by Kay Hooper
“So . . . what would happen? Worst-case scenario, if she were to cross over psychically, pass through that doorway she opened, without an anchor on this side, what would happen?”
“What mediums do,” Bishop said, “leaves them wide open to spiritual energy, and we know a great deal of that energy is negative. Anger, grief, loss, regret, hate. Even a strong medium with good control is vulnerable to those destructive energies; a medium with strong abilities but lacking control could easily find themselves yanked into that other dimension we’ve theorized but can’t prove exists.”
“It’s a miracle that hasn’t already happened to Diana,” Quentin said.
“How do you know it hasn’t?”
That surprised Quentin. “Could it have?”
“Easily. If she has a history of blackouts, especially. Judging by what she said to you, she recognized that gray time between the flashes well enough to have given it a name. Which means she’s been there before, probably many times over the years.”
Quentin gave himself a mental kick for having missed that. “Without an anchor?”
“Her instincts could be good enough to have pulled her back to our side eventually. Find out whether she’s experienced blackouts. If she has, and if they’ve increased in intensity or duration over the years, then Diana may be reaching a point in her psychic development when an anchor will become necessary for her own safety. At least unless or until she learns how to exert more control.”
Quentin stared across his pleasant room, not seeing any of it. “And without an anchor, one of these visits to that gray time would be . . . permanent? She wouldn’t be able to come back?”
“It’s possible, Quentin. We don’t know for sure. We’ve encountered psychics so damaged they were catatonic, beyond anyone’s reach. Those we could read at all were . . . a blank slate. Empty. Were they the physical shells of mediums psychically trapped on the other side? We don’t know. Could Diana suffer that fate? We don’t know.”
Quentin drew a breath and released it slowly. “You’re a comforting bastard today.”
“Sorry.”
He sighed. “You two knew Diana would be here now. But you didn’t set it up so she would be?”
“No,” Bishop replied. “Her doctor had already signed her up for the artistic workshop to be held this spring. All we did was place Beau as the instructor.”
“And have him suggest The Lodge as a setting?”
“Yes.”
“To help her?”
“To help both of you.”
“Wait a minute,” Quentin said, realizing. “How did you even know about Diana? To know that her doctor had signed her up for the workshop, you had to be—what?—watching her?”
There was a brief silence, and then Bishop said, “It’s taken years to build the unit, Quentin, you know that. And you know that I spent a great deal of time in the early days checking out various reports of psychics and paranormal events.”
“Which was it, with Diana?”
“I had a source in a major psychiatric research hospital in the Northeast. He told me about Diana. Years ago.”
“I gather you never tried to recruit her.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she was so heavily medicated at the time it would have been useless and potentially harmful.”
“But you kept her on your watch list.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Quentin was grappling with yet another puzzle. “But why were you so sure she needed to be here? Is she connected to The Lodge? To what happened here twenty-five years ago?”
“You tell me.”
“Bishop.”
“I’m not trying to be deliberately obscure, Quentin. We don’t know what the connection is, only that one exists. You and Diana are both meant to be there, now. Beyond that, there isn’t much we can tell you.”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Quentin said politely, “that one day one of us might just get really pissed off about your chess playing?”
“I don’t play chess.”
“The hell you don’t.”
Sounding a little rueful now, Bishop said, “If it ever becomes a game to me, Quentin, I sincerely hope you kick my ass.”
“You’re a black belt,” Quentin pointed out. “I’m only going to kick your ass if you let me. Or if I’m armed.”
“Good thing you’re usually armed.”
“I could get Galen to help me,” Quentin said thoughtfully, referring to one of the more mysterious members of the unit. “I’m sure he’d welcome the opportunity. I’ve got a hunch he’s always wondered who’s tougher.”
“He knows,” Bishop said.
“Yeah? I wish I’d been there for that.”
“Nothing to see.” Without elaborating on that tantalizing statement, Bishop got the conversation back on track. “About Diana. I don’t have to warn you to be careful.”
“She really is strong, Bishop.”
“In a place like The Lodge, a place with a long and troubled history, a medium is likely to find it all too easy to be drawn, even unconsciously, to the doorway between our world and the world of the dead. No matter how strong she is, it’s a dangerous situation.”
Miranda said, “There’s one more thing to keep in mind, Quentin. Since Diana can’t yet reliably distinguish between the usual senses and her extra ones, it’s entirely possible that she’s opened that door numerous times since she arrived, without even being aware of it. Mediums are hardwired to do just that, to provide a doorway. And she could have left it open long enough to allow some of that spiritual energy to cross through.”
“You’re saying this place is probably haunted.”
“For want of a better term.”
Bishop said, “Energy always has a purpose, remember that. Whatever may have come through the doorway Diana opened will be acting in very specific ways. The aim is almost always to find peace, closure, to settle with the past. To resolve whatever it is that’s keeping them trapped just on the other side of that door and preventing them from moving on. A medium provides them with the opportunity. And some of them may have been waiting a long time.”
“Missy,” Quentin said.
“Missy, almost certainly, given what Diana’s experienced so far. Which means you’ve got your best chance to solve Missy’s murder. If you can help Diana.”
“By keeping her grounded.”
Miranda said, “Follow your instincts, Quentin. You’ve got good ones. And she needs your help.”
“How do I persuade her to trust me? I’m telling her that everything she’s believed all these years is a lie, that expert after expert in her life has been wrong, even if not maliciously. That her own father may have made her situation worse because he didn’t consider this one possibility. In her place . . . hell, I wouldn’t believe me.”
Miranda replied immediately, her voice certain. “Build a connection with her. You understand her and what she’s been going through. You believe her. You know she’s not crazy. She needs your certainty, Quentin, because they’ve left her with none of her own.”
A soft knocking at his door caught Quentin’s attention, and he said, “I’ll do my best. And I’ll check in again later.”
“We’ll be here,” Bishop said.
Quentin closed his cell phone and got off the bed to go out into the sitting room and answer the door. He was normally cautious enough to check the security peephole out of habit, but this time as soon as his hand touched the door handle, he knew who was on the other side.
Diana stood there, visibly stiff, both hands working the strap of the tote bag she carried over one shoulder. Her face was pale, and her eyes seemed huge, darkened.
Before Quentin could speak, she did, her voice almost toneless. “Can you come? There’s . . . something I need to show you.”
Nate McDaniel scowled as he watched two of his people working cautiously in the heat and glare of the big outdoor lights. “I don’t have to be an expert
to know that this body has been in the ground a long time,” he said. “Years, at least.”
“According to the head gardener,” Quentin said, “there used to be a lot more topsoil in this area, with only a foot or so of the largest boulder sticking out. That would have been at least ten years ago. By the time the garden extended to include it just a couple of years ago, they decided to use the boulders as part of the scheme and just plant a few hardy flowers.”
“Which I suppose at least partly explains why no one knew there was a grave here.”
Quentin shrugged. “I honestly don’t remember spending any time here over the years. It’s too far from the main building and stables to have interested me as a kid. And five years ago, when Bishop and I helped in the search for that little girl, the gardens had already been covered by the staff and your people.”
“Yeah. Christ, I wonder what else we’ve missed.”
Quentin shook his head. “How many acres of gardens are there? Twenty? Thirty? Plus the rest of the valley and all the mountain bridle trails. Worse than a needle in a haystack. Maybe if the search dog had been able to work, he’d have found it.”
“Maybe.”
“In any case, at least it’s inside the fence. Protected from predators and scavengers in the mountains. So the bones may tell a forensics expert a lot.”
“You mean, other than the two facts we can be pretty damned sure of, that this was a child, and that the cause of death was probably decapitation? I don’t have to be an expert to see that, either.”
“DNA for identification,” Quentin said. “Dental records are often unreliable when it comes to kids. Once the age of the remains is determined, we’ll have to get a sample from a family member of every child reported missing in the area within the right time frame.”
“Shit.” Nate followed that weary curse by adding, “And how did she say she found it?”
Quentin glanced to one side, where Diana sat on a bench made of slabs of granite and watched the work going on a few yards away. She hadn’t been willing to return to her cottage except briefly to grab a jacket when he had insisted, and she was still clearly upset, but she had said very little.
“You heard her,” he said to the cop. “She was walking out here, leaned against that boulder—and happened to look down. Maybe the storm earlier today or the ones last week washed away enough of the topsoil and gravel to expose what had been buried here. The top of the skull looked different enough from all the rocks to catch her attention. It sure as hell caught mine.”
“And then she went to you.”
“She knew I was an FBI agent.”
Nate shook his head, but more another weary gesture than negation. “This is a hell of a thing. I know you always suspected that at least some of the missing kids on that list of yours had been murdered, but this is the first time we’ve found anything to support that.”
“According to that list of mine, there are three unsolved disappearances of children from this general area in the last twenty years, four if you count a supposed runaway.”
“Okay, so maybe you were right to believe something was going on here.”
“Maybe?”
“Quentin, we have an undoubted murder twenty-five years ago, the killer never caught. No question about that. And we have this skeleton, which may or may not be identified as one of the missing kids. But—”
“There are other missing kids. Missing adults as well.”
“You say. And I’m not saying I don’t believe you—it’s just that in most of those old cases you’ve dug up, official reports were never filed. Or if they were, there was every reason to believe the disappearances could be explained in ordinary ways. Estranged parents taking their kids. Runaways. And then there’s the mountains; you know as well as I do it’s damned easy to get lost up there—and virtually impossible to find somebody who has.”
“Yes, I know that. I know there have been wanted fugitives—federal fugitives—who disappeared into these mountains for years despite exhaustive efforts to find them. And some of them were never seen or heard from again. But there’s something more, something going on here, at The Lodge.”
Nate shook his head again, but said, “Well, after this you may have a better argument to use in persuading the hotel’s management that taking a look at their records is in order. But I don’t think a judge is going to force them if they say no, especially if we can’t connect this child to The Lodge.”
“He—or she—was buried here. That’s enough of a connection for me.”
“Yeah. I had a feeling you were going to say that.” Nate sighed as he watched his people work. He zipped his jacket, adding a muttered, “When did it get so cold?”
Quentin could have answered, “Twenty-five years ago.” But he didn’t, of course. He just waited silently while Nate’s people worked to uncover bones buried years in the ground.
Madison knew she wasn’t supposed to be in the garden. In any of the gardens, now that the police were here. Her mama sure wouldn’t like it, she knew that. But she was too curious to stay away.
And small enough to slip unseen through the gardens until she was within sight of what was happening.
“They found Jeremy,” Becca said.
Madison held Angelo close to make sure he didn’t start whimpering, and said to her friend, “They’re digging up bones.”
“Uh-huh. That’s Jeremy.”
Madison frowned at her. “If he’s just bones, how come you know him?”
“He isn’t just bones. That’s all they see, though. All of them except her.” Becca nodded toward the pretty lady sitting on a rock bench off to the side.
“She saw Jeremy when he wasn’t just bones?”
“Uh-huh. He wanted them to find him, so he showed her where he was.” She nodded as though to herself, adding thoughtfully, “I expect he was ready to leave.”
“Leave The Lodge?”
“He’s been here a long time.”
Madison asked, “Have you been here a long time, Becca?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Becca gazed off toward the police officers working in the very bright light, and added wistfully, “It used to be okay, really. Still is, sometimes. But mostly now it’s just scary.”
“Because of . . . what you told me? What’s coming?”
Becca nodded. “It’s been here before. And it keeps coming back.”
“Why?”
“Because they don’t know how to stop it. They can’t stop something they can’t see. Something they don’t believe in.”
“But you believe in it.”
“I have to, don’t I?”
Madison thought about that, absently hugging her small dog close as she watched the grownups working. Then, slowly, she said, “The lady who saw Jeremy could probably see it. Probably believe it. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Maybe she could.” Becca turned her head and looked back at Madison. “Maybe that’s why she’s here. But she’ll have to hurry.”
“Tracing the movements of a kid after years . . . How lucky would we have to be to find out anything at all about whatever led up to his death?” Nate swore under his breath. “And we’re starting cold, with shit for leads.”
“Pretty much.” Quentin couldn’t help glancing toward Diana even as he spoke.
Nate was paying attention. “Or do we maybe have a little more than that? What’s her story, Quentin? Did she really just stumble over the skull?”
“She didn’t tell me any more than she told you about that.”
“About that? What else did she tell you?” Nate lowered his voice. “Is she gifted too? Psychic?”
Quentin was a little surprised that the cop asked the question openly, but he barely hesitated before replying. “In her case, it’s more of a curse than a gift. And not one she’s happy with or knows how to use effectively. She might be able to help us, but she’s just as likely to join the dozen or so guests already packing up and leaving.”
Momentarily distracted, Nate sai
d, “I heard one of them tell the manager that he couldn’t afford this sort of publicity, and he sounded real nervous about it. I guess the others are leaving for the same reason, because they’re afraid to find themselves in the middle of a media nightmare. Especially if they have secrets or . . . indiscretions . . . of their own to hide.”
“Probably. The Lodge’s reputation for discretion is a strong lure for plenty of people looking for a private, stress-free vacation. This—especially if we find more—is just the sort of thing to really screw that up. When word gets out that two children were murdered here, even if years apart, the media’s not going to ignore it. Then again, this place is so remote, and the locals are so accustomed to minding their own business, I’m not all that sure it will get out. Anytime soon, at least. Plus—”
“Plus, The Lodge is one of the largest employers in the area,” Nate finished for him. “People around here have a vested interest in minding their own business. You’ve always thought that, haven’t you?” He was matter-of-fact rather than offended, largely because he believed the same thing and understood the mind-set, having grown up in Leisure.
“It’s been obvious. Even after I found brief mentions in the Leisure newspaper morgue of various accidents and disappearances over the years, I could never follow up. Nobody seemed to know anything. Nobody seemed to remember or to want to talk about it. Whatever the excuse, the meaning was clear. Whatever happened at or near The Lodge was not my business. And I’ve never had the legal authority to force the issue.”
“Hey, Captain?”
Nate and Quentin both stepped forward at the summons, joining the two officers who made up the Leisure Police Department’s Crime Scene Unit.
“Found something,” Sally Chavez told them.
“Other than bones?” Nate wanted to know.
“Yep. See for yourself.” Kneeling, she leaned back so that both Nate and Quentin could do that.
