Harry gave her a considering look. Then he nodded once. “All right. Maybe it would be better if you came with me.”
Molly was pleased. “You think I might be able to give you some helpful advice?”
“Not exactly,” Harry said. “I think that if Kendall really was murdered by someone who was trying to cover his tracks, I’d rather have you where I can keep an eye on you.”
Molly made a face. She collected her shoulder bag and started toward the front door. “Always nice to feel wanted.”
* * *
At ten o’clock the following morning Harry stood with Molly amid the carcasses of a herd of dead automobiles. A formidable steel fence topped with frothy coils of barbed wire surrounded the remains of the deceased vehicles. The sign at the entrance of the metal graveyard bore the name Maltrose Wrecking.
It was a suitable day for viewing the departed. A leaden sky promised rain at any moment. A brisk sea breeze snapped at the sleeves of Harry’s shirt. It had already whipped Molly’s hair into a fluffy froth. She had to hold the stuff out of her eyes with one hand.
The owner of the junkyard, one Chuck Maltrose, stood next to Harry. He was a big man who looked as if he had once played football and lifted weights. His glory days appeared to have ended at some point in the distant past, however. Much of the muscle had turned to fat over the years.
“This the one you wanted to see?” Chuck glanced at Harry.
Harry eyed the remains of the blue Ford and then glanced at the notes he had made during Fergus Rice’s last phone call. “This is it.”
“Take your time,” Chuck said. “You’re welcome to look all you want for your fifty bucks.”
“Thanks.”
“Let me know when you’re finished. I’ll be in my office.”
“Right.” Harry did not glance at Chuck as the bulky man trundled off toward the aging trailer that served as an office. He could not take his attention off the Ford.
He had not even touched the car, but already he could tell that there was something not quite right about it. Despite its crumpled condition, the Ford should have felt familiar. Only a few days ago it had been used in an attempt to force his Sneath P2 over a cliff. Admittedly, he’d only seen it in a series of disjointed snapshots, first in his rearview mirror and then as it flashed past the Sneath. He’d had his hands full with the task of keeping his vehicle from jumping the guard rail. But still…
“What is it, Harry?” Molly asked.
He glanced at her. “I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing except the obvious.”
She hugged herself. “It’s a mess, isn’t it? We’re looking at a car that went over a cliff. A man died in that Ford. It gives me chills just to look at it.”
Harry said nothing. The knowledge that Wharton Kendall had died in the car was not what was making him so uneasy. Something else was niggling at him. The wrongness emanated from the car in subtle waves.
And he wasn’t even in one of his moods of intense concentration.
It occurred to Harry that the part of his brain that was good at what he preferred to call reasoned insight had become unaccountably more sensitive lately. Ever since he had started making love to Molly, to be precise.
The realization dumbfounded him. He stared at the blue Ford and wondered what was happening to him. His imagination was running wild, that was the problem. Or maybe it was much worse, much more ominous than that.
The old dread unfurled deep inside. Maybe he really would go crazy one of these days.
“Harry?” Molly touched his arm. “Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay. Why shouldn’t I be?” Harry willed the old fear back into its hiding place. He summoned up Molly’s reassuring advice on the subject. The very fact that you can even wonder if you’re going crazy means you aren’t crazy. He took a savage grip on his self-control. “I’m trying to think.”
“Sorry.”
Harry deliberately turned away from the concern he saw in her eyes. He would apologize later for his short temper. He would also put off worrying about the possibility of being fitted for a straitjacket until some later time. He had been postponing that particular concern for years. It could wait a little longer.
He made himself take a careful look at the ruined Ford. The guts of the dead beast were exposed to view. The hood had been ripped off in the crash. The doors hung open at odd angles, as though the bones inside the metal skin had been broken. The windows were empty of glass. They reminded Harry of sightless eyes.
He walked slowly around the Ford.
“What are you going to do?” Molly asked.
Harry rolled up his sleeves. “Just look things over.”
“Everything was smashed when the car went over the cliff. How will you know if any damage you discover today was done before the accident?”
Harry leaned over the fender and studied the dented valve cover. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell a damned thing. I just want to take a close look.”
“Sort of get a feel for the situation?” Molly suggested innocently.
Harry ignored her. Very cautiously he allowed himself to concentrate as he leaned farther over the crumpled fender.
The sense of wrongness eddied around him, lapping gently at his senses. But it was not coming from inside the engine compartment. He stepped back from the fender. He tried to be subtle as he took a deep breath, but he could feel Molly watching him very intently.
Something was definitely not right.
After a few seconds, when he was sure he had himself firmly under control, he got into the driver’s seat. He surveyed the damage to the interior. The steering wheel was gone. The glass cover on the instrument panel was a spider’s web of tiny cracks. He bent down to examine the brake pedal.
Again the wrongness assailed him. But it was not as strong inside the car as it had been when he had been standing near the front fender.
“Something wrong with the brakes?” Molly asked expectantly.
“I don’t think so.” Harry wrapped himself in the armor of his willpower and gingerly touched the brake pedal. Experimentally he depressed it.
…and simultaneously sharpened his concentration.
It was so damn tricky. This matter of trying to think with this degree of utter clarity was so useful and yet so dangerous.
“What is it?” Molly asked. “What do you feel?”
“I don’t feel anything,” Harry muttered. “The brakes are all right.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be under the circumstances.” He was almost positive that no one had cut the brake lines. There was still plenty of resistance in the system.
“I guess discovering something as dramatic as severed brake lines would have been a little too obvious.”
Harry glanced sharply at her. “You sound disappointed.”
She shrugged. “I’ve seen my share of old movies.”
“That kind of sabotage only works well on film,” Harry said absently. “It’s too unpredictable in real life. The problem is that the person who cuts the lines has no way of knowing for certain just when the last of the fluid will bleed out.”
“You mean there would be no way to time it so that the brakes would fail on the right curve?”
“Exactly.” Harry thought about it. “It’s a very uncertain way to kill. And our man, assuming there is someone other than Kendall involved in this, prefers more straightforward, predictable methods.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Think about it, Molly. The guy tried to run us off a road, and he attempted to kill you with a gun.”
“I see what you mean.” Her brow furrowed delicately. “He takes the blunt approach.”
“Only when it comes to the actual murder attempt,” Harry said slowly. “He’s certainly been extremely subtle when it comes to setting his
scene and choosing his fall guy. In fact, he’s a lot better at that end of the business than he is at closing the deal.”
“What do you think that means?”
Harry looked at her as his mind tore into the problem. “It may mean that whoever’s behind this has had a lot more experience with setting the stage than he’s had with murder. Killing people may be new to him.”
Molly shivered visibly. “But why would he have had more experience with establishing his camouflage?”
“Maybe,” Harry said, “because that’s all he’s had to do until now in order to accomplish his objectives. When it comes to the backdrop of his operation, he thinks like a con man with a lot of experience.”
“A con man?”
“It’s possible that he’s got a background in fraud or embezzlement or some other nonlethal crime.”
“So he’s clever with that part but not so skilled when it comes to murder.” Molly closed her eyes briefly. “Thank God.”
“Yes.”
“Well, now that we know this definitely wasn’t an accident, it would be very interesting to discover exactly how Kendall’s car was sabotaged,” Molly said thoughtfully.
“We don’t know for certain that it wasn’t an accident. We’re making an assumption.”
“Your assumptions are more in the nature of inspired guesses, Harry. You know it and I know it.”
Harry heard something click and realized it was the sound of his back teeth coming together. He was irritated by Molly’s certainty that Kendall had been murdered. He knew that she was picking up on his own sense of the situation and that she trusted his instincts.
The knowledge that Molly had developed such unquestioning faith in his insights worried him. It was as though her belief in his abilities rendered those abilities even more suspect. It made it seem all the more probable that there really was something abnormal involved.
Harry got out of the car and cautiously put a hand on the front fender. The wrongness hit him again, more insistent this time. He bent down to take a closer look at the crushed metal.
The impact of the crash had scraped and scarred the blue paint all the way to bare metal in places. Harry moved his fingers along the huge gouges that had been left in the fender. He stopped abruptly when his fingertips touched a deep dent near an empty hole that had once been occupied by a headlight. He stilled.
Molly hurried over to where he stood. “What did you find?”
“Blue paint.”
“What’s so strange about blue paint? The Ford is painted blue.”
“I’m aware of that.” He fingered a small fragment of paint. Something about it bothered him.
Harry took a deep breath and centered himself mentally as best he could. Slowly, carefully, he allowed himself to consider the flecks of blue enamel in all their tiny, varied aspects.
He tried to assign only a limited portion of his concentration to the task. He did not want to lose control. Let the information seep in, he cautioned himself. Just a little bit at a time. Think about it. Look for the inconsistencies.
Harry took a cautious step out onto the glass bridge.
The wind off the sea sharpened suddenly, whipping at his clothing, threatening to topple him into the abyss.
He fought to keep his balance. If he lost control, he would fall into the deepest, coldest canyon at the bottom of the darkest part of the sea.
“Harry?” Molly’s voice was soft, gentle, questioning. Concerned.
The glass shuddered beneath his feet. He lifted his fascinated gaze from the endless darkness beneath him and looked toward the opposite side of the chasm.
Molly waited there. She held out her arms.
He regained his balance and started toward her. Each step was steadier, more certain.
He was wide open to sensation and awareness. The world around him was a thousand times more vivid than it had been a moment ago. The overcast sky was no longer a uniform gray. Instead it was a hundred variegated shades of light and shadow. Molly’s smile was brighter than any sun, and her eyes were green jewels.
The paint beneath his fingers screamed at him.
Harry sucked in his breath.
“Take it easy, Harry. I’m here.”
He lurched the last few steps across the glass bridge. Reached for Molly with desperate hands. She came into his arms, warm and comforting and alive. He was not alone out here in the darkness.
Harry closed his eyes and held Molly with all the strength that was in him.
The world steadied swiftly, returning to its natural shades and intensities. The force of the sea wind lessened. The bridge and the abyss beneath it vanished.
Harry opened his eyes. Molly peered anxiously up at him from within the circle of his arms.
“Are you okay?” she asked gently.
“Yes.” He focused on her concerned expression as he fought for breath. “Yes, I’m okay.”
“You look terrible.”
“I’m all right.”
“You were burning up a minute ago.” She put a hand on his forehead. “You feel a little cooler now. I wonder if men have hot flashes.”
Harry gave a choked groan, caught between old fear and fresh laughter. His mixed emotions warned him that he was not yet back in full control.
She studied him closely. “What did you see there on the fender?”
“I told you, blue paint.” Harry crouched beside the front wheel. “But not from this car.”
“What?” Molly’s mouth fell open. She hunkered down beside him. “Blue paint from another car?”
“I think so.” He looked at her. “Blue on blue. The differences in the two colors is so slight that the investigating officers would never have noticed it. But there is a difference.”
“So there was another car involved.”
“Yes.” Harry rose to his feet. “What’s really interesting is that it was probably from the same blue Ford that tried to force us off the road. Because this is not the same car that we encountered outside of Icy Crest.”
“Oh, my God. Two blue Fords.”
“I told you, this guy is very good at setting up the scenery for his little plays. He’s had plenty of experience in that department.”
“This isn’t just one of your logical insights, is it?” Deep curiosity burned in Molly’s eyes. “You can actually feel that there’s something wrong with that streak of blue paint on the fender, can’t you?”
“I can see the small differences in it. I’ve trained myself to observe tiny details. It’s one of the reasons I’m good at what I do.”
“Don’t play games with me,” Molly said quietly. “Or yourself. You knew something was wrong with this car the instant you took a close look at it. Why not admit it?”
Under normal circumstances, he would have reacted to her insistent prodding with cool sarcasm or a show of irritation. But even though he was feeling more or less back in control, he was still raw around the edges.
The result was that Molly’s questioning ignited the dark fear in him. He fought the dread with the only weapon he had, a firestorm of rage.
“Damn it, what the hell do you want me to say?” The anger, fed by the fear, beat in his veins. “That I really do think I’ve got some kind of sixth sense? I might as well announce to the world that I’m crazy.”
“You are not crazy. I’ve told you that.”
“What are you? Some kind of authority?”
Molly did not flinch beneath the storm. “Harry, if you do have some sort of paranormal ability, you’d better acknowledge it and deal with it. It’s a part of you, whatever it is.”
“You’re the one who’s nuts if you think I’m going to go around claiming that I’ve got extrasensory perception. People who believe they’ve got paranormal powers end up on serious medication.” Harry closed his eyes. Visions of psychiatric asyl
ums danced in his fevered brain. “Or worse.”
“You don’t have to admit the truth to anyone except yourself.” Molly smiled bleakly. “And to me, of course. You can’t hide it from me.”
“There’s nothing to admit.”
“Listen to me, Harry. I’ve got a feeling that if you don’t accept the reality of your abilities, whatever it is, you’ll never figure out how to control them. You can’t repress them forever.”
“I can’t repress what doesn’t exist.”
“You’re a man who deals in truth. Admit the truth to yourself. Think of this sixth sense, or whatever it is, the same way you do your excellent reflexes. Just a natural, inborn ability. A talent.”
“Natural? You call that paranormal crap natural? Molly, you’re starting to sound nuttier than Olivia thinks I am.”
“That’s not fair to Olivia. She doesn’t think you’re nuts. She believes that you’re suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder and maybe some periodic depression.”
“Trust me, she thinks I’m ready for the psycho ward.”
“But, Harry—”
He took a step toward her, his hands clenched at his sides. The wind picked up once more. The sky darkened. “I swear to God, Molly, I don’t want to hear another word about this psychic stuff. Do you understand me? Not another damned word.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me.”
“We will not discuss this matter again,” Harry said through his teeth. Her fingers were warm. He could feel them through the fabric of his shirt. The anger seeped slowly out of him, leaving a great weariness.
“Hey, am I interruptin’ something here or what?” Chuck Maltrose heaved into Harry’s field of vision.
Harry drew a deep, steadying breath and switched his attention to the owner of the wrecking yard. “We were discussing a private matter.”
“Sure. No problem.” Maltrose held up one hand, palm out. “I’m not one to get into the middle of a private squabble. Just wondered if you were finished with your look-see.”
“I believe Harry’s finished here, Mr. Maltrose,” Molly said crisply.