What do you think that means, Marcus?”
“I’m not sure,” Marcus said. He risked a sliver of a smile that was tinged with relief. “But I will say I’m sleeping better these days, even if I am locked up in a para-psych ward.”
“Better sleep is a sign of progress.” Dr. Oakford’s smile held more than a hint of satisfaction. “We’ll continue work on the meaning of your dream tomorrow.”
“Do you think that it’s important that I’ve stopped having the old nightmare?”
“It’s very, very important, Marcus. It means that you are moving toward recovery.”
“I do feel calmer.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Dr. Oakford closed his notebook. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, but the medications are working.”
Marcus allowed himself another hopeful smile. He made sure it looked like the kind of smile a grateful patient would give the doctor who was saving his sanity.
Oakford got to his feet and went to the door to summon the orderly. Marcus stood, wondering with some amusement what Oakford would say if knew the truth about the dream.
In the real version of the dream—the version Marcus had dreamed off and on for years—he was not the terrified little boy lying helplessly in bed. Oh, no. He was on his way down the hall to set a fire.
Chapter 16
“I’m just a small-town cop,” Kirk Willis said. “I’m not ex-FBPI like the chief, but for what it’s worth, I’ve got a feeling that those two perps are telling the truth. I don’t think they remember much about what happened last night. Probably high at the time. That would explain the memory loss.”
“I agree they were flying last night,” Harry said. “Drugs would account for the inability to recall the actual torch-lighting ceremony at the gatekeeper’s cabin, but they don’t explain forgetting how and where they came into possession of a high-tech accelerant and the device that was used to start the fire. That required planning, and you don’t do that under the influence of dope that is strong enough to cause a blackout.”
They were sitting in Willis’s small office at the Shadow Bay Police Station. Kirk was in his early twenties and still figuring out what kind of man and what kind of cop he wanted to be. It was obvious, though, that he was taking lessons from his new boss.
Although Kirk was young, his desk and just about every other aspect of the place looked as if it had been locked in a time warp for the past few decades. The old-fashioned filing cabinets, window blinds, and furniture could have qualified as antiques, assuming anyone wanted to collect that kind of shabby stuff.
The computer on the desk was new and so was the phone, but neither was of much use at the moment and maybe not for a long time to come. There was no way to know when the phone and rez-net service would be restored.
The door of the office was open. Harry could hear voices drifting down the hall. There was a fair amount of serious conversation going on among the volunteers who had gathered at the station. While the news of the fire and the arrest of the two young arsonists was of keen interest to the locals, assessing damage and cleaning up after the storm was the first priority this morning.
“You got me there,” Kirk said. “But all I can tell you right now is what you already know. According to the ferry ticket stubs and the other info in their pockets, Vince Pritchard and Eric McClain arrived on the island yesterday. Rented one of the Vibe buggies that the tourists use and got a room at Garrison’s B&B. Garrison says he didn’t see much of them. The kids went out about six o’clock last night and returned with a couple of hamburgers and soft drinks. Ate in their room. He didn’t see them leave last night. Didn’t even know they were gone until this morning.”
“It would have been easy enough for them to take off without anyone noticing after the storm got going,” Harry said. “But they must have asked directions to the gatekeeper’s cabin. Not like the place is on one of the tourist maps. Only the locals know where it is.”
“I’ll ask around,” Kirk said. He stood behind his desk. “Chief said I was to give you any help I could. But right now, I’ve got an island to clean up.”
“I understand,” Harry said. He got to his feet.
Kirk shook his head. “Never seen storms like the ones we’ve been having lately. Anyhow, sorry I don’t have more information for you, Mr. Sebastian. But with the phones and computers down, there’s not much I can do. No telling how long we’ll be cut off from the mainland.”
“I’d like to talk to Pritchard and McClain if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, help yourself. Myrna can keep an eye on them while you question them.”
“Thanks. I’m going to let Rachel sit in on the interrogation.”
Kirk frowned. “After what happened last night you want her in the same room as those two?”
“No, but she seems to think she might be able to read something useful in their auras.”
“Huh.” Kirk picked up his cap and positioned it squarely on his head. “I don’t know about this aura-reading business, but Rachel sometimes seems to know things about people.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “She does.”
“Doesn’t mean she always knows everything she should about a person, though.”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Willis?”
Kirk flushed but he drew himself up to his full height and fixed Harry with a cop stare. Harry had a hunch that Willis had copied the flat, hard look from Slade, along with the brand of sunglasses.
“Rachel is a little different,” Kirk said. “Folks say she was raised in some kind of alternative community. One of those places where folks do a lot of meditation and such.”
“A Harmonic Environment community, yes, I’m aware of that.”
“I don’t know much about that kind of thing myself, but Myrna says she got to know Rachel’s aunts pretty well when they lived here on the island. The aunts told Myrna that folks—especially men—sometimes get the wrong idea about women who come from HE communiti
es.”
“You’re trying to warn me not to take advantage of Rachel?” Harry asked politely.
“Doesn’t matter where she came from,” Kirk said. He was a little red-faced now, but his cold-eyed stare didn’t waver. “Rachel’s one of us now. We look after our own here on Rainshadow.”
“Good to know,” Harry said. He suppressed a smile. Willis had definitely been studying Slade’s style.
“Right, then, guess that’s all that I need to say.” Kirk started toward the door. “I’ll check back in here at the station in a couple of hours. Good luck with getting something useful out of Pritchard and McClain.”
“Thanks,” Harry said. “I appreciate it.”
He followed Willis down the hall to the entrance of the station, where a small group of people were gathered.
“You’ve all got your sector assignments from Myrna here, and you know the drill,” Kirk said.
“Should know it by now,” one of the men in the crowd said. “This is the third or fourth time we’ve been through it since that first big storm hit a while back.”
“You got it, Hank,” Kirk said. “Only difference this time is that the chief isn’t here, but we’ll stick with his plan. Phones are out, so instead of calling in the problems, you’ll need to make notes. Check the main roads and the bridges in your assigned sector and note downed trees and other obstructions too heavy for you to move out of the way on your own. Come back in at noon. Earlier if that damn fog gets worse. Don’t want to have to go out looking for stragglers in that stuff.”
“For sure,” someone muttered. “That fog is wicked. Never seen anything like it.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the others.
Kirk surveyed the crowd. “Any questions?”
“Heard there was a big fire out at the old gatekeeper’s cabin,” someone said. “Couple of off-island kids torched the place.”
Everyone looked at Harry. He inclined his head politely but stayed silent. This was Willis’s show.
“No one was injured and the kids who threw the fire-bomb are locked up here at the station,” Kirk said. “They aren’t going to be setting any more fires on Rainshadow. Myrna will keep an eye on them while we’re out doing damage control. Right, Myrna?”