by Кей Хупер
Before he could move, lightning flashed again, and in the momentary brilliance, he could see what the barrier was.
As darkness surrounded him again, Ransom grappled with what he had seen. Three old storage trunks, stacked one on top of the other. Trunks he was almost positive had been, only moments ago and for donkey's years before that, shoved over underneath the eaves in the far west end of the attic.
Matter of fact, he was sure that's where they'd been, because they were a matched set of old steamer trunks, covered over with travel stickers the way people used to do, the sort of thing decorators were selling for a fortune these days. He'd taken special note of them there.
About thirty yards away from where they now were.
Thunder boomed, vibrating the plank floor beneath his feet, and he wished fervently that he had brought a flashlight.
A floorboard creaked again. Behind him.
He whirled around, the oath that escaped him a bit too high-pitched for his ego. Nothing looming this time, thank God, but wasn't that—?
He was facing the window again, and as he stared a flash of lightning backlit the stained glass radiantly.
Someone was standing in front of it.
Someone without a head.
Ransom took a panicked step back, coming up hard against the trunks that had been, surely, farther away from him just a minute ago.
And the lights came on.
He blinked as his eyes adjusted, stood staring, and after a moment uttered a shaken laugh. "Jesus."
Ransom walked closer to the stained-glass window, until he could reach out and touch the old dressmaker's form. The surface he touched was cracked with age, and the dress draped around the form was old, fragile lace and silk.
"I remember you," he said to the form, comforted by the normal sound of his own voice. "You've been up here for years." He paused, adding uncertainly, "I don't think you were in front of the window, though."
One hand still resting on the form, he half turned and looked back at the trunks now stacked neatly in the center of the attic space. "And you guys definitely weren't there," he added, hearing his own uneasiness.
He walked back to the trunks, studying them. Yeah, he remembered seeing these guys. He remembered seeing these guys over at the west end of the attic, with a jumble of other stuff nobody had bothered with in years. Old furniture, and a canvas-draped thing he thought was a mirror, and—
And a dressmaker's form.
Ransom looked back over his shoulder, half expecting the form to be back where it belonged. But it stood before the window, seemingly innocuous.
Until lightning flashed outside the window again, the multicolored glass giving the sudden, brief impression of a woman with arms and a head of flowing hair standing there.
Deciding that he'd check the rest of his traps some other time, Ransom squeezed past the trunks and lost no time in leaving the attic. And he didn't want to admit even to himself that he didn't breathe easy until the attic door was closed behind him.
Closed and locked.
The lights in the lounge flickered and dimmed, but didn't go out, and though the storm was clearly building in intensity, the sounds of it were muted in there and hardly interrupted conversation.
"So you believe dead is gone," Quentin said thoughtfully. "Which means you probably aren't religious."
"So?" Diana was trying to ignore the storm, ignore the prickly, tingling-skin sensation that had remained with her even after they'd left the veranda. She looked away from him, trying to appear casually interested in the room around them, and blinked when she saw a woman at a nearby table drinking tea. The woman met Diana's gaze, smiled, and lifted her cup in a slight acknowledgment.
She was wearing Victorian dress.
"Diana?"
She started slightly and looked back at Quentin. "What?"
"We've found it's easier for some psychics to accept their abilities if they have a religious or spiritual background. For whatever reason, religion or spirituality sometimes helps the impossible seem more... credible for some people."
Diana sent a quick glance toward that nearby table, only to find that both the woman and the table were no longer there.
All of a sudden, she wanted something a lot stronger than sweet tea. But she took a sip of what she had, vaguely surprised to see that her hand appeared steady. "So if you can't convince me with so-called science, you'll try mysticism?" Her voice was steady as well, she thought.
"Different things work with different people," he said, smiling faintly. "We all find our reasons for accepting what we have to accept, Diana. We all figure out sooner or later what we believe, what our philosophies are. Science doesn't make religion or spirituality less valid, it's just another option. All that matters is that we accept what exists."
"What you say exists."
"You have firsthand proof that the paranormal exists, we both know that."
She was tempted, but didn't look around the room again. She was afraid of what she might see. "All I know is that I have an illness that exists," she said, her voice flat. "I'm told insanity runs in the family."
"Who told you?"
"My father — in a roundabout way. He never talks much about my mother, but I gather from the little he has said that she was certifiable."
"Was?"
"She died when I was very small."
"Then you have no real idea what she was like. Only hearsay."
"My father wouldn't lie to me."
"I'm not saying he did. But since it obviously never occurred to him that you might be psychic, and he undoubtedly had the same ideas about his late wife, all you can really know is that she also had experiences he didn't understand — and viewed as mental or emotional problems."
Diana said, "My father has done everything in his power to help me."
Aware he was treading on tricky ground, Quentin said carefully, "Of course he has. Any father would. And, like most people, I'm sure he sincerely believes in modern-day medical science. What he doesn't believe is that the paranormal exists. Which is why the possibility that you might be psychic quite likely never even occurred to him."
"Or to any of my doctors, highly educated though they were?"
"Especially them." He shook his head. "There are a few pioneers researching the paranormal — there always have been. But mainstream medical science can't prove to its satisfaction that psychic abilities are real."
"Why not?"
He lifted an eyebrow at her. "Can you prove what you experienced out on the veranda was real? Even more, could you duplicate that experience in a lab?"
"No, I can't prove it. And I sure as hell couldn't duplicate it. Because it was all in my mind." It had to be. Surely, it had to be.
Ignoring her denial, Quentin said, "Much of science is based on the belief that the results of experiments have to be duplicated, again and again, under very controlled conditions, before anything can be proven factual. But psychic ability doesn't work that way."
"Yeah, right."
Quentin smiled. "Unfortunate but true. My boss says that if ever a psychic is born who can completely control his or her abilities, the whole world will change. He's probably right. He usually is. But until then, until a psychic or psychics come along who can consistently demonstrate and control their abilities, we're left out on the fringes."
"The lunatic fringes?" she murmured.
Unoffended, he said, "You'll find plenty to say so. But we're doing what we can to build a solid reputation in order to be taken seriously. We believe we understand how most of our abilities work, if only in a general sense, and those beliefs are grounded in science. We're working very hard to train our abilities to help us better do our jobs."
Quentin paused, then added, "And don't discount the fact that the FBI, not the most frivolous organization in existence, was accepting enough of the idea to allow our unit to be created in the first place some years ago."
Diana took another sip of her tea, more to be doing something
than because she wanted it.
Quentin went on, "Diana, I know this is a possibility you've never considered. But what will it hurt to consider it now?"
"I'd be lying to myself. I'd be looking for an easy answer." Her reply was automatic after so many years of being warned by doctors not to justify, not to attempt to "explain away" her symptoms.
"Who says the answer has to be complicated?"
"People are complicated. The human mind and human emotions are complicated."
"Agreed. But sometimes the answers aren't complicated at all." He smiled again, ruefully this time. "Although, as a matter of fact, you'll find that having psychic abilities complicates the hell out of your life."
"Gee, that's all I need."
"I'm not handing you a magic pill. And I'm sure as hell not telling you that your life will suddenly be perfect, all your problems in the past, just because there's a very simple answer to the question of what's wrong with you. Nothing is wrong. Your mind just works a bit differently from what is traditionally considered the norm."
Listen to him.
Diana caught her breath, staring at the cup in her hand. It had always sounded alien, that particular whisper in her head, somehow not a part of her. It was one reason she had never been able to completely buy the doctors' various explanations — because all of them had more or less stated that what she "heard" in her mind were only aspects of her own personality.
So why did this whisper feel like someone else?
"Diana?"
She set her cup down and looked at Quentin, listening to the rumblings of the storm as it rolled around the mountains and seemed to circle the valley. Round and round and back again. She tried to listen to that and not to the whisper in her mind.
He can help you. He can help us.
To Quentin, a bit unsteadily, she said, "I've sat across from enough doctors to have heard, over the years, most of the jargon. It varied a little from one to the next, but one thing they all had in common was the absolute conviction that hearing voices made you delusional."
"If you're insane. Not if you're psychic."
A little laugh escaped her, hardly a breath of sound. "They were all very careful not to use that word. Insane. Very careful to find nice, socially correct words and phrases to use instead. Disturbed. Ill. Confused. In need of more... advanced... therapy. I think my favorite phrase was 'in transition.' I asked that particular doctor what I was in transition from. Or to. He said with a perfectly straight face that I was in transition from a state of confusion to a state of certainty."
"Christ," Quentin muttered.
"Yeah, he wasn't the best at it. He didn't last long. Or — I didn't last long with him."
Diana...
"Diana, I know I'm asking a lot in asking you to believe that you're psychic—"
"What makes you think I am, by the way? I could have been making up everything I've told you." She was trying very hard to ignore that other voice.
"You didn't make up that sketch — so to speak. Besides, we tend to recognize each other."
"At first sight?"
"Pretty much."
"I see. So now I'm a member of a secret club?"
Quentin grinned suddenly, recalling that initial conversation with Bishop years before. "Something like that. As for recognizing others like you, you'll find it comes in handy."
"You claim to be psychic, and yet I didn't... sense... anything different about you," she said, realizing as the words emerged that she was lying. She had sensed something, had known in an instant that her life was about to change forever because of him, even if she hadn't been able to admit it to herself then.
"I'm willing to bet you did," he said, still smiling. "But you haven't been taught how to sort through the impressions of all your senses. I can help you with that."
"Sure. And then I get to recognize people as nuts as I am."
"You aren't nuts."
"No, just seriously disturbed."
"That either. Look, even if I was wrong about you being psychic and you did accept the possibility, would you be worse off than you are now?"
"I don't know."
... listen to him.
"Could you be? You've been medicated, and you've tried every form of therapy available without success. Why not take a chance and find out if I can help you? What have you got to lose?"
Instead of answering that, Diana said, "You believe I can help you solve Missy's murder, don't you?"
Quentin hesitated, then said, "There has to be a connection. You drew her picture."
"Even if I did, that doesn't mean I can help you. If I'm psychic, as you claim, then maybe I just... picked up her image somehow. From here, this place where she died. That would make sense — at least in your world."
He ignored that little dig. "Maybe you did. But if you did, it's very likely you could pick up other information as well."
"Information about Missy and her murder."
"Yeah, maybe."
"So who's helping who?"
This time, Quentin didn't hesitate. "We're helping each other, or we will be."
Listen to him. Let him help us.
Diana forced herself to stand up. "I have to think about this," she told him. "I — the storm seems to be easing up. I think I'll go to my cottage for a while." She took a step away.
On his feet as well, Quentin said, "Diana? Better stop by the front desk and have your keycard redone. We both know it won't work."
"How did you—"
"We usually have a higher than normal level of electromagnetic energy in our bodies. Tends to interfere with some electrical or magnetic things, especially those we have to carry around with us. Like watches. And keycards."
He wasn't wearing a watch.
Diana glanced down at her left arm, bare of a watch because she'd never been able to wear one. Then she stared at Quentin for a moment before turning and walking away.
Toward the front desk.
CHAPTER 5
It was late afternoon, the storm long gone, when Quentin found Beau in the conservatory, alone, painting at an easel.
"Making progress?" the artist asked. Quentin couldn't see what was on the canvas, and wasn't interested enough to look; he appreciated both fine art and the people who created it, but right now his mind was on something else. "I have no idea," he replied frankly. "She hasn't called the cops or the guys with the butterfly nets — yet. But she also hasn't admitted to even the possibility that she's psychic."
"Not surprising, really. So many people have spent so many years convincing her she's sick."
"Yeah, and I hate that." Quentin scowled and began prowling among the other easels set up for Beau's students. "They've done a real number on her."
"Conventional medicine. They only know what they think they know."
"They know shit, at least when it comes to us."
"True." Beau watched the other man for a moment, then smiled slightly and returned his attention to his canvas.
"Not that you don't definitely have some sick puppies in your workshop, judging by some of these."
"Troubled people. Not sick puppies."
"No, Beau, these are some sick puppies." Quentin was staring at one canvas that bore a somewhat abstract image of a prone figure seemingly in a pool of blood. The figure was contorted in an agonized pose, and sticking out of its chest was what appeared to be a huge knife.
Unperturbed, Beau said, "Less sick when you know the background. His brother was killed in a violent mugging. Protecting him. He's still trying to come to terms with it. With the exception of Diana, all the students in this workshop are trying to come to terms with a specific traumatic event. So they aren't emotionally disturbed in the clinical sense. Ordinary people, for the most part."
"Oh." Quentin stared a moment longer, then resumed his pacing, sparing only a glance now and then for some of the other sketches and watercolors. "God knows what I'd draw," he muttered, half under his breath.
"The ghosts in your life,
probably. Missy. Joey. Others lost along the way. The ones you blame yourself for losing."
"I've had my couch time this month, Beau."
"Sorry."
Quentin sighed. "No, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to snap. I'm just feeling very frustrated right now. I want to help Diana, and I'm afraid she won't let me even try."
"Be patient."
"You know something I don't?"
"No. We both know patience is something you have to work at."
Quentin sighed again. "You're here to state the obvious, is that it?"
Beau chuckled. "I'm here to teach a workshop. Come on, Quentin, you know as well as I do that there aren't any shortcuts. You and Diana both have to find your own way. Whether that's separately or together — or both — is entirely up to the two of you."
"Jesus, you sound like Bishop."
"It's something he understands. Miranda too."
"That didn't stop them from taking a hand in things last fall," Quentin said, recalling the single time in his memory that Bishop and his wife had made a deliberate attempt to change a tragic future both had foreseen.
"With great care and only because the stakes were so high. They'll always hesitate to interfere openly unless they're very, very sure that by doing so they won't make the situation worse."
"I was there."
"I know you were. And I know you understand the concept."
"That doesn't mean I always agree."
"No. It's always more difficult when you're the one... personally involved."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, teaching Diana in this workshop of yours sounds like a shortcut to me."
"No. This is a critical time for her, a turning point in her life. And what other people do at those turning points is as much a part of our journey as we are ourselves."
Quentin sorted through that, and said finally, "No offense, but you really do sound like a fortune cookie sometimes."
"So Maggie tells me."
Momentarily distracted by the mention of Beau's half sister, Quentin said, "Do she and John have that organization of theirs up and running yet? I hadn't heard."
"Just about."
"So we'll soon have a domestic organization geared toward psychic investigation and resources."
