"It's an amazing thing," he said to Isabella.
"What?" she asked.
"Being present at the creation of a full-blown conspiracy theory. It's like watching a galaxy being born. Lots of random, unconnected bits and pieces of matter whiz past each other, exert a little gravitational pull and bingo, they start forming an organized system. The next thing you know you have a complete, wheels-within-wheels fantasy involving the CIA, Area 51, cosmic energy and a dead guy."
She gave him a severe look. "You started this with that business about the CIA taking over the town."
"I never actually said that, either."
She blinked. "You think this is amusing, don't you?"
"I do." He gave her one of his rare smiles, the kind that heated his eyes. "You know, since I started hanging around you, I've begun to feel almost normal for the first time in my life."
"There are serious grounds for speculating about a potential conspiracy here," she told him.
"No," he said flatly. "Three people running experiments on some antique weapons twenty-two years ago and the skeleton of a dead con man do not a conspiracy make."
"Okay, what do they add up to?"
Fallon reached for his beer bottle. "A problem. One that can be easily solved."
"Really?" Isabella waved her hands to get the crowd's attention and raised her voice. "Fallon says there's a solution to the problem of the skeleton."
Silence descended again. Everyone in the room looked expectantly at Fallon.
"It appears to me," he said deliberately, "that the simplest approach is to remove the bones from the shelter and dump them into the ocean off the Point. As you know, the currents are very strong there. I calculate a ninety-eight-point-five percent chance that none of the bones will ever wash ashore, at least not near here. Even if a few do, no one will be able to trace them back to the old bomb shelter."
They all stared at him, expressions of dawning comprehension on their faces.
Henry pursed his lips. "Works for me."
Fran Hitchcock nodded slowly. "Lasher was always talking about the forces of karma. This strikes me as a fine example of karma in action."
"I like it." Ben Stokes brightened. "I like it a lot."
"Think of it as a burial at sea," Fallon said.
"Oh, yes," Isabella said. "That's perfect."
Marge nodded quickly. "Perfect."
There were several more nods around the room.
"Let's take a vote," Henry said. "Those in favor of letting Fallon handle this problem, raise your hands."
Every hand in the room went up with one exception.
Henry looked at Walker. "How do you vote, Walker?"
Walker stopped jittering for a moment. A ferocious expression crossed his thin features. Isabella was sure that his eyes got a little hot.
"Gordon Lasher was a b-bad man," Walker said.
"I'll take that as a yes vote," Henry said. "It's settled, then. The bones go into the ocean and those weird gadgets in the shelter go to the Arcane Society."
There was a round of satisfied murmurs. Chairs scraped. People got to their feet and started pulling on their jackets and gloves in preparation for going out into the damp, misty night.
"Don't look now," Isabella said to Fallon. "But I think they just elected you sheriff of Scargill Cove."
"And here my mom always thought I should go into finance."
OUTSIDE FOG enveloped the Cove, the real kind that came with the scent of the ocean. There were no streetlamps in the small community, but the handful of lights in the windows of the inn and in the rooms above the shops infused the air with an otherworldly glow.
Isabella savored the simple pleasure of walking back to her apartment with Fallon. It was good to be with him. It felt right.
Fallon took his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and punched in some numbers.
"Rafanelli? Jones here."
There was a short pause.
"What do you mean, which Jones? Fallon Jones. J&J." Fallon sounded irritated. "I need a lab team capable of dealing with weapons-grade artifacts here in Scargill Cove tomorrow.... Yes, I said tomorrow. Something wrong with your phone? Found a cache of Mrs. Bridewell's curiosities . . . Yes, those curiosities. The infernal devices. Some of them are still operational."
There was another pause, much longer this time. Isabella heard an excited buzzing on the other end of the connection.
"No, I don't know yet how they got here," Fallon said impatiently. "But it looks like they've been locked up in an old bomb shelter for more than twenty years. Right. I know Dr. Tremont is the expert on glass, but I checked earlier and she's on sabbatical in London. That leaves you. Besides, you're the expert when it comes to decommissioning para-weapons, not Tremont. See you tomorrow. In the morning."
He closed the phone.
Isabella cleared her throat.
"What?" he said.
"Sometimes you have a tendency to be a tad brusque with people," she said.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Brusque?"
He said it as if he had never heard the word.
"Short," she said. "Crisp. Rude."
"Huh. I like to be efficient on the phone. People tend to waste a lot of time chatting at me."
"Chatting at you? Chatting is generally considered an occupation that two or more people engage in together."
"I'm not a chatty type."
"Of course you are. We're chatting right now."
"No," he said, very certain. "We're having a conversation."
"Oddly enough, people sometimes resent being ordered around, especially by a person who is not even their official boss."
"You think I was brusque with Rafanelli?" Fallon sounded offended now. "I was doing him a favor. He's been fascinated by Bridewell's work for years. Taking charge of a cache of her inventions will be a huge thrill for him, not to mention a major career boost. He'll write the definitive paper for the Journal of Paranormal and Psychical Research and become a legend in the Society's research circles."
"I understand," Isabella said.
They walked a little farther.
"Well?" Fallon said. "What the hell should I have said to Rafanelli?"
"It's often helpful to insert a few friendly comments into a business conversation. Asking about a person's health or their children is always good."
"Are you kidding? Get people started on their health and their kids and you never get them back on track."
"Okay," Isabella said.
They walked a few more steps. Fallon muttered something under his breath and reached back into the inside pocket of his jacket. He snapped the phone open and punched in some numbers.
"Rafanelli? Jones here again. Fallon Jones. Please bring a team to Scargill Cove tomorrow to pick up the Bridewell artifacts. You're the leading expert on para-weaponry, and I wouldn't trust those gadgets to anyone else but you. How's the wife? See you tomorrow."
He snapped the phone closed.
"What did he say?" Isabella asked.
"Nothing. Not one word."
"Probably stunned."
"I outchatted him," Fallon said proudly.
"I think so, yes."
"Told you that personal nattering is a waste of time." He flipped the phone open again. "That reminds me, I'd better call Zack. He'll want to know about those curiosities."
He punched in a code.
"Zack, it's Fallon. Found a bunch of Bridewell's inventions here in Scargill Cove. Rafanelli is bringing a team here tomorrow to dismantle them and transport them back to the L.A. lab. Thought you'd like to know. Give my best to Raine. I heard she was expecting. Congratulations. Bye."
He closed the phone and waited for the verdict with an air of expectation.
"Better," Isabella said. "But it strikes me that it might be a good idea if I handled more of J&J's routine business communications. That would leave you free to concentrate on your investigative work."
"Is that a polite way of saying I don't have people
skills?"
"Not everyone is management material, Fallon."
"You're right," he said decisively. "In future, I'll let you do the personal chitchat."
She smiled. "Who says you can't delegate?"
They reached Toomey's Treasures and went up the outside stairs to her apartment above the shop. She was intensely aware of Fallon watching her take her key out of her pocket. He was in what she had come to think of as his brooding zone. In the dim light of the bare, low-watt bulb that lit the doorway, his hard face was cast in the light-and-shadow of film noir. The dark passions that burned deep inside him would have made it possible for him to play either the hero or the villain, but whichever role he chose, he would follow his own code.
She got the door open, moved into the apartment and flipped the light switch. She turned to face him.
"What you did tonight," she said. "Proposing that we dump that skeleton into the ocean."
He watched her with a shuttered expression. "What about it?"
"You knew that if you gave the body to the authorities, it's possible that there would be a murder investigation."
"Unlikely. No one in this county will care about what happened here in the Cove twenty-two years ago. Nobody outside of town gives a damn about this place. Few people even know it exists."
"I'm aware of that. Nevertheless, if there ever was an inquiry into Lasher's death, everyone who attended the meeting at the tavern tonight would be a suspect."
He shrugged. "Sounds like they all had motive."
"So you didn't suggest a convenient burial at sea because you're afraid that some secret CIA black-ops agency will take over the Cove. You did it to protect the people of this community."
He did not respond.
She put her hands on his shoulders and brushed her mouth against his. "You're a good man, Fallon Jones."
"Just being pragmatic."
She smiled and stepped back. "Would you like to come in for a nightcap, Mr. Pragmatic?"
He loomed on the threshold, filling the doorway. His face was set in the stalwart expression of a knight preparing to go into battle.
"You probably want to talk about last night," he said.
She smiled. "Nope."
He narrowed his eyes. "Nope?"
"Last night was the most romantic night of my entire life. Why spoil it by trying to explain it?"
"I wasn't planning on explaining it. Seemed pretty straightforward to me. But I thought you might want to talk about it. Women always want to do that. Afterward, I mean."
"And you know this, how?"
He frowned. "Everyone knows that."
She almost laughed. "The one thing I know for sure about last night is that it does not involve a conspiracy."
"Definitely no conspiracy," he agreed.
"That's good enough for me."
"It is?"
She took his hand and tugged gently. "Come inside and have a drink with me, Fallon Jones."
He moved into the room, closed the door and locked it with great care. When he turned back to her she could see the heat in his eyes.
"The most romantic night of your entire life?" he said very carefully.
"Definitely. Was it good for you, too?"
The energy in the room got a little hotter.
"Yes," he said. "The best."
"Then I don't see that further discussion is necessary."
"No," he said. "No more talking."
He swooped down upon her, scooped her up and started toward the bedroom.
Isabella put her arms around his neck.
"Guess we'll skip the nightcap," she said.
SOMETIME LATER She awoke to the knowledge that she was alone in the bed. She opened her eyes and sat up against the pillows. The clock on the night table read two-twenty.
A familiar otherworldly glow illuminated the bedroom doorway. Not psi fog, she thought. It was the light from a computer screen. Fallon had gone back to work.
She pushed the covers aside and got to her feet. She was nude and the room was chilly. She stepped into her slippers and pulled on her robe.
She tied the sash of the robe as she went down the short hallway, past the bathroom into the main room. Fallon was seated gazing into his laptop. In the glow from the screen, his face had the ruthless cast of a man obsessed. She could well believe that he was descended from a legendary alchemist.
"Fallon?"
He looked up. His hard expression relaxed at the sight of her. Energy swirled in the atmosphere. She knew that he was remembering the searing passion they had shared.
"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to wake you."
"What are you working on?" she asked. She moved to stand beside him. "The Nightshade case?"
"No." He leaned back in his chair. "I was just doing some background research on Julian Garrett."
"You should be in bed. You need sleep."
"I don't require a lot of sleep."
"Well, you certainly need more than you got tonight." She leaned over the desk and took his powerful hand. "It's two-twenty in the morning. Come back to bed."
"I work odd hours," he said.
"No need for them to be this odd. Come with me."
Somewhat to her surprise he got up out of the chair and let her lead him back into the bedroom. When they got there, he pulled her into his arms and down onto the bed.
This time he slept until dawn.
17
She's the granddaughter of that wacko who operates the Iceberg conspiracy website?" Zack asked. He kept his voice pitched low, but the mix of amusement and amazement in his words was crystal clear. "Are you serious?"
Fallon stood at the window of his office and looked across the street at the Sunshine Cafe. Isabella and Zack's wife, Raine, had just vanished inside to pick up some of Marge's muffins for all of them to eat while they waited for Rafanelli and the lab techs.
Should have known better than to try to explain Isabella to Zack, he thought. Isabella was not easily explained. Isabella was unique, one of a kind.
"You know me," he said. "I'm always serious."
"Well, sure," Zack said. "But when it comes to your kind of serious, there are nuances."
Fallon looked at his cousin. Zack sat casually angled across the corner of Fallon's desk, arms folded. There was certainly some family resemblance between them. Like most of the men in the Jones family line, they were both dark-haired and built along the lean lines typical of the clan which had, for generations, produced a lot of hunter-talents.
That was where the physical resemblance ended, though. Zack's eyes were a glacial blue, and he was a couple of inches shorter than Fallon. But the biggest difference between them was the nature of their talents. Zack's psychic ability gave him an edge when it came to anticipating the actions of others, a major plus given his new responsibilities as Master of the Society. His talent was actually a rare form of psychometry. Zack could pick up a knife or a gun that had been used to commit murder and sense what the killer had been feeling at the time the act of violence had been committed.
He had married a woman with a similar talent. When Raine came in contact with the psychic residue of violence, her clairaudient intuition translated the energy into the form of voices. Sometimes it was the killer's voice she heard. Sometimes the victim's.
Like many in the Jones family, Zack had once worked as a J&J agent. But he was now the latest in a long line of Joneses to take the reins of the Arcane Society. In Fallon's opinion, the career change was a good move for both of them. Zack had a natural flair for giving orders, but he had never been any good at taking them.
"You want to talk about my nuances or do you want to discuss the fact that we may have located a cache of Bridewell's nasty little gadgets?" Fallon asked.
"Good to see you, too, cousin," Zack said.
Fallon winced. "Sorry. Things have been a little busy around here lately. Getting your phone call this morning informing me that you were on the way to the Cove caught me off guard, that's all. I wasn'
t planning on visitors."
"After we talked on the phone last night, I told Raine about what you had found. We both agreed this was a piece of Arcane history that we did not want to miss."
"You didn't come all the way from Seattle just to take a look at some old clockwork inventions."
"Okay, there is another reason," Zack said. "But I'm also interested in Bridewell's curiosities. J&J was never able to recover all of the devices after the case was closed back in the late eighteen hundreds. Couldn't even come up with an accurate estimate of how many had been made. The curiosities that were found were stored in the vault at Arcane House in England, but several vanished during the Second World War. How the hell did some of the gadgets end up here in Scargill Cove?"
"I'm still working on that problem," Fallon said. "At this point all I can tell you is that twenty-two years ago three people managed to get hold of some of the curiosities. They brought them here, tuned them up, and tried to run some experiments on them. One man evidently died in the explosion."
"They wanted to figure out how the damn things work," Zack said.
"Evidently," Fallon said. "I checked the property records. The Sea Breeze Motor Lodge was once owned by a family named Kelso. The last surviving member of the clan is a man named Jonathan Kelso. He had some kind of mental breakdown about twenty-two years ago. He's been living in an institution ever since."
"The result of the explosion?"
"That's what my talent is telling me," Fallon said. "I'm going to try to interview him when I have a chance. But right now I've got other priorities. The first item at the top of my to-do list is to get the curiosities safely out of the shelter and into the lab."
"The secret of the weapons is in the glass Bridewell used and in her unique talent. To this day, no one understands the para-physics involved. But why did Kelso and his companions bring the gadgets here? Obviously they knew about the old bomb shelter, but they could have found equally good shielding in a hundred other locations."
"I'm ninety-nine-point-three percent sure the deciding factor was that they knew that Scargill Cove is a natural para-nexus."
"Yeah?" Zack glanced out the window. "I didn't know that. I thought you moved the office back here because you liked the solitude."
In Too Deep Page 13
