Forger of Light

by Nupur Tustin

  She kept the door open as Julia trundled in with Annabelle, groaning now, about to vomit.

  Her appearance triggered a sudden burst of activity.

  “We’ll take it from here, ma’am.”

  Nurses and interns in jade-green scrubs, masks, and eye-protecting shields swarmed around the wheelchair.

  Someone brought in a stretcher. Annabelle was helped into it, then they started moving down a hallway.

  “How do you know it was cyanide? How was the poison administered?”

  The questions fell on Celine’s mind like bullets.

  “Chocolates,” she said, sprinting alongside. “Poisoned chocolates. I have the box with me. In the car.”

  “Bring it in, please.”

  Celine raced back to her car. “I’ll be back in a sec,” she called to Julia.

  When she returned, Annabelle had already been wheeled into a room. Julia paced the tiled floor outside.

  “They’re administering a dose of hydroxocobalamin. If it is cyanide, it’ll neutralize the cyanide molecules at a slow enough rate to allow her liver to detoxify it.”

  “Will that work?” Celine asked, anxious. Would Annabelle’s liver be able to handle the task? Wouldn’t it have been better to let the medicine take care of the detoxification?

  Julia shrugged. “I dunno. Depends on how much cyanide there was in those chocolates. At least, she didn’t have more than one.”

  “And she spat out most of that,” Celine remembered.

  “Thanks to your warning. How in the world did you know?”

  Seeing one of the nurses who’d been attending Annabelle pass by, Celine thrust the box of chocolates at her. “She ate one of these. Annabelle Curtis”—she jerked her chin in the direction of Annabelle’s room—“the patient we brought in.”

  “Thanks, we’ll have these tested,” the nurse promised, walking briskly away.

  Celine turned back to Julia. How had she known?

  “Flashes,” she explained. She gathered her fingers together and immediately sprang them apart in an attempt to illustrate the experience. “I saw the Gardner’s gu—”

  “A reference to the General?”

  “Maybe.” Celine wasn’t sure that was what the gu signified in this case. “And I saw Laurie Robbes, the Montague Museum intern who was murdered seven years ago. You remember the case, don’t you?”

  Julia nodded. “How could I forget? It was the first I heard of you.” The former fed frowned. “That was a case of cyanide poisoning, too, wasn’t it?”

  “Yup. I kept seeing a red inhaler in the days before Laurie was killed. That’s how Keith”—Celine was referring to a mutual friend of theirs, psychic cop Keith Elliot, from New Hampshire—“and I realized she’d been exposed to hydrogen cyanide.”

  “It was the red inhaler that tipped you off?”

  “Eventually, yes. I saw it again when Annabelle put that piece of chocolate in her mouth.”

  Another thought surfaced, driving away the rush of adrenaline that had kept her going thus far. It surged out of her body, leaving her exhausted.

  “Here, sit down.” Julia pushed her toward a chair upholstered in blue-gray serge. Her face was covered in alarm. “Are you okay? God, I hope you weren’t exposed to the poison as well.”

  She looked around, in frantic search of a nurse.

  “I’m fine.” Celine put her palm up, a weak attempt at reassuring the former fed. “I just realized—” She took a deep breath. “I just realized those chocolates were meant for me.”

  Julia’s head swiveled slowly toward her; the former fed’s blue eyes dilated for just a fraction of a second before resuming their normal size. “Damn!”

  The thoughts exploding out of her mind were powerful enough to reach Celine’s without any mental trespassing.

  Her kidnapping four months ago had been a dramatic, larger-than-life affair. Julia had been expecting the attempt on Celine’s life to be similar. But poisoning—cyanide poisoning, in particular—was subtle, insidious. A threat that couldn’t be seen or prepared for.

  Nothing that bullets could save her from. Unless they shot the chocolates full of holes. The image made her giggle hysterically.

  “What is it?” Julia demanded sharply.

  “Nothing.” Celine sobered up instantly at her tone. “It’s just that none of us anticipated this.”

  “No, we didn’t, shame on us.”

  “The chocolates had a Boston label, if that helps.”

  Celine had seen it when she’d retrieved the box from the Pilot.

  Julia considered the information, lips pursed.

  “I doubt we’ll get any usable fingerprints. Did you see a postmark? I’d better get Mailand down here.”

  Fishing her phone out of her purse, Julia turned away to make her call to the Sheriff’s Department detective who’d been assigned to Dirck’s murder.

  The case was closed, but they’d managed to forge a tenuous relationship with the detective since then.

  “He’ll be here ASAP,” she reported a few minutes later.

  It was a mere twenty minutes after Julia’s call that Rick Mailand, a detective with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department, strode into the waiting room. The black suit that clothed his tall frame—he was an impressive six foot four—was covered in creases.

  “It’s been a long day,” he said, apologizing for his disheveled appearance.

  “You okay?” His usually suspicious mahogany eyes softened as they fell on Celine.

  “I am, thank you.” She had to crane her head up to meet his eyes.

  At five-eight, Celine was reasonably tall for a woman. But Mailand, towering over, made her feel positively petite.

  “And your friend?” His gaze swept past her to Julia. He must have sensed she herself wasn’t up to answering his questions.

  “She’ll survive,” the former fed replied. A physician had informed them minutes ago that Annabelle’s condition was stable. She’d been transferred to the hospital wing of the facility.

  “We’d like to keep her under observation for a day or two. Just as a precaution,” he’d said, peeling off his latex gloves. “But she’ll be fine. You brought her here just in time.

  “Fortunately,” he went on, “she hadn’t ingested enough of the poison to be permanently damaged. Every chocolate in that box had potassium cyanide, but you’d have to eat two or three to get a fatal dose.”

  The physician had scanned their faces, deeply curious. “I expect the poisoner was counting on that.”

  “I expect so,” Julia had replied, noncommittally.

  Now the former fed shared this information with Mailand.

  The Sheriff’s detective frowned, the lines etched into his forehead deepening. “Sounds like a half-baked way to do the job.”

  “Unless he—or she, we probably shouldn’t be making any assumptions at this point—was expecting to be sharing a piece or two as well,” Julia said.

  “Or thought someone he knew would be having some,” Celine softly added.

  The chocolates had come from Concord Chocolates, a popular Boston chocolatier in North Boston. It wasn’t anywhere close to Annabelle’s home in Revere, but Celine wondered if Bryan Curtis had sent the gift box.

  Getting rid of her while ensuring Annabelle stayed safe would certainly have been a motive for him.

  “Meaning what?” Mailand turned to her, mystified.

  “Nothing,” she mumbled. She didn’t want to get Bryan in trouble. For Annabelle’s sake, not for his. She’d known Bryan resented her. She just hadn’t realized he hated her enough to fall in with the General’s plans to eliminate her.

  Hands on her hips, she pivoted around to face the wall. The ghostly figure she saw made her heart stop.

  Why was Dirck here? To take Annabelle away?

  Oh, God, where were the nurses? It wasn’t Annabelle’s time, was it? She simply could not let that happen.

  There’s nothing you can do to prevent it, if it is her time, Si
ster Mary Catherine reminded her.

  I know, but . . . Celine felt her eyes brimming over. I’m just not ready for her to go.

  It’s not her time, Celine. Dirck’s here to see her. Annabelle’s more receptive to him in her current state. In her waking hours, her grief is so intense, try as he might, she blocks him out.

  Behind her, she heard the dim hum of Mailand’s voice interwoven with Julia’s husky tone. But when she finally turned around the Sheriff’s detective had left.

  “He’s taken the box of chocolates in for further analysis,” Julia informed her. “I suggested he speak with Jonah—and Andrea. We need to know how those chocolates got to your office.”

  “I’m not sure that’ll help,” Celine said wearily, “but I guess it’s a start.”

  She hadn’t confided her suspicions about Bryan to Julia yet. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. If Bryan was involved, she’d need to deal with him herself. He was—well, as Dirck’s nephew, he was practically family.

  “Come.” Julia gently grasped her elbow. “Let’s get you home. You’re in shock. It’s been a long day.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was close to midnight when Julia dropped Celine off at her cottage. Celine had allowed her to drive the Pilot. She was in no shape to handle the seven-mile trip herself.

  Flopping onto her bed, Celine glanced at the slim mother-of-pearl clock on her nightstand. Boston was three hours ahead of Paso Robles. Should she risk waking Bryan up in the middle of the night? Or would it be better to wait until morning?

  Now. Catch him off-guard, a voice in her head said. It wasn’t Sister Mary Catherine. Just her own intuition realizing that a surprise call made when Bryan was least expecting it would be her best chance of getting at the truth.

  Decision made, she stared at her phone for several seconds before finally scrolling through her contacts to find Bryan’s number. It was late, she was exhausted, and she wasn’t too enthused about the prospect of triggering a confrontation. But she knew she didn’t have a choice.

  She hit dial when she found the number.

  The first three rings went unanswered. In her mind’s eye, she saw Bryan’s hand emerging from the flat sheet covering his person to swat at the phone.

  At the fourth ring, he picked up. “Shrivel up and die,” he growled into the phone.

  “Did you send your mother chocolates, Bryan?” Celine asked before he could hang up on her.

  “Who is this?” he demanded. Her words hadn’t registered.

  “It’s Celine. Celine Skye.” She repeated her question.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Celine could see him sitting up in his bed now, wide awake. “Have you any idea what time it is?” He was glancing at his clock. “Jesus Christ, it must be past midnight in California.”

  But he’d answered her question. She rephrased it to confirm her impressions: “So you didn’t send her any chocolates?”

  “Why would I? It’s not her birthday or Mother’s Day? God, Celine, are you completely nuts?”

  The image of him receded from her mind as she wondered how to break the news to him.

  “Bryan—”

  “Lady, could you please just let me get back to sleep?”

  “Bryan, you’ve got to listen to me, please. Annabelle’s in the hospital.”

  “What? Celine, if this is some kind of—”

  “We received a box of chocolates. They’d been tampered with. Annabelle put a piece in her mouth before we realized that was the case. She’s going to be fine. Julia and I rushed her to the Emergency Room. I just wanted to let you know.”

  “She was poisoned?” He was trying to wrap his mind around the fact.

  “It was an accident.”

  “Some accident! If someone deliberately poisoned the candy, that sounds like murder to me.”

  “Yes, it is murder. But she wasn’t the intended target. I was.”

  There was radio silence on the other end. She couldn’t even hear him breathing.

  Celine pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the screen. They were still connected.

  She was about to utter his name when he spoke: “And you think it was me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your first question when you called was: Did you send your mother a box of chocolates? You think I’d kill you? You think I’d be dumb enough to send you poisoned chocolates knowing that my mother can’t keep her hands off them?”

  “Bryan, that’s not what I—”

  “Yes, it is. That’s exactly what you meant. You think I’m some lowlife murderer? You think I want your winery and bar so badly, I’d kill for it?”

  Dear God, she hadn’t intended for this conversation to go this far south.

  “Bryan, listen, please—”

  “Don’t bother with the explanations.” His voice was cold. “I’m not interested.” He asked for and took down Annabelle’s room number and the hospital phone number, and hung up.

  Celine winced as she heard the abrupt click. Damn! That had gone well.

  He does share some culpability, you know, Sister Mary Catherine said.

  But Celine was too tired to figure out what her guardian angel meant. If Bryan hadn’t sent the chocolates—and she believed him when he said he hadn’t—how could he bear any responsibility for what had happened?

  “Anthony Reynolds?”

  The voice that came out of Celine’s throat was surprisingly deep and masculine. But before she had time to analyze the change, the sculptor turned to face her. His eyebrows were raised in the expression of surprised anticipation a celebrity might have when hailed by a fan.

  The surprise turned to bemusement as Reynolds glanced down at her hands.

  The next thing Celine knew she was following him past the counter in the Mechelen’s Tasting Room, down a narrow corridor, toward the office in the back.

  “Hey, you can’t go in there!”

  Her voice was back to sounding normal. But Reynolds either hadn’t heard her or had chosen to ignore her.

  He swept past the door, approached her desk, and looked around. His eyes searched the room, skating past her as though she didn’t exist.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she repeated.

  Shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be here.

  The words were still echoing in Celine’s mind when her consciousness surfaced. Although her eyes remained closed, she was aware of the bright sunlight streaming in through the peach organza silk curtains hanging at her windows.

  Memories of the night before were crowding back into her mind, shuffling out the dream images of Reynolds in the Mechelen’s office.

  Eyes shut, she focused on the images, fixing the few fragments that remained on her mental screen. A premonition of things to come? Or a vision of what had already taken place?

  She felt the touch of a finger on her brain as the second option passed through it.

  That meant Reynolds had been inside her office. But why?

  The question, insistent as a fire alarm, forced her eyes open. Her gaze drifted to the clock on her nightstand.

  Alarmed, she bolted upright. How could she have slept so long? It was nearly nine.

  Her phone rang, chimes of Vivaldi’s Summer cutting through her guilt.

  “Celine, it’s Jonah. I just heard. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’s been a long night.”

  She kept her response short, hoping he’d get the message.

  That she was in no mood to carry on a long conversation about the incident.

  “Listen, I had no idea. The police were here.” Jonah was rambling now. “Is Annabelle okay?”

  An image of Jonah’s face—white as a sheet—when she’d snapped out of her trance yesterday pressed into her mind. It seemed an eon since she’d had her premonition about the General’s decision to eliminate her.

  “Annabelle’s going to be fine,” she assured him, although she found herself questioning the genuineness of h
is concern. He was calling for some other reason; she was sure of it.

  “I am so sorry,” Jonah bleated into her ear. “I had no idea.”

  She cut his apologies short. “Jonah, I have to go. It’s been a long night. I hope you understand—” She was finding it increasingly hard to be civil to him.

  “Sure, sure. Ah . . . you didn’t taste any of the chocolates yourself, did you? I mean, you’re fine, right?”

  Irritation intensified into anger, the emotion pulsing hot through her. He was angling for a story. It was typical Jonah. Self-centered, ambitious to the point of ruthlessness. Annabelle had nearly died, but all that There’s-Nobody-But-Me-Jonah-McGee could think about were the headlines the story would make.

  “Jonah, let me make one thing clear. If the Gazette publishes so much as one word of what happened last night, you lose the right to any exclusives on this case. Capiche?”

  “Of course. But you misunderstand. I wasn’t at all trying to suggest—”

  “Not one word,” Celine reiterated. She hung up.

  The encounter had been so distasteful, she closed her eyes, invoking the psychic defense shield her psychic cop friend Keith Elliot had taught her. “You need to protect yourself from other people’s negative energy and intentions. They can sap you of vitality,” he’d told her. “When that happens, you’ll feel raw, exposed, and chafed.”

  Just the way she was feeling now. She focused her mind, imagining herself standing under a shower that poured a dazzling white light onto her, irradiating her entire being.

  I surround myself with the wisdom, love, and healing light of the Universe.

  Celine uttered the mantra several times. She’d nearly calmed down when she heard her guardian angel’s soft whisper.

  Don’t forget your dream, Celine. It’s important.

  Her dream. Celine’s eyes flew open. Something Reynolds had said before he left reverberated in her memory.

  I’ve done what I set out to do.

  The memory made her stomach heave.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Special-Agent-in-Charge James Patrick Walsh pursed his lips. “This surveillance on Reynolds.”