Hidden Salem

by Kay Hooper

  “You obviously didn’t need my help. Is there anything in the house worth seeing?” He kept his voice as low as hers had been.

  “Nothing that makes any sense. There’s no electricity, and water comes from a well with the aid of one of those really old-fashioned hand pumps, but the place is furnished and has been recently cleaned; you can smell the lemon cleaner. No dust on anything. Old quilts on thin mattresses on old iron bedframes, plain old furniture, empty closets and cabinets and drawers. Just a stock of candles on the kitchen counter, and a few like this one placed around the house, all with a holder and matches or a lighter nearby.”

  Obviously, she had conducted her usual thorough search.

  Grayson frowned, absently listening to a faint rumble of thunder that sounded far away, but made no move to enter. “I don’t get this place,” he said. “Do you have any sense of your missing kid?” Another rumble; he wondered if the forecast he’d seen earlier had missed bad weather in the offing.

  “That’s not the way my abilities work, and you know it. I can tell you she wasn’t kept in the cellar where I’ve spent the past couple of days or so, and there’s no sign she was kept here in the house. As for any psychic help in finding her, I never touched her mind, so there’s no connection I can reach for.”

  “But you picked up she was missing telepathically?”

  “Yeah. From a little boy down in town. He’d dared her to come here at night—the local haunted house, I gather, where nerves and courage are tested by the kids—and pick one of these geraniums to prove she’d been here.” Geneva glanced out at the pot of silk geraniums and frowned briefly, but added, “He was guilty as hell and worried sick, poor kid. But not quite worried enough to tell an adult what happened; he was talking to a friend, who basically told him it was no big deal. Nobody else seems to even be aware she’s missing. She came out here Tuesday night; her family left abruptly on a vacation on Wednesday.”

  “Missing a kid.”

  “One of three daughters. Their names were on their bedroom doors, written on those decorated plaques with stardust and Disney characters. I got inside the house before I came up here to find this place, and there was nothing to indicate the parents were the least bit concerned. They just . . . left.”

  “Planned vacation?”

  “No way for me to know. Nothing was marked on the calendar on their fridge, and it looked like every school event or meeting, doctor appointment, or planned attendance at local events was. Besides, in January? I tried something new for me, something Bishop said I could do, and picked up some really faint residual thoughts. And there was some panic there, worry—and then cheerful packing for a happy trip out of Salem. It stinks, Gray.”

  “And you believe she’s been missing since—?”

  “I think she was grabbed when she came up here, so sometime Tuesday night.”

  “That’s more than forty-eight hours, Red.”

  “I know that,” she snapped. But, again, softly. “But I don’t believe there’s a pedophile trolling in Salem, which means she was taken by someone for reasons other than the usual obvious ones. I believe she’s still alive.”

  “Being hurt?” He asked the question evenly.

  “No. I can’t tell you why I believe that, but I do. She’s alive. Probably scared out of her mind, but alive.”

  “Being held like you were.”

  “Maybe. Probably. I just don’t know why.”

  His frown deepened, but he was thinking of the crows back in the woods, maybe nearer by now since they appeared to get about with eerie silence, watching and waiting. He had plenty of questions, and he knew Geneva would stand here talking about what she’d found or failed to find and about a missing little girl as long as she didn’t feel threatened, but his more primitive senses were warning him to get away from this house, out of this forest and back to town. And those were senses he’d learned to trust.

  “Okay, let’s get back to the B and B and compare notes,” he suggested.

  “You don’t want to look around in here?”

  “I wouldn’t see anything you missed.” His matter-of-fact tone robbed it of any compliment. “But I don’t like these woods or where this house is, and I passed a few crows back there just . . . watching. You know about them?”

  Geneva blew out her candle and set it on a table or some other bit of furniture near the door Grayson couldn’t see from where he stood, then came out onto the porch and pulled the door shut softly behind her.

  “This door wasn’t locked, by the way. Yeah, I know about the crows, always around, watching. No matter where you go, there they are. Creepy, aren’t they?”

  “That would be one word. Guardians? Spies?”

  “Both, I think. And maybe more than that. Is it supposed to storm tonight?”

  “Not according to the forecast.” He listened to another rumble of thunder but could see or hear no other sign of an approaching storm. “And they usually don’t pop up out of nowhere in winter.”

  “One more weird thing to add to the list,” Geneva muttered, almost to herself.

  She fell in beside him as they left the porch and put the house behind them, neither heading for the faint footpath at the edge of the woods but a few yards away from it, still moving generally south, toward the town. And as soon as they left the clearing, Geneva let Grayson take the lead, saying merely, “I’m not sure how close I was to the house when they grabbed me, so you’ll know the way back better than I will.”

  Grayson bit back more than one question and nodded, but said, “I wandered all over on the way up here, just in case, but I think straight back to the B and B is our best bet tonight. I don’t feel anybody else anywhere close. You getting anything?”

  Geneva paused briefly, then shook her head. “No. I’ve nearly fallen over militia members out in the woods this late before, but I’m not picking up any thoughts—or any walls hiding them.”

  Grayson swallowed another question, this one about the walls. “Then straight back to Hales.”

  “You won’t get an argument.”

  And she didn’t say another word as she followed him down the mountain, agile as always, her movements silent as always—but Grayson could feel that she was tired, drained, and, as always, angry with herself for that. Her very weariness allowed him to sense her emotions a lot easier than usual, and he knew she wouldn’t like that. At all. He knew better than to comment, at least here and now, but chose the quickest, easiest path back to the B and B.

  When they were almost within sight of the B and B, they separated, Geneva saying briefly that she’d meet him in her room. She disappeared into the bushes before he could ask, not that he had to. She had found a secret way into the building, just as he’d expected her to, and, being Geneva, intended to keep that to herself unless he needed to know.

  With a sigh that misted the very cold air, Grayson circled around the other way so that he could slip out onto the sidewalk some distance away and stroll unconcernedly toward the B and B, as if his late walk had taken him only in the logical direction of town, with its streetlights and two lone all-night convenience stores.

  He almost wished he had gone to one of those stores, since he was willing to bet they offered hot coffee, no matter how strong and bitter. He’d barely noticed it while getting them off the mountain, but now he felt cold to the bone and was relatively certain a hot shower and something hot to drink, as well as the med that would allow him to sleep tonight, were probably still hours away.

  His migraine would land sooner than that.

  He was just about to turn into the pleasant, brick-lined, and winding walkway that led from the street to the front porch of the B and B when a crow alighted on a decorative lamppost no more than twelve feet from him. Shiny eyes caught the light as it turned its head this way and that, clearly watching him. Grayson paused, eyed the bird, and then continued on his way, hoping he
looked as casual as he wanted to feel.

  What the hell was it with those damned birds?

  Since it was after midnight, he knocked softly to rouse the night porter, apologizing for getting back so late from his stroll, but the porter, who looked a lot like the same lean, casually dressed man Ms. Payton had briefly introduced as Jim, their handyman, said it was no bother and he hoped the night chill had helped Grayson’s migraine.

  Information certainly got around.

  Fast.

  Grayson wondered if the guy ever slept and made a mental note to check into his background, just to be thorough. And because even though he sensed nothing threatening from the man, he disliked the conviction that he was under observation all the time. But he responded only that the cold fresh air hadn’t helped much at all—he knew his eyes were squinted against even the dim light of the lobby, something that would be visible to the other man—and that he was going to try a hot shower, a migraine pill, and a good night’s sleep.

  Then he waved a vague hand and headed upstairs, moving briskly but casually until he was out of sight of the night porter. He encountered no one else, and since he’d already noted there were no security cameras in the hallways or the main stairwell, he felt safe in passing his own small suite with only a brief pause to assure himself no one had gotten in during his absence, and then continuing silently to Geneva’s.

  THIRTEEN

  Nellie had a hunch this was going to be one of those sleepless nights after the nightmare and . . . well, after. Even after she used the techniques she’d been taught for control, even after the faint rumbles of thunder died away and Leo relaxed beside her and she settled back on her pillows, she was still wide-awake.

  There was control, and then there was control. She had tamped down so much inside her that she could almost feel it swirling around, looking for a way out.

  Strange. And unsettling.

  Automatically continuing to breathe slow and steady, she looked for some diversion. She channel surfed with the volume on low for a while but finally turned the set off and debated reading. But she’d taken off her gloves for the night, and experience had taught her that without them e-readers died on her long before she could finish even a chapter or two. She wasn’t in the mood to reclaim the gloves.

  She made a mental note to stop at the bookstore in town the next time she was out and buy two or three actual paper books to keep here for nights like this one. Because even if the nightmare no longer troubled her—as promised—she’d been a restless sleeper most of her life and that was unlikely to change.

  It was after midnight now, and Nellie knew she needed to sleep. She couldn’t lie here for the rest of the night just going over and over everything in her mind, especially after she’d worked so hard to calm herself down. The truth was, even with all her doubts about her father and what he’d told her, the lingering uncertainty about that voice in her mind after the nightmare, it was clear Finn at the very least knew quite a lot about her.

  Maybe too much.

  But no matter what he knew, like it or not, she was going to have to see Finn Deverell again, talk to him, and this time with plenty of her own questions she wanted answered.

  But first she had to sleep. And she didn’t want to dream. Even if the nightmare never returned, she didn’t think she had the energy tonight for just normal dreams. Or maybe she had too much energy.

  Control, that’s what she had to have. And strong enough that it would follow her obediently into sleep.

  She didn’t know if she could do that without the gloves, although she’d had a certain amount of control before beginning to wear them. Not for the first time, she wondered if she used the gloves as a crutch more than a symbol.

  She shook that thought away, made herself even more comfortable, patted Leo when he snorted softly, and closed her eyes, once again concentrating on the techniques she’d been taught. She’d never before used them to try to ward off dreams, but what the hell.

  Bishop had told her that every individual psychic had his or her own limits and that she had no real idea what she could do until she tried. And this she wanted to try.

  * * *

  —

  GRAYSON DIDN’T HAVE to knock on Geneva’s door, slipping in as she opened it just as he reached it. A quick glance around told him that her suite had the same basic layout as his own but was larger, which made sense given her reservation and longer projected stay, and that it also had a kitchenette.

  “Have you eaten anything?” he asked immediately.

  “They left food and water in my cellar prison for me. Considerate gents.”

  He could still feel the weariness in her, and the hunger she was ignoring as well, which meant he couldn’t let it drop. “What kind of food?”

  “Protein bars and those premade, prepackaged sandwiches you get from vending machines.” She paused. “I wouldn’t recommend them.”

  “Okay, so you might not have been on starvation rations, but I doubt what they left for you was filling, much less satisfying. And knowing you, you hoarded what they gave you in case you were stuck there longer than they expected you to be.”

  She hunched a shoulder in that familiar way that said she had other things on her mind. “What I really want is a hot shower, but I’ll take that later. I’ll eat later too. We should compare notes tonight. From the look of your eyes, I’m guessing you’ve strained every sense, triggering the beginning of one of your migraines, and need to sleep as soon as you can or you’ll be useless tomorrow.”

  Honors even, he thought wryly, not bothering to add the obvious retort that she looked tired herself.

  “Any sign your suite was searched while you were gone?” he asked her.

  “That happened the first week I was here. At least twice. And they were pros. I don’t think anybody except you has been in here since I last left Wednesday night.”

  He didn’t ask if she sensed he’d checked out her suite or simply knew he had. He was thinking about the fact that she’d been imprisoned more than forty-eight hours and that it must have seemed more like a week to her; he wanted to say something about that, but he knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t have much to say about all the long hours spent alone in her prison.

  Forcing his thoughts away from that, he said, “Well, grab a protein drink or something; my suite doesn’t have a kitchenette. And we have to check in with Bishop; I told him I would as soon as we made contact.”

  She grimaced but went and did as he suggested, not commenting on the fact that he knew her habits as well as she did his; she virtually always stocked any room where she was staying during a case with protein drinks and energy bars, as well as a few favorite snacks, for the sake of convenience and because she had a tendency to skip meals whenever she worked alone.

  Geneva got her small bottle of chocolate-flavored drink and followed him from the room, moving as quietly as he did.

  Both their suites were on the second floor, but they passed the closed doors of several other rooms or suites along the way, and she paused at one closed door, staring at it fixedly, her gray eyes—unusual for a redhead—narrowed.

  Grayson stopped as well, silent, watching her face, then opened up his senses a bit to pick up whatever might be in that room.

  He thought there was a woman in there, calm, maybe sleeping, but the strongest sense he got was of a dog. And just as with the crows, those nonhuman emotions were distinctly disconcerting as they seeped into his own mind. He wondered abruptly if being able to sense those crows for whatever reason had opened another door into a new sense for him, or expanded the empathic abilities he did possess.

  And whether that had been their idea or something in his own nature.

  Either way, he didn’t like it. At all.

  The dog was drowsy, an ebbing dream of chasing a rabbit fading as he began to wake up, to feel more alert and watchful in order
to protect his chosen human. Who was beside him on the bed.

  Silently, Grayson caught Geneva’s arm and drew her away from the door and to his own suite, raising his own walls as well as he could at the moment, fighting nausea and the first faint throbs of the coming migraine. She didn’t struggle or argue, but as soon as they were in his suite and he dropped her arm, she asked a quick question.

  “You sensed something?”

  “A dog waking up. I figured we didn’t need him barking and rousing the place. Pretty sure I saw the woman who owns him checking in with him earlier today. Or yesterday, rather. It’s after midnight, so Saturday.” He paused, then added, “You were picking up something. What?”

  “I didn’t think you could sense animals,” she said.

  “I don’t know that I can. Usually. Just the crows tonight, and now this dog. And, no, I don’t know why, though I wouldn’t think animals would need shields or walls to protect their emotions. I also don’t know why this is the first time I’ve sensed them, except maybe the weird . . . static around here. Gotta be energy, and we know it affects us. Gen? What did you sense back there?”

  “I assume the dog’s owner.” She frowned, swallowed half the chocolate contents of the small bottle of protein drink without apparently being aware of it, then half pointed it at him. “Definitely a woman. I didn’t get much, but it seemed like she was using some of those meditation techniques we were taught.”

  “Lots of people meditate.”

  “Not like we’re taught, and you know it. This was all about control, drawing in threads and holding them tight. Weaving a shell around herself. A shell of energy. Protecting herself, but more like it was from letting something out, something she was wary of. There was nothing about how she was being all Zen and going to her safe place.”