But now there was another kind of fire igniting the atmosphere of the small space around the four of them. Gwen realized that the fresh tide of energy came from the stone in Judson’s ring. It glowed like a miniature sun.
The countercurrent of psi flooded the atmosphere. The chimes trembled and shook violently in response. Gwen heard glass and crystal fracture.
In the next instant, the terrible music was suddenly muted. Gwen could still hear the chimes, but it was as if the sound was coming from another room or even another dimension. The paranormal firewall blocking the path to the door receded. The relief was almost overwhelming.
“I can dampen the wavelengths in a narrow space around us,” Judson said. “But not for long. Let’s go.”
Together they hauled Nicole toward the front door. The amber ring burned with astonishing energy. Gwen sensed the raw power that Judson was controlling and knew that such an extraordinary expenditure of psychic power would exact a cost later. At the very least, Judson would be exhausted.
They made it through the door. Gwen grabbed the cat carrier when they dashed across the porch, and then they were out in the driving rainstorm. The explosion came seconds later. The currents of paranormal energy generated by the chimes swept outward like tentacles seeking to draw the intended prey back into the house.
There was a low, heavy whoosh followed by a great roar. Gwen looked over her shoulder and saw that the house was on fire.
Judson turned his head to look. “Damn it to hell and back. There goes whatever evidence the killer might have left. Fire usually destroys most traces of psi.”
“I don’t understand.” Gwen stared at the blaze, her heart pounding. “There was no fire, just a lot of paranormal energy. How could it explode like that?”
“As Dad discovered one day forty years ago at the Phoenix Mine, if you get enough psi burning in a confined space, it can explode across the spectrum into the normal range.” Judson dropped Nicole’s wrist and unclipped his cell phone. “Oxley is not going to like this.”
“How are we going to explain it to him?”
“No problem,” Judson said.
Gwen blinked. “Really?”
Judson’s mouth twisted humorlessly. “The thing about paranormal events is that if you think about it, you can usually come up with a perfectly logical, perfectly normal explanation.”
“Is that so?”
“In my experience,” he said, punching in the emergency number, “no one ever wants the truth, anyway.”
Twenty-five
“A gas explosion,” Gwen said. She smiled, coolly appreciative. “You know, that actually sounded like a very plausible explanation.”
“Thanks,” Judson said. For some reason—probably because he was still in the post-burn buzz—he liked that she was impressed with how smoothly he had pulled a rabbit out of a hat for Oxley. “Got to admit, I’ve had practice.”
She glanced at him, curiosity shadowing her eyes. “In your consulting work for that government agency you mentioned?”
“Government agencies are really good when it comes to cover-ups. It’s an art form. I learned a lot working for Joe Spalding.”
“The director of the agency?”
“Yes.”
“Abby mentioned that the agency—your client, I believe—was closed down due to funding cuts?” Gwen said.
“Funding is always a problem with government agencies.”
“Did Spalding become a lobbyist? That’s what usually happens, isn’t it? Those guys always land on their feet.”
“Spalding did not land on his feet. Spalding is dead.”
“Ah.” Gwen fell silent.
He drank some wine and lowered the glass, aware of the exhaustion that was settling into his bones. They were sitting in front of the fireplace in Gwen’s little parlor, their feet propped on the needlepoint hassock. There was a bottle of generic red from the Wilby General Store and the remains of a takeout pizza on the table between them.
The bio-cocktail of adrenaline and psi that always followed a heavy drain on the psychic senses was still washing through him. He was edgy and restless. What he really needed was some fast, overheated sex with Gwen, but it wouldn’t be chivalrous to suggest it, given what she had been through today. Instead, he was using alcohol to bring himself down harder and faster. Soon he would crash. Maybe tonight he would not dream.
Max was crouched on the windowsill, staring out into the night. Gwen said he looked depressed, but in Judson’s opinion the cat looked ready for revenge.
I’m with you, cat, Judson thought.
“I wonder if Nicole will remember anything about what happened,” Gwen said.
Judson rested his head against the back of the chair. Nicole had regained consciousness just as the first fire truck arrived. The medics had treated her and concluded that she did not need to go to the emergency room. One of Oxley’s officers had driven her home.
“Probably not much,” he said. “Loss of consciousness, regardless of the reason, usually results in some memory loss. I doubt if she’ll ever recall exactly what happened in the minutes leading up to that explosion. But she should be able to tell us why she went to see Louise today. We need that information.”
Gwen turned her head to look at him “What the heck did happen at Louise’s house today? She’s had those chimes hanging inside and out on the porch for years. Why did they go crazy this afternoon?”
“I’m no para-physicist like Sam, but I’ve got a hunch that the explosion was the final event in a chain reaction that started a few hours earlier when the killer used some kind of paranormal crystal to murder Louise Fuller. Hell, maybe it started decades ago.”
“What do you mean?” Gwen asked.
“The energy must have been building inside Louise Fuller’s house for years, thanks to those sculptures. The situation was probably already very unstable. When the killer used his weapon to murder Fuller, there would have been a lot of hot psi involved. That added to the instability. The whole place was a smoldering fire waiting to go up in flames. Then along came the storm. That could have been the spark that ignited the blaze.”
Gwen looked at him. “There was more than just a storm involved. There was you and me, and we were both running very hot while we were inside that house.”
“Yes,” he said, keeping his voice very neutral.
“Do you think that maybe we were the sparks that lit the fuse or whatever it was that set that house on fire?”
“Maybe.”
“Geez.”
“Like I said, there was a hell of a lot of energy buildup in that house before you and I arrived.”
Gwen nodded thoughtfully. “What, exactly, did you do with your ring?”
He looked down at the stone. It was no longer infused with power, but in the firelight it still glowed like liquid amber.
“Damned if I know,” he said.
“Good grief.” She stared at him. “Seriously? You don’t know how that stone does what it does?”
“I’ve only performed that particular trick on one other occasion.” He drank more of the wine. “Someone was trying to kill me at the time.”
“You’re talking about your last case again, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He lowered the glass.
“How did you know that the three of us and Max needed to make physical contact in order to stay inside the safe zone you created?” Gwen asked.
“You want the truth? I wasn’t sure it would work. Just figured that the physics made sense. And there didn’t seem to be a lot of other options.”
“What physics?” Gwen asked. “You must have some theory about how the stone works.”
He studied the ring. “I can focus psychic energy through it, but it feels like I’m trying to control summer lightning when I do it. There’s a lot of wild power in the crystal, but as far as I can tell, all it seems to do is dampen other paranormal currents in the vicinity.” He paused. “Including human auras.”
“You mean you
can use it like a weapon?”
“Over a short distance, yes.”
“How do you tune it?”
“What?” It was getting hard to concentrate. The deep weariness was getting heavier.
“You said that paranormal crystals that are used in high-tech ways require frequent tuning,” Gwen reminded him. “How do you tune that stone?”
“I have no idea.”
“Hmm.”
He watched the firelight blaze in the ring. “I’ve only used it at full throttle twice—today and on my last case. I won’t know if there’s any juice left in it until I’ve had a chance to get some rest.”
“You’re exhausted,” Gwen said. “You pulled a lot of firepower today shielding all of us.”
“I just need sleep.”
She drank her wine in a speculative silence for a time. He felt energy shift in the space and knew she had slipped into a trance. Max meowed softly and jumped down from the windowsill. He trotted across the room, bounded up onto the chair beside Gwen and settled down. She stroked him absently.
Judson closed his eyes and savored the gently charged atmosphere.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Take a look. But I’ll warn you, it makes me hot.”
“You’re too tired to get hot.”
“Shows how much you know.” He opened his eyes. “What do you see?”
She blinked and slipped out of the trance. He felt the psi levels go back to what passed for normal between them. Nothing will ever be normal for us, Gwen Frazier, he thought.
“Okay, I’m no expert on the subject of crystal physics, but based on what I see in your aura and what I observed today when you used the ring, I think that you are actually tuning the ring automatically simply by wearing it,” she said.
He studied the ring. “Usually you have to use one crystal to tune another. And usually the process requires someone with a special talent for the work, the psychic equivalent of a person with perfect pitch.”
“Maybe it works in your case because your aura generates some wavelengths that resonate naturally with the stone. That would explain your affinity for it.”
“Huh.” He tried to think about the physics involved, but he was too far gone.
“Go to bed,” Gwen said gently.
“Good idea.” He set the unfinished wine aside. “I will do that right now. Keep the door between our rooms open. Security reasons.”
“Okay,” she said.
He could feel her watching him as he went through the doorway into his room.
“Stop worrying,” he said. “I’ve been here before. I’ll be fine after a little sleep.”
“Okay,” she said again.
But he could tell that she was worried. He knew she would not get any rest until she was certain that he was going to be okay. He wanted to tell her that there was no need for her to keep a vigil. He wasn’t ill. And he sure as hell didn’t need therapy. He just needed some sleep.
He fell onto the bed, closed his eyes and tumbled into the darkness before he could think of a way to reassure her.
Twenty-six
Really, he had been born for a life of crime.
Nick Sawyer stood in the darkened house and listened to the currents of emptiness that resonated from the shadows. The dead woman’s family had put the house on the market a couple of weeks back. The For Sale sign in the front yard read “Motivated Seller.”
The house was almost empty. There were a few odd pieces of furniture and some pictures left, but the heirs had sold off most of the contents shortly after the old lady’s death. There was probably nothing to discover in the way of clues to the mystery he had been sent to solve, but he had wanted to get a feel for the victim. Standing here, in her front room, somehow gave him a sense of her that he had not been able to obtain with his online research or his chats with the neighbors.
He moved through the heavily draped living room until the traces of seething energy on the floor brought him to a halt.
“Hello,” he said to the shadows. “This is where he whacked you, isn’t it? You were watching television. They said your body was found in a big easy chair. The guy next door said your son helped himself to your big-screen TV on the day of the funeral. Let’s see what else you can tell me.”
He went upstairs to the bedroom, noting the little elevator that had been installed at some point in the past.
“Too frail to make it up the stairs under your own steam,” he said. “You were an easy target, weren’t you? You couldn’t have run, even if you had tried. But you didn’t.”
At the top of the stairs, he went down the hall to the master bedroom, savoring the chill of intense awareness and the adrenaline rush.
This business of poking around in the private affairs of other people was a lot more fun than the hot books business. He had gotten a kick out of chatting up the old woman’s neighbors earlier that day, too. He was almost as good a con as he was a burglar. Not that it had taken any real skill to get people to talk. Folks had been only too willing to tell him how the old lady’s son and daughter-in-law had ignored her for the most part, except when they had come around looking for money.
He studied the bedroom. There was an ancient chest of drawers standing against one wall, but everything else had been cleared out.
He crossed the room and started opening the drawers.
It was weird how a person’s entire future could get changed by a small twist of fate, he thought. If he hadn’t met Gwen and Abby in that hellhole of an institution that went by the name of the Summerlight Academy, he would have become a happy world-class jewel thief by now. His ability to see in the dark was superior to the latest and greatest in high-tech military night-vision goggles. And he was very, very good with locks and computers.
But Gwen and Abby had insisted that he make his living in a semi-legitimate manner. To avoid the endless nagging of his sisters, he had allowed Abby to teach him the ropes of the paranormal books business. It had been a good gig for the past few years. He had made a lot of money because he worked what Abby called the deep end of the market—the dangerous underworld of paranoid, obsessive collectors who would pay any amount of money to obtain the volumes they coveted.
Although he had an affinity for hot books—he figured that was no big deal because he had a natural sensitivity for just about anything that had serious value—he was not particularly interested in the rare volumes he brokered. When you got right down to it, he was just a go-between—a well-paid go-between, but a go-between nonetheless. The only part he actually enjoyed was the night work. So he craved the illicit thrill of sneaking around in the dark, learning other people’s secrets. So sue me. But first you have to catch me. Not gonna happen.
Gwen said he got his kicks from this kind of thing because it allowed him to use his senses to the max. She claimed he would have been just as happy if he had engaged his psychic talents as a cop. But he knew the truth. He liked rummaging around in other people’s secrets because his own past was concealed behind a locked door, one that he had never been able to open—and he was damn good at getting through locked doors. Thus far, every key he had tried had failed to open the door to his past.
The sperm donor bank his mother had used to conceive him had burned to the ground years ago. Half of his family history—the part pertaining to his father—had been destroyed in the fire. He had lost most of the other half of his past when his mother, a single woman who had been orphaned when she was an infant, died in a car accident the year he turned ten. There had followed a series of foster homes and, finally, the Summerlight Academy.
It was there that he had met his real family, his sisters, Gwen and Abby. They were the reason he had stayed at Summerlight. It would have been a simple matter to bail from the school using his rapidly developing talents, but he could not leave Gwen and Abby behind. They had needed him to protect them from the crazies and the bullies. It was the first time anyone had ever needed him. It was like he suddenly had a job to do. He had made sure the three of th
em had stuck together until graduation.
After leaving Summerlight, Gwen and Abby had reversed their roles, becoming the protectors. They had done their best to keep him from taking up a life of crime, even though he had assured them he would be brilliant at the business. He’d gone along with the more legit gig to keep peace in the family. But at times like this, when he was standing alone in the dark inside someone else’s house, he knew that he had missed his true calling.
He closed the last drawer and went to the closet. It was empty except for a pair of sturdy white walking shoes of the style that they sold to little old ladies who were unsteady on their feet.
He found the small safe concealed behind a wall panel. It was still locked, but it required less than forty seconds to get it open. The stack of bills inside told him everything he needed to know about the old lady.
“A little paranoid, weren’t you, Granny?” he said to the emptiness. “You didn’t trust anyone, not even your own son. Well, you knew him better than anyone else, didn’t you? After all, you were his mother.”
There was one other item in the safe, an old-fashioned checkbook register.
He shoved the cash and the checkbook into the small black backpack he wore and went downstairs. He exited the house the same way he had entered, through a rear window.
He found the car where he had left it several blocks away in a parking lot behind a grocery store. He drove the nondescript vehicle back to the airport and turned it in at the rental counter. He had used one of his spare sets of identification to rent the car. He liked to keep a lot of extras on hand, not only for himself, but also for Gwen and Abby. Just in case.
It occurred to him that Abby probably wouldn’t need that kind of security backup anymore now that she was marrying into the Coppersmith family. That clan took care of its own. And something about the energy between Gwen and Judson Coppersmith told him that she might not need her brother much longer, either.
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