In Too Deep

16

They gathered in the Scar that evening. Everyone who had lived in the Cove during the heyday of the Seekers' community showed up. Isabella made a mental note of the handful of longtime residents who had a long history in the town. Henry and Vera were there. So were her landlord, Ralph Toomey, and Marge from the Sunshine. The proprietors of the inn, Violet and Patty, were also present. The two women sat at a table with Bud Yeager, the owner of the gas station and garage. Harriet and Ben Stokes from the grocery store lounged at another table. Even Walker showed up. He hovered, jittering a little, near the door.

Oliver and Fran Hitchcock, owners of the Scar, took up positions behind the bar, solemnly pouring beers. Everyone except Walker had one.

Isabella perched on a red vinyl bar stool. Fallon occupied the stool beside her, one booted foot propped on the brass rung, his laptop in its leather case on the counter beside him.

Isabella watched the faces of the small crowd as Henry gave a brief summary of the day's events. By now the news had spread throughout the Cove. When Henry told those present that Gordon Lasher's skeleton had been discovered in the old bomb shelter, no one showed any signs of shock.

Bud Yeager snorted in disgust. "Figures he came back to steal whatever is down there. Lasher was nothing but a low-rent con man. After all this time, I still can't believe we fell for his scam."

"He was good." Marge sighed. "Real good. And we were a lot younger back in those days. We wanted to think that we were special and that there was a magic path to enlightenment that only we could experience. Lasher made it easy for us to believe."

"Only for a short period of time," Vera said grimly. "The guru magic wore off very quickly, if you will recall."

"As soon as it became obvious that the son of a bitch was going to go after every young girl who wandered into town," Patty said bitterly.

Bud Yeager drank some beer and lowered the bottle. "Wonder who killed him?"

"Who cares?" Harriet Stokes said. "He got what he deserved. I will never forget how he used me. I let him take every dime of the money my parents left me."

Ben Stokes reached across the table to touch her arm. "He used all of us. It was never about founding a community. It was about the money right from the start."

"Good riddance." Violet shuddered. "Wanted to kill him myself, there at the end."

"Who didn't?" Ralph Toomey asked.

Henry cleared his throat and took charge again. "We always knew there was something dangerous down there in that old shelter. Turns out we were right. Fallon and Isabella say that the objects look like genuine antiques from the late Victorian era but they're actually very dangerous experimental weapons. They need to be deactivated by experts."

Bud Yeager slapped the tabletop with his palm. "Fat chance of that happening if we turn those weapons over to the Feds. We all know that."

"He's right," Marge said. "The CIA will want to find out how they work, and the military will want to figure out how to make a thousand more just like 'em."

Fallon stirred slightly. Instantly the crowd fell silent. Everyone looked at him.

"Given the unique nature of the weapons, it is highly unlikely that they could be duplicated," he said. "That's the good news. The bad news is that the clockwork gadgets that we found are not only dangerous, but they also are highly unpredictable because the technology involved is based on the principles of paranormal physics."

Isabella noticed that no one appeared shocked by that announcement, either.

"Everyone knows that the CIA and the FBI have been fooling around with the woo-woo stuff for years," Oliver Hitchcock growled from behind the bar.

A lovely warmth blossomed inside Isabella. These were her people, she thought. That was why she felt at home here in the Cove. The locals spoke her language, the language that she had been taught from the cradle, conspiracy-ese.

"That's right," she said eagerly. "Years ago, the press exposed those so-called far seeing experiments that the CIA conducted."

"And don't forget the paranormal research programs funded at Duke and Stanford decades ago," Marge offered.

"Those projects were just the ones they let the public know about," Henry said. "No telling what they were doing in secret."

"Let's not get carried away here," Fallon said neutrally. "To date, the black-ops folks don't seem to have accomplished too much in the field of paranormal weaponry."

Vera sniffed. "Not for lack of trying. If those gadgets down there in the shelter are the real deal, we sure as hell can't turn them over to the government."

"If we do, they'll wind up in the hands of some black arts agency, sure as we're sitting here," Henry warned.

"I happen to agree with you," Fallon said patiently. "Trust me when I tell you that I don't want those artifacts falling into the wrong hands. I propose that we give them to the one organization that is capable of deactivating and storing them."

Bud frowned. "What organization is that?"

"A group called the Arcane Society," Fallon said. "Full disclosure here, the Society is my biggest client. It has been engaged in serious paranormal research for generations. What's more, it has had some experience with other gadgets just like those we found in the shelter."

Another wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Isabella noticed a few skeptical faces.

"The Society is for real," she assured them. "Just like Fallon is for real. You can trust him to do what's right with the weapons."

Heads nodded around the room.

"Jones, here, knows more about those weapons than any of the rest of us," Henry said. "I think we should take his advice."

"I agree," Vera declared. "Given the way the clock showed up at the old Zander place and the fact that there's a second entrance to the shelter that most of us never knew about, it's clear we can't protect those gadgets any longer."

"What about the skeleton?" Marge asked. "You're sure it's Gordon Lasher?"

"According to the ID in his wallet," Fallon said. He looked at Henry. "And a few other things."

"There was a ring with the body," Henry said. He took it out of the pocket of his coveralls and held it up for all to view. "Remember that big old flashy crystal that Lasher always wore? This is it."

"Okay, so it probably is Lasher," Marge said. "What are we going to do with it?"

"The body is a small problem," Fallon conceded.

Violet widened her eyes. "A small problem? It's a dead body."

"Whatever happened to Gordon Lasher happened more than twenty years ago, and judging from the comments I've heard tonight, no one seems to have missed him," Fallon said.

"That's for damn sure," Ben Stokes muttered.

"We've got a couple of options," Fallon continued. "We could tell the county cops about the skeleton but I can't see the sheriff or any of his men figuring out how to get into the shelter to retrieve the remains, let alone conduct an investigation into the death. You know what the atmosphere is like down there."

"Jones is right," Henry said. "The local authorities will realize right away that something downright weird happened down there in the shelter and they'll contact the Feds."

"That means the CIA," Fran Hitchcock said darkly. "Or some other clandestine agency. The same folks that set up that lab twenty-two years ago may still be in operation for all we know."

Oliver Hitchcock looked alarmed. "If that crowd comes back, they'll be all over the Cove this time, trying to isolate the source of the energy in that fallout shelter. I wouldn't put it past them to shut down the whole town and kick us out."

"It will be like Area 51," Isabella said, getting into the spirit of the conversation. "There will be armed guards all over the place."

"Fallon says there's some kind of cosmic energy nexus along this stretch of the coast," Vera offered. "If the CIA discovers that they can tap in to a power source like that, there won't be any stopping them. Isabella is right. The first step will be to clear out the town."

"It could be a whole lot worse," Harriet Stokes said in ominous tones. "They might decide they don't want any witnesses."

There was a vast silence while the crowd digested that possibility. Then the hubbub started up again, louder this time.

Beneath the cover of the general uproar, Fallon turned to Isabella.

"I never used the term cosmic energy," he said.

"Details," she said.

"Cosmic implies energy from beyond Earth. While some of that may be in play here, it is not, at present, measurable, and has no bearing on the nexus energy that I mentioned."

She patted his thigh. "Nobody's listening to you, boss."

"I noticed," he said.

The anxious conversations got louder and so did the level of alarm.

Fallon leaned back and extended his arms along the bar. He surveyed the crowd with a satisfied air.

"It's an amazing thing," he said to Isabella.

"What?" she asked.

"Being present at the creation of a full-blown conspiracy theory. It's like watching a galaxy being born. Lots of random, unconnected bits and pieces of matter whiz past each other, exert a little gravitational pull and bingo, they start forming an organized system. The next thing you know you have a complete, wheels-within-wheels fantasy involving the CIA, Area 51, cosmic energy and a dead guy."

She gave him a severe look. "You started this with that business about the CIA taking over the town."

"I never actually said that, either."

She blinked. "You think this is amusing, don't you?"

"I do." He gave her one of his rare smiles, the kind that heated his eyes. "You know, since I started hanging around you, I've begun to feel almost normal for the first time in my life."

"There are serious grounds for speculating about a potential conspiracy here," she told him.

"No," he said flatly. "Three people running experiments on some antique weapons twenty-two years ago and the skeleton of a dead con man do not a conspiracy make."

"Okay, what do they add up to?"

Fallon reached for his beer bottle. "A problem. One that can be easily solved."

"Really?" Isabella waved her hands to get the crowd's attention and raised her voice. "Fallon says there's a solution to the problem of the skeleton."

Silence descended again. Everyone in the room looked expectantly at Fallon.

"It appears to me," he said deliberately, "that the simplest approach is to remove the bones from the shelter and dump them into the ocean off the Point. As you know, the currents are very strong there. I calculate a ninety-eight-point-five percent chance that none of the bones will ever wash ashore, at least not near here. Even if a few do, no one will be able to trace them back to the old bomb shelter."

They all stared at him, expressions of dawning comprehension on their faces.

Henry pursed his lips. "Works for me."

Fran Hitchcock nodded slowly. "Lasher was always talking about the forces of karma. This strikes me as a fine example of karma in action."

"I like it." Ben Stokes brightened. "I like it a lot."

"Think of it as a burial at sea," Fallon said.

"Oh, yes," Isabella said. "That's perfect."

Marge nodded quickly. "Perfect."

There were several more nods around the room.

"Let's take a vote," Henry said. "Those in favor of letting Fallon handle this problem, raise your hands."

Every hand in the room went up with one exception.

Henry looked at Walker. "How do you vote, Walker?"

Walker stopped jittering for a moment. A ferocious expression crossed his thin features. Isabella was sure that his eyes got a little hot.

"Gordon Lasher was a b-bad man," Walker said.

"I'll take that as a yes vote," Henry said. "It's settled, then. The bones go into the ocean and those weird gadgets in the shelter go to the Arcane Society."

There was a round of satisfied murmurs. Chairs scraped. People got to their feet and started pulling on their jackets and gloves in preparation for going out into the damp, misty night.

"Don't look now," Isabella said to Fallon. "But I think they just elected you sheriff of Scargill Cove."

"And here my mom always thought I should go into finance."

OUTSIDE FOG enveloped the Cove, the real kind that came with the scent of the ocean. There were no streetlamps in the small community, but the handful of lights in the windows of the inn and in the rooms above the shops infused the air with an otherworldly glow.

Isabella savored the simple pleasure of walking back to her apartment with Fallon. It was good to be with him. It felt right.

Fallon took his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and punched in some numbers.

"Rafanelli? Jones here."

There was a short pause.

"What do you mean, which Jones? Fallon Jones. J&J." Fallon sounded irritated. "I need a lab team capable of dealing with weapons-grade artifacts here in Scargill Cove tomorrow.... Yes, I said tomorrow. Something wrong with your phone? Found a cache of Mrs. Bridewell's curiosities . . . Yes, those curiosities. The infernal devices. Some of them are still operational."

There was another pause, much longer this time. Isabella heard an excited buzzing on the other end of the connection.

"No, I don't know yet how they got here," Fallon said impatiently. "But it looks like they've been locked up in an old bomb shelter for more than twenty years. Right. I know Dr. Tremont is the expert on glass, but I checked earlier and she's on sabbatical in London. That leaves you. Besides, you're the expert when it comes to decommissioning para-weapons, not Tremont. See you tomorrow. In the morning."

He closed the phone.

Isabella cleared her throat.

"What?" he said.

"Sometimes you have a tendency to be a tad brusque with people," she said.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Brusque?"

He said it as if he had never heard the word.

"Short," she said. "Crisp. Rude."

"Huh. I like to be efficient on the phone. People tend to waste a lot of time chatting at me."

"Chatting at you? Chatting is generally considered an occupation that two or more people engage in together."

"I'm not a chatty type."

"Of course you are. We're chatting right now."

"No," he said, very certain. "We're having a conversation."

"Oddly enough, people sometimes resent being ordered around, especially by a person who is not even their official boss."

"You think I was brusque with Rafanelli?" Fallon sounded offended now. "I was doing him a favor. He's been fascinated by Bridewell's work for years. Taking charge of a cache of her inventions will be a huge thrill for him, not to mention a major career boost. He'll write the definitive paper for the Journal of Paranormal and Psychical Research and become a legend in the Society's research circles."

"I understand," Isabella said.

They walked a little farther.

"Well?" Fallon said. "What the hell should I have said to Rafanelli?"

"It's often helpful to insert a few friendly comments into a business conversation. Asking about a person's health or their children is always good."

"Are you kidding? Get people started on their health and their kids and you never get them back on track."

"Okay," Isabella said.

They walked a few more steps. Fallon muttered something under his breath and reached back into the inside pocket of his jacket. He snapped the phone open and punched in some numbers.

"Rafanelli? Jones here again. Fallon Jones. Please bring a team to Scargill Cove tomorrow to pick up the Bridewell artifacts. You're the leading expert on para-weaponry, and I wouldn't trust those gadgets to anyone else but you. How's the wife? See you tomorrow."

He snapped the phone closed.

"What did he say?" Isabella asked.

"Nothing. Not one word."

"Probably stunned."

"I outchatted him," Fallon said proudly.

"I think so, yes."

"Told you that personal nattering is a waste of time." He flipped the phone open again. "That reminds me, I'd better call Zack. He'll want to know about those curiosities."

He punched in a code.

"Zack, it's Fallon. Found a bunch of Bridewell's inventions here in Scargill Cove. Rafanelli is bringing a team here tomorrow to dismantle them and transport them back to the L.A. lab. Thought you'd like to know. Give my best to Raine. I heard she was expecting. Congratulations. Bye."

He closed the phone and waited for the verdict with an air of expectation.

"Better," Isabella said. "But it strikes me that it might be a good idea if I handled more of J&J's routine business communications. That would leave you free to concentrate on your investigative work."

"Is that a polite way of saying I don't have people skills?"

"Not everyone is management material, Fallon."

"You're right," he said decisively. "In future, I'll let you do the personal chitchat."

She smiled. "Who says you can't delegate?"

They reached Toomey's Treasures and went up the outside stairs to her apartment above the shop. She was intensely aware of Fallon watching her take her key out of her pocket. He was in what she had come to think of as his brooding zone. In the dim light of the bare, low-watt bulb that lit the doorway, his hard face was cast in the light-and-shadow of film noir. The dark passions that burned deep inside him would have made it possible for him to play either the hero or the villain, but whichever role he chose, he would follow his own code.

She got the door open, moved into the apartment and flipped the light switch. She turned to face him.

"What you did tonight," she said. "Proposing that we dump that skeleton into the ocean."

He watched her with a shuttered expression. "What about it?"

"You knew that if you gave the body to the authorities, it's possible that there would be a murder investigation."

"Unlikely. No one in this county will care about what happened here in the Cove twenty-two years ago. Nobody outside of town gives a damn about this place. Few people even know it exists."

"I'm aware of that. Nevertheless, if there ever was an inquiry into Lasher's death, everyone who attended the meeting at the tavern tonight would be a suspect."

He shrugged. "Sounds like they all had motive."

"So you didn't suggest a convenient burial at sea because you're afraid that some secret CIA black-ops agency will take over the Cove. You did it to protect the people of this community."

He did not respond.

She put her hands on his shoulders and brushed her mouth against his. "You're a good man, Fallon Jones."

"Just being pragmatic."

She smiled and stepped back. "Would you like to come in for a nightcap, Mr. Pragmatic?"

He loomed on the threshold, filling the doorway. His face was set in the stalwart expression of a knight preparing to go into battle.

"You probably want to talk about last night," he said.

She smiled. "Nope."

He narrowed his eyes. "Nope?"

"Last night was the most romantic night of my entire life. Why spoil it by trying to explain it?"

"I wasn't planning on explaining it. Seemed pretty straightforward to me. But I thought you might want to talk about it. Women always want to do that. Afterward, I mean."

"And you know this, how?"

He frowned. "Everyone knows that."

She almost laughed. "The one thing I know for sure about last night is that it does not involve a conspiracy."

"Definitely no conspiracy," he agreed.

"That's good enough for me."

"It is?"

She took his hand and tugged gently. "Come inside and have a drink with me, Fallon Jones."

He moved into the room, closed the door and locked it with great care. When he turned back to her she could see the heat in his eyes.

"The most romantic night of your entire life?" he said very carefully.

"Definitely. Was it good for you, too?"

The energy in the room got a little hotter.

"Yes," he said. "The best."

"Then I don't see that further discussion is necessary."

"No," he said. "No more talking."

He swooped down upon her, scooped her up and started toward the bedroom.

Isabella put her arms around his neck.

"Guess we'll skip the nightcap," she said.

SOMETIME LATER She awoke to the knowledge that she was alone in the bed. She opened her eyes and sat up against the pillows. The clock on the night table read two-twenty.

A familiar otherworldly glow illuminated the bedroom doorway. Not psi fog, she thought. It was the light from a computer screen. Fallon had gone back to work.

She pushed the covers aside and got to her feet. She was nude and the room was chilly. She stepped into her slippers and pulled on her robe.

She tied the sash of the robe as she went down the short hallway, past the bathroom into the main room. Fallon was seated gazing into his laptop. In the glow from the screen, his face had the ruthless cast of a man obsessed. She could well believe that he was descended from a legendary alchemist.

"Fallon?"

He looked up. His hard expression relaxed at the sight of her. Energy swirled in the atmosphere. She knew that he was remembering the searing passion they had shared.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"What are you working on?" she asked. She moved to stand beside him. "The Nightshade case?"

"No." He leaned back in his chair. "I was just doing some background research on Julian Garrett."

"You should be in bed. You need sleep."

"I don't require a lot of sleep."

"Well, you certainly need more than you got tonight." She leaned over the desk and took his powerful hand. "It's two-twenty in the morning. Come back to bed."

"I work odd hours," he said.

"No need for them to be this odd. Come with me."

Somewhat to her surprise he got up out of the chair and let her lead him back into the bedroom. When they got there, he pulled her into his arms and down onto the bed.

This time he slept until dawn.