Chapter One #2
Now that she knew Bea was involved with Deke and might be in danger, however, she could not simply read the scene for Luke and walk away. She had to make sure Bea was safe.
“Just to be clear,” she said, leaning into her most assured tones, “reading the scene is one thing. The kind of cleaning you have requested is…complicated.”
No one in the underworld of the psychic community had any serious objections to crime scene consultations.
True, there were not that many talents who could do it for real.
A lot of frauds worked these gigs. But whether or not the practitioner could be trusted was the client’s problem.
There was nothing inherently unethical about the practice.
Cleaning up the paranormal evidence of a crime, however, while not technically illegal—after all, that kind of evidence could not be presented in a court of law—was severely frowned upon in a certain quarter of the paranormal community—namely the Agency for the Investigation of Atypical Phenomena, otherwise known as the Foundation.
The organization assumed it had the right to police the members of the psychic community.
And, okay, maybe some entity had to take on the responsibility, because regular law enforcement could not be expected to deal with the bad guys who were amped up with paranormal talents—for the most part regular law enforcement didn’t even believe psychic criminals existed.
The Foundation had a role to play, but it was a well-known fact that its agents were inclined to be extremely judgmental.
The Harpers, like many others who made their livings with their psychic talents, preferred to keep a low profile.
Wells, Inc., on the other hand, was said to take contracts with the Foundation. No surprise. It was just like the Wells family to work both sides of the street and get away with it, Sophy thought. The clan was powerful. It had nothing to fear from the Foundation.
“Let me worry about the complications of a housekeeping job,” Luke said.
“All right.” She took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
She paced to the far end of the room and took off her black-and-crystal-framed glasses. She slipped them into a soft case and dropped the case into the depths of a coat pocket. Reaching into another pocket she took out the oversized mirrored sunglasses and put them on.
“Please turn off the light,” she said.
She could tell from his expression that Luke had some questions about the glasses, but he was smart enough not to ask them.
Instead, he went to the wall switch and flipped it.
The weak bulb in the overhead fixture winked out, plunging the room into the sort of absolute darkness that can only be found in an isolated mountain cabin—a cabin like this one.
She was braced for the familiar flash of acute claustrophobia—had trained herself to breathe through it—but that didn’t stop the panicky sparks that snapped across her senses. She wondered if Luke was experiencing a similar sensation. She hoped so. It would serve him right.
She reached into a third pocket and took out the small set of metal chimes and the little wooden mallet.
With the claustrophobia under control, she steeled herself and kicked up her talent. The darkness was slowly infused with an eerie gray radiance. The temperature in the already cold room seemed to drop a few more degrees.
In the gray fog, she could see Luke standing near the light switch.
He did not look the least bit nervous, let alone claustrophobic, just very, very focused.
That was irritating. It would have been satisfying to know that he had a shred of vulnerability.
Instead, there was a hint of energy in his eyes.
She suddenly realized he was watching her intently. That answered one question. He might be a no-talent compared to the other members of his family, but he was not without a psychic vibe. He had some paranormal-grade night vision. A useful ability for an assassin.
Bruce the hellhound was watching her, too. But that was not surprising. Dogs have pretty good night vision.
She turned slowly, examining the room. There were no bloodstains, no body, and no obvious physical evidence, but the energy laid down by violent death had soaked into the well-worn wooden floorboards and permeated the walls.
The currents of dark light came in a range of colors that her second sight had learned to interpret, at least to some extent.
“How does this work?” Luke asked.
“I’m going to go into a self-induced trance,” she said. “I will narrate what I see. I’ll do my best to observe details but don’t try to ask questions or direct me in any way. You’ll shatter the trance.”
Before he could say anything else, she gripped the handle of the chimes in one hand and lightly tapped a metal bar with the mallet.
A crystalline note echoed in the room, sharp and clear.
It seemed to linger endlessly. She rode it into her other vision, across the borderlands that separated the waking state from the dreaming state.
As usual, the journey was surreal and disturbing.
For a heartbeat or two the panic threatened to overwhelm her.
No matter how many times she went into the trance she never overcame the fear of being trapped in the in-between world.
And just like that she was inside.
The first ghost materialized near the window, a dark, shadowy figure in the luminous gray light. He was smoking a cigarette.