Crystal Vision

by Patricia Rice

  “That’s what Teddy said—this is all found in books.” She almost sounded miffed, as if he’d failed some test.

  He’d never before attempted to prove he was gifted in any way. But he sensed Mariah needed to be convinced before she would trust him. “I am familiar with this particular variety of smoky quartz, however. It is cairngorm—from Scotland. Teddy’s textbooks might not tell you that. We often use it in the handles of skean dhu, presumably for the so-called protective qualities of the stones.”

  “Skean dhu, those nasty little daggers kept in socks?” She took the rocks back from him.

  He shrugged, unable to find a way to make her believe. “Not in my socks, but yes, a traditional Scots dagger. May I suggest we retreat to the bunker? I feel like a walking target if our villain is hiding in the hills with a primed bow.” Keegan stood between her and the bluff, hoping the killer had been a rogue deer hunter who was long gone.

  She produced a key on a leather necklace and unlocked the bunker door. “You want me to believe that you can tell all that just by feeling Daisy’s stones? And I suppose you expect me to believe that you can tell if they were found here or imported?”

  “As I said, these are common. Teddy can probably order them online by the box. My gift is only useful in the world of science. It tells me precise structures, but only my knowledge of where I’ve felt those structures provide origin. I would have to travel the world, testing rocks, to determine the nuanced differences of origin.” He held her steady as she turned on the flashlight, handed him the key, and started down the stairs.

  He figured her silence was scorn. He yanked the door shut, locked it, and frowned. “This door opens outward. There is no means of barring it, and this key won’t stop a determined criminal. How did you think you would be safe down here?” He examined the heavy steel for bolts.

  “Outer doors open out. The bunker wasn’t meant to be a fortress.” Dropping the discussion of his gift, she rummaged through her backpack. “But I did bring an early warning system. There are hooks on either side of the door, presumably for coats. I just need to tie some of my netting on them.”

  Keegan eyed the slender threads skeptically. “I’d rather tie them at the bottom of the door and trip anyone who intrudes. Do you have bells?”

  “Val wouldn’t appreciate being tripped in her own bunker if she decided to visit. So, no tripping, just warnings. And of course I have bells, and crystals.” She handed him the collection. “Or you can go your own way now. I appreciate the help, but I’m good on my own.”

  He grunted and began wrapping the crude warning system across the door. The twine she’d given him felt like tensile steel, only lighter and more flexible. “What is this stuff made from?”

  “I weave it myself. It can fray, but it’s pretty tough. I could wrap your wrists in it and it would take you all night to get out,” she added, eyeing him thoughtfully.

  “I appreciate you not doing that,” he retorted. “I can’t decide whether to hope someone will test your theory by coming through the door so we can catch him, or to pray there is no killer and we’ll have time to explore this cavern. I’d like to see if I can determine the crystals used in the paints.”

  He’d like to do a lot more than that, but he was thankful that Mariah allowed him in. A night on a rocky floor was a small price to pay for her trust. He was fairly certain she was the key to the town’s secrets.

  “Knock yourself out. The lanterns are there by the stairs. If you’d pull out one of those cots behind the curtain, I’m sacking out. It’s been a long day, and I need to be at the café in the morning.” She rubbed at her knee.

  Well, so much for thinking they’d spend some time getting to know each other.

  After she lit a lantern, he found the curtain behind a stack of canvases and pulled out two cots. Well, he wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor at least. “These things must be antiques,” he grumbled. “Military surplus from the first world war, at best.”

  “And probably stolen,” she agreed with a yawn. “The Ingerssons rolled that way.”

  She was untying her braid. Keegan set up her cot, surreptitiously watching as she untangled a glossy river of black hair that rippled down her back to her waist. To his disappointment, she unrolled her sleeping bag rather than take off any clothes.

  He set up his bed while she arranged the covers on hers. “Are there any more hiding holes where a book might have been stashed?”

  “I don’t know. Val told me about the cots just tonight. They could have tunneled the entire mountain for all I know. I never had any reason to care until today.” She pulled the covers up to her waist but continued sitting, watching him as he examined the walls.

  “You never told me your story,” he reminded her, aware of her gaze in this intimate setting. She was like a doe he might startle away if he wasn’t careful. Or in Mariah’s case, she was more likely to snarl and bite, he figured, so maybe not a doe.

  “I don’t believe yours and you’d not believe mine.” She lay down and hauled the covers over her beautiful hair.

  Well, at least she hadn’t snarled. “The other Lucys claim to be gifted, so I assume you also have some ability that most people don’t.”

  Out in the real world, he never discussed his strange abilities or that of his family. Here in Hillvale, where one debated evil over dinner, it seemed perfectly natural.

  “My ability is not a gift. It is the reason I’m hiding up here making ghostcatchers instead of a living,” she responded testily. “So it’s not any better as a bedtime story. Good-night, Keegan. Happy hunting.”

  Damn, but she had shields he’d need an augur to burrow through. What had happened to her out in the real world that she was stashing her talent under these rocks? She had it all—striking looks, strong character, good friends, and a quick, creative mind that followed his everywhere. She was a rare gem buried beneath coal.

  He worked a while testing the crystalline structure on the glowing red eyes in the portraits. He detected traces of almandine garnet, not terribly valuable, but mixed with quartz, the glitter would have caught light and originally given the eyes life. Almandine garnets came from Mozambique and weren’t as common as Daisy’s guardian stones. There was aquamarine beryl in here too, probably for the blue-green color as well as the crystalline glitter—another stone that might be found in California occasionally.

  Keegan thought of crystals in terms of practical uses, but he knew Theodosia, the jeweler, believed they had metaphysical properties. He had no way of testing the paranormal. That’s why he needed the missing books—as a starting place for experimentation.

  He didn’t need to see to know what was beneath his fingers, but he donned his glasses so he wouldn’t miss any clue. He ran his hands from top to bottom on the walls, working his way to the back. He found nothing that might be a hiding place. He had hoped the missing crystals might be in the same place as the book, but that had been wishful thinking.

  Tucking the glasses away, he resigned himself to a restless night’s sleep on a cot much too small for his large frame. Then he heard scratching. He dimmed the lantern and stood still, listening.

  Mariah sat up, doing the same. “The door,” she whispered.

  He nodded agreement. Someone was attempting to unlock the door. It was old and not really intended to keep anyone out, which was why Daisy had hidden it in bushes. “Could it be Valdis?” he asked. “How many people know the door is there?”

  “Just a few Lucys, originally. But who knows what the sheriff’s men discovered?” She shook off the sleeping bag.

  Keegan pointed at the back of the bunker. “Move out of firing range. We don’t know if they have guns.”

  She grasped her walking stick to stand. The crystal in the handle glowed, as did the ones on the wall. Keegan dimmed the lantern more, but the crystals still gave off light. He was fairly certain that wasn’t normal.

  “And you plan to do what? Go up and greet them? No way. Come back here with me. I’ll see
if I can connect with Cass.” She grabbed his arm and tugged—as if her tug could move mountains.

  Amused that she attempted to protect him, he followed her. “Cass? I thought cell phones didn’t work in Hillvale.”

  “They don’t,” she said curtly. “Now shut up and let me focus.”

  She sank to the ground, propped her hands on her knees, palms up, walking stick across them, and closed her eyes. Keegan snorted and returned to listening to the door noises.

  Someone hit the lock with a hard blow. Hammer and awl to break the rusty connection, he surmised.

  He eyed Mariah’s wooden staff as a potential weapon, but decided not to disturb her. Instead, he hefted a heavy frame from the floor, yanked off the canvas, twisted until the nails popped, and ripped off the longest length of thick wood. Then he flung the cots and bench into a zig zag pattern to make it difficult for anyone to reach Mariah.

  The door slammed into their early warning system, jangling the bells.

  Eight

  July 8: Sunday, late evening

  “What the hell?” A rough male voice cursed and slammed the bunker door against Mariah’s twine again. The bells jangled eerily in the semi-dark, disturbing her psychic concentration.

  Her mental warning had just reached Cass over the neural pathways they’d developed over years of practice. She flashed an image of the bunker and let Cass feel her fear, then clenched her fingers around her walking stick as Cass signaled she understood.

  Psychic communication wasn’t easy and often left Mariah blurry and disoriented. But danger forced her to focus. She hadn’t survived by living off the grid all this time to die so ignobly.

  Taking a deep breath to steady her confused senses, Mariah used the thick staff to push herself up. Keegan had closed the lantern panel, leaving only the crystals for illumination. She didn’t think they had been glowing earlier. The one in her staff usually reacted to the presence of bad energy, but it had never done so without another Lucy around. The walls gleamed like a hundred Lucys.

  In the dim light, she could see Keegan’s massive form pressed into the cot niche, nearly out of sight. He held a stick of some sort like a cricket bat. Her fear ratcheted up a notch. Cricket bats didn’t work against guns.

  Bullets in this narrow cellar could ricochet badly. She shivered in trepidation.

  “They’ll have to duck under the twine,” she whispered, preferring to plot than to fear. “It won’t break by slamming a door into it.”

  He glanced at her and nodded. She didn’t know if he believed her.

  Surprise was their only hope.

  Over Keegan’s protest, she pushed past him for her backpack while the asshat at the door conferred with someone. She produced a jar of her favorite hot sauce, limped to the stairs, and smeared the thick liquid across the step below the twine.

  Understanding, Keegan snickered and joined her at the bottom of the stairs. Sticks ready, they stood on either side of the spot where an intruder would slide once they hit the sauce.

  “It’s not effin’ ghosts,” the male voice growled, sounding brashly defiant. “It’s just jammed. I can squeeze through.”

  Ghosts, nice. She would give him ghosts. Mariah grabbed a cotton shirt from her bag and flung it over the twine, where it would dangle and brush anyone trying to duck under it. Keegan chuckled loud enough to scare ghosts away. She liked a man who not only got it but laughed in the face of danger. Dammit.

  “No, I didn’t hear anything. Quit being such a girl. I’m going in.” A shadow pushed the door as wide as it would go, then groped around, looking for the source of the blockage. Finally locating the threads, he attempted to yank them off.

  As she’d predicted, the threads didn’t break. Her twine was meant to catch ectoplasm. It wasn’t ordinary material.

  Swearing, the shadow grasped the threads and tugged to lift them. Mariah tightened her grip on her staff. How long would it take for Cass to drag Walker out of his bed and send him up here?

  The intruder wasn’t small. From his silhouette, he appeared to be overweight and belly heavy. He couldn’t easily crouch under the thread without putting his foot on the lower step. . .

  His foot hit the hot sauce and slipped to the next stair. Unbalanced, his large frame toppled backward. He yelped in pain as his considerable posterior hit the hard stone and bounced downward. Sliding under the t-shirt draped twine, he howled in terror as the cotton brushed his face. Freaking, he hit every step going down.

  “He’s not even worth head smashing,” Keegan said in disgust, making no attempt to conceal his presence as he stomped the helpless man’s wrist with his boot.

  No weapon clattered from the thief’s grip. Keeping a watch on the door above, Mariah set her staff down and opened the lantern. Keegan hauled the prowler to his feet, locking his wrists in a massive fist.

  Keegan uttered a grunt of disgust as the light fell on the prisoner’s face. “George, isn’t it? Did you think to find your fellow bigots down here?”

  “Just doing a little exploring,” the thief protested. “I used to go spelunking when I was a kid. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  Mariah crept around them to head up the stairs and peer out the open door. George’s accomplice was running for the woods. If her knee hadn’t been bruised, she could have run after him, but it was easier to assume Georgie-Porgie would spill the beans.

  Walker’s headlights were already coming up the lane.

  Avoiding the hot sauce smear, which was mostly on Georgie anyway, she limped back down to watch Keegan wrap her twine around his captive’s wrist. Without any compunction, she lifted Georgie’s wallet from his pocket and rifled through the contents.

  “George Thompson from Monterey,” she read from his license. “Any relation to Lonnie?”

  “My brother,” George spat. “He said he’d been robbed up here. I just came up to look around. No harm in that.”

  “Lonnie is the scum who murdered Thalia and left her remains in Teddy’s attic,” Mariah told Keegan, continuing to rifle through Georgie’s battered wallet. “He specializes in fake pottery. Those are probably Lonnie’s bad pieces in our collection. What’s your specialty, Georgie? Forging paintings?”

  Walker couldn’t drive his SUV down to the farmhouse, but she could hear the engine cut off in the lane above. He’d be down in a few minutes.

  “I’m a plumber,” George replied indignantly. “I tell ya, I was just looking.”

  Mariah produced a folded color photograph from the clutter. She held it up in the light of the lantern. “A photo of the triptych.” She showed it to Keegan, who merely sent her a questioning look. “The triptych was Lucinda Malcolm’s gift to Hillvale. It’s worth a fortune, but we don’t want to sell it. Lonnie had one of the panels in his garage. The police confiscated it.”

  “They had no right,” George said indignantly. “That painting belongs to Lonnie. He says it could pay for his defense.”

  “And you thought we’d hide a valuable painting underground?” she asked in scorn.

  Walker’s boots crunched across the gravel above. Keegan’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t believed she was contacting Cass. That was okay. She didn’t believe it too often either. Cass was just that good.

  Mariah found a few hundred-dollar bills in the billfold, some receipts so old they crumbled, discount cards for groceries and drugstores, club cards from the discount mall, the detritus of a messy man who liked to pinch pennies and didn’t believe in banks.

  Walker’s flashlight beam hit the threads blocking the door.

  “You’ll need a knife to cut them,” Mariah called up. “Or you can duck, but then you have to watch for the hot sauce on the stairs.”

  Keegan’s low rumbling chuckle tickled her insides. She objected to any man tickling her insides, but she could see the humor.

  Walker calmly reached through, untangled the threads from one coat hook, and let them fall. His flashlight illuminated the stairs, and he stepped over the smeared one. “Do
I want to ask?”

  “Let’s just say we were afraid of thieves and caught one,” Keegan said in that male-to-male way that left everything important unsaid. “This is Lonnie Thompson’s brother. Mariah thinks that’s significant.”

  “Another killer in the family?” Walker asked, shining his light on Georgie’s face. Georgie flinched.

  “I’m no killer! Neither is Lonnie! His bitch of a wife fell!”

  “Teddy can probably tell you if he’s lying,” Mariah suggested.

  “He doesn’t have the calluses of an archer,” Keegan pointed out. “I don’t think he’s our killer. But he was most likely looking for his brother’s share of the triptych.” He held up the photograph Mariah had handed him.

  Walker glanced at the photograph and began reading Georgie his rights while their prisoner whined and complained and agreed he understood and demanded to be released.

  “He had an accomplice,” Mariah warned. “I couldn’t see anything but a dark figure running for the woods.”

  “You’re imagining things,” Georgie shouted. “Ain’t no one here but me.”

  “And countless ghosts,” Keegan said solemnly, repeating the welcome sign that stated Hillvale, spiritual home of 325 lives and countless ghosts.

  “I’ll tell Cass and Sam that the two of you are just fine and deserve each other,” Walker said with a straight face, hauling his whining prisoner for the stairs. “In return, you won’t tell me how you reached Cass or why thread doesn’t break and why all these damn crystals gleam like beacons.”

  “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” Mariah called after him.

  “I want security cameras in the parking lot,” he shouted back. “We’d have your accomplice then.”

  “Bloody hell.” Keegan rolled his shoulders as the door closed. “We’ll have to set up guards at the door 24/7.” He glared at Mariah. “And I don’t promise not to ask how you reached Cass or why crystals gleam.”