Chapter Forty-Nine
Forty-Nine
“A Bluestone lab.” Sophy gazed down the glowing staircase. “Okay, that explains the paranormal heat. Still, it’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Luke understood her astonishment. Based on the isolated location, the strong vortex energy, and the age of the house, he had begun to suspect that the original art colony had been established as an elaborate cover for a Bluestone lab.
Nevertheless, walking into one of the legendary facilities was a unique and darkly thrilling experience.
So much power. So much mystery. So many secrets.
“Luke? Are you okay?”
He shook off the shock and awe. Time to focus. He slid the pack from his shoulder and unzipped it.
“Nobody knows for sure how many labs were involved in the Bluestone Project,” he said. “Best guess is that, like the Manhattan Project in World War II, there were four, maybe five. Three have been located so far. This looks like number four.”
He reached into the pack and took out a plastic baggie.
Sophy watched him. “What is that?”
“One of Deke’s T-shirts.” He slipped the garment out of the baggie. “I took it out of his dirty clothes hamper.”
He offered the shirt to Bruce, who sniffed it. “Find, pal. Please.”
Bruce gave him an easy-peasy look and promptly went down the stairs.
Luke slung the pack on his shoulder. “He’s picked up the scent. Let’s go.”
Sophy caught up with him. “Talk about old-fashioned search and rescue techniques. I was expecting you to whip out another bleeding-edge gadget.”
“Sometimes the tried-and-true ways work best. In addition to having a great nose, Bruce also functions as an excellent alarm system. He’ll let us know if we’ve got unwanted company.”
The staircase ended at the entrance of a large, tiled chamber furnished with rusted steel workbenches, broken glass beakers, and clunky-looking lab instruments that clearly dated from the mid-twentieth century.
Two typewriters sat atop vintage government-issue desks.
White metal cabinets inset with glass lined one wall.
A calendar featuring a buxom blonde in a microscopic bikini dangled from a thumbtack stuck in a corkboard.
The hands of an old analog clockface were stopped at five thirty-three.
Logbooks, file folders, and miscellaneous desk accessories were piled in a corner, as if someone had used a broom to sweep them out of the way.
“Something bad happened here a long time ago,” Sophy said.
It took him a beat to realize that she was in her trance voice.