In Too Deep

  "Yes, of course, we've got a room," one of them said.

  "It's January," the second one explained. "We rarely have any guests at this time of year. Come on in."

  Isabella turned to thank the stranger in the long black coat, but he was gone.

  "Something wrong?" the first woman asked, stepping back to let Isabella into the hall.

  "There was a man," Isabella said. "He brought me here."

  "Oh, that must have been Walker," the woman said. "He's what you might call our night watchman here in the Cove. My name is Violet, by the way. This is Patty. Come on upstairs and I'll show you to your room. You must be exhausted."

  "Shouldn't I register?" Isabella asked.

  "We're not real big on the formalities here in the Cove," Patty explained. "You can register in the morning."

  Half an hour later, Isabella had crawled into a cozy bed and pulled a down quilt up over her shoulders. For the first time in weeks she slept through the night.

  The following day no one remembered to ask her to register as a guest at the inn. She handed over enough cash to cover the first week and then, on Patty's advice, went down the street to see about the gig at the Sunshine. Marge Fuller, the proprietor of the small cafe, immediately put her to work waiting tables and helping out in the kitchen. There were no pesky applications or tax forms to fill out. Isabella knew then that Scargill Cove was her kind of town.

  Fallon Jones had walked through the front door of the cafe that same morning and sat down at the counter to order coffee. When she emerged from the kitchen, she had seen him talking to Marge Fuller. A thrill swept through her, igniting all of her senses.

  Everything about Fallon Jones whispered of power. He wore the fierce energy like a dark cloak but something in the atmosphere around him told her that he was living on the edge of exhaustion.

  A dark, ice-cold fever burned in Fallon Jones. With her senses cranked up, she could see the glacial heat in his eyes. The para-fog swirled around him, indicating deep secrets and mysteries.

  He had the hard, unyielding face of a man who lived life on his own terms. He was big, too, tall, broad-shouldered and solid as a boulder. She had never been attracted to physically overpowering men. She stood five-foot-three and three-quarters in her bare feet and she had always preferred males who did not tower over her. Usually when she was around men Fallon's size, her instinct was to put some distance between herself and a creature who could pin her down with one hand.

  But with Fallon she felt none of the usual wariness. Instead, she was amazed to discover that when she was near him, she experienced an oddly sensual feminine recklessness. A part of her wanted to challenge him, probably because of the self-discipline that emanated from him in waves. She sensed that his formidable control was his way of handling his equally formidable talent.

  All the evidence indicated that he lived an austere, almost ascetic existence, but she was quite certain that he was no monk. There was an inferno burning just beneath the surface. In spite of the way Fallon aroused both her normal and paranormal senses, old habits prevailed. She needed to know what it was that fueled the volcano before she leaped into the fires.

  She pushed the thoughts of Fallon Jones aside and sat quietly behind the wheel, studying the Zander mansion through the rain-glazed windshield. If there had ever been any gardens around the big house, they had long ago disintegrated under more than a century's worth of Pacific storms. The grime-darkened windows would surely limit light inside even on a sunny day.

  Fallon had a point. Pronouncing the Zander mansion specter-free was probably not going to be enough to convince anyone in his or her right mind to buy such an enormous money pit. But she was committed now. She had assured Norma Spaulding that J&J would take the job.

  She closed down her other senses, opened the car door, slung her pack over one shoulder and raised her umbrella. A blast of wind-driven rain caught her squarely in the face.

  She fought her way across the drive and up the cracked stone steps. When she reached the shelter of the wide front porch, she collapsed the umbrella and punched the code into the key box. The key tumbled into her gloved hand.

  The door opened with a suitably ominous squeak of rusty hinges. She stepped into the shadowy foyer and took the small flashlight out of her pack. Norma had warned that the electricity had been turned off eons ago.

  She stood the dripping umbrella in a corner and heightened her talent again. Given the amount of energy that enveloped the old house, she had been expecting to find something of interest inside: an old will, perhaps, or an envelope filled with long-forgotten stock certificates. Maybe even a few pieces of valuable jewelry. But the sight of the glowing river of obsidian-dark mist that roared through the house caught her completely off guard. Shards of black ice fluoresced in the vapor.

  She pulled herself together, took a deep breath and followed the terrible luminescence down a shadowy hall. The mist disappeared under a door. She opened the door and looked down a flight of stone steps. A terrible sea of energy flooded the basement.

  She hurried back to the foyer, grabbed her umbrella and went outside. She opened the phone that Fallon had given her the first day on the job. The list of contacts was quite short. There was only one number.

  Fallon picked up midway through the first ring.

  "What the hell is wrong?" he asked. "Flat tire? Out of gas? I knew I shouldn't have let you drive out there in this weather."

  "I need backup."

  "Huh. Don't tell me you found a ghost."

  "There's something here to find," she said. "Not sure what yet, but I don't think it's going to be anything good."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "There's a basement involved."

  3

  She waited for him in the car, doors locked, key in the ignition. She was ready to speed off to safety if necessary. But no one burst out of the house wielding a meat cleaver. The mansion loomed, bleak and dripping with ominous energy.

  Her pulse was still beating too fast and the hair on the nape of her neck hadn't settled down by the time the black SUV pulled into the drive. She glanced at her watch. It had taken Fallon less than ten minutes to reach her, driving through pouring rain on a narrow, winding road.

  He got out of the big vehicle and walked toward her. The hood of his black rain jacket was pulled up over his face partially concealing his features, but she could tell that he looked even more grim than usual, and when she revved up her senses, she saw a little heat in his eyes.

  She opened the driver's-side door and extricated herself from behind the wheel, fumbling again with the umbrella and her pack. Fallon took the umbrella from her, snapped it open and held it up to shield her from the elements while she got herself organized.

  "You do realize that agents who get spooked by a haunted house don't make J&J look good," he said.

  "You ever see one of those slasher horror films?" she asked. "The kind in which the too-stupid-to-live perky blond teenager goes down into the dark basement and gets hacked to pieces by a serial killer in a mask?"

  "Can't say that I have."

  They started toward the stone steps. Getting to the front porch was much easier with Fallon holding the umbrella and using his big frame to protect her from the worst of the squall. There were some advantages to size, she reflected.

  "Let's just say I didn't want to star in the role of the perky blond teen," she said.

  "You're not blond," he pointed out. "And you're not a teenager."

  "But at least I'm perky, right?"

  He gave that some thought. "I don't think that's the right word."

  "Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to be extremely literal, boss?"

  "Yes," he said. "Usually at the same time that I'm being told I don't have a sense of humor."

  "Nonsense. Of course you have a sense of humor."

  "I do?" He seemed genuinely surprised to hear that.

  "It's just a little offbeat, that's all."

  "L
ike my talent?" His voice went flat.

  "Like your talent," she agreed. "It's not as if I'm exactly normal, myself. Which is probably why I'm working for J&J."

  She opened the door. Fallon collapsed the umbrella and stood quietly for a moment, contemplating the darkened foyer. She sensed energy shiver in the atmosphere around him and knew that he had heightened his talent. She did the same. Once again, icy mists pulsed and seethed in the entry hall.

  "What do you see?" Fallon asked.

  "A lot of energy that is infused with some really dark ultralight. Looks like fog."

  "Huh."

  "It's hard to explain," she said. "All I can tell you is that when I'm in my zone, I see the residue of energy laid down by people with something to hide. Most of the time I ignore it because everyone has secrets. But occasionally I detect the sort of currents that tell me there is a secret that needs to be found. And before you ask, I can't explain that part, either. As the old saying goes, I know it when I see it."

  He nodded once, satisfied. "You're a kind of finder-talent."

  "Yes."

  "Any idea what the fog in here is telling you?"

  "No." Another frisson of awareness chilled her. "But like I said, the answer is in the basement, and I don't think that it's going to be good."

  "The house feels empty."

  "I agree." You could always tell, she thought. Empty houses gave off their own unique vibes. "But something feels wrong."

  "Let's take a look at the basement," Fallon suggested.

  "Okay." She took out her flashlight and switched it on again. "Electricity is off."

  "No surprise there."

  He moved into the foyer and reached inside his jacket. She was startled when she saw the gun appear in his hand.

  "Wow," she said. "You brought your gun."

  "You made me nervous when you called and said you needed backup."

  "Oh. Sorry. I really don't think there's an immediate threat. As you said, the house feels empty. But I hate finding dead bodies by myself."

  "And that's what you're expecting?"

  "I've seen this kind of fog before."

  She followed him into the foyer, her senses wide open.

  He took a flashlight out of the pocket of his coat and switched it on. "Which way?"

  "I forgot you can't see the energy." She aimed the beam of the flashlight directly in front of him. "Turn left. The basement door is halfway down that hall."

  He glanced at the floorboards. "Lot of footprints in the dust."

  "Don't forget, Norma Spaulding has been in here. She also said that there were indications that transients had camped out in the house from time to time."

  "Probably the source of the rumors about the place being haunted." He stopped in front of the basement door. "Is this the right door?"

  "Yes."

  Fallon opened the door. They both looked down the concrete steps.

  "Still feels empty," Fallon said.

  Isabella moved closer to the opening and studied the cold light roiling and surging below. The sense of urgency that had set her nerves on edge climbed higher.

  "We need to find whatever it is down there that needs finding," she said, resigned. "Crap. I hate this part."

  He studied the scene below. "Interesting."

  She glanced sharply at him. "What?"

  "A wooden floor."

  "What about it?"

  "Looks new."

  "Maybe one of the previous owners finished off the basement," she suggested.

  "I did a quick search of the property records after you left the office today. No one has lived in this house for over forty years. That floor was put in recently."

  "Okay, I'm not arguing the point." She tried to ignore the fact that she was shivering. "The good news is that I don't see any bodies down there."

  "Wait here. I'm going to take a closer look."

  "No, I'll come with you."

  He looked at her. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

  It wouldn't be the first time she had followed the currents of fog to a bad end.

  "When I get this far, I need to find the answer," she said.

  He surprised her with one of his rare smiles. "Same here."

  "Two of a kind," she said, keeping her voice light.

  He seemed briefly startled by the comment, as if it had never occurred to him that he might have something in common with another human being. But he did not say anything.

  She followed him down the steps. When they reached the bottom, they stood knee-deep in the sea of fog. The paranormal cold was so bone-chilling now that even Fallon sensed it.

  "You're right," he said. "Lots of bad energy down here."

  She studied the glacial whirlpool in the center of the room. "I think most of the really terrible stuff is coming from under the floorboards."

  He raked the windowless room with the beam of his flashlight. "What about the armoire in the corner?"

  She studied the old-fashioned wooden wardrobe. The doors were closed but a lot of fog shivered around it.

  "Definitely something in there," she said. "But it's different from the stuff that's coming up from under the floor."

  He started to prowl the room with the flashlight. "No dust down here. Someone keeps this room clean."

  She sniffed the air. "I can smell some kind of strong detergent or disinfectant. Damn, I knew it. This is going to be one of those body-in-the-basement scenarios."

  "Starting to feel that way." He looked at her. "Not your first, I take it?"

  "No. Unfortunately, with my kind of talent I get this kind of thing occasionally. Goes with the territory. When do we call the local cops?"

  "As soon as we know for sure that we've got something to show them," Fallon said. "Without hard evidence, we'd just be asking for trouble."

  "I guess J&J can't just pick up the phone and tell the local authorities that one of the firm's agents has had a psychic vision telling her that there's a body in the old Zander house."

  "Regular law enforcement tends to take a dim view of people who claim to have paranormal powers. Can't blame the cops. Lot of fake mediums and phony psychics out there. They've given our end of the investigation profession a bad name."

  "I know."

  "I'll check the armoire first." He started toward the wardrobe.

  "Fallon," she said. "Wait."

  He stopped and looked back at her.

  "Do you hear a clock?" she asked.

  He went silent. They both listened to the steady, stately ticking of an old-fashioned antique clock.

  "It's coming from inside the armoire," Fallon said. "I didn't hear it a few seconds ago. It just started up."

  "Sounds like the clock on your desk in the office," she said. "The old one that you said was a Victorian-era antique."

  "Yes," he said. "It does."

  He opened the door of the armoire and aimed the flashlight inside. Isabella held her breath, half expecting a body to fall out.

  But the only object in view was a large, ornate mantel clock. It sat on a shelf. The beam of the flashlight glinted on the brass pendulum and gilt trim.

  Isabella stilled. "Please don't tell me that we're going to have to decide whether to cut the blue wire or the red wire."

  "No." Fallon examined the clock and the interior of the wardrobe with the flashlight. "No wires. It's not attached to anything. It's just a clock. Looks Victorian, like mine."

  "Old-fashioned clocks like that have to be wound every week or so. The fact that it's ticking indicates that someone comes down here on a regular basis."

  "But we didn't hear it when we first entered the basement," Fallon said. He aimed the flashlight at the back of the clock, clearly fascinated now. "I'll be damned. It's one of Mrs. Bridewell's inventions. I can see the alchemical symbol she used as her signature. How in hell did the device end up here?"

  "Who is Mrs. Bridewell? Never mind, you can explain later. Why did it start ticking?"

  "Our presence activated it. Wh
ich makes this a red-wire-blue-wire scenario after all." He came toward her swiftly and grabbed her arm in one of his big, powerful hands. "Out. Now."

  "What's going to happen?"

  "I have no idea," Fallon said. "But it won't be good."

  They got as far as the bottom step before the flashlights failed, plunging the basement into midnight. The faint twilight that filled the doorway at the top of the stairs darkened rapidly.

  "What's going on?" Isabella asked softly.

  "The clock." Fallon drew her to a halt halfway up the steps and lowered his voice. "It's doing this. Generating some kind of energy that is eating all the normal light in the house. Filling the place with night."

  The relentless ticking continued.

  "I don't get that, but I agree we definitely need to leave," she said.

  "Too late." Fallon's voice was very low now. He spoke directly into her ear. "We're going back down. Hang on to the railing. If you fall on these stairs, you could break your neck."

  She seized the metal banister and probed cautiously for the edge of each concrete step with the toe of her shoe. Simultaneously she pushed her talent a little higher. The para-fog did not illuminate objects the way normal light did, but the seething psi whirlpool in the center of the space and the dark light around the armoire were clearly visible. The luminescence provided a general sense of direction.

  She sensed Fallon heightening his own talent and wondered how the basement appeared to him. He seemed remarkably sure-footed on the steps. It occurred to her that with his unusual ability, he had probably created a very clear mental construct of their surroundings.

  "Why are we going back down?" she breathed.

  "Because we are no longer alone in the house," he said.

  The floorboards squeaked overhead. Fallon was right. The house was no longer giving off empty vibes.

  "Something tells me that is not a prospective buyer," Fallon said.

  "But the darkness extends to the floor above. I saw it filling the hallway. It must be like midnight up there now. How can he navigate?"

  "Probably because he is some kind of talent."

  Fallon must have turned his head toward her then, because she could suddenly perceive the dark heat in his eyes.