He forced himself to calm down. He was a scientist. He knew how to recover from disastrous experiments. It was time to go back to some of the original data. He had not looked at the logbook in months, because he had read it cover to cover and made copious notes when it first came into his hands. He had practically memorized the formulas and the math.
But maybe, just maybe, he had overlooked something that could set him on a new path.
He crossed the lab and punched a code into a security panel. The heavy metal door of the small walk-in vault swung open. A number of artifacts were arrayed on the shelves, various items that he had collected in the course of his research. None had proven helpful. Everything had led to a dead end—everything except the logbook.
If there were more secrets to be found, they were in Griffin Chastain’s notes.
He went to the glass case where Chastain’s logbook was stored. He opened the case and reached inside to pick up the leather-bound book.
It took him a few seconds to realize it was the wrong logbook. Another leather-bound logbook—a vintage document from the same era—had been left in its place.
It took him a moment to process what had happened. Someone had stolen the logbook.
One of the Puppets, perhaps, who planned to sell it on the underground market. But even as the possibility came to mind he dismissed it. They had no reason to steal it. They believed they were going to be the beneficiaries of the secrets in the logbook. More crucially, they understood he was the only one who could comprehend the complicated paranormal physics.
It was equally unlikely that Garraway had taken it. He was good with money but he couldn’t possibly grasp the scientific concepts and formulas in the logbook. Besides, he was committed to the Riverview project for the same reason as the Puppets—he lusted after the promise of paranormal powers.
Loring forced himself to think about the timeline. It had been over two months since he had last had occasion to take the logbook out of the glass case. Only one disturbing event had occurred at Riverview during that time.
A patient had escaped.
CHAPTER 6
Here’s what we know.” Victor pushed himself up out of the big leather desk chair and crossed the paneled office to the windows that looked down several stories to the fantasyland of the Strip. “As I told you on the phone, late yesterday afternoon Chandler visited a shop in Seattle called Swan Antiques. Over the years the Foundation has done a fair amount of business with Gwendolyn Swan, the owner. She’s got a feel for artifacts with a paranormal vibe.”
That was high praise coming from Victor Arganbright, North thought. He and Victor were not related by blood, but the Chastains and the Arganbrights had been close for three generations. The Arganbrights had always refused to believe that Griffin Chastain had betrayed his country and sold the secrets of the Bluestone Project. Like North and his father, they were convinced Griffin had been murdered because of his research work, but no one knew exactly what that research had involved. Left unspoken was the grim speculation that Griffin might have been working on paranormal weaponry. The one thing they knew for certain was that when Griffin had been recruited into the Bluestone Project he had been assigned a research partner—Crocker Rancourt.
In the wake of the destruction of the Bluestone Project, the Foundation had been established. Crocker Rancourt had been the first director. After his death, control of the organization had been passed down to his son, Stenson Rancourt, who in turn had planned to hand things off to his son, Harlan.
While in charge, the Rancourt family had run the Foundation as if it were their own private money-making fiefdom. They had ruled it like a mob family. That had come to a screeching halt five years earlier when Victor Arganbright and Lucas Pine had staged an internal coup that was most charitably characterized as a hostile takeover. Stenson Rancourt had died in a mysterious explosion. His body had been found in the wreckage. His son, Harlan, was presumed to have died in the fire as well, but his body had not been found.
Victor was in his early fifties. He had the bold profile and the amber eyes that were typical of the Arganbright men. He was a driven man, a man with a self-imposed mission. He was convinced the Foundation and, quite possibly, the nation faced a grave threat from the past. He feared the secrets of the old Bluestone Project were rising from the grave. Of all the mysteries connected to Bluestone, the secret lab code-named Vortex represented the greatest danger.
The problem for Victor was that Vortex and the other lost labs had been involved in clandestine research into the paranormal, a subject that was no longer taken seriously by reputable researchers, academic institutions or governments. Politicians and career military personnel ignored the subject for fear of being laughed out of their jobs. Admitting to a belief in the paranormal was a good way to terminate a career.
With the sole exception of the tiny, woefully underfunded Agency for the Investigation of Atypical Phenomena—a one-desk (currently unstaffed) operation buried deep in the basement of a building somewhere in Washington, DC—the US government had officially abandoned paranormal research in the latter half of the previous century. For all intents and purposes, the Foundation was on its own.
“You think Dad was attacked because of whatever it was he bought at Swan Antiques,” North said.
Victor hesitated. The energy in the atmosphere around him got a little more intense. “I don’t have any proof, but the timing makes me suspicious. If Chandler discovered a valuable artifact in the shop, it’s possible a raider followed him back to the hotel, attacked him and stole the object.”
“Hard to believe a raider would take the risk of assaulting someone directly affiliated with the Foundation,” North said. “They usually go out of their way to avoid getting on your psi-dar. The last thing a low-level operator wants is to become the target of a cleaner team.”
Raiders worked in the shadows of the paranormal trade. Most were small-time con artists who made a living selling fraudulent artifacts to gullible collectors. The more adventurous ones engaged in burglary and theft. For the most part they were opportunists who worked alone or with a partner. There were, however, a handful of more sophisticated rings run by smart, ruthless leaders. But even the big outfits usually took care to steer clear of the Foundation.
Victor turned around and began to prowl the large room. He paused from time to time to contemplate one of the myriad paintings that covered the walls. More paintings, framed and unframed, were stacked on the floor. Some of the art that littered the space was valuable; some was not. Some was old. Some was new.
Victor didn’t collect the pictures because he expected them to increase in value. He had picked them up over the years because he was obsessed with the subject matter. Each was a depiction of the Oracle of Delphi.
In most of the pictures the Oracle was shown in the traditional pose, draped in robes and seated on a three-legged stool that straddled a crack in the floor of a cavern. In that position she inhaled the vapors that wafted up through the opening, went into a trance and delivered prophecies. There had been a fee, of course, but it was up to the client to interpret the cryptic prophecies.
The Oracle had been an extremely popular attraction for the ancient city of Delphi and a source of great revenue. North figured the operation had probably worked a lot like modern-day Las Vegas. You paid your money and you took your chances.
“It’s possible we’re dealing with a new, unidentified raider crew,” Victor mused. “But it doesn’t have that feel.”
North did not question the conclusion. Victor was very, very good at what he did because his intuition was extremely sharp when it came to predicting how the bad guys would act. He was not, however, infallible. When he screwed up there were usually a lot of fireworks.
“You mentioned there were no outward signs of violence,” North said. “Do you think someone used drugs on Dad?”
“Maybe. We will know more o
nce we get him back here where the specialists can examine him. In the meantime, I want you to retrace Chandler’s footsteps yesterday and last night. Start at Swan Antiques.”
“Will the owner be cooperative?”
“I think so. Gwendolyn Swan doesn’t want any trouble with the Foundation. It’s not as if we’re blaming her for what happened to Chandler. We just need to find out what, exactly, she sold him and see if the information gives us a lead.”
North reflected briefly. “I’m good at finding people but I’m not so great when it comes to tracking down artifacts. I’m going to need help from a specialist, preferably someone who knows the local hot artifacts market in Seattle.”
“Lucas has been going through the files. He’s got a name for you.”
The door opened as if on cue. Lucas Pine walked into the room, a file in one hand. Silver haired, sophisticated and elegant even when casually dressed, he appeared at first glance to be Victor’s exact opposite. But the energy between the two of them was unmistakable. The pair had been devoted to each other for a couple of decades. Their wedding had been a huge, splashy, Las Vegas–style party.
“The name,” Lucas said in a voice that sounded like it had been trained for the stage, “is Sierra Raines.”
“She knows the Seattle market?” North asked.
“Yes.” Lucas glanced through the file. “Currently she’s an agent for the Vault, a business that handles transport and delivery of artifacts. According to Ambrose Jones, she’s good. Very good.”
“Ambrose Jones?” North asked.
“Jones owns and operates the Vault,” Victor said. “We’ve worked with him before. He has always been reliable. He told us to ignore Ms. Raines’s somewhat checkered job history, specifically what happened at her previous place of employment.”
North raised his brows. “What, exactly, did happen?”
“Until a few months ago she worked for one of the big auction houses, Ecclestone’s,” Lucas said. “She was let go amid rumors that Ecclestone’s was peddling fraudulent antiques. And before you ask, no, we don’t know if she was guilty. What we know is that she is now working as a go-between in the paranormal market in Seattle—specifically the deep end of that market.”
“I see.” North took the file. “And is Ms. Raines still selling fakes?”
Victor’s jaw tightened. “Jones says we can trust her. It’s not like we’ve got a lot of choice here.”
Just as you don’t have a lot of choice when it comes to investigators, North thought. You’re stuck with me. And it looks like I’m stuck with Sierra Raines.
“You want me to team up with a shady go-between who may or may not be dealing in fraudulent artifacts?” he said.
“I think it’s safe to assume she won’t try to con someone from the Foundation,” Victor said. “Not with Jones looking over her shoulder.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”
North flipped open the file. There was a small glossy photo of a woman who appeared to be about thirty years old. Her whiskey-brown hair was pulled back in an elegantly stern knot at the back of her nicely shaped head. She gazed out of the photo with brown-and-gold eyes that somehow managed to project a mix of wide-eyed innocence and bone-deep watchfulness.
Sierra Raines was attractive, but not Las Vegas beautiful. Nevertheless, in a town that boasted a lot of spectacular, long-legged women, she would stand out. At least, she would stand out to him. Somehow he knew that if she walked past him on the crowded Strip he would notice her.
What she had was an edgy, intriguing quality that came through even in a photograph. He was very sure those deep eyes concealed secrets and mysteries.
He made himself focus on the two pages of data. There was a very long list of very short-term jobs, ranging from interior decorator at a firm named Psychic Designs to bookseller at a shop called Paranormal Readings. In between, Sierra Raines had done stints as a psychic therapist, dream interpreter and meditation guide.
He scanned the list and then studied the last entry. Previous Employer: Ecclestone’s Auction House. Reason for Termination of Employment: Suspected of fraud.
He looked up. “Sierra Raines looks like a flake as well as a con artist.”
Lucas smiled. “She does seem to be having some trouble settling into the right job, but as far as the fraud goes, we are convinced she was set up to take the fall at Ecclestone’s.”
North turned to the second page of the report.
Grandparents resided in Fogg Lake, Washington, at the time of the explosion and were affected by the paranormal radiation that was released. Parents were raised in Fogg Lake. Moved away as young adults. Eventually settled in an intentional community, Quest, in the San Juan Islands, Washington State. Father, Byron Raines, is employed as an online psychic poet. Mother, Allegra Raines, is a psychic song therapist.
North glanced up again. “Her father’s a psychic poet? What the hell kind of career is that?”
Lucas shrugged. “You contact him online, tell him your problems, ask for his advice, he sends you a poem that gives you guidance. It’s the customer’s job to interpret the poem, of course.”
Victor glanced at the nearest painting. “Rather like receiving a prophecy from the Oracle.”
“Rather like a scam, if you ask me,” North said. “Can I assume Mrs. Raines is running a similar con with the psychic song therapy gig?”
Victor narrowed his eyes. “Forget the parents. Focus on Sierra Raines. You need her help.”
North closed the folder. “Not a lot of information here. You don’t even have a current address for her.”
“After she left Ecclestone’s she went mostly off the grid,” Lucas said. “We know she’s working in the Seattle area but, no, we haven’t been able to come up with a home address. That phone number is good, as far as we know, but she never answers. The only thing you can do is leave a message and hope she gets back to you. I didn’t call her about this case because I didn’t want to make her nervous. She might decide to bolt. I’ve asked Jones to set up the meeting between the two of you.”
“Calls from the Foundation have a way of making people in the artifacts trade uneasy,” Victor muttered. “That goes double for go-betweens. They have a tendency to disappear if they think we’ve taken an interest in them.”
“You need to work on your people skills,” North said.
Victor ignored that. “If she’s as good as Jones says, she’s your best shot at tracking down the artifact your father bought from Swan.”
“I’d work with the Devil herself if that’s what it takes to find out what happened to Dad,” North said.
Victor nodded, satisfied. “Figured you’d see things that way.”
CHAPTER 7
The ambulance with Chandler Chastain on board was waiting at the airport in Seattle.
A stylishly dressed woman, her auburn hair cut at a sharp angle that emphasized her striking features, came forward to greet them.
“I’m Olivia LeClair,” she explained. “I am so sorry about what happened to Mr. Chastain. My partner, Catalina Lark, is out of town. She and her husband are doing some research on another possible lost lab location, but I or my assistant has been with Mr. Chastain every moment since I got the call from Victor Arganbright. I want to assure you that no one except medical personnel who were personally vetted by me have been allowed near Mr. Chastain and I authorized no procedures, just as Arganbright instructed.”
“Vetted by you?” North asked.
“I’m a very good aura reader,” Olivia said.
North nodded. A strong aura analyst was usually able to discern potentially dangerous energy in an individual’s aura.
“Understood,” he said.
“Thank you for protecting my husband until we could get here,” Lily said.
“From what I can tell, Mr. Chastain’s aura appears strong,” Olivi
a continued, “but some of his energy bands are oscillating erratically. I hope the doctors at Halcyon Manor can correct the problem quickly. I understand they are doing a lot of advanced work on disorders of the paranormal senses there in Vegas.”
“Yes,” Lily said. “They are.”
Two medics opened the back door of the ambulance and removed the gurney. The Halcyon doctors took charge, moving swiftly.
North had talked to the medics during the flight from Las Vegas. They had tried to tell him what to expect. He thought he had steeled himself for the sight of his father in an unnerving state. He was wrong. It shook him to the core.
His mother, however, appeared strong and resolute.
“We will get through this,” she said quietly.
They fell into step alongside the gurney.
“Hello, darling,” Lily said. She clasped Chandler’s hand and continued talking as the group moved toward the plane stairs. “I’m here to take you home, where the doctors will know how to deal with this situation. Meanwhile, North will find out who did this to you.”
She spoke in a calm, utterly convincing tone of voice that left North speechless. He had always known his mother was a strong woman but he had never seen her in action in such devastating circumstances. He watched his father’s face while Lily continued to talk and squeeze his hand.
Chandler opened his eyes. He gave no indication that he recognized his son or his wife. Instead he gazed into the distance as if he was staring at something only he could see. But North was suddenly very sure that his father had responded to Lily’s voice.
“He knows who you are, Mom,” North said quietly.
“Of course he does,” Lily said.
The medics halted at the foot of the stairs and prepared to carry the gurney and its passenger up into the plane.
“Wait,” North said.
“Orders are to get Mr. Chastain home as fast as possible,” one of the medics said.
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