Ghost Hunter

Chapter 23

ORMOND RIPLEY CHECKED HIS AMBER-FACED WATCH AS he went past his executive assistant's desk. "Please tell Maitland I want to see him in my office in half an hour to go over the new set of financials."

"Yes, Mr. Ripley." The assistant reached for the phone. "Mr. Dugan called while you were out. He said to tell you that he's found a new, very hot act for the club. The group will be auditioning at four this afternoon if you want to check it out for yourself."

'Thanks, I'll be there." He went to the door of his office. "Send Maitland in as soon as he arrives."

"Yes, sir."

He opened the door and walked into his office, savoring as he always did the hushed atmosphere. In his considered opinion, the room exuded an aura of power and luxury that was infinitely more intoxicating than any drug and more compelling than any woman he had ever met.

The walls were paneled in wave-wood that had been cut and shipped from the jungles of remote islands. The intricately inlaid stone flooring had been quarried in the mountains of the Northern Continent.

The artwork on the walls had once belonged to the private collection of one of the founders of the Cadence Museum. The paintings had been destined for the museum's galleries, but Ormond had made certain that they ended up here, instead. He was no great fan of the softly hued works of post-Era of Discord modernism, but that was not important. What mattered was that the art of that period was considered by connoisseurs to be brilliant and extremely valuable; in short, the province of the most elite collectors.

He had come a long way from the dusty, backwater mining town where he had been born and raised, he thought, and every time he walked into this office he took a moment to reflect on that journey.

His dissonance-energy para-rez talents had been his ticket to a good-paying job as a Guild man. He'd had no family connections to lean on, but an aptitude for internal politics and an intuitive ability to choose the winning side had helped him rise within the Guild to the status of Council member.

But he had known from the start of his career as a hunter that he wanted to do more with his life than chase ghosts through the catacombs. His driving goal had been to establish his own empire. The Road to the Ruins was the culmination of his ambitions, and he gloried in the most minute details of the day-to-day operations of his kingdom.

He started toward the heavily carved wooden desk at the far end of the room.

The door of his private bathroom opened almost but not quite soundlessly. Startled, he turned on one heel.

He scowled at the janitor lounging in the opening.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "That bathroom is never cleaned at this time of day unless I request it."

"We need to talk," the janitor said, leaning on his mop. "Better have your assistant hold your calls for a while."

"Who are you?"

"At the moment I'm the only thing standing between you and an extended stay in prison."

"Not my vacation destination of choice. What's going on here?"

The janitor took a small packet out of one pocket. "I think you've been set up to take the fall for dealing the crap they call enchantment dust."

"What in the name of green hell?" Ormond held out his hand. "Let me see that."

The janitor tossed it to him without comment.

He caught the plastic bag and unsealed it cautiously. There was no need to taste or sniff the powder inside. His parapsych senses were very acute. This close to the drug, he could feel the faint tingle on the paranormal wavelengths to which he was attuned.

So much for the possibility that the janitor was bluffing.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, buying some time to think while he resealed the bag. Visions of his hard-won personal empire crumbling before his eyes flashed through his head. He had not come this far only to lose it all now.

"Found it down in the old basement. Place leaks like a sieve, by the way, water and psi energy. Got a rat hole down there?"

Ormond ignored that. "I don't sell drugs."

"Going to be tough to prove if the cops raid this place and find the stash that I just found."

"There's more of this junk down there?"

"Three large cardboard boxes filled with little packets like that one."

Ormond went to stand behind his desk, trying to collect his thoughts.

"You really think someone is trying to frame me?" he asked finally.

"That's how it looks."

"Why not assume that I've gone into the drug-dealing business?"

"I did a little research before I came here today." The janitor's smile was cryptic and cold. "If you did decide to deal drugs, I don't think you'd pack them in nonwaterproof boxes and then stash them in an empty closet in a damp basement. You're smart, and you're a strong para-rez. You'd be far more likely to conceal them in the catacombs where the odds would be against anyone finding the stuff."

"You sure about that?" Ormond asked. "Maybe I was going with the hide-it-in-plain-sight theory."

"A possibility. But there's something else that makes me think you're not involved in this."

"What's that?"

"Like I said, I checked around." The janitor gave the expensive room an assessing look. "You've worked hard to build this place, and you've been damn careful to stay inside the legal zone. You're a risk-taker, but I don't mink you're the type to put all this on the line for the sake of some short-term drug profits. Not just my opinion, by the way. There's someone else who agrees with me."

"Who?"

"Mercer Wyatt."

Ormond went very still. "This is Guild business?"

"Yes. Wyatt said you served on the Council here in Cadence for a few years."

"What of it?"

"It means you're cleared to discuss blue freaks."

"There's one involved in this thing?"

"Yes." The janitor indicated the mop in his hand. "Wyatt asked me to clean up the mess before it becomes a major PR problem for him."

"Well, hell." Ormond exhaled and lowered himself slowly into his chair. "You're not the janitor. You're the librarian."