by Gwen Hunter
“You might have run away from it. From me.” I frowned. “Others have, because they didn’t want me to know too much about them. Didn’t like the thought that I might pick up on something private, which I would never do. And then there’s the fact that, as St. Claires go, my gift is majorly unreliable. If you had begun to depend on me using it, then you might have gotten ticked off when it didn’t work. I get mad at it all the time. It’s frustrating.” Clenching my injured hand in irritation, I inspected it and found it swollen and puffy. “It gives me stuff, but in patches and bits and spurts. And when I depend on it, it always lets me down. Like now, with needing to find Davie, with thoughts from him.”
“What? You’re getting something on David?” Noelle’s eyes sparkled like a believer-wannabe, fearfully looking for proof.
“Just once.” I looked away, back to the letter in my hands, ashamed that I knew what was happening to my brother and was unable to help. Nausea rose up my throat. “He was being beaten.”
The silence was sharp in the room. I read horror. Pity. Amused disinterest. Thank God for Isaac.
Isaac lifted the papers he had placed on the table and said, “These are offers on different tracts of land David owns. Some are for the land outright, some only for mineral rights. Three companies have asked for mineral rights on several tracts of land.” He flipped back and forth between pages. “But they all look like different tracts of land. I don’t see anything in common. ComPack, Julian Rakes Mining, and HFM, Inc., the Henderson Family Mines. ComPack and Rakes are both traded on the stock market. HFM is local, still family owned. You know Sue.”
I remembered Sue Henderson. Blonde, petite, fun-loving. “She teaches clogging and beading. The one who kept out that nice amethyst rough for me a few years back.”
“That’s the one,” he said. “So we have three companies to concentrate on. I’ll have our investment broker take a look at all three and send us a report. But we need law backup and your brother said no local cops. That leaves your Evan Bartlock.”
“A St. Claire.” I scowled. “One I know nothing about, except he’s tied in with Aunt Matilda and I don’t know how or why. Ashes and spit.”
“This scan David mentions—”
“I don’t know how,” I interrupted. “Well, I mean I know how, sort of, but I’ve never been successful.” Stress started in my belly, a heated mix of acid and fear and frustration. I fisted a hand into my stomach, trying to ease the knot forming. Of course, I’d been fourteen the last time I tried a scan. I was nearly thirty now. And Davie had sent that vision of him being beaten. It had been strong. Stronger than any impression I had ever received.
Maybe now…maybe this time…
5
Monday, 2:30 p.m.
Carrying Davie’s letter, I climbed the stairs to my loft, dread in every step. This was not going to work. Not, not, not. It hadn’t before. I wasn’t smart enough or talented enough to make it work. Never had been.
Unlocking my door, I surveyed the apartment. It wasn’t the warmest place on the planet, with ceilings at twelve feet, Mediterranean-blue tile I had laid, hardwood floors I’d refinished myself, and ancient plaster walls painted in soothing peacock-greens and soft teals. Snow billowed outside the tall, narrow, arched windows. Stan had paid a lot of money to have the windows double-glazed and the walls insulated with some foam stuff they pumped in, making tiny holes from the outside and resealing them afterward. It was still a chilly place. The slightly warmed apartment, the table and chairs on the private porch at the back, and the wedding ring I no longer wore, were the only things I had taken from the marriage except a broken heart and brittle temper.
Stop. Get on with it.
I flicked on the switch that started the ceiling fans, to circulate what heat there was, and turned on the gas logs in the fireplace in the center of the apartment. The blower came on a moment later and I shivered in the growing warmth. I opened the maple trunk at the foot of the bed and lifted out the tin box that held my mother’s long-unused supplies. The smell of the cedar lining wafted into the room, instantly calming. My mother had loved the scent of that tree and the texture of the grain, the way its cinnamon-colored heart bled into the paler outer wood. I touched her initials carved into the chest as I closed it.
I lit a candle, grabbed the afghan off the couch and carried them, Davie’s letter and the tin box with me.
Shoving back the table, I sat in the center of the kitchen floor on the cold, bright blue tile, arranging my legs in a half-lotus, and wrapped the afghan around me against the cold, tucking it under my thighs and backside. I opened the little box that held my mother’s supplies. It was rusty around the edges, painted like a stained-glass window, tiny bits of unconnected color that depicted an angel with wings furled.
From the tin box I took her Bible, unwrapped the crucifix, touched the Tarot cards there. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t make fear settle and sleep. It prowled the corners of my mind, a restless black cat.
Mama hadn’t been a goddess worshipper, a wiccan or a cultist. She had studied none of the practices the gifted had drifted into over the centuries to try to explain and use their gifts. None of the St. Claires practiced the occult religions. We didn’t need the crutch. Mama had been a pious Catholic like Aunt Matilda, and had raised me in the church. But then God and Aunt Matilda let Mama die. And all I believed in had died with her.
My stepfather had taken Davie and me to his church, a sterile, cold place full of people who talked about rules and doctrine, judgment and law, and seemed to have forgotten that God was supposed to be a God of love. I had once seen a women beaten for the infraction of reading her horoscope.
Yet, I had found God in that lifeless church, in one single sermon about the nature of the creator. The preacher, a little dried-up prune of a man, explained the Elohiym, the supreme God, and El, another word for the almighty. Sexless, ageless, never changing, a being of unimaginable power and glory. And mercy. And somewhere in El’s vastness, love. And though I didn’t pray often, I knew El was there, nearby, if needed. I thought about God now in the chaos of my thoughts and fears, wondering if El wanted me to find Davie. Wondering if El was going to take away another one I loved.
The dark image of fear padding through my mind latched onto that thought with claws that drew blood. What if the Elohiym wanted to punish me? I forced that notion away, concentrated on my ritual. Nausea tried to rise, a physical manifestation of the fear that rode me. A headache started high in the front of my brain. I pushed both down and away. And concentrated on the candle and on El.
Scanning was supposed to be easier if you had something that belonged to the person you were scanning for. I didn’t have anything of Davie’s except the small chunk of gold in my pocket, the smallest piece from the packing crates, and his letter. I pulled out the gold, suddenly wondering if he had touched this or not. Wondering if he had packaged the gold to send it, had ever handled it. Maybe someone else was involved with this, someone who packed the boxes and then betrayed him. Stop it! Get on with it.
I stretched my neck and shoulders, trying to relax. Two years ago, Isaac had taught me how to meditate, to breathe in calm and serenity, to find the center of myself and fill that hollow place with peace and light. Since that time, I had tried the St. Claire gift a few times, just out of curiosity, using meditation to focus my mind. I had managed some small successes. I might have had more if I had practiced, but using the gift always cost me, resulting in headaches, some so severe that I was nearly incapacitated.
Breathing easily now, I felt my fear, anger and misery begin to drain away. The nausea abated, floated to some distant point. The headache stabbed, but then I expected that. The St. Claire gift came with a price.
A thought intruded. Jubal had wanted to follow me upstairs and watch. Now wouldn’t that have been a hoot. I pushed away the image of Jubal peeking around the door to spy on me and once again found my center, a place of rest and tranquility.
I placed the gold and quartz besi
de the lit candle and the letter in front of me, lifted out Mama’s crucifix and slipped it around my neck and flowed deeper into the meditation. I didn’t know what El might think about the St. Claire gifts, but the presence of the crucifix was a comfort. I felt settled, still, calm. That was all that really counted in the ritual of a scan.
A scan was a simple search, a reaching, a way to say “hi” to the person you were trying to contact, though few St. Claires exchanged actual words. What most got was more in the nature of emotions, impressions, like looking into the eyes of someone you loved and reading their feelings. It was supposed to be a simple act for even the least talented receptor. If the person they were trying to contact was also a projector, then a message could be passed, a real communication. I closed my eyes, ignoring the cold that seeped into my thighs and feet, blocking out the fans and the blower. Concentrated on my breathing.
The sense of calm that had fallen over me deepened, spread outward, down my spine, into my arms and legs. I relaxed into the sound of my breath, the feel of cool air moving into me and out, bringing in light, health and peace, taking out darkness, disease and fear.
When I was centered, so relaxed my skin felt alive and glowing, my muscles liquid, bones soft and pliable, I took up Davie’s letter. Instantly, I got a sense of Isaac, his amusement and something else, an underlying unmet need, a place of darkness I had never noted in my friend until now. Surprised, I set the letter aside and wiped my hand as if the darker emotions had clung to me, which was pretty silly.
Taking a deep breath, I recentered myself, the calm coming quickly now. And I took up the quartz. It was warm, and nestled into the palm of my hand as if alive. No other emotions clung to the stone, just a warm hint, almost a scent, of my brother. At the edges of my mind came the thought that this was working. How weird.
Davie? Davie, I’m here. Davie? I called with my mind, searching for my brother. Davie? Where are you? Davie. Davie. Davie. The cadence of the syllables slowed, matched themselves to my heartbeat. Davie. Davie. Davie…
An ache began in the back of my neck. Slid down my spine and into my shoulders, hips, stomach. Arms. Legs. Replacing the peace. Bringing with it darkness.
I was cold. So cold. Disoriented. Fear. Nausea roiled through me. My pain lifted and fell with each breath. I hurt.
Davie?
The pain and fear grew. I blinked. Saw a dirty wall. Once white. Metal jingled on metal. The pain spread, a wildfire in my bones.
Davie?
Brat?
The wall came into focus. It wasn’t dirty. It was bloody. Splattered. Pain speared me as I/he moved.
Brat. I’m hurt.
I saw a wrist, handcuffed to a curve of iron. Pain whipped me and was gone. Taking Davie with it.
I jerked out of the meditation. “No!” Anger blasted through me, a heated rush of fury. Tears blurred my vision. Pain like a lance of forge-hot steel pierced my forehead over my left eye. I hurled the gold across the room. Instead of shattering against the far wall, it landed on the couch with a soft bounce and didn’t break. I couldn’t even do that right. I never could do it right!
I took in a gust of air so cold it scorched. The headache exploded, a stabbing pain that brought me to my hands and knees, retching. A sob escaped me. It was always this way. Just enough to hint and torment, to tease and lure, and never enough to do me any good. But how else could I help? I wasn’t a cop, a private detective or anyone else with access to ways to track my brother. For once, all I had going for me was the St. Claire gift and the boxes of gold downstairs. “Spit and decay,” I whispered.
I looked over at the phone machine. No blinking red light. No messages from the kidnappers. Just an ugly black cop box, promising little and so far delivering nothing. And once again, I had thrown something in anger. I wouldn’t be telling Jubal about this one.
I retrieved the gold and tried again but got nothing. Not a blessed thing.
After long minutes of trying to center myself, of trying to reach for Davie, I gave up. Fighting tears, shaking with fatigue and frustration, I blew out the candle and stood, my leg muscles aching with the cold of the floor and Davie’s remembered pain. And the sight of the wall, splattered with Davie’s blood.
I carried the afghan back to the couch and replaced the candle and the tin box. Rearranged the furniture. I washed my face and freshened my lipstick, tucked up some curls that had come loose, and popped two extrastrength Tylenol. I was trembling and knew I needed calories, so I stuffed a Snickers bar in my mouth and chewed, swallowing it down with a glass of milk. But I wasn’t myself. I was fighting anger and frustration and tears. Not a good combination.
The gold rough went into my pocket and I left Mama’s crucifix around my neck for the comfort the items brought me. The cross banged against my chest as I retraced my steps to the shop.
Evan Bartlock was in Bloodstone Inc., sitting in my favorite wing chair and holding papers I recognized as Davie’s. Isaac and Jubal were there also, Jubal in the other wing chair, Isaac at the silver samovar making hot tea. Jubal looked around at me, a question in his pale blue eyes. I shook my head but knew he could see something in my face, something he’d likely hound me about later. I glanced at the papers, worried that some with the mention of the gold were there, too, but Jubal gave a faint shake of his head to reassure me. Mind reading, I thought sourly, but the kind that best friends do as a matter of course. Nothing mystical about it all.
Noelle was gone for the day, her cloak and boots missing from the door. Outside, the storm still surged, sheets of snow waving in the wind. The store was closed due to the weather, as much as the gold.
Bartlock looked up, taking in everything about me in one glance. I had a feeling he could have stated what I wore, how my hair was styled and my emotional state without a second glance. Whatever his St. Claire gift was, it made him a good cop. I didn’t want his bloodline to make me feel better, but it did. Which made me a conflicted, unsuccessful, meager-talent, mind-reading, crystal-ball queen. I almost smiled at my whimsy and pulled up a stool from behind a display counter.
Isaac glided across the floor with a tray in his left hand. Bending, he offered a cup of tea in the good china to Bartlock. With a saucer. And a napkin. Which was way weird. Isaac usually offered the good china only to little old ladies with lots of money.
A mug with a dancing penguin on it went to Jubal, and then Isaac crossed the room to me. I took the last cup, a Christmas tree mug of tea with steam swirling from the dark liquid, and sipped, knowing the caffeine would help my headache. The tea was the new Darjeeling from the Puttabong Estate. Very smooth, very rich, with an elegant floral scent. Seriously expensive. Isaac was going all out. I watched him a moment, and his eyes were on the cop.
Bartlock, wearing a suit no one on a cop salary could afford, was sitting in the wing chair, papers on his lap, jacket unbuttoned, silk tie knotted just so. The cup and saucer balanced on one knee, napkin beneath. He lifted the tea by its elegant, curlicue handle and sipped, a look of appreciation crossing his face, though his eyes were still on the papers. Most men, especially men with hands the size of baseball mitts, would look silly holding the delicate teacup with its curlicue handle, but Evan managed it with ease. Practiced ease.
And then I understood. Devious Isaac. He had just proved that Bartlock came from money and breeding, unlike my poorer branch of the St. Claires. The cup returned to the saucer with a faint clink, never wavering or tottering or threatening to topple from his knee to the floor with a crash. Bartlock managed it all with effortless grace.
“You really should take this to the local police,” he said, as if continuing a conversation already taking place. Davie’s letter to Isaac was in his hand. “They need them as part of their search for David. But I understand his warning and your reluctance. If a local cop is involved in his disappearance, that complicates things.”
“Can’t you do something on the state level?” Jubal asked.
Some emotion flashed across Evan’s face, u
nder his skin, close to the bone, a passion quickly shuttered. “I’m here unofficially.” He looked at me. “Aunt Matilda hired me to look into the disappearance of a friend while I’m on administrative leave. When I got here, I discovered that her friend is my fourth cousin. Or maybe third cousin once removed. I get confused about that stuff. I—”
“And why are you on leave?” Isaac asked, his smooth voice stopping the cop.
Bartlock froze, face expressionless except for the strange something that crawled beneath his skin. He turned empty eyes to Isaac. When he spoke, his voice was barren of emotion, a desert under a full moon. “I shot a man.”
He closed his eyes as if seeing the event replay across his lids in triple time. “It was dark. He pulled something out of his pocket.” Bartlock opened his eyes and looked at me, his gaze cold over tangled emotions, a web of feelings that I could almost touch. Beneath the unfeeling exterior he was raw, offering himself up for inquisition. His soul was abraded and torn, too stunned yet to be called suffering or desolate. I pulled back from my awareness of the man, hiding behind my wall. My headache pounded, an ice pick in my skull. “It looked like a gun. And I fired.
“The man was unarmed except for a length of pipe taped to a brickbat. There was a note addressed to his ex-wife in his pocket. And he’s dead.” The room was silent. Bartlock returned to the papers. “So I don’t have access to the resources of the state lab or databanks, but I can call in favors and get friends to dig up information for me.”
Suicide by cop. I had heard of it.
“And the local cops?” Isaac asked, voice gentle.
“They know I’m here.” The emotional, soul-baring moment was over. Bartlock’s voice was back to business as usual. “They aren’t too happy about me nosing around. They’d be really unhappy if they knew I had information they’ve been denied. But I understand your reasoning, not letting them have this information at this point. And frankly, it won’t hurt much, especially since they shared most of their conclusions with me and some facts about the crime scene that didn’t make the papers or the news.”
