“Sorry. I don’t usually get off track like that.”
“I know.”
It said a lot about the situation that Fallon had allowed himself to lose his focus.
“I hate to admit it but I think this thing that you and Grace have uncovered is starting to get to me,” Fallon continued, grim and glum. “The Nightshade operation is so much bigger and more extensive than we imagined. And we’re on our own.”
No getting around that, Luther thought. The danger posed by Nightshade was very real. The Council was committed to dealing with the threat but it was not easy fighting a battle that was invisible to the wider society.
As far as most people were concerned, the paranormal equated with entertainment. It belonged on television and in books and films. People had
real things to worry about in the real world—terrorism and global warming. They were not going to take seriously warnings about a shadowy organization of evil psychics, especially when that warning was issued by another, equally secret society dedicated to the study of the paranormal.
There were sensitives—members of the Arcane community—working at various levels in government agencies, police departments and other venues who could be called upon by J&J, but they were usually able to supply only limited assistance. In addition, whatever help they did provide had to be strictly off the record. Being outed as someone who claimed to be psychic was, generally speaking, not a smart career move unless you happened to be running a cult.
“About the body,” Luther said. “We’ve got two options. We can either have Petra and Wayne take it out to sea on their boat and dump it or you can arrange to ship it back to Craigmore’s family.”
“Craigmore doesn’t have any family. He married three times but there were no children. Rumor has it that he wasn’t able to have kids. His last wife died nearly a decade ago. But yes, we need to get the body back here. He can’t just disappear. There would be a lot of questions. Let me think for a minute.”
Luther listened as Fallon clicked computer keys.
“Okay, looks like he flew commercial,” Fallon said finally. “His private jet is still sitting on the ground in L.A. That means he didn’t want a record of the trip, and that, in turn, means he probably used a phony ID to get the seat on the scheduled flight. We’re clear.”
Luther went blank trying to follow the logic. It was a frequent occurrence when talking to Fallon.
“Clear for what?” he asked.
“No one knows Craigmore went to Hawaii so no one will think it’s strange when he turns up dead in his own home in L.A.,” Fallon explained. “I’ll send a company plane with refrigeration equipment to pick up his body.”
“Will there be an autopsy?”
“Probably not,” Fallon said. “It’s going to look like he died of a heart attack and wasn’t found for a few hours. He was seventy. No one will question cause of death.”
“But if there is an autopsy?”
“Natural causes,” Fallon said absently. His attention was already on the next move in the three-dimensional chess game he was playing.
“What makes you so sure of that, Fallon?”
“You’re not the first person to zap an aura.”
“I’m not?” Luther glanced at Grace. She was still studying the screen but he knew she was listening to the conversation. “There have been others?”
“A few. It’s an extremely rare variant of the aura talent. Requires off-the-charts power, which, as we both know, you just happen to have. Also, in every reported case, the aura talent had to be in physical contact with the victim in order to douse the whole energy field.”
“There was a struggle,” Luther said tonelessly. He looked at one of his hands. “I was right on top of him.”
Fallon tapped merrily away on his computer. “Takes a while to recover from that kind of burn. My guess is that you’re going to need to crash for a few hours.”
“No shit.” It was a damn shame that Fallon was so far away, Luther thought. It would have been very satisfying to throttle him.
“Couple of other things you might want to know about this kind of thing,” Fallon said.
“Go on.”
“I came across an old Society research paper on the subject a while back. Evidently the experience of killing someone the way you just did is described as intimate, akin to using a knife or your bare hands.”
Luther tightened his grip on the cane. “Thanks for that.”
“Hence the possible parapsych fallout,” Fallon added.
“What the hell?”
“Posttraumatic stress and all that. The paper said that the aftereffects are highly unpredictable.”
“Did it ever occur to you to warn me about any of this?”
“No,” Fallon said.
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, there’s no way to know if an aura talent can actually extinguish another person’s energy field until he actually does it. That pretty much rules out experimental trials, at least as far as the Society is concerned. For another, the records of the handful of talents who could generate that kind of energy have always been classified to the highest levels. The Society doesn’t need that kind of stuff hitting the Internet or the tabloids.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your keeping that information from me, Fallon.”
“Like I said, no way to know if you could do it until you did it.” Fallon broke off again. There were more clicking noises. “Here’s something interesting.”
“I’m not sure I can take any more interesting news.”
“According to the experts, you didn’t actually kill Craigmore.”
“This is starting to sound like a trip down the rabbit hole.”
“Here’s the deal,” Fallon continued, unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm. “Evidently what you did with your aura was
reflect the violent energy that Craigmore was generating. In effect, you created a mirror. When you came in contact with him, he got a severe bounce-back jolt. It set up a dissonant wave pattern that shattered his aura. In essence, Craigmore was the victim of a ricochet shot.”
“Huh.”
“Trust me,” Fallon said, “there’s no trace of physical evidence in situations like this. It will look like Craigmore’s heart just stopped. Which is pretty much what happens at the end, anyway, regardless of what kills you.”
“Craigmore was a wealthy man,” Luther said. “Whoever inherits his financial empire may have a few questions about the manner of his death.”
“A few years back Craigmore informed the previous Master that he intended to leave his entire estate to the Society to continue funding its research. Under the circumstances, I doubt that the Council will ask too many questions.”
“Craigmore and I didn’t exactly have a lengthy conversation in the garage,” Luther said, “but in view of his admission that he was Nightshade, he may have changed his mind about who gets his money.”
“Yeah, can’t wait to see who comes out of the woodwork to collect,” Fallon said. “I’ve got people on the way to Craigmore’s home and his office to see what they can dig up. The good news is that I don’t think Craigmore ever found out that you and Grace stumbled into those four other Nightshade talents on Maui. As far as he knew, you were interested in Eubanks only because J&J was investigating him for murder.”
“Craigmore was on the Council. Why didn’t he learn that we stumbled into the Nightshade connection?”
“Because I didn’t enter anything into the computer files about the link to Nightshade and because Zack chose not to inform the Council about what you and Grace discovered,” Fallon said.
Luther whistled softly. “You two really are worried about a spy, aren’t you?”
“I told you, Zack sensed that there was a Nightshade plant somewhere very high up within the Society. He had even begun to think that the spy might be on the Council. Guess the big sixty-four-dollar question now is, How many other members of the organization are members
of the Society?”
“Any idea why Craigmore wanted Eubanks taken out?”
“Not yet,” Fallon admitted. “Just starting to work on that. Probably some kind of competitive thing. Maybe he and Eubanks were both going after the same promotion within Nightshade.”
“Why the hell did he come after me?”
“Because you’re guarding Grace,” Fallon said with his customary devastating logic.
Luther suppressed the icy chill that slithered through his veins.
“The only reason he would have been worried about Grace is because she can identify the singer,” he said quietly.
“Right. Craigmore must have been convinced that if we found the singer, we would uncover a connection that would lead straight back to him.”
Luther thought about that. “Wonder why he didn’t just take out the singer and cut the connection that way?”
“I keep telling you, she’s a pro like Sweetwater. She wouldn’t be all that easy to find, let alone remove.”
Fallon clicked off the way he usually did, without bothering to say good-bye. The way you knew a chat with him was over was when the phone went dead in your ear.
THIRTY-FOUR
Grace watched Luther close the phone and sink down onto the sofa. Absently he rubbed his right leg, weariness in every line of his body. The aftermath of the confrontation with Craigmore was having its way with him, hitting him on every front. She remembered the sensation all too well.
“Fallon says Sweetwater is still looking hard for the Siren,” Luther said. “He’s sure it won’t take long to find her.”
“That’s good to know.”
She got up, went into the kitchen and took the whiskey down from the cupboard. She poured a healthy shot into a glass, carried it back into the living room and gave it to him.
He looked at the glass for a moment as if he didn’t recognize the contents. Then he drank some of the whiskey.
“Thanks,” he said. “I needed that. Or something.”
Grace sat beside him. Together they looked out at the night through the open lanai windows. She put her hand on his thigh and began a gentle massage. He hesitated, as though he didn’t know how to react. Then, without a word, he let her continue. After a while he drank some more whiskey.
“Fallon sounded strange tonight,” he said.
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. Different. Tired. Worried. Depressed, maybe. Or maybe just a little overwhelmed. Hard to explain. Never heard him quite like he was tonight. He’s always been . . .”
“Fallon?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Long as I’ve known him, he’s always been Fallon. A force of nature, like a thunderstorm or a tsunami or a shark. But not tonight.”
“J&J is all we’ve got to stop Nightshade, and Fallon Jones is in charge of J&J,” she said. “That means the outcome of this battle is on his shoulders. He needs someone.”
“Who?”
She thought about it. “Someone he can talk to. Someone he can trust. Most of all, someone who can take over a portion of the responsibility. An assistant, maybe.”
Luther shook his head. “He’d never go for an assistant. He works alone. Like me.”
“You didn’t work the Maui case alone. I was there, too, remember? And I’m still around.”
“Because I won’t let you go off on your own as long as it looks like you need a bodyguard,” he said. He drank some more whiskey.
“No,” she said quietly. “I’m still here because I want to be here.”
He contemplated the darkness. “Living in the moment?”
“That’s all any of us really has, isn’t it?”
“No,” Luther said. “We’ve also got our pasts.”
She sighed. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Luther swallowed some more whiskey.
After a couple of minutes she tried again.
“I know what it’s like,” she said.
“Living in the moment?”
“No, killing someone with your aura. I’ve done it, too, remember?”
He looked at her over the rim of the glass. “For what it’s worth, Fallon says that, technically speaking, we didn’t actually kill anyone. We used our own energy to reflect the violent energy of our attackers. The process set up a dissonant wave pattern that shattered their auras. He said it was like they were killed by a ricochet from their own weapon.”
She contemplated that for a long moment. “Interesting but I’m not sure it changes anything. The bottom line is that we are responsible for the deaths of those people, and no matter how bad they were or how much they deserved to die, you and I still have to live with it.”
“Yes,” he said. “We do.”
“He was trying to kill you, Luther. You were fighting for your life.”
“His aura winked out like that damn laser. Like someone had turned off a switch.”
“I know what it’s like to watch that happen, too. It’s terrifying to realize that you have it within you to take a life without even using a weapon.”
He gazed into what was left of the whiskey. “Makes you feel like there’s something inside you that’s not really human.”
“Oh, we’re human, all right,” she said. “Humans have always been very good at killing. But we pay a heavy price when we use that talent. I don’t think anyone is the same after they’ve gone down that path.”
“I know you and I and Petra and Wayne have paid a price. What about guys like Sweetwater?”
“I expect that, in their own way, the members of the Sweetwater family pay, too,” she said. “Maybe that’s why they’re such a tight-knit clan. They need each other to survive what they do for a living. One thing’s for sure, I’ll bet none of them has any real friends outside the family, not even when they were children. They can’t afford to trust outsiders.”
“Yeah, I guess you would have to keep the truth about what Daddy does for a living from your kids. Kids talk.”
“And then, later, you’d have to teach them to lie to everyone. Finding a wife or a husband must be tough if you’re a Sweetwater.”
“Running that kind of family business would tend to limit your life-style,” he said. “Hard to talk business with your golfing buddies, that’s for sure.”
“Nevertheless, I think it’s different for people like you and me. Knowing that we can kill and in such a very personal way, with our auras, makes us feel . . .” She broke off, unable to find the right word.
“Uncivilized,” Luther said.
“Yes, uncivilized,” she agreed. “We don’t like to think of ourselves that way. It violates our sense of who we are. But one of the things that defines us is that we are survivors. When push comes to shove, that’s what we do. We survive or we go down fighting. I think we need to accept that part of ourselves, too.”
He did not look away from the night but he put his hand over hers on his thigh. She threaded her fingers through his, stood and led him down the hall to the bedroom.
They made love first; hard, fast, a little violent, affirming what Grace had said earlier. They were both survivors.
His phone rang, bringing him awake with an unpleasant jolt of adrenaline. His eyes opened to the sunlight outside the window. Going on ten o’clock, he decided. He grabbed the phone.
“Package got picked up a few minutes ago,” Petra said. “We watched the plane take off for the mainland. Tell Grace the walk-in’s clean. No need to worry about the health inspector.”
“Thanks,” Luther said.
“No problem. Like old times. How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“You did what you had to do. Get over it and have breakfast with Grace.”
Luther closed the phone and looked at Grace.
“Petra says I should get over it and have breakfast with you.”
She smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Grace scooped the tiny black seeds out of the papaya half and set the fruit on a pla
te.
Luther watched her while he made coffee, his expression bleak. He was still recovering from the trauma of what had happened in the garage, she thought. He needed time.
“This isn’t the kind of place you’re used to, is it?” he said.
Startled, she paused in the act of carrying the plates to the small kitchen table. “What?”
“This apartment.” He angled his head to indicate the cramped kitchen-living area and the small bedroom beyond. “It’s not exactly your style. I could tell that first day when we checked into the hotel suite on Maui. You didn’t even blink.”
She set the plates down very carefully, unsure of where the conversation was going.
“Should I have blinked?” she asked, wary.
“No, because you’re accustomed to that kind of first-class travel.”
“Ah,” she said. She smiled.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I now know where you’re going with this conversation. Yes, I did spend more than a decade traveling first-class. Martin Crocker knew how to make money and he paid me well. But before I met Martin I was living in an apartment that was about this size and buying my clothes in thrift shops. My cottage in Eclipse Bay is not much bigger than this place.”
He gave her a head-to-toe glance, silently underlining the fact that her shirt and trousers had not come from a thrift shop.
“J&J pays me a very good salary,” she said drily. “I’m sure the agency pays you well, too.”
He turned back to the coffeemaker. “I’ve had a lot of expenses in the past few years.”
“I’m told that divorce is never cheap. Guess that’s what you get for being such a romantic. Is that coffee ready?”
He glared at the coffeemaker. “Yes.”
She finally lost her patience. “Let’s get something straight. I’ve lived high and I’ve lived on the streets. Living high is definitely more comfortable but neither place felt like home. My cottage in Eclipse Bay hasn’t ever felt like home, either. This apartment and the Dark Rainbow, they feel like home. Now why don’t you follow Petra’s advice? Get over it and pour us both a cup of coffee?”
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