Canyons of Night

Chapter 4

“SO, WHY HAVEN’T YOU EVER MARRIED?” SLADE ASKED.

Charlotte sipped some of the white wine and considered her answer while she watched Slade arrange the salmon on the outdoor grill. He dealt with the salmon and the fire the same way he seemed to do everything else: competently, coolly, with a minimum amount of fuss. Rex, perched on the porch railing, was watching the activity around the grill with rapt attention.

“You’re really interested?” Charlotte said finally.

“Damn curious,” Slade admitted. “Over the years, whenever I thought about you, I told myself you’d be married by now.”

“Remember me telling you that my talent had a few downsides?”

He paused, the metal spatula in midair, and looked at her. “Fifteen years ago you said something about having panic attacks when you run hot for any length of time. Didn’t you outgrow those?”

“Not entirely. I have much better control now. But I still get them if I get super jacked for too long.”

He shook his head. “Definitely a downside. But what does it have to do with the fact that you’ve never married?”

“It’s complicated.” She swallowed some more wine. “Let’s just say that, as far as professional matchmakers are concerned, I’m a difficult match.”

“So you did go to an agency?”

“Oh, sure, I went with the best, at least the best one for a member of the Arcane Society.”

“Arcanematch?”

“Yes.”

“I take it that didn’t go well?” he asked.

“I was reminded that no match is ever one hundred percent guaranteed perfect and that goes double for strong or extremely unusual talents. Turns out I fit both categories. Evidently that makes for a parapsych profile that has too many unknown or unpredictable elements.”

He frowned. “You told me that your ability was useless for anything except reading aura rainbows and tuning antiques.”

“That’s all it is good for. I happen to have a heck of a lot of talent for doing it.” Time to change the subject, Charlotte thought. “What about you? Ever try a matchmaking agency?”

“Remember that Marriage of Convenience I mentioned?”

“Yes.”

“We met through a matchmaker. The counselors said we had an eighty-two percent compatibility rating.”

“Not bad for a strong talent,” she said.

“But not exactly a slam dunk, either. Susan and I didn’t want to take any chances. We decided to try an MC first.”

“Good plan, since it turned out you two weren’t a great match. What happened?”

“Things changed,” he said. “I changed. Let’s just say I no longer fit the profile that I had registered with the agency.”

“I see.” She didn’t but it was obvious she wasn’t going to get any more information out of him. Fair enough. This was a first date, after all. There were protocols.

For some reason she’d had a hard time making up her mind about what to wear to dinner that evening. It should have been a simple decision, given the venue—a backyard barbeque. Slade’s weather-beaten cabin stood in a clearing on a tree-studded bluff overlooking a rocky beach and the dark waters of the Amber Sea. In the near distance a scattering of islands, some so small they were no more than oversized rocks, floated in the mist.

The temperature had been in the mid-eighties all day. It was just now starting to dip down into the seventies. The sun would not set for another three hours. Her wardrobe selection should have been a no-brainer. Jeans, a pullover top, and maybe a sweater to wear when she walked back to her own cottage later in the evening were the obvious choices. But she had dithered, rummaging around in her small closet far too long before choosing jeans, a dark blue pullover, and a sweater to wear on the way home.

First-date syndrome, she thought. A woman never outgrew it. She wondered if men had the same issues. If Slade had agonized over his own attire this evening, there was no evidence of it. At least he was not wearing his uniform. That boded well, she thought. He was dressed in jeans, a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms, and a pair of low boots. She was pretty sure that he had shaved again, too. There was no sign of a five-o’clock shadow.

“No such thing as a hundred percent in anything, I guess,” Slade said. Satisfied that the salmon was off to a good start, he put the spatula aside and picked up the bottle of beer on the table. “Are you good on the wine?”

She glanced at her half-full glass. “Fine, thanks.” She picked up the glass and took a small sip. “Something I’ve always wondered.”

He looked at her. “Yeah?”

“How did things work out for you at the FBPI?”

Slade lowered himself onto one of the picnic table benches. “Good, for the most part. You could say I had a talent for the work.”

“What, exactly, did you do for the Bureau? I realize you were a special agent, but what kind of bad guys did you go after?”

He was silent for a time. Then he started to talk. “Here’s how I work, or how I used to work. Set me down in the middle of what appears to be the perfect crime or an old cold case and I can tell you if the perp committed the crime by paranormal means. I could usually find the evidence, too. I was so good at it that I eventually wound up working for a special department within the Bureau. It was known as the Office.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Which is exactly the way the Bureau wants it. The Office exists for the exclusive purpose of profiling and taking down the worst of the worst, rogue psychics who use paranormal talent to commit crimes.”

“The Ghost Hunters’ Guild is rumored to have an agency that does something along the same lines.”

“It does but its agents work almost exclusively down in the catacombs and the underground rain forest. The Office handles the aboveground cases. But in the past few years a solid working relationship has developed between the two. Some situations require coordination.”

“Makes sense. Bad guys who commit crimes on the surface sometimes try to escape into the Underworld.”

“And vice versa,” Slade said. “It’s not uncommon for a bad actor who violates the law underground to try to hide in a city or town where he knows the Guild can’t easily track him.”

She raised her brows. “Or apply its own brand of justice if it does find him.”

Slade smiled his rare, fleeting smile. “I can see you’re not a great admirer of the Guilds.”

“They do have a certain reputation,” she allowed.

“Things are changing. You should know that. You’re from Frequency. That Guild had the most notorious reputation of all. It will be different now that Adam Winters is in charge, trust me.”

“You know Winters?” she asked.

“We’ve worked together a few times in the past. Good man.”

“Well, he’s certainly a local hero back in Frequency, I’ll give you that. If you can believe even half of the news reports, he and Marlowe Jones apparently saved the Underworld from certain destruction. Their wedding will be the biggest social event of the season.”

“One thing’s for sure, by marrying into the Jones family, Adam has forever linked the Guild to Arcane.”

“For better or worse,” Charlotte said dryly.

“I can see the Frequency Guild has some public relations work to do, at least in your case.”

“Yes, it does.” She lounged back in her chair. “If you liked your work with the FBPI and this Office you mentioned, why change your career path?”

He drank some more beer and got to his feet to check the salmon. “It was time for me to move on.”

Something bad had happened, she thought. But she knew she would not get the truth out of him that evening.

“You mentioned you had a project going,” she said. “What is it? Or is it a secret?”

“I’m keeping quiet about it here on the island.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything. I don’t want the word to get out that I’m a short-timer. Bad for morale at the station.”

“I understand. I won’t tell anyone. What’s the new career plan?”

“I’m going to set up a private security consulting business. Hire the talents I need. I’ve got some connections from my days with the Bureau. Figure those will help land the first clients.”

“How is the plan going?”

“Slowly, but it’s going.” He turned back toward the grill. “The fish will be ready soon.”

“I’ll get the salad.”

She went up the steps. Apparently sensing that dinner was fast approaching, Rex chortled excitedly at her as she went past him. She opened the screen door and moved into the small spare front room of the cabin. It was clear immediately that Slade was making no attempt to turn the place into a home. Everything was neat and orderly. That did not come as a surprise. But aside from the computer on the desk, there was almost nothing of Slade in the room. He was treating the place like the short-term rental he obviously intended it to be.

The cabin was typical of many of the small rentals on the island. The furniture was sturdy but battered. The well-worn couch and the pair of reading chairs set in front of the fireplace looked as if they had been around for several generations. The two framed pictures on the wall were faded generic landscapes of Amber Island scenes that had probably been in the house as long as the furniture. There was a bedroom and bath but the cabin also boasted a sleeping loft in the high-ceilinged front room designed to accommodate additional guests. The loft overlooked the main room and was accessed by a narrow wooden staircase.

She crossed the old braided rug and went into a vintage kitchen. Opening the elderly refrigerator, she took out the bowl that contained the cucumber, tomato, olive, and basil salad she had brought with her. She poured the dressing that she had made earlier over the salad and tossed everything together. When she was ready she picked up the bowl of salad and the loaf of zucchini bread she had brought and went back outside. The sun was sinking fast. The evening was growing cooler. By the time she left she would need the sweater, she thought.

“Devin Reed stopped in to see me today,” she said. She set the salad and the bread on the picnic table. “I assume that was your doing?”

“I may have given him a push in that direction. I figured out he was the most likely suspect.” Slade eased the fish onto a platter. “Devin just turned thirteen. He is obviously coming into a talent of some kind. He’s attracted to the energy in the shop. But I’m sure he didn’t steal anything.”

“I gave him one of the antiques.”

“Yeah?”

“An old Damian Cavalon compass.”

“An original?”

“Yes.”

Slade whistled. “Nice gift. Was he thrilled?”

“He seemed pleased. I did a little tuning work on the compass. It suits him now.”

“The way that pocketknife you gave me suits me?”

She shrugged. “It’s what I do. Speaking of young Devin, I’ve noticed that he hangs around you every chance he gets. Looks like he even managed to find a pair of sunglasses that looks exactly like yours.”

“I talked to him today about what’s happening to him.”

“The development of his talent?”

“Right.” Slade sat down on the opposite side of the table. “He doesn’t have any idea of what’s going on and he’s afraid to talk to his grandmother for fear she’ll think he’s got mental health issues.”

“It’s a reasonable concern. He wouldn’t be the first kid to get sent to a shrink after coming into a nonstandard, non-amber-related talent. What kind of ability do you think he has?”

“Not sure,” Slade said. “It’s still unfocused.”

“He lost his mother a few months ago. That kind of trauma can delay or even totally screw up developing senses.”

“He’s a good kid but he’s caught some bad breaks.”

“I understand that there’s no father in the picture.”

“No,” Slade said. “The kid’s got his grandmother but that’s it.”

“Myrna isn’t going to have an easy time of it. It’s hard enough to raise a teenage boy alone. Trying to deal with one who is showing some serious talent will be even more complicated.”

“Especially if the person doing the raising isn’t comfortable with the concept of nonstandard talent, herself,” Slade said.

“Who is, unless you happen to be Arcane? And even within the Society, very strong talents tend to make other sensitives nervous.”

“That’s the thing about power of any kind,” Slade said. “It can be scary. I told Devin that what was happening to him was normal but that most people wouldn’t think so. I advised him to keep quiet about his new senses until he’s older and until he’s figured out how to control them.”

“Good advice. Meanwhile, he needs guidance. No matter how you label it, what he did last night certainly fits the definition of illegal entry.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“A kid like Devin could go either way,” Charlotte said.

“I know.”

“Sounds like you speak from personal experience.”

“I do.”