SEVEN
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8
It was a winding road, a two-lane blacktop like so many in the scenic mountains, with very little shoulder but the occasional overlook where tourists could pull safely off the road and look at the view.
Their black SUV was just approaching one such overlook when Hollis said suddenly, “Hey, Reese, pull over up ahead.”
The valley below them was already partially shadowed, the late-afternoon sun beginning to sink behind the western mountains, but DeMarco didn’t hesitate to pull the SUV off the road and onto the wide overlook. No other vehicles were there.
He parked and shut off the engine, looking at his partner. “I can feel it too,” he said.
She looked at him, nodded, then opened her door. “I want to see if it’s visible.”
DeMarco got out as well, following her to the waist-high rock wall that looked natural but had clearly been built to prevent a careless tourist from taking a deadly fall down the mountain while admiring a truly stunning view of a lovely valley far below.
The mountain slopes below the overlook were unusually sheer here for the Appalachians; the very old mountains shouldering up against one another tended to be given more to gentle, rolling hills and rounded peaks blunted by time. For the most part, the only raw, jagged features were due to the activities of man, the blasting of slopes and tunnels to provide for roads.
But what DeMarco saw appeared natural rather than carved by man. And the first thing he noticed when he joined Hollis at the wall and really looked around was that the same thing appeared to be true all around the big valley sprawling below them. None of the mountains he could see almost completely enclosing the valley ended near the valley floor in gentle undulations, tumbles of grass, or tree-covered hills, as was usual.
As much as he could see of the valley, wherever the mountains met the flatland, there were what looked like granite cliffs, sheer and towering.
DeMarco was about to comment on the weirdness of that when his easy connection with Hollis told him she was seeing or sensing something even weirder. He looked at her, recognizing the narrow-eyed, intense gaze of utter concentration as her striking blue eyes roamed slowly over the valley.
Even so, almost absently, she said, “I wonder if one day we’ll go into a case and not find yet another very strange and new thing almost right off the bat.”
“From the sound of what Bishop got from the sheriff and his deputy down there, we’ll be seeing plenty of strange. Plenty of crazy.”
“Uh-huh.” She turned her head and frowned at him. “You see anything strange?”
“Other than sheer cliffs rising above as much of the valley floor as I can see from here, no. What do you see?”
Her brows lifted slightly in question. “There weren’t any bad things on the island for us to use in practicing, so no way to know if it’ll still work with something I think is very bad. You game?”
“Of course,” he replied without hesitating.
Hollis smiled, then reached for his hand, their fingers twining instantly, and returned her gaze to the valley below. “Look again. You see what I see now?”
It took a moment during which his vision seemed to waver just a bit, but only that long before DeMarco did see what she saw.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. I’m thinking that’s in no way natural.”
The entire valley appeared to be almost encased in a kind of . . . dome. Even though it was not close and they were still well above it, he could see it was high and curved, and that it . . . flashed here and there faintly, close on the underside of the dome-like shape, tiny sparks from this distance but what could easily have been like shimmering patterns of lightning lacing across the sky and hissing high above the town. High above the whole valley.
“Like an aura,” he said slowly, frowning. “Is it?”
“Damned if I know. Never seen one cover an entire town, much less an entire valley. The only thing I’m sure of is that it’s energy. A hell of a lot of energy.”
“Positive or negative?”
“If I had to guess,” she replied slowly, frowning, “and I do, I’d say it’s both.”
“Why does that sound bad?” DeMarco wondered, just as slowly.
“I dunno, but it does, doesn’t it? At least more . . . worrying, somehow. Maybe because dark energy is easier to sense, and almost always drives or enhances negative acts. An absolute. Something we’ve faced and fought before.”
“What about the positive energy?”
“If it’s had any reaction at all it’s helped most of us, usually. But . . . if positive and negative energy is caught down there, trapped together, I have no idea what effect it’s having on the people in the town, in the valley. Or what effect it’ll have on us. If what’s happened down there today is because of the energy, then it really is unlike anything we’ve ever faced before.”
“Hence the summons?”
“I’d guess yes. Though not knowing what actually did the summoning is still bothering me.”
“And me.” DeMarco stared at what Hollis’s abilities were showing him a bit longer, his gaze roving, then said, “Am I wrong, or is the outer edge of it more sharp and delineated than a normal aura? Almost like an actual dome made of glass or something.”
“You’re not wrong. It really does look like a glass dome. Like it’s holding the energy in, trapping it. Maybe just that, to keep it here. To keep it more contained. To keep it more powerful, more focused.” She shook her head. “I’ve only seen something similar with the auras of psychics who were fighting off attacking energy. And in those cases, I could see the energy battering at their shields. I don’t see anything outside this . . . dome. Just the energy inside it.”
“Is it increasing? Building up?”
“I think so.”
“Can you see a source?” he asked, still frowning slightly at the unique capture of sheer energy.
“Not from here.” She looked at her partner. “The thing is, whatever’s holding in the energy does seem to have made a dandy shield for it, not as tangible as actual glass but every bit as . . . enclosing. No telling how strong it is, how impenetrable, until we’re down there. I’m assuming we can get through unless and until we find out differently. But once we’re down there, once we’re inside, all that energy is bound to affect us even through our shields. I just don’t know how.”
He looked at her and smiled. “Once more into the breach.”
“You never used to say things like that,” she observed with her own faint smile. “At least, not that way.”
“Complaining?”
“No. Oh, no. It’s been interesting to hear more just-outside-New-Orleans in your voice these days.” Then, more soberly, she said, “I think we’d better use the phone in the SUV and call Bishop before we get any closer to that thing. I’ve got a hunch that communicating with Base may prove to be even more of a problem than usual.”
“The chief deputy and sheriff got through,” he noted.
“Yeah. From a landline in the sheriff’s office. I could be wrong, but I’m betting electronics are already being affected, especially communication. Which means it’s a good bet cell phones, if they work at all, won’t reach outside the valley even in the short amount of time we generally have to use them. I’m not even sure the sat phones will work. We may be restricted to using landlines ourselves.”
“And landlines are becoming more scarce in these days of cell communication. Could be a problem,” DeMarco noted thoughtfully.
“Yeah. And we’re likely to have problems using our tablets, laptops, and other equipment as well, especially if we need to use Wi-Fi or otherwise connect to the Internet or FBI databases. It’s something Bishop needs to know before he sends the others in. Something they all need to know. Be as prepared as they possibly can be. Protect themselves as far as they possibly can. What I said to Victoria is . . . probably going to be an understatement, at least for some of them. That energy, positive or negative, is awfully strong. And except for Victoria, none of them has a really strong shield to protect them from it.”
“Think Bishop may think twice about sending them in?”
Hollis shook her head immediately. “He wasn’t all that forthcoming—as per usual—about whatever he and Miranda saw when the rest of us got blasted, but I’m willing to bet he’s certain we all have to go down there, no matter what the risks are, to any of us. As certain as we are. We all have to be in Prosperity.”
DeMarco looked at her a moment, then glanced back out over the very peculiar valley and the dome of energy they both could already feel. “I guess we’ll find out if there’s anything . . . sentient . . . about all that energy,” he said. Then he returned his gaze to his partner, brows rising slightly. “Or do you already know that? I’m not picking up anything, but I’ve never been able to read anything other than human minds.”
“From here, it’s almost impossible to say much of anything definite about it, not the source or sources, not whether there’s any kind of mind behind it, or why it’s only now causing trouble.” Hollis paused. “Except that it’s energy, strong energy. And growing stronger. And that it’s going to cause more very bad things to happen.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Positive.”
“Clairvoyance?” His tone was matter-of-fact.
“Not sure. Which is a little unsettling, but not all that surprising. I haven’t really learned to differentiate between the newer abilities. So maybe it’s something I’m feeling. Or maybe it’s something another sense is trying to tell me.” She sighed. “Dammit, I hope I get the hang of this soon.”
“You will.”
Darkly, she said, “It’s more likely something else will pop up to confuse me even more and you know it. I just don’t want precognition. Seriously. I think I can handle just about anything but that.”
“I,” he said, “think you can handle anything you have to.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Still in a dark tone, but with bright eyes, she said, “In the future, when we speak of this, and we will, just remember that I’ve given you many chances to escape.”
“I appreciate that. But I’m not going anywhere except with you.” He smiled, thoughts and awareness flowing easily between them below the level of words.
Hollis drew a breath, muttered something under her breath about rotten timing, then said briskly, “Okay, then let’s call Bishop. And tell him stuff he probably already knows anyway.”
YOU KNOW YOU want to, Elliot.
Elliot Weston blinked, frowned, and shook his head a little, trying to ignore the voice in his head that had been a whisper at first, a nagging little thing like a tune stuck in his head.
It was louder now. More distinct.
More . . . tempting.
He tried to concentrate on his job, on the virtually automatic spiel as he led the young couple through the carefully staged, nice little suburban home he was trying to sell them.
“As you can see, the three bedrooms are a nice size, and there’s a full basement that could easily be converted into whatever extra space your family might need—”
You always want to. Such silly questions they ask. Wasting your time . . .
“How is the school district?” Lorna Simmons asked somewhat anxiously.
Elliot looked at her. She had a clipboard and had been making notes, clutching pens of four different colors in one hand. He smiled. “It’s excellent. Prosperity may be a small town, but the name is accurate, and the town council feels strongly about education. So the schools get the best of everything, from the best teachers to the latest equipment.”
Stupid cow.
Charles Simmons, walking into the master bedroom to explore, asked, “Is there enough hot water in the showers? I really hate running out of hot water.”
“No problems there,” Elliot replied, still smiling. “The house has one of those newer systems that heats water instantly as it’s needed. Even if clothes are being washed and more than one person is taking a shower, there’s plenty of hot water.”
Stupid bastard.
“Electric or gas?” Simmons asked.
“You have an efficient combination in this home. The cooktop and water heater are gas, while the HVAC system is electric.”
“Is there an HOA?” his wife asked, still anxious, as she made a note in blue on her clipboard. “I mean, are there rules about what colors we can paint the outside, and what flowers we plant, like that?”
“There’s no official homeowners’ association in this neighborhood,” Elliot assured her. “Just the usual ordinances and zoning common in any residential neighborhood. I can assure you the people who live here are very laid-back, very easygoing. I live a few streets over myself. Terrific neighbors.”
Come on, Elliot. You know you want to do it.
Trying to ignore that increasingly insistent, even seductive voice in his head, Elliot said quickly, “Beautiful tile work in the master bath, as you can see. And plenty of closet space. And the master’s here at the back of the house, of course, so it’s very private, and you can hardly hear anything from outside, not traffic or the neighbor’s dog, or anything troublesome.”
“There’s a leash law, right?” Simmons demanded.
“Certainly. No roaming dogs; we have a strictly enforced leash law. This development was carefully planned so that all the backyards are fenced, with plenty of room for the kids and for the family dog. And there’s a nice dog park just outside the development where neighborhood dogs can play and get to know each other. We also have several good vets in town who can take excellent care of family pets.”
“I hope the people on either side here don’t have dogs that bark all night.”
He’s one of those. Those assholes who believe whatever they want should be law.
“No, I can assure you it’s a very peaceful neighborhood.” He wondered why the other man looked more and more ugly, with eyes a weird color and too many teeth in his mouth.
He’s an animal, Elliot. You can see that.
Lorna Simmons, her voice increasingly strident to Elliot’s sensitive ears and her face beginning to remind him strongly of an aunt he’d disliked his entire life, said, “I couldn’t bear living in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, I just couldn’t. I have an artistic flair, Charles always said so, and I’m very particular about my surroundings. They have to work for me. Colors we choose, and I have to have my garden gnomes in the flower beds!”
Elliot, listen to her. That voice could cut glass. You know you don’t want them anywhere near your family. You don’t want them anywhere. You know that.
Charles Simmons rolled his eyes slightly at the mention of gnomes but said, “Long as nobody tells me I can’t wash my car in my own damned driveway and play music while I do it, I’m fine with neighbors. There are services available to cut the grass? I’m a busy man.”
“Several lawn services work in this area of town, very good ones,” Elliot promised, his smile beginning to feel horribly unnatural and an odd, red mist sort of drifting between himself and the very demanding couple.
“The kitchen really is lovely,” Lorna Simmons said, a pleading note adding to the stridency as she looked anxiously at her husband. “Just what we’ve been looking for, darling.”
“I’m not sure about that carpet in the living room,” he countered.
“Carpet is easily removed,” Elliot murmured, wondering if his teeth were gritted the way they felt. Why did everything seem to be turning red? Why could he feel his own heart beating, harder and harder?
“Hardwood floors underneath?”
“In this particular home, no, but—”
“So there’s another added expense,” Charles Simmons said bitterly, his very ugly face even more ugly wearing a grimace.
Go on, Elliot. Do it. You know you want to.
“The price will have to come down quite a bit to cover the cost of laying hardwood—”
You know you do. That’s why you brought your gun.
HAVING BEEN TOLD by the FBI unit chief he’d spoken to that a team was very nearby, Archer had asked that the feds come directly to the Gardner home, the same request he’d made when he spoke to one of the state medical examiners who worked, she told him, out of Asheville and could get a lift at least partway to Prosperity in one of the MAMA—Mountain Area Medical Airlift—choppers. So the help he had called in was near.
Near enough that there was still some sunlight when a big, black SUV pulled to the curb in front of the house not more than a couple minutes after a discreet white van parked in the driveway behind Ed Gardner’s car. A man and woman got out of each vehicle, all casually dressed without a suit or tie in sight, and only Archer’s experienced gaze could detect that both feds wore guns under light jackets.
The guy fed wore a big, silver cannon in a shoulder harness.
The four newcomers met in the center of the yard, obviously acquainted.
“Hey, Jill,” the slender brunette said as she and her tall, blond partner reached the other pair. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
“Hollis. Reese. My assistant, Austin Messina.”
As Archer approached them, he saw the feds nod to the ME’s partner, who was fiddling with some piece of equipment and who nodded with an absent smile in return, and then the brunette asked, “What happened to Sam? That last case make him rethink his career options?”
“Sort of. He’s with your bunch at Quantico for a few months. Special training. After the last time, we figured it wouldn’t hurt.” She wasn’t very big, was very pretty, and didn’t look like messing about with dead bodies would be her specialty, but it was clear the two feds obviously respected her and felt comfortable with her.
Archer wished he felt comfortable. About anything. He wished he felt something other than the queasiness that lay in the pit of his stomach and an overwhelming sense of dread.
“Sheriff Archer,” the brunette fed said when he reached them, rather discreetly flashing her credentials in perfect sync with her partner, then reaching to shake his hand with a good grip. “I’m Hollis Templeton. My partner is Reese DeMarco. Sorry for the obvious Fedmobile sticking out in this nice neighborhood, but we tend to carry quite a few supplies and such, so it couldn’t be helped.”
Archer, feeling a bit swept along in her briskness, merely nodded as he shook hands with her partner, then nodded again and shook more hands when Dr. Jill Easton introduced herself and her assistant to him.
“Do you want to get started first, Doctor?” he asked her.
“I imagine Hollis and Reese will want to study the scene for a bit first, Sheriff. We’ll be getting our equipment out and getting suited up in the meantime.” Her partner was already sliding open the side of the van, which was clearly crammed—neatly—with more rather enigmatic equipment and supplies.
As she stepped away to join him, Archer looked at the two feds. He had never shared the hostility toward federal cops that some of his peers so often felt and too openly displayed, but he had also never worked with feds on a case, so he looked at them a bit uncertainly. “I’m not sure what the procedure is from this point, Agents,” he told them. “Then again, I’m not sure of anything today.”
Hollis Templeton nodded, her expressive face showing rueful sympathy. “More often than not, we tend to play it by ear. The sort of cases we get invited to assist in tend to be of the very weird variety, Sheriff. Beyond horrible. Not something local or even state cops have much experience with. Sometimes the usual law enforcement training just doesn’t cover it.”
“My chief deputy said you belonged to some kind of special FBI unit, and I talked to your unit chief, but . . . I guess I never figured there were enough . . . weird crimes to call for that.”
“You’d be surprised,” she told him earnestly. “There’s a lot of strange and crazy in the world. The Special Crimes Unit teams tend to be pretty busy.” Her very bright eyes, their blue color definitely unusual, studied him for an instant as though looking for something.
Archer had no idea whether she found it.
“You’ve kept the scene intact?” Her voice was brisk again.
It wasn’t really a question, but Archer nodded. “Except for the removal of Leslie Gardner to the hospital, everything inside is . . . just as we found it.”
“She’s still out?”
He nodded. “I have a deputy staying with her, and so far the report is she’s sleeping. Just sleeping. Except that the doctors can’t wake her up.”
Reese DeMarco said thoughtfully, “It might be a good idea to ask the doctors that they not try any . . . extraordinary means to wake her up. Let it happen naturally if at all possible.”
“Why?” Archer asked blankly.
“Because we don’t yet know what we have here,” the big blond man—former military, Archer was willing to bet, just from the way he stood and the knife-sharpness of his blue eyes—said in the same quiet, pleasant voice.
His partner added, “Memory’s a tricky thing. If she’s forced awake before she’s ready to be, we may lose information we badly need to understand all this.”
“I hope somebody can understand it,” he muttered, then gestured slightly and led the way to the front porch of the home. “I have two deputies sitting in their cruiser across the street, but so far none of the neighbors have tried to get closer. Just standing out in their yards, most of ’em, staring.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Templeton murmured.
“Should have put crime scene tape up, I know,” Archer said, trying not to sound defensive.
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, her tone interested rather than in any way critical.
“Honestly? Didn’t think of it right away. None of us did. Shock, I guess, as unprofessional as that is. Too many years living in a town where crimes that require tape just don’t happen. And when I did think of the tape, it seemed . . . to add more obscenity to this. This was a very quiet, very peaceful neighborhood. I just . . .” He shook his head, adding in a more certain voice, “I hope you both have strong stomachs.”
Matter-of-fact, DeMarco said, “We’ve seen the initial photos your chief deputy took, Sheriff. We know what to expect in there.”
Archer wondered if they did, photos or not, but simply nodded and led the way into the Gardner house. He stopped a foot or so outside the doorway to the living room. “I’ll stay in here, if you don’t mind,” he said. “They have a landline phone here in the front hall; I’ll use that to relay your request to the hospital about Leslie Gardner.”
Hollis Templeton gave him another very direct look, then said, “Radios and cell phones aren’t working?”
He grimaced slightly. “Not reliably. Been having trouble with both off and on for the last few days, maybe a week, and it’s been getting worse. Cell company says there’s some interference, and they’re working on the problem. My technical people are flat-out baffled about the radios. But they’re trying to figure out the problem with those, and we’re in contact with specialists—who seem just as confused as we are. In the meantime, only landline phones are dependable, and we’re lucky to have one here. Lots of people just rely on the cells nowadays.”
Having not looked into the living room once, he moved away from the feds toward the phone.
Hollis braced herself, something no one but her partner would have known since there was no betraying outward sign, and then the two of them moved just inside the living room.
There was, really, no way to brace the mind and senses against anything in that room, and it was emotionally devastating as well. Even for strangers who hadn’t known the family.
The photos, horrific though they were, had not really shown the truly shocking amount of blood and the utterly senseless, brutally twisted slaughter. The scene was literally an assault on more than the senses.
They both stood just inside the room, near the door but to one side, moving no closer to the bodies than necessary to see what they needed to see. Because they didn’t want to disturb the scene Jill and her assistant would minutely examine and photograph. And because neither of them needed to get any closer.
After a moment, quiet, Hollis said, “First time I’ve had to study the scene of a multiple homicide. Just realized that. Or kids.”
“Makes it worse that it’s a family with kids,” DeMarco said. “Not something you’ll ever get used to.” His voice was steady with the kind of control Hollis understood and shared.
“Not something I’d ever want to get used to.” She glanced back over her shoulder to make sure Archer was still using the phone, then lowered her voice. “Are you sensing anything?”
They were both shielding, but DeMarco was using only half his double shield, and Hollis’s shield was still a bit undependable.
“Just what we both felt from the time we reached the valley,” he replied just as quietly. “My skin’s crawling faintly and there’s a sense of pressure. It’s bearable right now, not really a distraction, but if the effect gets stronger or is cumulative . . .”
“You should probably use both shields,” she told him.
“I’d rather not just yet.”
She looked at him and managed a faint smile. “I’m fine. If it comes to that, you can extend your shield to cover me too. But in the meantime, one of us needs to use all the protection possible. This . . . isn’t sane. Whatever’s behind it. We need to make sure we have at least one sane and protected mind on our side. Just in case.”
“It’s the just in case that bothers me,” he told her. “If we’re right about at least part of what happened here, what’s continuing to happen, it’s also possible, maybe even probable, that neither one of us is immune, shields or not.”
“Reese, we need to know if the connection is still there even through both your shields. Just because it worked on the island doesn’t mean it’ll work here. Especially with all this damned energy, never mind the horror of all this.” She resisted an impulse to rub her arms. She wasn’t cold, but her skin was faintly tingling, crawling, just as DeMarco had described. It was a distinctly unpleasant sensation.
He nodded reluctantly, and a moment later she was more relieved than she wanted to admit to hear a familiar mind-voice.
Okay. Both shields. My skin isn’t crawling anymore. I’m aware of that faint pressure, but just barely. Normal senses seem to be working. And I can still feel our connection. It feels strong to me. How about you?
Yes. Thank God. Your other senses really are okay?
Seem to be.
Telepathy? I mean outside our connection?
Some static, but I can read Archer clearly enough.
Panic underneath the horror?
You’re getting that through me?
Yeah.
Better than I expected, then.
Same here.
Archer stepped back to the doorway, keeping his gaze on them rather than looking into the room. “The doctors have stopped trying to wake Leslie Gardner. They said it was probably best to wait and see anyway. They’re baffled as hell, that’s clear.”
Without looking at him, Hollis said more than asked, “All her vitals are normal, I take it.”
“Yeah. By every measurement they know, she’s asleep.” He waited, watching the two feds as they stood only a few feet away and studied the room. As far as he could tell, neither one of them had a queasy lump of horrified sick fear in the pits of their stomachs.
It might have been easy to resent their control, their seeming indifference to this scene of slaughter, except that they exchanged glances just then—and he could, for a brief moment, see the sick emotions that training and experience hid beneath control.
They felt it too.
Agent Templeton looked at Archer steadily. “Normally—if I can use that word—we’d want to check out the entire house. Look for signs of behavior to explain this. Profile the scene.”
“But not this time?”
“No. We don’t believe doing that would help us to understand what happened here. Why it happened.”
“Why not?” he asked, mostly because he couldn’t think of another question.
“You had another violent death today, a suicide,” she said, maybe answering his question. “Sam Bowers?”
“Yeah. Nice, ordinary family man blew his brains out with a shotgun this morning. Just sat down on a couch in the basement, dressed for work, put both barrels of his shotgun under his chin, and . . . In the basement, with his wife and kids upstairs.” Archer drew a breath and let it out slowly. “What’s left of him is at the hospital morgue, waiting for Dr. Easton. The local doc I called to the scene said he wasn’t up to the job. I didn’t blame him. He’ll assist her if needed, but the last time I saw him, he was throwing up everything he’d ever eaten in his life.”
“I can relate.” She nodded, then immediately added, “Bowers didn’t leave a note?”
“We thought he didn’t. Looked for one in the basement, the rest of the house. None of us were too eager to touch the body, and there didn’t seem to be any question as to who he was, so his body wasn’t searched at the scene. But then when he was lifted to go into the body bag, the doc heard something. Paper. It was in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. It’s at the station now. Bagged.”
She nodded again. “What did it say?”
“It didn’t make sense,” Archer told the two feds. “It was . . . crazy. The same sentence repeated over and over, all down the page, with the handwriting getting worse and worse. All it said was . . . Just me, not them. Over and over again. Just me, not them.”