Eye of the Beholder

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “How?”

  “By finding out who killed Guthrie.”

  He was not making a great impression. Alexa had looked both resigned and wary on the drive back into town. He was pretty sure that she was toying with the possibility that he was a full-fledged wacko.

  He was almost positive that she would not jump into bed with him again until she had decided just how far gone he was.

  On the other hand, he thought as he walked into the lobby, she had agreed to have dinner with him tomorrow night. He allowed himself to entertain a cautious note of optimism.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Eric Emerson, busy with some colorful walking maps at the concierge desk, gave him a professional smile. “An overnight courier left a package for you while you were out.”

  The coffee had finally arrived. Trask’s mood escalated another notch. “About time.”

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  Eric rose and disappeared into a small office. Trask glanced toward the front desk while he waited. A small crowd milled about in the lobby. There was an air of expectation. The first of the resort’s paying guests had arrived.

  A sense of satisfaction hit him when he saw the expressions on the faces of those who were surveying the glowing glass bricks, lacquered wood, and scrolled steel of the lobby desk. He’d been in the business long enough to know when the fantasy was working.

  Eric reappeared bearing a carefully wrapped and taped package.

  Trask inhaled deeply as he took the sealed box from Eric. He caught the faint aroma of rich, dark-roasted coffee.

  “I think I’m going to survive after all, Eric.”

  Eric grinned. “I’m delighted to hear that, sir, given the fact that you pay my salary. I assume those are whole beans?”

  “Naturally.”

  “There’s a coffeemaker in your suite, but you’ll need a grinder for the beans.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll have the kitchen send one up.”

  “Thanks. I always say, a good hotel concierge should be able to read minds.” He inclined his head toward the group at the reception desk. “Looks like our guests are starting to arrive.”

  “You’re looking at the first trickle. According to Mr. Santana, we’ll be one-third full tonight. Sold out by the weekend. Scheduling the opening to coincide with the Spring Festival was a great idea, even if things will be a bit hectic.”

  “Nothing like opening with a bang. Hotels are like restaurants. They’re either hot right from the start or they’re doomed.”

  Eric chuckled. “Judging by the bookings, we’re definitely going to be hot. Must have tapped into some of the positive energy vortices in the ground around here when they dug the hotel’s foundation.”

  “Yeah, right,” Trask muttered. “Positive energy vortices. I wonder if they were masculine or feminine.”

  Eric shrugged. “According to the people up at the Institute, it doesn’t matter. Both kinds are equally strong. The important thing is that they’re positive, not negative.”

  Aware that he was rapidly getting out of his metaphysical depth, Trask nodded and headed toward the staircase.

  On the second floor he went down the west wing corridor to his suite. Cradling the fragrant package in one hand, he paused to dig out his card key.

  A glint of bronze caught his eye. He glanced into the alcove and saw Dancing Satyr. He could have sworn that the damn statue winked at him.

  He remembered how he had caught Alexa trying to stuff the figure into a closet on the night of the reception. He smiled to himself.

  “I may keep you even if you do turn out to be a fake,” he said aloud.

  He slid the card key through the lock and pushed open the door. The suite was cool and dark. Sort of like Harmony Spring cave, he thought as he put the coffee down on the counter. But at least here he didn’t experience that weird sense of being an intruder in a mysterious world.

  The housekeeping team had closed the drapes and turned on the air conditioner when they cleaned. He paused at the thermostat and switched it back to the off position. Then he opened the French doors onto the balcony. He much preferred the fresh air of the desert, even when it was on the hot side.

  He slid aside the screen that concealed the desk with its array of high-tech business accoutrements.

  For a moment he studied the miniature office, trying to decide what was wrong.

  Housekeeping had strict instructions not to straighten any papers or personal items that a guest had left on a desk. That policy went double in the owner’s suite.

  He was almost certain that he had left the notepad on top of the morning edition of the Avalon Herald. The pad was sitting beside the phone now.

  The entire housekeeping staff was new. It was possible someone had forgotten the instructions regarding desks.

  He opened the first drawer, picked up the small stack of papers inside, and thumbed through them quickly. There was nothing of critical importance in the pile of notes he had made. Most concerned minor management details he intended to discuss with Nathan and Pete Santana. One or two related to public relations matters he wanted to hand off to Glenda Blaine.

  The important file, the one compiled by Phil Okuda, was safely locked in the suite’s wall safe.

  The only interesting thing about the small stack in his hand was that it seemed to be out of order. He was willing to bet that someone had rifled through it.

  A curious or poorly trained employee might have flipped through the papers out of curiosity. That kind of thing was not supposed to happen in an Avalon Resort hotel, but occasionally the wrong person got hired.

  It was also possible that someone had searched his room while he and Alexa were at Harmony Spring. Given the general chaos that attended any hotel opening, it would have been possible for someone to slip through security.

  “You’re getting nervous, aren’t you, you son-of-a-bitch? That’s good. That’s very, very good. Nervous people make mistakes.”

  19

  The Guardian downed the last swallow of the herbal tea and watched the sun set outside the cave. The light was slowly, inevitably consumed by the dark. The symbolism appealed.

  Consciousness expanded in the absence of light. Awareness deepened. Perception strengthened.

  The Guardian studied the ebb and flow of the shifting vortices. The negative energy was running high now. Dangerous stuff if one were not careful. But what a rush.

  It had been twelve years since that intoxicating power had been tapped; twelve years since the last time it had been necessary to kill in the line of duty. The surge of personal energy was unbelievable.

  It was amazing how much easier it had been this time. How much more satisfying.

  Looking back, the Guardian understood that it was not a lack of necessity that had kept the defender of the Institute from killing for the past twelve years. It had been fear. A simple, paralyzing fear of getting caught.

  But now it was clear that would never happen.

  Last night’s triumphant success was a sign. The great work must go forward. It all had to be done quickly while the dark energy storm pulsed so strongly below the surface of Avalon.

  The Guardian was ready. The last of the old anxiety and the terrible fear that had been so overwhelming twelve years ago had died along with Guthrie. Power had taken the place of those incapacitating emotions.

  This time the sexual release was shattering in its intensity.

  20

  Alexa hunched over the phone. “I know we’ve never met, Mrs. Guthrie, but I’m a friend of Joanna Bell’s.”

  “She’s mentioned you.” Liz Guthrie sounded impatient and distracted on the other end of the line. “But I really don’t have time to talk right now. This is my meditation hour. My Dimensions guide says I must develop more self-discipline. I’m trying to meditate every day at the same time.”

  “I understand. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “Questions about what?”

  “This is a little awkward, but I
wanted to ask you about your ex-husband.”

  “Dean?” Liz’s voice sharpened in alarm. “He’s dead. Why do you want to ask me about him?”

  “I’m very sorry about your loss…”

  “We were divorced,” Liz said stiffly.

  “Yes, I know.” Now what? Alexa wondered. She could hardly say, I’ve heard that you and Dean were still sleeping together, and I was wondering if he ever mentioned what happened to Harry Trask twelve years ago, and by the way did he indicate he might have any current enemies other than JL Trask? There were limits to her powers of subtlety.

  “I’d rather not talk about Dean,” Liz said. “My guide says that I focus too much on the negative forces around me. Dean was a negative force.”

  “The thing is, I was one of the first people at the scene of his accident.”

  “I see.” Surprisingly, Liz’s voice softened slightly. “It must have been very traumatic for you.”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I wanted to discuss.”

  “I suggest you get counseling. Dimensions has an excellent staff. I’m sure someone there could assist you. They’ve done wonders for me.”

  “Thank you. But what I wanted to ask was whether or not Dean ever mentioned any personal concerns he might have had.”

  There was a distinct pause on the other end of the line. “Concerns about what?”

  “It really would be easier if we talked in person.”

  “I don’t think I can manage—”

  “Please, I just want to ask you some questions. It’s very important to me.” Alexa thought swiftly. “I believe that it would help me, uh, realign my inner peace and serenity. There are some unresolved issues, you see. Because of the trauma of the accident and all.”

  Liz hesitated. “All right. I suppose it can’t do any real harm. Be here at ten. I’ll be busy with my personal guide until then. Oh, here he is now. I’ve got to go.”

  “Thank you, I’ll see you at ten.”

  Alexa hung up with a sense of relief. Then she quickly punched in the number of her part-time assistant.

  “Kerry, can you open the shop for me today? Something has come up. I’m going to be a little late getting to work.”

  No matter what the hour of the day, Shadow Canyon was cloaked in perpetual twilight. It was a popular tourist destination in the summer when its year-round creek and canopy of green offered respite from the heat. There were several large swimming holes in Shadow Creek that were much prized by the locals as well as outsiders.

  The flora and fauna of the canyon’s higher elevation provided a striking contrast to the desert a short distance down the road. The cool, dark caverns and crevasses that had been etched into its rock walls drew hikers and bird-watchers.

  But even at the height of summer, when the sun beat down relentlessly on the town of Avalon, Alexa was not a great fan of Shadow Canyon. The cool shade it offered could not overcome the mild sense of claustrophobia that she always felt here.

  She brought the Camry to a halt and studied Liz Guthrie’s home through the windshield. It was an expensive-looking, stylish affair with a lot of glass walls and a wide, encircling deck. There was no sign of a light in the windows. Granted, it was nearly ten o’clock in the morning, but given the general gloom of the canyon, it was a little surprising, she thought.

  Maybe people who lived in a world of eternal twilight learned to adapt.

  She opened the car door, got out, and eyed the thick stand of trees. There was something vaguely menacing about the way they loomed over the house.

  She hurried toward the front steps.

  The decision to talk to Dean Guthrie’s last ex-wife was the result of an impulse. It had struck when she first awakened that morning.

  Trask was convinced that money lay at the heart of the conspiracy theory he had woven. But she was not so certain. The late-night phone calls had a very personal feel.

  She had tried to argue herself out of the notion of talking to Liz Guthrie, but the more she thought about it, the more important it seemed.

  Liz was the one person who appeared to have had a close relationship of any kind with Guthrie.

  Chances were Guthrie had not been the confiding type, but if he had talked to someone, that someone might have been the woman he had slept with during the past few months.

  The rustling sighs of the branches overhead sounded unwholesome. There was a hungry, yearning quality to the soft whispers. An unpleasant tingling sensation brushed across the nape of Alexa’s neck.

  No one came to answer the door.

  She exhaled slowly, aware of a curious sense of relief. She had not been all that enthusiastic about talking to Liz Guthrie anyway.

  She turned away from the door, intending to walk back down the steps to her car. But something made her glance to the side of the house. The door of the garage was closed. Liz’s car might or might not be inside.

  It would be simple enough to check.

  And just what the heck was she going to do if the car was parked inside the garage? she wondered. The woman had a right not to answer her door.

  Nevertheless, she had driven several miles out of her way to talk to Liz. She had been invited, more or less. There was no harm in ascertaining whether or not her reluctant hostess was home.

  She went swiftly down the steps and around the corner of the house. There was a single, grimy window on the side of the garage wall.

  She peered through the darkened glass. There was no car inside.

  Maybe Liz had changed her mind.

  But she had been home little more than an hour ago and had planned to meditate with her personal guide until ten, Alexa reminded herself.

  She turned to retrace her steps and paused when she noticed that the blind in the kitchen window was raised. A deep, intuitive disquiet swept through her.

  She walked hesitantly up the rear steps of the deck and glanced into the kitchen. She was not spying, she told herself. It was a casual glance.

  Who was she kidding? She might as well admit that she was getting nervous. Something felt wrong.

  An empty cereal bowl and a mug sat on the tiled counter near the sink. And what can we deduce from that, Ms. Sleuth? That Liz was definitely home this morning? We already know that much.

  She walked around the side of the house. The drapes were pulled across a wide bank of windows. The living room, no doubt. She walked farther along the deck and turned a corner.

  Ahead of her a small sun room projected out from the wall of the house. It was windowed on two sides and the ceiling. A sliding glass door formed the third wall.

  The slider was open two or three inches. The edge of a long, cream-colored curtain fluttered in the breeze.

  Alexa walked along the deck to the glass door.

  “Is anyone home?” she called through the crack. “Liz? It’s Alexa Chambers. If you’re in there, I’d really like to talk to you.”

  There was no response.

  The wind sighed eerily in the thick branches behind her. Shadow Canyon was really getting to her today.

  “Mrs. Guthrie? It’s important.”

  She gave up trying to shake off the sense of impending disaster. Opening the slider, she grasped a handful of curtain and lifted it out of the way.

  She found herself staring into a small, minimally furnished room done in neutral shades. There were no chairs, only a single pale pillow placed in the center of the milk-colored carpet. There was also a bookcase and a low, wooden table. A large chunk of rose-pink crystal sat in the center of the table.

  A pair of shoji screens paneled with squares of a white, translucent fabric sealed the glass chamber from the rest of the house. The screens were closed, blocking the view of the room or hall beyond the chamber.

  Liz Guthrie’s meditation room.

  Alexa knew that the Dimensions seminar program emphasized the necessity of creating a personal, private space in which to meditate. In terms of priorities, it was right up there with keeping one’s personal meditation jo
urnal up to date. In the course of her short affiliation with the Institute, she had failed in both endeavors. Privately, she put the blame on the boredom that had overcome her every time she tried to get into meditation mode.

  She glanced at the low bookcase and was not surprised to see that the shelves were crammed with a variety of Dimensions Institute publications, including Liz’s copy of Living the Dimensions Way.

  A familiar volume sheathed in a turquoise and white dust jacket lay open on top of the bookcase. A Dimensions personal journal.

  Alexa thought about the one she had been given when she took the Beginning Guided Meditation Seminar. She had dutifully written in it for three whole days before concluding that her progress in the Dimensions Way was not only going to be quite brief, it would also be extremely dull.

  She hesitated. She had no right to enter the house. But the feeling of wrongness was getting stronger by the minute.

  “Liz?”

  She drew a breath and stepped into the meditation retreat.

  A sudden shifting of the light on the other side of the closed shoji screens made her flinch. Her pulse, already trotting along at a brisk clip, broke into a wild gallop. She stared at the white panels.

  “Liz, it’s me, Alexa Chambers.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud and a little too thin and high to her own ears.

  A dark figure loomed on the other side of the semitransparent panels. The head was too round. There were no arms or legs, just a long, shadowy form. It moved slowly toward her.

  A scream surged up out of nowhere. Alexa fought it with every ounce of willpower she possessed.

  The figure came closer to the screen.

  Common sense finally returned. Alexa realized that what she was looking at was a person dressed in a hooded robe. Liz Guthrie must have been in the shower.

  “I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t scare you, Liz.” Lord, now she sounded much too bright and cheery. “I know I had no right to intrude like this, but when you didn’t answer the door I was afraid something might have happened.”

  There was no verbal response from the person on the other side of the screen. But a shadowy arm rose. Alexa could see quite clearly the outline of the long-bladed knife in the hand.