GODDESS OF THE MOON (A Diana Racine Psychic Suspense)

by Polly Iyer

  Dione Compton wasn’t there either.

  Everyone greeted them like old friends. Both Diana and Lucier decided earlier not to accept drinks before dinner, and a series of knowing glances passed among the group. Diana thought the Easleys might be late, but when they didn’t show after ten minutes, she said, “I thought I was going to read Mr. Easley. Is he not coming?”

  “Ah, um, unfortunately, Martin and Anastasia had another engagement,” Compton said, stumbling over the answer. “They send their regrets.”

  Strange, Diana thought. “Some other time.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Well, this is exciting,” Fernando Reyes said.

  He’d draped his hand over his wife’s shoulder and was tickling the side of her breast. “Tell me, Diana,” Reyes said. “How do you do this? Do we all get to listen while you read us, like in your performances, or do we lock ourselves in another room?”

  “I’m sure everyone wants his reading in private, Fernando,” Compton said. “I certainly don’t want anyone to hear what Diana has to say about me this time. She’s already told me things no one could possibly know.” He chuckled. “I hope you don’t blackmail me.” Compton leaned close to her, pretending his words were out of earshot. “No telling what other dark secrets you might unearth.”

  “Your decision,” Diana said, knowing in her heart there wasn’t a past reading unveiling Compton’s secrets. Her gaze wandered back to Reyes, who had finger-walked all the way to Sophia’s nipple, pinching and tweaking as if daring Diana to react. A taunting smile played across Sophia’s lips. Diana glanced at Lucier, who’d been trapped again by Selene and didn’t notice.

  This was a blatant, provocative act. She had a strong urge to grab Lucier and get the hell out of there. Make some excuse, Diana. I’ve a stomach virus, I feel a migraine coming on―something. Anything. Just get up and go.

  But she’d committed to this reading. They were trying to throw her off her game. This was a job, nothing more.

  She nodded to Reyes. “I’ve read both ways. My act is geared for audience participation; my private clients prefer their readings to be…private.” She turned to Compton. “I don’t recall anything scandalous in your first reading; I doubt you have anything to worry about now.” Which was true. She didn’t recall anything. “Even if you impart something you don’t want to, I always respect my client’s privacy.”

  “I expect no less,” Compton said.

  A conversation arose as to who would have the first reading. Fernando Reyes, drawing Diana’s attention back to his dexterous manipulation of his wife’s breast, decided to go first, Compton last. This time, when she caught Lucier’s gaze, he furtively nodded to the Reyeses’ exhibitionism. She responded with an almost imperceptible raise of her brows.

  “No reading for you, Mr. Crane?” Diana asked. He sat like a king on the throne, surveying his flock. The man was a perfect specimen. Paul Newman eyes that hinted amusement, a face chiseled for Mount Rushmore. He wore no jacket, as if formality were beneath him.

  “No, no,” Crane said, waving her off. “I know where my life has been, and I’m old enough not to care where it’s taking me.”

  “Surprising that none of the ladies are interested in a reading,” Diana said. “Most of my clients are women. What about you, Mrs. Compton? Game?”

  “Oh, no.” Selene laughed, with a firm hold on Lucier’s arm. “I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t believe in psychics. They’re fine as entertainment, but I can’t imagine putting my future decisions in the hands of a seer.”

  Seer, indeed. An obvious put-down. “I’ve heard the sentiments before,” Diana said. “Many times, in fact. Most people change their minds after one of my readings.”

  “Go on, Selene. Sign up,” her mother said. “I want to see what she says about you.”

  “But not you, Mrs. Crane?” Diana asked.

  “I’m with Phillip, my dear. Too old to care.”

  “I’ll think about it during dinner,” Selene said. “Speaking of dinner, what do you say we eat?”

  Everyone agreed, and Selene called her servants to set out the food. As if she expected Lucier and Diana to be cautious after Diana’s inference about the drink in Compton’s limo, Selene had directed her caterer to arrange the buffet on two sideboards in the huge dining room. A stack of fine china sat at one end, and everyone lined up to fill their plates with the same food.

  Appetizers of shrimp and caviar. A salad bar section with dozens of items. Roast beef and salmon. Pork tenderloin and chicken breast. Trays of vegetable casseroles, rice, and potatoes. The presentation equaled those of expensive restaurants and grand hotels, rarely a private home.

  She and Lucier exchanged almost imperceptible nods as they found their place cards at the table. This time, Diana sat between Phillip Crane and Jeremy Haynesworth, and Lucier’s dining companions were Rhea Haynesworth and Cybele Crane. The butler filled the water and wine glasses from the same pitchers and bottles.

  Silas Compton raised his glass. “A toast to our esteemed guests, Diana and Ernie. I hope this will be the first of many celebrations.”

  “Thank you, Silas,” Lucier said. Compton’s solicitous smile didn’t hide the tic in his cheek. They all lifted their glasses. Diana sipped her wine. Delicious. Well, why wouldn’t it be? Probably cost $200 a bottle. Before she knew, she had drunk half the glass and decided to sip or it might interfere with her readings.

  “So, Diana,” Rhea Haynesworth said from across the table, “my husband has been so looking forward to this. He’s never had a fortune teller give him a reading before.”

  First seer, now fortune teller. No sarcasm crept into Rhea’s tone, and Diana peered over her wine glass for any sign of condescension. She saw none.

  “And he won’t tonight, Rhea, because I’m not a fortune teller.” Diana fought to keep her voice even at what she perceived an insult. Most people wouldn’t distinguish the nuances that separated the different psychic channels. “Fortune tellers and seers predict the future. I read psychic energy. Psychic phenomena can embrace the past, present, or future of a person’s life. I only absorb impressions the sitter transmits to me. Sometimes I receive nothing at all, so I hope no one is disappointed if that happens.”

  “Does one have to consciously transmit, or does it happen involuntarily?” Rhea asked.

  “Yes, do tell us,” Cybele said. “I’ve always found this sort of thing fascinating.”

  Diana sipped more wine, gazed from woman to woman, noticing their resemblance. How could she have missed that at first? It was so obvious. Then, as if she were looking at them under water, they all started to look wobbly. The voices in the room seemed to slow down, like a sound track on a lower speed. Even Lucier looked funny. He was acting funny too, his head drooping over his plate. He called her name, slowly, each syllable reverberating echolike in her head.

  “Di―a―na.”

  Sounds faded into the background. The glass in her hand felt heavy, weighted, and fell from her grasp onto the table. Everyone was looking at her, smiling. Her hand fell into her food as all sensation left her body.

  Why couldn’t she keep her head up? It fell forward, down, into her plate of food. She smelled the salmon, the lemon too, right by her nose. Lucier slumped lower, his expression apologetic before he fell face first into his plate. Before she blacked out, she remembered what she thought when watching the Reyeses. They didn’t care what her impressions were about their inappropriate petting, because she and Lucier weren’t going to leave here.

  Chapter Thirty- Nine

  Fear, the Consequence of Truth

  Beecher took Lucier’s call on Sunday morning. Everything had gone well at the Comptons’ Saturday night, he said, and he’d fill Beecher in on Monday. Lucier’s voice sounded flat, his phrasing robotic. Beecher figured he was tired. Oh, to be young again, drink, and stay up all night.

  When Lucier didn’t show up for work Monday morning, Beecher started to worry. The tech said all three GPS trackin
g devices signaled from the area around and in Diana’s house. Beecher called there. No response. He called Lucier’s cell with the same result, then Diana’s. Again, no answer. This was not like his boss. The only time Beecher remembered the lieutenant break the rules was when he saved Diana from the psycho who tried to kill her. Today, the inconsistencies set Beecher’s nerve endings on full alert.

  He drove to Diana’s house, saw Lucier’s car in the driveway, and the tracking device still in place. No one answered the door. He searched around, found the fake rock with the key inside, and entered―something he would never do except in this situation. The house was empty, as expected.

  He sped to Compton’s residence in the French Quarter. Even if he could have found a parking space on the tourist-crowded street, the iron gates to the house were locked. No guard.

  An uneasy sensation roiled in Beecher’s belly; sweat sprouted on the back of his neck and hairline. The physical effects turned into full-blown anxiety. Considering what Lucier suspected about the Comptons, Beecher was scared shitless.

  * * * * *

  Lucier’s head throbbed; his mouth and throat felt like he’d swallowed a bucket of sand. He tried to raise his hand to massage his temples but found his wrists shackled to an arm chair with plastic cuffs. Ropes secured his feet together, and a leather strap stretched tight across his chest. Stabs of pain shooting into every muscle woke his body from its numbness. Even a shallow breath sent tremors through his ribcage. His bladder verged on exploding.

  Where was he? He rotated his head to view an unfamiliar large room with dozens of chairs lining the walls. Then the last image of Diana filtered through the cobwebs of his mind. Tremors intensifying, he tried to focus through the pounding in his head while tendrils of fear snaked through the hammering tension. Snippets of visuals flashed in his brain―Diana’s face, beseeching, begging forgiveness.

  His already-churning stomach revolted even more. He was the one who should beg forgiveness. He’d seriously misread the situation.

  What was that? He turned at the abrupt sound, squinted. A silhouette emerged in grainy shadow, and Lucier blinked to clear his vision

  “Ah, you’re finally awake,” the familiar voice said.

  Was this a dream, his mind playing tricks? Then reality seeped into his memory, scene by ugly scene.

  Compton’s house.

  Sitting down to dinner.

  His own fading vision.

  Darkness.

  His stomach sank, and he struggled helplessly against his bonds. He coughed to clear the raspy croak that substituted for his voice. From his training, he knew the adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream would help disperse the fog in his head. Until then, he wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him cower.

  Seeing Slater standing in front of him, a smirk on his lips, didn’t surprise Lucier in the least. “Where’s Diana? I swear if anything’s happened to her, there won’t be any place for you to hide.”

  A derisive huff emerged from Slater’s throat as he paced before him, his relaxed demeanor conveying his advantage. “His first words are for his lady. How noble. Brave, too, considering you’re strapped to a chair.”

  “My men and the FBI know where we are. You won’t get away with this.”

  “You mean those little GPS tracking devices you and Diana carried? They’re beeping signals as we speak. At Diana’s house. Did you really think you could pass through the security gate without alerting us of their presence? Your men couldn’t find you now with the latest in satellite technology or with a team of champion bloodhounds.

  “Besides, you called your man―what’s his name? Beecher?―and told him you and Diana spent a lovely evening at the Comptons’. You even mentioned you found no evidence to implicate our group in anything more nefarious than unknowingly renting a house to a man who kidnapped a baby. Your detective must think the two of you took an extended holiday, when in fact you’re hundreds of miles away from New Orleans, in our compound.”

  What call? Think, Ernie. But his mind was a black hole. He writhed against his bonds to free himself, caving limp in the chair as his weakened body collapsed. Even in full strength, he couldn’t have shucked his bindings.

  He’d been surprised Slater wasn’t at Compton’s house the night of the reading and concluded he’d been wrong about him. He chalked up his irritation at the man to a foolish emotion that colored his opinion from the beginning. Colored it green. Now he knew his innate sense of distrust had been spot on, and Diana, maybe for the first time in her career―her life―had missed Slater’s evil core.

  He should have trusted his cop instinct.

  “Tell me,” Lucier said, “is Diana okay?”

  “She’s fine. Why would we hurt her? She’s what this is all about.”

  “What is this all about?” Lucier asked, forcing out the words.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Keep your wits. Find out as much as you can. “What day is it?”

  “Monday morning. I’m afraid you’ve been out for quite a while.”

  Monday. At least thirty-six hours had passed. He’d probably been restrained all that time, which accounted for the stiffness. “I need to pee.”

  “Soon. We made sure you did your business. We wouldn’t want you to mess yourself, but you do reek.”

  The thought that someone had seen to his bodily functions caused a cold spike down his spine. What drug had allowed them to put him under so completely? “When I don’t show up for work and they can’t find Diana, they’ll come looking for us. They’ll find us.”

  Slater arched one brow. “Hold the thought.”

  The ominous phrase chilled Lucier. Slater sounded so sure of himself. With the tracking devices useless, and if they were hundreds of miles away, how would anyone find them? Ralph Stallings said the combined properties of the group were a complicated mess.

  “How did you drug us? I watched every morsel of food we ate, every drop of liquid poured into our glasses.”

  Slater’s arrogant sneer claimed victory without words. “But not the drop at the bottom of the glass, before we filled it. Enough to put you under. We supplemented later, after you fell into your plates.”

  I was so careful, so prepared―so stupid. He should have switched place cards and changed seats. If he’d done that, the looks on their faces would have given them away. He should have checked the glasses. Should have insisted that he and Diana stayed home. Should have, should have. Didn’t.

  Too damn late now. He strained harder against the binding straps, but they only cut deeper into his skin.

  “Sorry about the restraints. Letting you roam free didn’t seem like a good idea.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Lucier said, still struggling. “Where is she? I want to see her.”

  “You will. In a minute. She’s quite something, you know. An amazing woman. I’d hoped she’d take to our way of life, but she’s too strong-minded.”

  “Don’t hurt her. She’s been through enough. You of all people should understand.”

  “Are you appealing to my sense of justice?” Slater asked. Then his tone hardened. “Don’t bother. I lost that years ago.”

  “What’s this about, Slater? Why kidnap Diana? Why kidnap babies?”

  Slater’s mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. “I wasn’t in favor of the kidnappings. That was Phillip’s idea. He judged it imperative to inject heightened genetic material for the future of the group: scientists and doctors. I grew to embrace the concept, however. As for Diana―how could we resist the opportunity? The name: Diana. Her exceptional psychic abilities. Coincidence? I think not. She insinuated herself into our sphere of interest when she found the pink house. Everything fit so perfectly.”

  These people were deranged. All of them. Lucier didn’t realize the extent until now. “Crane? I don’t understand.”

  “Phillip’s great-grandfather is full-blooded Osage Indian. That’s common knowledge for anyone doing the research.”

&nbs
p; “I suppose there’s a connection between him and your Indian savior. Unless the holy man discovered the fountain of youth, he must have been a descendent.”

  A frown creased Slater’s brow. “So, Diana betrayed my confidence. I wondered if she would. Such a juicy story. Yes, of course, a descendent―Phillip’s grandfather. He and his people saved my life. The story gets better.”

  Even though Lucier tried to act disinterested, Slater’s tease drew him in.

  “Phillip’s great-grandfather received an allotment of land through the Dawes Act, a noble experiment doomed to fail. Unlike many of his people, he was neither ignorant nor stupid. He took a nubile young white woman for his wife, over whom he wielded considerable power, and transferred his property to her name so the white man couldn’t take what was his.” Slater moved closer to Lucier, almost into his face. “The Crane magnetism goes way back, doesn’t it?”

  Lucier snorted, but now he was caught up in the story. Hopefully, Slater would tell him what Jason couldn’t find out. Then he thought if he never left this place, knowing Crane’s background wouldn’t much matter.

  Slater continued. “That worked well when he discovered oil in 1913. You see, the white man and his god would have taken everything from him, and his father’s god allowed his tribe to live in the Dark Ages. So he elaborated on his Indian culture, veering from the script, and founded a new religion by transposing god into one of his own philosophy. Phillip’s grandfather was a child at the time, but he learned how to live in two worlds―the very public white world when he took over after his father’s death, and the other, as a simple man who helped his people. That’s the man I knew. A man as white as me, like his mother, I presume, although he proudly claimed his Indian heritage. He was very old when I met him, but he had much to teach.”

  How far back did Jason go in Crane’s history, and what would it matter if he’d discovered this? Who could tie it together? “Yeah, how to use what you had left to enjoy earthly pleasures. Sex 101: A million ways to get your rocks off without a dick.”