Copper Beach

42

THE COPPERSMITH FAMILY COMPOUND WAS ABLAZE WITH fiery grills. The annual Black Box technical summit was concluded, and the big barbecue was in full swing. The weather had cooperated, with plenty of sunshine and temperatures in the mid-seventies. The long summer day was drawing to a close, but there was still some light in the evening sky.

Abby stood at the edge of the crowd, a glass of sparkling water in her hand, and tried to shake off the chill that was lifting the hairs on her neck. Everything looked normal. There was a line in front of the open bar set up under a large tent. Elias and Willow Coppersmith were mingling with their guests. The sound of laughter and conversation rose up into the trees. All appeared as it should, except for one thing. A few minutes ago, Sam had disappeared.

Earlier that afternoon, he had given a series of tours of his lab, answering an endless string of questions. Abby had been amazed at his patience with the children and teenagers. Afterward, he had done his duty, socializing with the employees and their families. But now he was gone.

She took a sip of the sparkling water. She hadn’t had anything stronger to drink all afternoon, even though she could have used something to calm her nerves. A strange darkness was gathering at the edges of her senses. Every time she tried to focus on it, the eerie shadows flickered out of sight. But the sense of wrongness was intensifying. The only thing she knew for certain was that it was linked to Sam. He had set his trap, and now he was waiting for the killer to walk into it.

She had assumed the snare involved catching the killer on camera in the lab. But now she was having doubts.

Jenny O’Connell materialized out of the crowd. She had a glass of wine in one hand.

“I’ve been looking for you, Abby,” she said. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day, when you and Sam came to the Black Box library. To be honest, I was a little taken aback, or maybe just plain insulted, that Sam Coppersmith was using a freelancer to go after a hot book for his family’s personal collection.”

“I understand,” Abby said. “It’s okay. I know what librarians and academics think about those of us who work the underground market.”

“It’s hard enough having serious academic degrees and just enough talent to know that the paranormal is real. Most of us in that category have to pretend that we don’t really believe in the existence of extrasensory perception, psychic energy or any of the rest of it. We tell people that we study the sadly deluded folks who do believe in it and examine the effects of such bizarre beliefs on culture and society.”

“I understand,” Abby said again. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Unlike many of my colleagues, I was lucky enough to get a job in a scholarly collection like the Coppersmith company library, where the paranormal is taken seriously. And what did I do? I treated you the way my old academic colleagues would have treated me if they had realized that I actually do believe in the paranormal.”

“I get that,” Abby said. She smiled. “My father has spent a lot of time in the academic world. I have a sense of how things work there. Please don’t worry. I accept your apology.”

“Thank you.” Jenny sounded grateful and relieved. “I really would like to know more about your end of the field. I have to admit that I’ve always had a great curiosity about the private collectors’ market. It’s such a mystery, and so intriguing. Perhaps we can talk shop one of these days?”

“Sure,” Abby said.

“Wonderful. I’ll look forward to it.”

Jenny wandered off in the direction of the bar. Abby watched her go and then turned to search the crowd once more. There was still no sign of Sam.

There was something else that was bothering her now, as well. Jenny O’Connell had been in the company of Gerald Frye for most of the evening. Now she was alone.