Dark Oracle (11 page)

“Yes. Jung believed there was an undercurrent. . . a collective unconscious. . . of archetypes and symbols underpinning human experience. Sometimes, symbols bubble up in the mind that we correlate to our own lives in ways we ascribe meaning to. I give my mind permission to follow those symbols, to make intuitive connections over small things other people might overlook.”

“So. . . it’s about observation?”

“Partially. The underlying idea is that everything and everyone are connected in unseen ways. Sure, the observer has to be alert for those happenings and symbols, but there’s also an element of imagination involved to make the connections, the associations between disparate things.”

Harry was silent for a moment, digesting. Tara had to give him credit for trying. This was the closest she’d come to explaining her methods to anyone she’d worked with. Deep down, she wanted him to understand, and wanted him to respect her. That desire for approval startled her. Out here, in the remote cold, under the stars, under the weight of exhaustion. . . anything seemed possible.

She tried again. “We’re used to thinking of the mind as a machine that works linearly, as a train that moves forward along a single track: from point A, to B, to C. . . and also in reverse, from C, to B, to A. But the mind can jump tracks, if you let it, move forward from A to M and parallel to 3.

“One of Jung’s favorite quotes on synchronicity came from Lewis Carroll’s
Through the Looking-Glass.
The White Queen tells Alice, ‘It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.’”

“So you’re following thoughts down whichever rabbit holes strike you?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” she admitted sheepishly. “I warned you it wasn’t a scientific process.”

“You get good results. I’m a bottom-line kind of guy. I don’t know that I agree with your line of thinking, but it’s hard to argue with the results, however you get them.”

Tara lapsed into silence, changed the subject. “Have you spoken to Corvus?”

Harry shook his head. “No, and I won’t. There’s too much potential for eavesdropping.”

Tara framed her thought carefully before she spoke it aloud. “I don’t think Corvus is being entirely forthcoming.”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I think he’s tied to Gabriel. I don’t know who’s pulling whose strings. . . but those two are on the same side.”

“That’s a pretty serious assumption.” Harry’s jaw hardened. “Are you prepared to back it up?”

She spread her hands under the sleeping bag, a gesture of resignation. “No. I can’t prove it. But I’m certain of it.”

“Corvus has an impeccable record. He’s untouchable.” Harry ran his hands over his spiky, sleep-tousled hair. She could hear the resistance in his voice. He didn’t believe her. Not yet. “Why would he stick his neck out, and for what?”

She wrapped her arms around her knees, feeling a stab of worry for Harry. “I know, and I can’t explain. Just be careful of him.”

“I’m always careful of Corvus. He’s the master of the poison pen, transferring staff to the hinterlands of hell.” He gave a lopsided half smile. It was charming, and something in Tara’s chest thrilled to see it. “I quake in fear of his furious penmanship.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She shook her head. “Corvus can be very dangerous.”

“Hey.” Harry caught her chin, turning her face back to him. “I know you’ve got your reasons for distrusting the Division. I think you’re allowing your feelings to color your view.”

“That’s what I do,” she said softly. “Most of the time.”

His touch was light as if he were handling glass, giving her every opportunity to turn away, to escape. His hand slipped over her jaw, behind her neck. But she stayed, rooted in place, feeling the warmth of his fingers slowly winding in her hair. Her heart hammered as he gently pulled her face toward his and brushed his lips against hers.

She drank the kiss in, feeling the warmth creeping through her body. She could feel it sinking into her body from his chest, his arm lightly curving around her shoulders and wrapping her in the sleeping bag that smelled like cedar and wood smoke.

A yip and a scrape from the door of the trailer made her jump. Harry drew back, rolled his eyes at the door.

“Maggie.”

A pathetic
grrrmmmmrr
issued from the other side of the wall.

He disentangled himself from the sleeping bag, offered her a hand to her feet. He opened the door and the dog bounded out, collar jingling, sniffing for the perfect doggie place to squat.

Tara glanced at Harry, feeling suddenly shy and more than a little awkward. Harry stood before her, looking at his bare feet, hands in his pockets. Watching him stand before her in his T-shirt and jeans, Tara had the sudden urge to wrap her arms around him, listen to his heart beat in his chest. She suspected that sound would drive away any nightmares. But she kept her hands tangled in the sleeping bag, frozen.

He leaned over, smiled a beautiful white smile that shone in the dark, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Sweet dreams.”

She wished that Harry had the power to make those words true.

A
BOVE, IN DARKNESS
, A
DRIENNE WATCHED, WITH HER EYES
closed.

The
thump-thump-thump
of the helicopter blades drowned out all sound, except for the voices transmitted by the pilot back to base through the electronic headsets. The green and red lights on the instrument panels were the only illumination. Cold wind ripped through the seams of the helicopter, making frost on the inside of the glass the copilot kept scraping away. The pitch and yaw of the helicopter as it turned rattled a pen on the floor of the compartment back and forth. Every few minutes, it would roll back against Adrienne’s boots. The MH-6, nicknamed the Little Bird, was designed to be a light observation helicopter, the kind used in urban police departments to track speeders in short bursts. It wasn’t built for comfort on long, tedious missions.

In the back of the helo, Adrienne tuned those distractions out. She listened only to the sound of her own breath and focused on the tension of the chain suspending the crystal pendulum from a ring on her middle finger. In the darkness, the quartz crystal shone like a star. The helicopter’s unsettling turns and changes in altitude made using the pendulum difficult; Adrienne found it hard to separate that motion from the subtle tug of the crystal, seeking her target. Geomancers used elements of earth to accomplish their divinations, and the pendulum was one of her favorite tools. She’d spoken to stones and crystals since she was a little girl. They weren’t like people. Stones always told the truth. She could trust the shifts in their subtle energy, rely upon what they told her without question or guessing at ulterior motives.

But this far from the ground, the crystal’s power was shaky; like a magnet pulled too far from metal, its pull was weak and thready. Adrienne listened to it, through the ring and the chain and the veins in the crystal, searching for any sign that would lead her to her quarry.

Under her hand, the crystal twitched for a moment. Adrienne concentrated on the pull, her breath fogging the plastic visor of her helmet.

“West,” she told the pilot through the microphone. Echoing in her helmet, her voice seemed tinny and mechanical.

The pilot looked back at her. Adrienne knew he couldn’t fully see what she was doing in the back of the cockpit, but he’d been ordered to do what she told him to.

“We haven’t completed the A6 part of the grid. . .” the copilot began. The night vision display before him cast green shadows on his helmet.

“West,” she told him, her staticky voice crackling like the frost on the windshield. “We go west.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The pilot leaned to the left, and the Little Bird flew away into the blackness.

Chapter Ten

T
AKE SLOW
, regular breaths. In. . . out. . . in. . . out. . .” Tara sat on the bed beside Cassie, her back against the wall. The bedroom was dim, the blinds drawn against the bright morning sun. The girl seemed small, lost inside Martin’s too-big clothes, stretched out under the yellow chenille bedspread with the warm sunlight streaming in. She lay with her hands tightly folded on her stomach, not seeming to be sure what to do with them. Tara could see her resisting the effort to pick at her chipped blue nail polish. Though Cassie had agreed to try hypnosis to see if her father’s password was rattling around somewhere in her head, there was no guarantee it would work. Tara was excited to imagine what might be lodged in Cassie’s photographic memory. All the data was in the girl’s head, she was convinced. They just needed a road map to get there. A good subject had to be hypnotically suggestible. . . She had to be willing not to work against Tara’s verbal directions.

“I want you to roll your eyes upward, as far as you comfortably can, toward the wall.” This was the quickest, most shorthand test Tara could administer to gauge suggestibility, the Hypnotic Induction Profile. The less of the iris and cornea that could be seen, the better.

Cassie complied, rolling her eyes back so only a small sliver of her blue eyes showed beneath her lashes.

“Very good. You can relax now, and close your eyes.”

“You’re not going to make me do the chicken dance, are you? They do that at the county fair,” Cassie murmured.

“I can’t make you do anything. Your mad dancing skills are safe. All we’re going to do is look back through some of your memories and see if there’s anything that jumps out at you. It will feel like daydreaming, and you’ll be aware of everything you and I say.”

“Okay.” Cassie settled in, stopped fidgeting. “As long as there will be no dancing.”

“No dancing, I promise. I’ll be right here with you, the whole time. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Tara glanced at the closed door. Shadows moved beneath it and the floor creaked as someone walked down the narrow hallway. She’d told Martin and Harry not to make Cassie self-conscious by watching the process, but it seemed as if curiosity was getting the better of them. Voices carried in the trailer; she knew the door didn’t block any significant sound from the living area, but she wanted to give Cassie the illusion of privacy. And Tara wanted to work without Harry’s skeptical eyes on them. Never mind the distraction. . . Tara was glad Cassie’s eyes were closed and she didn’t see the blush that crawled over Tara’s cheeks at the thought.

“Close your eyes and continue to follow your breath.” Tara looked down in her lap at the notebook. The blank page intimidated her, and she swallowed. Much time had passed since she’d put anyone under hypnosis. She used to do it quite often for crime victims and witnesses, to enhance the recall of details, but that seemed a lifetime ago.

“Slow, regular breaths. In. . . out. . . in. . . out. . . Good.”

Cassie’s breathing became less self-conscious, evened out to a soft roll. Tara guided her through a simple relaxation exercise, alternately tensing and relaxing the muscles from her feet all the way to her head. As Tara continued to speak, Cassie’s breathing shallowed, flattened, and barely seemed to move her chest. From the living room, Tara heard a snatch of a snore. Martin had been eavesdropping. She smiled. She wasn’t as rusty as she’d thought.

“Imagine you and I are walking down a well-lit staircase, down into the vault of your memory. With each step, you become more relaxed, softer, more at ease. Ten. . . imagine your thoughts softening. Nine. . . slow, deep breaths. Eight. . . letting go of worry. Seven. . . letting go of doubt. Six. . . breathing out any fear. Five. . . feeling deeply relaxed and open.

“Four.

“Three.

“Two.

“One.” Tara could see, behind the girl’s eyelids, her eyes twitching. Good. She was in a light hypnotic trance. “We’re standing at the bottom level of the staircase, in a room lined with shelves upon shelves of books, reaching to the ceiling, extending down limitless hallways. Sunshine shines in through tall windows, illuminating every volume.

“This is where all your memories are kept. Nothing is ever lost, no detail too small to be recorded. Everything is here. All your memories are catalogued in perfect order. All you need to do is to think of a subject that interests you, and all your memory about that subject will be at your fingertips. You are in complete control of your mind, and have perfect access to your memory.

“Now, think of your father. Develop a fully dimensional image of him in your mind: the way he walks, talks, smells, and looks. Can you see him?”

“Yes.” Cassie’s voice was fuzzy and distant.

“Very good. Now, let him guide us through your memory, to the book on the shelf containing information on secrets he may have told you or whereabouts of hidden knowledge. When you’re ready, follow him to the bookshelves, and tell me what you see and read.”

“He’s asking me to follow him. He’s holding that dumb coffee mug I got him when I was ten.”

“The one that says
#1 Dad
?” Tara remembered seeing it in his office.

“Yes. He’s drinking some tea that smells like shit. Earl Gray, I think.”

“Go ahead and follow him. I’m right behind you.”

“I’m walking down a corridor, books everywhere. . . Christ, there’s even my old coloring books. . . Wait. . . He’s pointing to one from a top shelf.”

“Good. Reach up for the book and take it down.”

“I have it.”

“Tell me what it’s like. What color is it? Is it heavy or light?”

“It’s blue, paperback, very light.”

“Open it and tell me what’s inside.”

Tara was very still, waiting. Some hypnotized subjects had a hard time reading in their visualizations. She thought Cassie, being an intellectual, could handle it. But she still leaned slightly forward on the bed to watch the girl’s eyes move from left to right under her eyelids.

“It’s his grocery lists. Coffee, beans, ketchup. . . how can he live on stuff like this?” Cassie’s nose wrinkled slightly in her trance. “Ugh. What the hell does he do with parsnips?”

“Go ahead and put it back on the shelf. Ask him to show you another book.”

“Okay.” Cassie fell silent for a moment. “He’s pointing to another book.”

“Describe it.”

“This one’s heavy. It’s navy blue, and the binding’s shot. . . I remember this book. He gave it to me when I was a kid and he took me stargazing.”

Tara remembered the first photo she’d seen of Magnusson, posing with his daughter before the radio telescope in Hawaii. “Tell me about that.”

“He took me along on all his conference trips. We’d sleep all day, and he would go to the observatories at night. I’d read, play outside, peer through the telescopes. Sometimes, I’d fall asleep and wake up in the back of the car on the way home.”

“When did he give you this book?”

“It came from a used bookshop in Hawaii. It was illustrated, showed all the constellations and the legends behind them. We sat outside and Dad showed me the constellations in the sky and, by flashlight, in the book.”

Tara thought of the Star Tarot card, how often it had shown up in her readings. She felt they were getting close. “Your father named you after a constellation?”

“Yes, after Cassiopeia. The beautiful queen, seated on her throne. I will never be as beautiful as the picture in the book. When I was a little girl, I imagined she was my mother, watching from the sky.”

“What did he tell you about Cassiopeia?”

“He said Cassiopeia was very proud of her beautiful daughter. He pointed up at the stars and told me that all I ever needed to know was in Cassiopeia’s heart. It sounded really lame at the time, and I told him that. But it was really kind of sweet.”

Tara paused, intuition humming, pen poised above the paper. She reached behind her, noiselessly reaching into her bag slung over the headboard for her Tarot cards. She flipped through the deck, searching for the image Cassie had painted in her mind, the image of the seated queen.

A-ha.
The Empress. The Tarot card showed a beautiful woman seated on a throne, holding a scepter, and looking serenely out on the world. Her loose robes draped over the curve of her pregnant belly, symbolizing motherhood and fertility. At her breast dangled a pendant, and Tara looked very closely to make it out. It was in the shape of a star. She tucked the cards back into her purse, and her thoughts buzzed with excitement. She was very close to the answer; she felt it.

“Please thank your memory of your father for the assistance, Cassie. You’ve done very well.” She thought she saw a tear forming in Cassie’s eye.

“Wait. There’s someone else here,” Cassie said.

Tara’s brow wrinkled. She tucked the card into the bottom of the deck. “Tell me.”

“It’s not someone I know.”

“Describe the person.” This wasn’t part of the script. She wondered where Cassie’s mind was taking them.

“She’s short, shorter than me. Black hair, black eyes. She’s wearing a long dress, but no shoes.”

“What’s she doing?”

“She’s just standing, watching us. She’s smiling.”

Dread washed over Tara. “Ask her. . .” She steadied her voice. “Ask her what her name is.”

Cassie paused. “She says her name is Pythia.”

Tara leaned protectively over Cassie, touched the girl’s wrist. Her skin was fever-hot. There was no way Cassie could know about the Pythia. Was there? Was the Pythia powerful enough to project herself into the girl’s trance? Tara kept her voice low and even. “It’s time to come back now.”

“Not yet.” The girl’s voice changed in timbre, lowering, and an accent flickered through her words. “We’re not finished here.”

Tara recoiled. She knew that voice. “Pythia.”

Cassie’s lips curved upward. But it wasn’t her smile. It was the voluptuous smile of the Pythia. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you. Let go of Cassie.”

“Then listen instead.” The Pythia’s voice was harsh. “There’s someone coming for you.”

“There are a lot of people after us. That’s not news.”

“Not just men after the girl. One of us. After you.”

Tara’s brows drew together. “Who? Why?”

“Adrienne. She wants what you have.”

Tara shook her head, not understanding. “Why the hell would she want anything of mine? And who sent her?”

“Not I. But you’ve been warned. You must fight.”

Cassie’s eyelids fluttered, and her chest rose and fell in a sluggish rhythm.

“Pythia?”

No answer. The Pythia was gone.

Tara brought Cassie out of the trance, stepping up the mental staircase to full awareness. Cassie opened her eyes, stretched.

“That wasn’t nearly what I thought it would be.”

“How so? I promised you, no chicken dancing,” Tara said lightly. She didn’t know if the girl had any memory of the Pythia’s voice. And she didn’t want to scare her.

“It was like you said, like daydreaming. . .” Her voice trailed off, and Tara could see she was thinking of her father.

Tara patted her sleeve. “Take some time to wake slowly, and come out when you’re ready.”

Tara left the bedroom in darkness. She closed the door behind her and nearly ran into Harry in the tiny hall.

“Did you get anything?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest. Behind him, Martin sawed logs on the plaid couch, his hands folded softly on his chest. The sound would have been enough to blot out the voices from the bedroom. She hoped. She didn’t want to explain the Pythia to Harry. Not now. Not ever.

“I’m not sure yet.” Her eyes roved the stacks and stacks of books lining the walls. “Does your dad have any books on astronomy?”

M
ARTIN’S PERSONAL LIBRARY COVERED AN ASTONISHINGLY
broad array of subjects, from mammals to music to mechanical engineering. Tara and Harry dug through the stacks behind the couch, while Martin searched in boxes tucked in a closet. The books were organized in no discernible order other than Martin’s lines of imagination:
An Apprentice’s Guide to Metalworking
lay beside
Battle Strategies of World War II
, interspersed with well-worn vinyl LPs.

“What the heck?” Harry picked up a book and held it up for his father to see. It was titled
The Ambience of Sensual Massage
, depicting a hirsute man with 1970s sideburns and mustache in a romantic clinch with a woman with waist-length hair and a flower tucked behind her ear.

Martin popped his head around the corner, narrowing his eyes. “You snooping, or are you asking to borrow it?”

Harry dropped it like a hot potato.

Martin’s muffled voice emanated from back in the closet. “I
thought
so.”

Tara smothered a grin and pulled aside a stack of paperback spy novels to find a blue book titled promisingly enough:
The Stargazer’s Catalog.
She flipped through, scanning for Cassiopeia.

“Found it.” The constellation sprawled across the page in a loose
W
pattern. Superimposed on the stars was a picture of a seated queen on a throne. With her finger, Tara traced the constellation to the star in the queen’s chest, labeled
Segin.
The next page listed its ascension and declination, the coordinates of how the star moved through the night sky.

Harry powered up the laptop, and Cassie wandered into the living room. “What’s going on?”

“We’re wildly chasing the geese of Tara’s imagination,” said Harry.

Cassie stepped over
The Ambience of Sensual Massage
, paused, and picked it up. Her nose wrinkled as she opened it to a dog-eared page. “Feathers. Interesting.”

Martin cruised through the living room, plucked the book from her hands. “You’re not old enough for that.”

“I’m old enough to drink, drive, vote. . . What’s the deal with a little smut?”

“And you’ll never be old enough to do all that at the same time, young lady. And it is not smut. It’s. . .”

Harry looked up, the picture of attentiveness.