Running Hot

THIRTY-THREE

“Do I need to talk to our guy in the Honolulu PD?” Fallon Jones asked.

“No,” Luther said. “Craigmore had a silencer. No one came to investigate. Petra and Wayne cleaned up the scene.”

He and Grace were in the apartment. He was on the phone, pacing, trying to ignore the aftereffects of the heavy burn. She was gazing into the glowing computer screen as if it were a crystal ball, contemplating her precious genealogy files.

It was taking everything he had to stay focused on the conversation with Fallon. What he really wanted,

needed, was a stiff shot of whiskey and then sleep.

“What did you do with the body?” Fallon asked, pragmatic, as always.

“This is Hawaii. Gets a little warm here. We wrapped it in a few yards of plastic kitchen wrap and stashed it in the walk-in refrigerator at the restaurant.”

Luckily Petra bought extra-heavy-duty plastic wrap and she purchased it in commercial-size containers.

“You don’t do things in a discreet way, do you?” Fallon’s voice rumbled through the phone. “Craigmore was a distinguished member of the Council. He served for fifteen years and was considered to be one of the most powerful men in the Society. Now it turns out he was a traitor.”

“What kind of talent?” Luther asked.

“Craigmore was a crystal generator,” Fallon said.

“What’s that?”

“A specialized kind of crystal worker. He could channel energy through a few extremely rare gemstones. That laser gadget you described appears to have worked by disrupting and neutralizing an individual’s aura.”

“Where the hell did he get that thing?”

“Good question. We’re still looking into it. It didn’t come out of our labs, that’s for sure. Best guess now is that it was designed especially for his talent in that no-name government agency he used to work for.”

“He worked for the government?”

“Back in the day. There are over twenty government agencies dedicated to national security and intelligence issues. Some people in the know claim the number is closer to thirty. And they’ve all got black-hole departments that are used for clandestine purposes. Every so often one of them decides to experiment with paranormal research. Not that any of them would ever admit it, of course. That would mean trying to justify the funding to Congress. The media would have a field day blasting the feds for spending tax dollars on

junk science.”

Luther understood the sudden flash of anger in Fallon’s tone. Many members of the Arcane community found society’s attitudes toward the paranormal frustrating and, on occasion, infuriating.

“Probably hard enough to justify the Farm Bill and corporate welfare,” Luther said. “Try telling people that you’re spending millions on the woo-woo stuff.”

“How the hell are we going to prove that people like you and me and Grace and everyone else in the Society aren’t wack jobs if everyone insists on officially denying the existence of the paranormal? Talk about catch twenty-two. Talk about the emperor’s new clothes. Talk about shortsighted, stupid and—”

“Uh, Fallon, maybe we could get back to the subject of what to do about Craigmore’s body? I’m pretty good when it comes to tweaking auras but even I have limits. If someone from the health department happens to drop into the restaurant tomorrow, I may have a little problem convincing him to ignore a dead guy in the refrigerator.”

“Sorry. I don’t usually get off track like that.”

“I know.”

It said a lot about the situation that Fallon had allowed himself to lose his focus.

“I hate to admit it but I think this thing that you and Grace have uncovered is starting to get to me,” Fallon continued, grim and glum. “The Nightshade operation is so much bigger and more extensive than we imagined. And we’re on our own.”

No getting around that, Luther thought. The danger posed by Nightshade was very real. The Council was committed to dealing with the threat but it was not easy fighting a battle that was invisible to the wider society.

As far as most people were concerned, the paranormal equated with entertainment. It belonged on television and in books and films. People had

real things to worry about in the real world—terrorism and global warming. They were not going to take seriously warnings about a shadowy organization of evil psychics, especially when that warning was issued by another, equally secret society dedicated to the study of the paranormal.

There were sensitives—members of the Arcane community—working at various levels in government agencies, police departments and other venues who could be called upon by J&J, but they were usually able to supply only limited assistance. In addition, whatever help they did provide had to be strictly off the record. Being outed as someone who claimed to be psychic was, generally speaking, not a smart career move unless you happened to be running a cult.

“About the body,” Luther said. “We’ve got two options. We can either have Petra and Wayne take it out to sea on their boat and dump it or you can arrange to ship it back to Craigmore’s family.”

“Craigmore doesn’t have any family. He married three times but there were no children. Rumor has it that he wasn’t able to have kids. His last wife died nearly a decade ago. But yes, we need to get the body back here. He can’t just disappear. There would be a lot of questions. Let me think for a minute.”

Luther listened as Fallon clicked computer keys.

“Okay, looks like he flew commercial,” Fallon said finally. “His private jet is still sitting on the ground in L.A. That means he didn’t want a record of the trip, and that, in turn, means he probably used a phony ID to get the seat on the scheduled flight. We’re clear.”

Luther went blank trying to follow the logic. It was a frequent occurrence when talking to Fallon.

“Clear for what?” he asked.

“No one knows Craigmore went to Hawaii so no one will think it’s strange when he turns up dead in his own home in L.A.,” Fallon explained. “I’ll send a company plane with refrigeration equipment to pick up his body.”

“Will there be an autopsy?”

“Probably not,” Fallon said. “It’s going to look like he died of a heart attack and wasn’t found for a few hours. He was seventy. No one will question cause of death.”

“But if there is an autopsy?”

“Natural causes,” Fallon said absently. His attention was already on the next move in the three-dimensional chess game he was playing.

“What makes you so sure of that, Fallon?”

“You’re not the first person to zap an aura.”

“I’m not?” Luther glanced at Grace. She was still studying the screen but he knew she was listening to the conversation. “There have been others?”

“A few. It’s an extremely rare variant of the aura talent. Requires off-the-charts power, which, as we both know, you just happen to have. Also, in every reported case, the aura talent had to be in physical contact with the victim in order to douse the whole energy field.”

“There was a struggle,” Luther said tonelessly. He looked at one of his hands. “I was right on top of him.”

Fallon tapped merrily away on his computer. “Takes a while to recover from that kind of burn. My guess is that you’re going to need to crash for a few hours.”

“No shit.” It was a damn shame that Fallon was so far away, Luther thought. It would have been very satisfying to throttle him.

“Couple of other things you might want to know about this kind of thing,” Fallon said.

“Go on.”

“I came across an old Society research paper on the subject a while back. Evidently the experience of killing someone the way you just did is described as intimate, akin to using a knife or your bare hands.”

Luther tightened his grip on the cane. “Thanks for that.”

“Hence the possible parapsych fallout,” Fallon added.

“What the hell?”

“Posttraumatic stress and all that. The paper said that the aftereffects are highly unpredictable.”

“Did it ever occur to you to warn me about any of this?”

“No,” Fallon said.

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, there’s no way to know if an aura talent can actually extinguish another person’s energy field until he actually does it. That pretty much rules out experimental trials, at least as far as the Society is concerned. For another, the records of the handful of talents who could generate that kind of energy have always been classified to the highest levels. The Society doesn’t need that kind of stuff hitting the Internet or the tabloids.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your keeping that information from me, Fallon.”

“Like I said, no way to know if you could do it until you did it.” Fallon broke off again. There were more clicking noises. “Here’s something interesting.”

“I’m not sure I can take any more interesting news.”

“According to the experts, you didn’t actually kill Craigmore.”

“This is starting to sound like a trip down the rabbit hole.”

“Here’s the deal,” Fallon continued, unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm. “Evidently what you did with your aura was

reflect the violent energy that Craigmore was generating. In effect, you created a mirror. When you came in contact with him, he got a severe bounce-back jolt. It set up a dissonant wave pattern that shattered his aura. In essence, Craigmore was the victim of a ricochet shot.”

“Huh.”

“Trust me,” Fallon said, “there’s no trace of physical evidence in situations like this. It will look like Craigmore’s heart just stopped. Which is pretty much what happens at the end, anyway, regardless of what kills you.”

“Craigmore was a wealthy man,” Luther said. “Whoever inherits his financial empire may have a few questions about the manner of his death.”

“A few years back Craigmore informed the previous Master that he intended to leave his entire estate to the Society to continue funding its research. Under the circumstances, I doubt that the Council will ask too many questions.”

“Craigmore and I didn’t exactly have a lengthy conversation in the garage,” Luther said, “but in view of his admission that he was Nightshade, he may have changed his mind about who gets his money.”

“Yeah, can’t wait to see who comes out of the woodwork to collect,” Fallon said. “I’ve got people on the way to Craigmore’s home and his office to see what they can dig up. The good news is that I don’t think Craigmore ever found out that you and Grace stumbled into those four other Nightshade talents on Maui. As far as he knew, you were interested in Eubanks only because J&J was investigating him for murder.”

“Craigmore was on the Council. Why didn’t he learn that we stumbled into the Nightshade connection?”

“Because I didn’t enter anything into the computer files about the link to Nightshade and because Zack chose not to inform the Council about what you and Grace discovered,” Fallon said.

Luther whistled softly. “You two really are worried about a spy, aren’t you?”

“I told you, Zack sensed that there was a Nightshade plant somewhere very high up within the Society. He had even begun to think that the spy might be on the Council. Guess the big sixty-four-dollar question now is, How many other members of the organization are members of the Society?”

“Any idea why Craigmore wanted Eubanks taken out?”

“Not yet,” Fallon admitted. “Just starting to work on that. Probably some kind of competitive thing. Maybe he and Eubanks were both going after the same promotion within Nightshade.”

“Why the hell did he come after me?”

“Because you’re guarding Grace,” Fallon said with his customary devastating logic.

Luther suppressed the icy chill that slithered through his veins.

“The only reason he would have been worried about Grace is because she can identify the singer,” he said quietly.

“Right. Craigmore must have been convinced that if we found the singer, we would uncover a connection that would lead straight back to him.”

Luther thought about that. “Wonder why he didn’t just take out the singer and cut the connection that way?”

“I keep telling you, she’s a pro like Sweetwater. She wouldn’t be all that easy to find, let alone remove.”

Fallon clicked off the way he usually did, without bothering to say good-bye. The way you knew a chat with him was over was when the phone went dead in your ear.