by Кей Хупер
"No. I don't expect I would."
The little girl smiled. "Then we'd better hurry."
"What's your name?" Diana asked, because she always did.
"Becca."
Diana nodded. "Okay, Becca. You're the one who called me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"There's something you need to see." Another frown drew her brows together. "And we really do have to hurry."
"I've spent hours here before," Diana protested, but followed nevertheless as Becca turned and led the way toward the distant stables.
"I know. But being on our side here — here at The Lodge — is much more dangerous for you. Besides, he'll be here soon, and he won't let you stay."
"He? Becca—"
"This way. Hurry, Diana."
Knowing from long experience that protest was useless, Diana followed her guide. They were always like this, taking her places, insisting that she see what they wanted to show her, do what they asked of her. Or just listen to them.
She had listened to a lot of them, over the years.
"Why is it more dangerous for me to be here while I'm at The Lodge?" she asked, hoping for at least one answer.
"Because it started here."
"What started here?"
"Everything."
Diana wondered if she'd expected the "answer" to make sense. Tough luck, if she had.
"Becca, I don't understand."
"I know. But you will."
Diana picked up her pace, since Becca definitely had, and followed the little girl into the first of three barns making up The Lodge's stables. They walked down the long, silent hall, past stalls with their half-open Dutch doors. Diana didn't have to look to know that each stall appeared empty.
She also knew there were a dozen horses stabled here. Here in this barn at The Lodge. Not here in the gray time.
It had taken her a while to get accustomed to that.
There were no animals here, not because they lacked whatever energy or spiritual essence survived death, Diana believed, but because nonhuman creatures seldom lingered in the gray time, caught between two worlds due to guilt or anger or unfinished business. Only people did that.
"Not much farther," Becca said over her shoulder.
"Becca, is this about you?"
"I called you, didn't I?"
"We both know that doesn't mean anything. I had one guide who called me a dozen times, and it was never about him."
Becca stopped about halfway down the hall and turned to look steadily at Diana. "This time, it's about you."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"What do you mean?" Diana crossed her forearms over her breasts and rubbed her upper arms with her hands, trying to fight off the chill. Not that it helped. It never did.
"You were always meant to come here, Diana. To The Lodge. You've been tied to this place your whole life."
"How could that be? I've never been here before."
"Connections."
"Is that supposed to make sense? Because it doesn't."
Becca shook her head slightly, but said, "Things have to happen the way they happen. When they happen. Do you think it was an accident that the doctor took you off all the medicines when he did? That there's been just enough time to get your mind clear and all those chemicals out of your body?"
"Just enough time?"
"Enough time for you to be ready when you came here."
Diana was conscious of a new chill, a deeper one. There was something wrong here, something different. She had talked to guides for more than twenty years, and this... this wasn't the way those conversations had gone.
Like Jeremy and his bones, most of them had needed her to act on their behalf. To find something for them. To pass on some sort of information. To finish their unfinished business. It wasn't about her. It was never about her.
Becca nodded, as though she had heard those unspoken thoughts. "It feels different, doesn't it? That's because you're here, really here, in the flesh. You could do it sometimes before, when you blacked out, but never when you were asleep. When you were asleep, it was just... like a dream. Only a part of you was here, on this side. The medicines mostly kept the rest of you from crossing over."
"I'm not dead," Diana said slowly.
"No, of course not. That's not what this is about. It's time, Diana. Time for you to start remembering the places you go to when you sleep or black out. Time for you to realize what you can do. What you've been doing most of your life. Time to come here, and meet him, and begin to find the answers you need. It's all part of your journey."
Confused, Diana said, "But I won't remember. When I'm awake. I never remember."
"You never remembered before because of the medicines. They couldn't keep you from doing what you had to do, but they could keep you from remembering. Think about it. You haven't blacked out since they took the medicines away."
"The drawing. The painting."
"He explained to you. That was different from the blackouts. That was just like a kind of daydreaming."
Diana was silent.
"If you let yourself remember now, let yourself understand and believe, there won't be any more blackouts, Diana. There won't need to be. It'll still be easier to open the door and come here when you're asleep, but you'll be able to do it when you're awake. Whenever you want to. If you believe."
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it? You're halfway there. You've been remembering your dreams," Becca said.
"Nightmares," Diana said involuntarily. "And I don't remember, I just... They scare me."
"They're supposed to."
That young, grave, sweet voice sent another of those deeper chills darting through Diana, and she fought an urge to take a step back. Instead, she said, "You called me. Brought me down here. Why?"
"To show you something. So you'll really start to believe."
"Show me what?"
"A secret place."
"Becca—"
"There are secrets everywhere, Diana. Remember that." She pointed off to the side, where the door to this barn's tack room stood closed. "One of them is in there. Tell him to look for it. Tell him it's hidden there."
"What's hidden there? Becca—"
The little girl tilted her head to one side, her expression solemn. "In the attic too. There's something you need to see up there. It's important, Diana. It's very important."
"Why?" The question had barely emerged when a sudden flash made Diana blink. For an instant, just a split second, she thought she smelled hay, thought the grayness all around her changed. "Becca, why?" she repeated quickly.
"Because it's the truth. And you need to know the truth. Until you know that, you won't understand what's happening here."
Another flash brought Diana the smell of hay and horses and the sight of fluorescent lights stretching down the barn's hallway. She felt a sudden warmth grip her upper arms and realized instantly what was happening right now, this moment.
She was being pulled back.
"Becca, what is it? What is the truth?"
Another flash. Then another. She could see Quentin now, in the flashes, standing before her.
"I can't tell you, Diana. You have to find it out for yourself. You and him. You need him. Because—"
"—it's coming," Diana said as she opened her eyes.
"What's coming?" Quentin demanded, his hands tightening on her bare and chilled upper arms.
A horse snorted nearby, making her jump, and the strong if pleasant scents of hay and horses were suddenly thick in her nostrils. The strips of fluorescent lights down the barn's hall seemed so bright they hurt her eyes. She wondered vaguely if they remained on all night, then decided that Quentin had probably turned them on when he had followed her into the barn minutes — or maybe hours — before.
Her feet felt like ice. She felt like ice.
"Diana, what are you doing down here? It's five o'clock in the morning."
She blinked up at him
, for a moment totally baffled, her mind a blank. But then she remembered.
She remembered all of it.
"I was... following," she murmured.
"Following what?"
"Not what. Who."
Quentin's frown deepened, but before he said anything else, he took off his zip-up sweatshirt jacket. "Here, put this on. Your skin's like ice."
Diana looked down at herself, abruptly aware of her very skimpy attire. The silky camisole was clinging to her chilled flesh like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Feeling heat rise in her cheeks, she hastily shrugged into the jacket, wrapping herself in the warmth and scent of his body.
"Christ, your feet are nearly blue," Quentin said. "The stable manager used to keep extra boots and sometimes shoes in the tack room, but it'll be locked. I need to get you back to the cottage."
Realizing more by intuition than any movement of his that he meant to pick her up and carry her, Diana took a step toward the tack room and said, "The door isn't locked. And we... we can't leave yet."
"Why not?"
Without answering, Diana went to the door, only dimly aware that her feet really were numb; she could barely feel the rough pavers beneath them. She turned the door handle and stepped up into the wooden-floored tack room.
It was Quentin who flipped on the light switch as he entered close behind her, saying, "Good, they still keep the extra stuff here." He went to the other side of the large space, where a low shelf held riding boots and several pairs of shoes.
Diana stood looking around her. Secret place? Was there a secret place here? All she saw was a tack room, a roughly eighteen-by-twenty-foot space crowded with saddles on stands, and bridles and halters and lead ropes on pegs, and numerous utility trays on shelves holding brushes and combs and hoof picks and other grooming equipment and supplies.
"Sit down, Diana." He took her arm and led her to one of the two long benches placed back-to-back down the center of the space. Diana sat on the nearest end of the bench, but reached for the shoes he held in one hand before he could sit down beside her.
"I'll do that. You take a look around in here."
He frowned down at her. "What am I looking for?"
Diana hesitated only an instant before replying, "A secret." She bent over to pull on the fairly new-looking but definitely too-large running shoes he had found for her.
"Everything's pretty much out in the open here," Quentin noted, looking around. "Except for the first-aid cabinet over there, I don't see any closed storage at all. What kind of secret could be hidden here?"
Diana didn't hear in his voice any sign of humoring her, and she saw only intent interest in his face when she straightened and looked up at him, but she was still wary of saying any more than she had to, at least for now.
Not because she feared he'd think she was crazy, but because she was afraid she'd convince herself of that fact if she started talking.
"Diana?"
"What're you doing down here, anyway?" she asked abruptly.
Quentin replied matter-of-factly, "I looked out my window last night and realized I could see your cottage. And something told me to watch. That little voice I hear sometimes. So I did. Saw you come out and head toward the stables a little while ago. It seemed like a good idea to follow you." He paused, then added, "It wasn't a blackout, was it? Your eyes were closed. You were walking in your sleep."
"Something like that."
"Something like that? Diana—"
"Could you just please look around in here?"
Quentin didn't move. "Does this have something to do with the murders? The disappearances?"
She drew a breath. "You tell me. A... guide... brought me down here. A little girl, maybe twelve years old. Said her name was Becca."
Barely hesitating, Quentin said, "Rebecca Morse disappeared from The Lodge nine years ago. No trace of her has ever been found."
"Then I guess this does have something to do with the — the murders. Because she led me here. In the gray time."
"And told you what?"
"That this place held a secret." Diana looked around the neat, silent tack room. "Becca told me that there were secrets everywhere. She told me to tell you to look for the one hidden in here."
"Me? By name?"
"No. She said 'him.' But she was talking about you." Diana shivered and drew the jacket even tighter around her. She should have felt lost in all the material, except that it was warm and smelled very pleasantly of him, and that gave her an odd and very unfamiliar feeling of security. She wished she could luxuriate in it. "There's something hidden here, Quentin, and we need to find it."
Still without moving, he said, "In that case, we need to call Nate and then talk to the manager of The Lodge. Before we do anything else. This is private property, Diana, and we're in here after hours and without permission."
"You sure as hell are," a grim voice agreed from the doorway.
CHAPTER 9
Cullen Ruppe was a dark man in his fifties, powerfully built through the shoulders and arms, and with a longtime rider's slim hips and strong legs. He was also, Nate had informed Quentin under his breath, apt to view himself as a badass, possibly why he was apparently hell-bent on giving everybody a hard time. Nobody was searching his tack room, not without permission from Management or, failing that, a warrant.
"I can't get a warrant," Nate told Quentin in a low voice as he joined the other man near the entrance end of the long barn, leaving Ruppe scowling just outside the tack room door. "Not on the word of a maybe-psychic who could have been walking in her sleep for all we know."
Quentin kept his voice low as well when he said, "I believe her, Nate. I believe we need to search that tack room."
"Yeah, I know you believe her. The question is, what do I tell Steph — Ms. Boyd — to convince her?"
"You said she was agreeable when you talked to her last night."
"Yeah, but she wasn't happy about the situation. Now I'm supposed to get her up at dawn to okay this? Look, what do you really expect to find in there?"
"I don't know. Something. Something to help us figure out who murdered Missy and Jeremy Grant — and who knows how many of the others."
"You're expecting a lot of a lousy tack room, Quentin. People in and out all day, every day. What could be hidden in there?"
"I don't know," Quentin repeated. "But I think we need to find out."
Nate pursed his lips and blew out a slightly impatient breath. He looked tired, which wasn't surprising; he might have gotten five or six hours' sleep before Quentin's call pulled him out of his own bed, but it was more likely he'd been working in his office until well after midnight.
"You're asking me to go out on a pretty goddamned long limb here," he said finally. "We both know a thorough search of that room is going to mean checking under floorboards and behind walls. If we don't find anything after all that, the owners of this place are going to raise hell."
"I know. I wouldn't ask it, Nate, if I wasn't convinced we'll find something worthwhile in there."
The cop studied him for a long, silent moment, then sighed again. "Ah, shit. Okay, I'll go roust Ms. Boyd, see if I can think of a reasonable explanation to give her. You got any suggestions?"
Quentin was more or less accustomed to coming up with reasonable explanations for psychic "hunches" or leads, since the SCU members often found themselves in that position, but this time he was stumped. Absolutely nothing he knew of in the information he had on the missing and dead kids connected them in any unusual way with these stables. Nothing.
No connection, no warrant.
"I wish I did, but... sorry."
"And I don't suppose Ms. Brisco is ready to go public with this psychic stuff?"
"I doubt it. She's only beginning to believe it herself."
"She believes enough to insist there's something hidden in that tack room. Because another ghost told her so?"
Diana had already returned to her cottage to get dressed — at Que
ntin's insistence — by the time Nate had arrived, so the cop hadn't yet spoken to her. About any of her... encounters, including the one the previous afternoon. Which was probably why he sounded frustrated.
Probably.
"The ghost of another one of the missing kids told her so, Nate. Rebecca Morse. That's one missing kid you should definitely remember; you worked on her case."
Nate was frowning now. "Yeah. Yeah, I worked on it. She went out to play in the gardens one morning, and nobody admitted to seeing her once she stepped off the back veranda. We never found a trace of her. My boss at the time decided her father had snatched her; there'd been an ugly divorce. But we couldn't trace him."
"Trust me, the father didn't snatch her. Or, at any rate, she never left The Lodge." Quentin glanced toward Ruppe, and added, "I'll wait here while you talk to Ms. Boyd, if you don't mind."
"You suspect Ruppe?"
"He was here twenty-five years ago. He's here now. That's all I know." Quentin was also wary of the fact that Ruppe had turned up here when, if Quentin hadn't followed her, Diana would have been alone and vulnerable. Maybe the stable manager would have posed no threat to her even so, but Quentin wasn't prepared to accept that as a given.
There had to be a reason, after all, why his own abilities had sent him down here after her. Maybe he had just needed to wake her, to pull her from the gray time before she remained there too long. Or maybe the threat to Diana had been of the flesh-and-blood sort.
Quentin didn't know. Yet.
"Considering the precious little we've got," Nate said with another sigh, "I can't say as I blame you for what's probably grasping at straws."
"I know he was questioned after Missy was murdered. I read the file." He had memorized it.
"Then you know the cops at the time couldn't find a whiff of anything suspicious about Ruppe."
"I know. But like I said, he was here then. He's here now. If nothing else, maybe he knows something he doesn't know he knows."
Nate considered that and nodded. "Yeah, maybe. People do, often enough. But don't question him, Quentin, not yet. He woke at what he states is his usual time and came down from his apartment to find two guests poking around in his tack room, so he's got a right to be rattled and pissed. Let's not make things worse until we've got reason to, okay?"
