Dark Oracle (14 page)

“Urk.” Harry fled the kitchen, trying to scrub the mental picture of Martin and Mrs. Cloverfeld from his mind. Passing the bathroom, he heard the hiss of the shower and Cassie’s off-key rendition of the latest emo hit from the radio.

He cracked open the door of the back bedroom to wake Tara. The gray morning light picked out an expression of soft contentment on her face as she slept, one arm crooked under the pillow. Her breath was deep and even, and he wondered what she dreamed.

Harry knelt beside the bed to drink her in, this early morning peace, the rise and fall of her pale shoulder, the buttons on her shirt in the wrong buttonholes. He smiled, remembering their lovemaking, wishing for more time with the Snow Queen, to thaw more of that ice she’d buried herself in.

He reached forward to caress her cheek to wake her, when his knee bumped something on the floor. Tara’s purse. He shoved it away, paused when he spied something underneath it. A piece of paper.

No. . . something else.

He picked it up. It was an elaborately decorated card depicting two people in a passionate embrace, titled
The Lovers.
He recognized the image from when he’d been shuffled to the occult crimes unit several years ago, busting a phony psychic bilking retirees out of their savings. It was from a deck of Tarot cards, the kind used by fortune-tellers to scare their victims into forking over more cash.

The edges were well-worn. It had been in Tara’s hands often. . . and it dawned on him that perhaps this was the key to her intuition, that she made countless critical decisions based on what a deck of cards told her to do. That she had decided to come to him last night, based on what a random card had told her.

He looked up to see her looking down at him, her smile dissolving when she saw him holding the card.

He tried to keep his tone even, failed. “What’s this?”

T
ARA OPENED HER EYES TO SEE
H
ARRY, AND SHE SMILED
. B
UT
the expression drained from her face, her heart crumpling as she saw what he held in his hand, at the hard set of his jaw. She could see the hurt, the anger in him, and she instinctively recoiled from it. How could she have been so careless?

“Harry, I. . .” She forced herself to reach out and touch his sleeve. “This isn’t what you think.”

He seemed to want to believe her, but doubt clouded his eyes. He didn’t move to take her hand. “Then what is it?”

She wanted to have this conversation with him, someday, but she wasn’t ready now, didn’t have anything that made sense rehearsed. She blew out a nervous breath and waded into the churning water. “It’s the way I organize and focus my thoughts. I pull a card at random, and reflect on how I feel about the symbols on it.”

“And then, what? You do what it tells you to?”

“No. I do what I feel is—” She broke off, hearing the unmistakable staccato slice of helicopter blades overhead. Maggie galloped into the room, ran across the bed, and crammed her nose through the blinds. Her barks obliterated anything else Tara might have said.

Harry swore and leaped to his feet. He charged to the window, peering through the blinds over the dog’s head. A tan UH-1N helicopter stirred the soft branches of pine trees, turned left, and wheeled away in the sky, searching for a place to land. The Huey could hold up to fifteen people. It was primarily a personnel mover in domestic operations, and that meant Gabriel’s men were coming for them, in force.

“We’ve got to get out of here, now.”

Tara rolled out of bed and scooped up her purse and her shoes. Harry charged into the hallway, pounding on the bathroom door for Cassie to get dressed. The Lovers card lay on the floor, forgotten. Vision blurring, she picked it up and stuffed it into her purse before she bolted from the room.

Cassie was dripping wet in her coat, clutching her father’s laptop, trying to get her shoes on. Harry was arguing with Martin. “We have to go. You’re coming with us.”

The old man stubbornly shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. You kids get moving.”

Harry stabbed his finger out the window. “We’ve been found. . . and we’re not leaving you behind, Pops.”

“I’m not going.” Martin parked his backside in his recliner. “That’s the end of it.”

“They’re going to come, ask questions. . . We don’t know what they’re going to do.” Harry’s voice was desperate. Tara wasn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t pick the old man up and throw him in the trunk.

Martin rocked back and forth. “Let ’em come. I’ll tell ’em some of my best stories. Time’s a wastin’, kiddo.”

Harry growled in frustration, but gave the stubborn old man a hug. Tara saw the old man’s eyes glisten. “I’ll tell you how it went when you get back.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Tara buckled on her holster, peeked out the door. No aircraft or people in sight, though the forest was too dense to be certain. Sunlight glittered on snow melting from the trees, the bits of ice rattling through the canopy casting false shadows of light and movement.

Harry tossed her a set of keys. They had to be the keys to Martin’s truck; the key ring was decorated with the hood ornament of an old Cadillac.

Tara looked at Harry, and a lump filled her throat.

“Be safe,” was all he said. His eyes were dark with pain, and she ached for being the cause of it.

“You, too.” She raised her hand to touch his arm—

He was already at the door, weapon unholstered, eyes scanning the clearing. Ever the chivalrous knight, she thought bitterly, as he slammed open the screen door and strode into the still day. She flinched at the sound of the door hitting the side of the trailer, harsh as a gunshot. Harry crossed to his car and unlocked it. He stood behind the door, gun raised, and motioned for the women to follow under the cover he provided.

“Cassie,” she whispered, and the girl was at her elbow, holding on to Maggie’s collar with one hand, backpack in the other. Maggie’s ears were lifted, listening. Tara, Cassie, and Maggie clattered down the porch steps to the side of the trailer, where Martin’s beat-up old Chevy pickup sat. Tara popped Cassie’s door first, and crossed to the driver’s side with her gun in her grip.

The key stuck in the cold ignition. It had been a long time since the truck had been started. She cranked the engine over, and the sound of it roared through the silence like a growling bear. She flipped the wipers on, dusting snow from the windshield.

She glimpsed Harry through the glass. He nodded at her, started his car, and disappeared down the switchback dirt road. The frost kept down the dust, and there was no evidence he’d ever been there.

She followed, but as fast as the truck bounced over the unpaved dirt, she could not catch sight of him again.

Chapter Thirteen

H
ARRY TRIED
to put as much distance between himself and Martin’s nest as he could. Once he’d seen the old man’s truck rattle down the driveway, he gunned the engine, allowing the trees to enfold his view in the rearview mirror. He hoped that whoever was watching them would see him first, take the bait, and leave the old man, Cassie, and Tara alone.

His heart was leaden, seeming to slow his progress and drag his thoughts back to what he’d left behind. It was heavy for Martin, fearing what interrogation he might face at the hands of the men who’d tried to kill Cassie. Martin was a formidable foe with the shotgun, but these men were beyond the solitary poachers and teenage burglars Martin was accustomed to dealing with. His knuckles were pale on the steering wheel, praying they wouldn’t hurt the old man. Martin was harmless, and there was nothing he could tell them. Even Martin didn’t know where they were going.

His heart was heavy for Cassie. He was beginning to believe, more and more, that her father was dead. He wouldn’t admit it to her, wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself, but there was no evidence yet suggesting he’d survived. He’d left messages for his daughter, riddles for her to solve, but there was no concrete proof he hadn’t died in the destruction of the particle accelerator—whether it was an accident, act of sabotage, or murder—and been devoured by one of his black holes. If Magnusson had been eaten by one of his own monsters, the probabilities of keeping Cassie safe for any prolonged length of time dwindled. He’d asked Tara not to tell him where she was taking Cassie. Where Harry was going, that knowledge might become a distinct liability.

Sun splintered through the branches of spiky trees, and Harry’s tires finally hit paved road. It would be many hours before he would be back in New Mexico to meet DiRosa at Bandelier National Monument. He looked east and west on the two-lane highway. No cars.

He blew out his breath. He wasn’t being followed so far. He hoped that boded well for Cassie and Tara.

Tara. His heart was heavy for her, too. . . and confused. To go from the peace and certainty he’d felt last night to the mixed feelings of doubt and uncertainty he’d confronted her with this morning. . . It was like swallowing concrete mix and trying to digest it before it solidified. He feared that last night had been a random draw of a card, that she had been leading him and this investigation based on signs and portents dictated by a deck of cards.

It made him angry to think it. What wrong turns might they have made? What other decisions might have been reached, if he hadn’t accepted her intuitive flashes and gut feelings as truth?

Corvus had warned him about this. Corvus had warned him she’d retained some “permanent psychological damage.” What delusions, what rituals of comfort, had she picked up along the way? Or. . . what if this was the way she had always worked?

He tried to partition out his feelings about how she made decisions in her personal and private lives, but failed. Harry had wanted her to feel something for him and come to him on her own. . . not because she had been compelled to, by him, or by anyone—or anything—else. That stung.

He clicked on the stereo, allowing the bass rhythm of death metal to wash over him, to pound the dash and jangle the change in the console. It was a good day for death metal. He stomped the gas pedal, and his unzipped duffel bag rolled from the passenger seat to the floor.
The Ambience of Sensual Massage
slid out onto the floor mat.

Harry had to smile in spite of himself. Pops and his sense of humor.

If it had been any other time, he would have taken some time to cool off, to talk with Tara about it. But that was now impossible. . . The case demanded his full attention. He knew the likelihood was high that someone other than DiRosa would be there to meet him at the park, that he would be detained, questioned. . . Under military jurisdiction, he had no idea what would happen. But there was a small possibility the information she offered was real, that it might lead to Magnusson, and he had to take that chance.

He glanced at the rearview mirror, saw a helicopter on the horizon. All of them—Harry, Tara, Cassie, and Martin—would be lucky to get out of this mess at all, much less have heart-to-heart chats over hot chocolate.

Still, he wished he hadn’t left it like that with Tara. It felt sharp and unfinished, and it might have to remain that way. Forever.

M
ARTIN HAD BEEN EXPECTING A KNOCK
. M
AYBE SOME SIRENS
, or even a phone call from the local sheriff checking to make sure he hadn’t been taken hostage.

He had not been expecting a dozen men with submachine guns to surround him when he was taking his trash out to the burn barrel.

Martin walked out to the rubbish barrel in his fishing boots and Carhartt coveralls, holding his trash in one hand and his shotgun in the other. He’d been thinking about Harry. The boy hadn’t given him details on what he was planning, but it sounded as if he was drowning in some pretty serious business. Whatever it was, he hoped Harry had the sense to rely on Tara’s judgment. Harry could be bullheaded, obstinate, and unbelievably obtuse. . .

He heard the unmistakable
click-click-click
s of a dozen gun safeties being released, was told, “Freeze! Get down on the ground!” by one of the men dressed in camo fatigues and ski masks. Martin found himself looking down the barrel of an MP-5 and wishing he’d dressed for the occasion.

Martin laid down the shotgun, then the rubbish, and stretched out on the cold ground. Immediately, men swarmed over him, patting him down for more weapons. He heard their boots clomping on the porch, inside his home. His cap slid over his ear, and he could hear the men above him grumbling about all his pockets. . . They found two fishing lures from last spring in his jacket, a can opener in his shirt, and nail clippers in his pants.

When they sat him up, a stocky man squatted over him. “What’s your name?”

Martin smiled broadly up at him. “I’m Martin Davis. Who’re you?”

The man ignored him. “We’re looking for Harry Li, Tara Sheridan, and Cassie Magnusson.”

Martin put on his best senile act and looked to the side. “Oh, I’m afraid you’ve given me a dreadful fright. Let’s see. . .” He tapped his hands on his chin, making sure to allow them to shake. “Visitors.”

“Have you seen any of these people?” the man demanded, shoving a faxed page of photographs in the man’s face.

Martin leaned forward, squinting. “I’m afraid I don’t have my glasses.” Inwardly, he rolled his eyes. Despite his black suit and serious expression, Harry’s outdated file photo made him look barely old enough to drive. Tara was a smokin’ hot fox, smiling enigmatically at the camera. Older picture, but very, very nice. She reminded him of Mrs. Cloverfeld. A picture of Cassie, apparently taken from the masthead of her school newspaper, showed her with pink hair and the glitter of a nose ring.

A tall woman in motorcycle leathers paced around the perimeter of the conversation, watching them with eyes narrowed. She wasn’t military; Martin couldn’t figure out what she was. Except that she was trouble. “They’ve been here,” she insisted. “Beat it out of him.”

“Find the man’s glasses,” the questioner snapped to one of the soldiers beside him. “Glasses first, then beating.”

“I think they’re on the coffee table,” Martin replied helpfully. He knew damn well they were in the cutlery drawer in the kitchen, next to the scissors.

It took the men nearly a half hour to toss the place and find his glasses. The woman threw up her hands and walked away. A breathless soldier ran back and handed the worn velour case to the officer in charge. By this time, Martin’s ass was frozen numb. He wiped his glasses carefully, perched them on his nose, and looked again at the photos.

“They were just here.” He knew they knew that. “I think. I don’t know about the flamingo-haired girl. It might have been her.”

“How long ago?”

“Oh. . .” Martin felt for his watch. He wasn’t wearing one. “After breakfast.” He smiled brightly. “We had toast.”

The officer in charge rolled his eyes under his ski mask. “Get up.” He reached down to grab the old man’s arm. “Obstructing justice is a serious charge, old man. These people are fugitives.”

Martin’s eyes fluttered. He flopped limp as a rag doll, clutched his chest. He gasped, spittle flecking the officer’s camo-shoulder. “Oh! My chest. . . I need to sit down.”

He grabbed his heart as the officer lowered him to the ground, and rocked back and forth. “Ohhhhhhh. . .” He moaned in apparent agony.

“Medic!” the officer snapped.

Another soldier knelt before him, tried to pry his arms from his chest. “Where does it hurt, sir?”

“Ohhh. . . my chest! My arm!” Martin’s face twitched, and he screwed his eyes shut enough to prevent the medic from prying them open. His pulse raced and the medic looked up, alarmed.

“We need an ambulance, sir.”

“Shit. Sergeant, are you telling me that we just gave that old man a heart attack?”

“Possibly, sir.”

“Call it. . .”

While Martin writhed on the ground, he smiled inwardly to himself. He was a better actor than Harry gave him credit for. Now, just to keep his pulse racing, he’d have to think more on
The Ambience of Sensual Massage,
at least until he got to the hospital. He doubted many interrogations went down in hospitals, and he had enough ailments to keep the hospital staff busy for days. . .

T
HE OLD MAN WAS A WASTE OF TIME
.

Adrienne pawed through the clutter in the trailer. The place reeked of her quarry. She smelled Tara on the flannels in the hamper, a towel in the bathroom, on the bedspread in the bedroom, in the fading musk on the bed in the back room.

Adrienne rooted around in the kitchen sink. She cast aside a worn sponge, a clutch of spoons, and cracked coffee cups. At last she plucked a dirty fork from the pile of dishes. She grinned. The bright sunlight gleamed down on the cheap metal, stuck with desiccated crumbs. Adrienne clutched it in her fist like a treasure and shouldered past Gabriel’s men to exit the trailer.

She could see Tara’s footprints in the snow outside the trailer, the same size as the clunky boots in the cabin. She followed the footsteps, pressing her own larger feet over the tracks. It gave her a sting of satisfaction to see them obliterated by her own steps.

If only it was that easy to wipe out their owner. . .

The footprints led to a mash up of vehicle tracks. . . a large truck, she guessed. It would be a small task to determine which vehicles were registered to the old man. The larger task would be determining where Tara was going. Whether or not she had the girl with her was inconsequential to Adrienne, but an additional kill would be a bonus for her employer.

Twirling the fork in her fingertips, Adrienne strode out to the tree line, past the pines laden with snow. She walked until she was out of sight of the cabin, until the tracks of deer were the only ones that intersected hers. The shadows of birds flickered overhead, interrupting the shafts of sunshine streaming through the trees.

She crouched down to the ground, brushing away snow until the bare, frozen earth was visible. Her fingers were red and ached with cold, but she paid them no mind. From her jacket pocket, she withdrew a creased map of the region and smoothed it over the ground, orienting the compass rose to true north. Adrienne didn’t need to look to find it; she sensed the cardinal directions as easily as the others around her sensed the demarcation between day and night.

From her jacket, she pulled the bottle of earth she’d collected from Tara’s cabin. Nestled close to her body for days, the glass felt warm in her hands. Adrienne unscrewed the cap and dumped half the contents of the dirt in her left hand. She breathed her intention on it, to find its owner.

She closed her eyes and scattered it on the map.

The dirt settled in a sinuous line, curling and drawing in upon itself. It slithered like a snake across the paper, as if it were composed of metal filings drawn by a magnet. The soil spiraled, unsettled, trying to draw itself in two directions at once.

Adrienne placed the fork on the map, twirled it like a child turning the spinner of a board game. The earth congealed, wrapping around the fork. When it stopped spinning, the earth coiled around the tines of the fork, gathered around one location, in the middle of nowhere. The legend on the map pointed out a village beside the interstate, listed in the smallest typeface on the map legend.

Adrienne sat back on her heels. A place like that was close to the interstate, allowing quick withdrawal after the kill. There would be few witnesses.

It was the perfect place for an ambush.

•   •   •   •

T
HERE HAD TO HAVE BEEN A BETTER WAY TO SAY GOOD-BYE
.

Tara stared fixedly ahead at the road. A fine sleet filtered from the sky, and the windshield wipers flipped over the glass with the regular rhythm of a metronome, in counterpoint to the loud purr of the engine and the occasional jingle of Martin’s hood ornament key chain striking the dash. She cranked the defroster as high as it would go. . . Warmth issued from that, but not from the floor vents of the old truck. She’d found an old blanket behind the seat, and Cassie had spread it over the front seat, her father’s laptop open and plugged into the cigarette lighter. Her eyes flickered right and left across the page, absorbing her father’s work. The truck smelled of sour coffee and sweet antifreeze.

Maggie had fallen asleep in the middle of the seat, her butt on Cassie’s lap and her head on Tara’s. Tara was sure the dog could sense her despondency, and was doing her best to help her feel better.

She gripped the steering wheel, making her wounded arm ache. She’d allowed herself to hope, made the mistake of thinking that Harry would be able to accept and understand her. Why couldn’t she have left well enough alone? Why couldn’t she have accepted the gift of last night without sabotaging it? She honestly didn’t remember where she’d left the card, but it wasn’t like her years of conditioning to leave such a thing available for prying eyes.