Copper Beach

19

SHE FELT THE HOT CURRENTS OF ENERGY SWIRLING INSIDE the lab as soon as she walked through the automatic doors with Sam. The interior of the Black Box facility, officially known as the Coppersmith Research and Development Laboratory, gleamed and sparkled with a lot of stainless steel and thick green-tinted glass. Instruments and high-tech equipment, including lasers that were clearly state–of–­the-art and beyond, were arrayed on the workbenches. Computer screens glowed on every desk. Technicians in white coats hovered over chunks of raw ore and specimens of crystals and rocks.

There was a lot of heat in the room, Abby thought, and it wasn’t all coming from the specimens. She was fairly certain that most, if not all, of the researchers and technicians were talents of one kind or another.

One of the techs looked up when Sam escorted Abby into the windowless room. He yanked his safety goggles away from his eyes and got to his feet.

“Mr. Coppersmith,” he said. “Sorry, sir, didn’t see you come in. It’s been a while since you dropped by.”

Several other members of the staff noticed Sam and greeted him with a mixture of surprise and friendly respect. They looked at Abby with veiled speculation.

“I know I haven’t been around as often as usual in the past few months,” Sam said to the technician. “But I’ve been keeping tabs on things from my private lab. Abby, this is David Estrada. David, Abby Radwell.”

David nodded at Abby. “Nice to meet you, Miss Radwell.”

“Abby, please,” she said. “A pleasure to meet you, too.” She looked around. “I’ve never seen anything like this place.”

“Not a lot of labs like this one around,” David said. He did not bother to conceal his pride. “Rumor has it that our competition, Helicon Stone, operates a decent version of their own Black Box, but I doubt if they’ve got anything we don’t have.”

“If you ever find out that the Helicon lab does have something we don’t have, let me know,” Sam said. “We’ll get it for you.”

David laughed. “That’s what I like about working here. I get every toy I want.”

“How are things going?” Sam asked.

“Humming along,” David said. “I’m working on a very interesting piece of amber today. Definitely charged. Would you like to see it?”

“I would, but I don’t have the time. We’re on the way to the library. I just stopped by to say hello. Where’s Dr. Frye?”

“I think you’ll find him in the library,” David said. He smiled, as if at some secret joke. “With Miss O’Connell.”

There were a few scattered snickers around the room.

Sam took Abby’s arm. “I’ll catch up with him there. See you all at the tech summit next week.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” David said. “My kids can’t wait to go kayaking again. They’re still talking about the experience last summer.”

Sam guided Abby back through the automatic steel doors and down a hall. She studied the stone-and steel-and glass-clad walls, floor and ceiling.

Sam guessed her thoughts. “Stone, steel and glass are the three materials that do the best job of stopping psi-radiation and ultralight.”

“Stone and steel I understand. But glass?”

“Glass is still something of a mystery, and it has a history of being unpredictable when it comes to paranormal energy, because it possesses the properties of both a solid and a crystal. But here in the Box we use a special type of glass that we designed ourselves. It doesn’t always block psi or ultralight, but it does disrupt the oscillating pattern of the currents in many of the specimens. That works just as well as a solid barrier, in most cases.”

He stopped in front of another set of steel doors and entered a code into the security system. The doors made almost no sound when they slid open, which, Abby decided, was why the two people at the far end of the room did not realize that they were no longer alone. The pair stood very close, their body language signaling an intimate relationship.

Abby looked around with a sense of spiraling excitement, her senses dancing to the beat of the hot energy in the room. Unlike the crystal-based heat in the lab, this was her kind of psi.

The Coppersmith Inc. technical library resembled the rare books and manuscripts room of a large academic library. The atmosphere was hushed and Old World. Leather-bound volumes graced the shelves. Some were quite ancient. Many of the hottest books were housed in glass cases. There were no windows, and the artificial lighting was kept to a minimum. Green glass shades covered the lamps on the reading tables. The difference was that many of the books in this library were hot.

Sam coughed discreetly. “Dr. Frye, Jenny. Sorry to interrupt.”

The two people at the other end of the room jumped apart and turned quickly. The woman was clearly mortified. She appeared to be in her early forties and endowed with the scholarly, academic look that went with the library. Her silvering hair was cut in a sleek bob. She wore a navy blue skirted business suit and gold-framed glasses.

“Mr. Coppersmith,” she said, flustered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.”

“It’s okay, Jenny,” Sam said, moving forward with Abby. “Just stopped in to check on a few things and do a little research.”

The man next to Jenny smiled. “Mr. Coppersmith. Good to see you again here at the lab. It’s been a while.”

“Been busy,” Sam said. He sped through the introductions. “Dr. Gerald Frye, Jenny O’Connell, I’d like you to meet Abby Radwell.”

Gerald Frye was obviously close to Jenny’s age, but perhaps a couple of years younger, Abby thought. Thirty-nine or forty, although it was hard to be sure. It looked as if he had not bothered to run a brush through his shaggy mane of dark, graying hair that morning. His mustache and beard needed a trim. He wore heavily framed glasses and an unbuttoned lab coat that was liberally spotted with what appeared to be old coffee stains.

There was a polite round of Happy to meet you.

“Abby is an expert in hot books,” Sam said.

“Is that so?” Jenny smiled warmly. “Always a pleasure to meet a colleague. There aren’t that many of us who specialize in rare hot books. Do you work in one of the other Coppersmith labs?”

Here it comes, Abby thought. She braced herself for the inevitable reaction.

“No, I don’t work in one of the other labs,” she said. She gave Jenny her brightest professional smile. “I’m a freelancer.”

Jenny blinked. Comprehension dawned in her expression along with ill-concealed disapproval.

“I see,” Jenny said. “You work in the private market?”

“Right,” Abby said.

Private market was polite code in the hot-books world for the paranormal underground market, and they both knew it. Professional librarians and academics who valued their scholarly reputations did not dabble in the underground market, or at least did not admit to dabbling in it. They had their own reputations to consider, and, besides, it was dangerous.

“Right now, Abby is working for me,” Sam said.

Jenny’s smile was stiff, but she kept her demeanor coolly polite. “I see,” she said again.

Gerald Frye looked at Sam with a troubled expression. “I don’t understand. Is Miss Radwell trying to find a specific book for you?”

“Yes, she is,” Sam said. “It’s one I want for the family collection, not the company library. It disappeared several years ago, but it’s rumored to be coming up for auction. Abby has that covered. The reason we’re here today is because I want to do some research.”

“Yes, of course,” Frye said. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. I need to get back to the lab.” He bobbed his head at Abby. “A pleasure, Miss Radwell.”

“Dr. Frye,” Abby murmured.

Frye disappeared through the steel doors. Jenny gave Sam her own version of a professional smile.

“How can I help you, Mr. Coppersmith?”

“I’m looking for anything and everything you’ve got written by or about Marcus Dalton.”

Jenny frowned slightly. “The nineteenth-century researcher who became obsessed with alchemy?”

“That’s the one,” Sam said.

“I’m afraid we don’t have much. He was never considered a serious scientist. There is very little written about him in the literature, and as I recall, most of his own writings were destroyed in a fire or an explosion. Can’t remember the details.”

“Let me see what you’ve got, Jenny,” Sam said.

“Certainly, sir.”

It did not take long to exhaust the library’s holdings on the subject of Marcus Dalton. An hour after Jenny produced a short stack of books, all secondary sources, Abby and Sam left the lab and walked across the parking lot to the SUV.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Sam said. “I had a feeling it would be, but I had to be sure.”

“Jenny O’Connell was right,” Abby said. “Marcus Dalton was not taken seriously in his own lifetime or by any of the historians of nineteenth-century science. Too bad so much of his own work was lost in that explosion.”

Newton was waiting right where they had left him, his nose pressed to the partially open window in the rear seat of the SUV. Abby knew that he had probably been sitting there, his whole attention riveted on the entrance of the Coppersmith Inc. lab, ever since she and Sam had disappeared inside. He greeted them with his usual enthusiasm.

Sam got behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot. “Not that it’s any of our business, but did you get the impression that there was something personal going on between Frye and Jenny?”

Abby smiled. “Yep. We interrupted an office romance.”

Sam looked thoughtful. “I hope it works for both of them. Jenny has been alone since her husband died a few years ago.”

“What about Dr. Frye?”

“As far as I know, he’s never been married.” Sam took the interstate on-ramp, heading north toward Anacortes. “I saw Jenny’s expression when you explained that you were a freelancer in the private market. Do you get that a lot?”

“Only if I deal with people like her, who work the academic and scholarly end of the market.”

“How often does that happen?”

She smiled. “Not often. It’s almost impossible for any of them to get a proper referral. Thaddeus held a major grudge against the academic world in general, because it disdained his insistence that the paranormal should be taken seriously. As a result, he almost never referred anyone from that world to me. On the rare occasion when I do agree to take on a client from any of the established institutions in academia, we rarely reach an agreement on my fees.”

Sam grinned. “They can’t afford you?”

“I always jack up my fees when someone from academia comes calling. Petty, I know, but we all have to have our standards.”

“Guess I should be feeling lucky that you agreed to take me on as a client.”

“Got news for you, Sam Coppersmith. Like it or not, you’re from my world.”

“I’m okay with that.”