Deadly Curiosities (11 page)

skirted the edge of my vision, and I had the sense the spirit was enjoying my fear, feeding from it. I was afraid to move, fearful that I might get lost in this reflective realm, unable to find my way back.
Then I saw him. The shadow man loomed ahead of me. The image was more solid than a normal shadow, its form elongated, not quite human. Although I couldn’t make out any features, I knew it was watching me, making up its mind. Malevolence radiated from the image and my heart thudded. It was the predator. I was the prey.
The shadow rushed at me, impossibly long arms outstretched, claw-like fingers grasping. It came at me like the wind. With one hand, I grasped my agate necklace, and with the other, I grabbed a handful of salt from the pocket of my jeans and threw it at the shadow. Just for an instant, it wavered, but I knew it would come at me again.

Strong hands grabbed me from behind, hauling me backward. My hand lost contact with the mirror.

Only then did I realize I was screaming. I came back to myself, caught in Anthony’s tight embrace and fresh from the horror of the vision, I fought him, possessed with sheer, primal terror. His strong hands gripped my wrists.

“Take it easy,” he coaxed. “You’re back now. You’re safe.”

I was shaking, and I felt sick to my stomach. Anthony eased me into the chair by the fireplace. It was several more moments before I could give even the briefest account of what I had seen. In the meantime, Teag had already sprinkled a line of salt beneath the mirror and had begun blowing a fine dusting of charcoal powder over the reflective surface, which reduced its powerful energy to a dull, distant roar.

“You were screaming bloody murder,” Teag said, looking utterly unnerved. “Good thing we’re the only guests at the inn, or someone would be calling the cops.”

One thing was undeniable – the mirror had not possessed the power to draw me into it at Trifles and Folly.

“I saw the shadow man in the mirror,” I told them, once I caught my breath. “It’s become a gateway, a portal. It was looking for me, and it attacked. Thanks for getting me out of there.”

“Do you think the mirror is the key?” Teag asked.

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “No. It’s dangerous, and whatever spirit was inside it is malicious, but I don’t think it’s the focal point.”

Just for good measure, I touched my palm to the agate necklace on my chest. Then I turned to look at the Foo dog statue.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth
, Sherlock Holmes had said. I had the feeling that I was staring the ‘truth’ of Gardenia Landing’s haunting in the eyes as I looked at the Chinese sculpture.

I put out my hand, and let it hover above the shiny blue glaze that covered the stylized little dog. “I think I’ve found the problem,” I said.

“Y
OU THINK THAT
dog statue is bringing everything else to life?” Teag asked incredulously?”

“It’s giving off really strong energy, and right before the mirror drew me into the vision, I felt a spike in power from the direction of the Foo dog,” I said, eyeing the blue sculpture warily.

“It’s not one of our pieces,” Teag said, moving closer for a better look. He frowned. “You know, these dogs never look friendly, but this one looks meaner than usual.”

I peered at the dog and had to agree. The dogs – some people called them lions – were intended to be fearsome guardians with bared teeth and long claws. Some of the statues veered more toward cute while others tended to be more authentic, looking like watchdogs you didn’t want to cross. This Foo dog was about the size of a real Pug, and it had a particularly nasty expression and a mouthful of jagged teeth. “Why not just neutralize it and destroy it?” Anthony asked. I had to admit, it was a logical question. And unfortunately, I had a fairly logical response.

“We could, but then we might never know what set it off,” I replied. “I doubt anything with such a strong energy vibration would have attracted a buyer. Rebecca seems to have good instincts.” I shrugged. “A lot of times, people bring us objects that they can’t sell or give away because no one will take them. Even if they can’t say exactly why, they know something about the piece is wrong.”

“Why do you care what set it off?” Anthony persisted. “If you can get rid of it, then the rest of the pieces in the inn should settle down and behave themselves, right?”

“The problem is, we’re starting to see a pattern,” Teag replied. “First the opera glasses, now the Foo dog, items that might have witnessed an event that made an imprint on their energy. But neither item seemed haunted until something set them off. So what turned them ‘on’?” he asked. “We need to figure that out because whatever happened to them might have happened to other items we haven’t found yet.”

“That’s a lovely thought,” Anthony replied. He looked to me. “It’s up to you, Cassidy. What do you want to do next?”

“Let’s hedge our bets.” I said. I pulled out another bag of salt and the small bag of charcoal from Teag’s bag and shoved one bag in each of my jeans pockets. Then I took out the handful of protective gemstones and tucked them in also, just to be safe.

“How about we assume that the dog is going to do ‘tricks’,” I said, keeping my eye on the statue as if it might move. “I’m hoping that having the protective items on me instead of on the sculpture will keep me safe without smothering its energy so much that we can’t get a reading.”

“What do you want us to do, Cassidy?” Teag asked. I smiled, because I had an answer ready. Both men nodded as I laid out my plan, and got into position. I swallowed my fear, and reached out toward the statue.

Behind me, with no one near it, the door to the hallway slammed shut.

We all flinched. I lunged forward before anything else could happen, and grabbed the statue’s head with both hands.

The room around me winked out. I found myself in a seedy wooden building that smelled of brackish water, wood, and hemp rope. Lamps barely pushed back the shadows, and from the smoke, I guessed these lights were burning whale oil. Nearby, I could hear waves lapping against something solid, and when I looked down, I glimpsed water through the gaps in the boards beneath my feet. Outside the building, I heard a jabber of languages, but one was more prevalent than the rest, Chinese.
“The crates are all here, as you ordered.” The speaker was a man dressed in a black frock coat and stained silk vest. A dark cravat was tied at his throat over a tall, fold-over collar. His mutton chop sideburns seemed exaggerated even for their time. I spotted a battered top hat to one side. From his clothing, I fixed the time period in the 1830s. By his accent, I figured him for American.

The building appeared to be a warehouse, and in the shadows behind me, I could barely make out stacks of wooden crates, no doubt from the ships in the harbor outside. I glanced overhead, and saw the ropes and pulleys that made it possible to unload heavy cargo from wagons. Oil lamps hung from brackets attached to heavy wooden beams along the walls. To one side was a worn wooden desk and on it, I saw an abacus, a ledger book, and an inkwell, along with the Foo dog statue.
“We must count.” The second man had a heavy Chinese accent, and was dressed in traditional robes.
He was an older gentleman, with gray hair and a carefully groomed beard and moustache. He barked an order in Chinese, and half a dozen dock workers sprang into action, taking up crowbars to open the nearest rows of wooden crates. Along one wall stood six men who looked European and were dressed like sailors.
“Don’t you trust me, Mr. Tuan?” the American asked. “Fifty crates, as promised.”
Mr. Tuan’s expression did not reveal his thoughts. “Patience, Captain McCreedy. A good count benefits both of us.”
The Chinese workers pried off the wooden lids and tossed them aside. They began to dig through the sawdust that filled the crates, revealing a cargo of what looked like Turkish rugs.
“Tell them to be careful with those,” McCreedy said. “That opium’s worth a lot.”
I struggled to remind myself that I had not left the room at Gardenia Landing, that Teag and Anthony were hovering nearby, no doubt worried and ready to step in if things went too far. But the reality of the sights, sounds, and smells of the vision made it very difficult to believe that what I saw happened long ago.
McCreedy grew impatient as Tuan’s workers moved from crate to crate. “Let’s get this wrapped up,”
he said. “My ship is due to sail.” “Patience,” Tuan repeated. “Verification weaves the fabric of trust.”

I didn’t trust McCreedy, and I wondered if Tuan did, either. The captain looked antsy, and I wondered what he was hiding. Finally, all of the crates had been opened to reveal their cargo of rugs.
“See? Just as I promised,” McCreedy said, a little too glibly.
Tuan nodded. “Yes. The number of crates and packages are correct. Now, we must make certain that what is in the packages is what we have agreed upon.”
McCreedy made a show of checking the pocket watch that hung on a chain below his vest. “Look, my ship can’t wait,” he replied, and his voice had lost its congenial tone. “I’ll be back in port in six months. If I’ve given you more than you ordered, we can settle up then.”
McCreedy turned to go, gesturing to the sailors who waited along the wall. But before he could take more than a few steps, more Chinese workers emerged to block his path. He turned back to Tuan angrily.
“What’s the problem?” he demanded. His expression was angry, but I thought I picked up a tone of fear in his voice beneath the bluster.
Tuan folded his hands in front of him, his face placid. “The problem, Captain, is that I have had reports that some of my customers have been unhappy with the quality of your opium.”
“That’s ridiculous! I only bring you the best of the crop, Turkey’s finest,” McCreedy huffed.
“Nonetheless, as a businessman, I must make sure,” Tuan replied, unruffled. “Keeping my customers satisfied is in both our best interests, wouldn’t you agree?”
McCreedy’s eyes darted to the workers who stood between him and the door. I had the distinct impression that he had read a note of threat into Tuan’s equanimity. “Of course,” he said, but his tone sounded forced.
An elderly Chinese woman dressed in a traditional silk robe came forward. A man followed her as she moved from crate to crate, indicating with a gesture which rug to unroll in each shipping container.
Inside the rugs were bundles wrapped in brown paper and twine. The woman selected a bundle from the box, and the man cut a slit into the paper with a knife he pulled from his belt.

Underneath the paper, I glimpsed a brownish-black brick of what must be raw opium. The man scraped off a small amount of material from the brick and handed the knife to the woman, who touched it to her tongue and nodded.
“I told you, it’s good stuff,” McCreedy said, in a tone that had become edgy. His earlier deference was gone, and for the first time, I noticed the gun thrust through his belt.
“I’m sure it is, Captain,” Tuan replied. His flat tone was neither assurance nor accusation, and I had a growing feeling that something was about to go very wrong.
Silently, the woman and the man with the knife moved from crate to crate, repeating the process. For the first few boxes, the woman nodded her approval. But when she reached the last ten crates, she scowled as she tasted the contraband. I didn’t speak Chinese, but I had a fair idea of what was happening. The old woman passed the knife with its most recent scraping to her helper, who also touched it to his tongue, and then spat. A torrent of clipped, angry Chinese followed, to which Tuan responded in his maddeningly placid tone.
The two moved to the next box, and then the next, apparently disappointed with the cargo in each. By the time they had finished the last of the boxes, both the old woman and her knife man looked livid with rage.
“What did he say?” McCreedy demanded. “What’s the problem?”
Tuan turned to face the captain. “The problem, Captain McCreedy, is that you have delivered only part of the opium I paid you for,” he said, his voice dangerously level. His façade of geniality was gone, and I saw the flat, cold eyes of a killer.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” McCreedy said, mustering outrage. Behind him, I saw some of his men try to slip out the door, only to be blocked by what seemed to be a growing number of Chinese workers.

“I believe you know quite well what I mean,” Tuan replied. “My taster tells me the blocks in the last ten crates appear to be date paste. Perhaps a match in color, but not what I have paid you quite generously to deliver.”
“It must have gotten switched in the port when we loaded,” McCreedy said, growing red in the face. “I can’t keep my eye on every box all the time.”
“Perhaps not, but in this case, a little more caution would have been prudent.”
As Tuan spoke, the workers had moved forward until they now formed a ring around McCreedy and his men, forcing the sailors away from the wall. McCreedy was well outnumbered.
“Maybe the boxes were mislabeled,” McCreedy said, bargaining now that his escape was cut off.
“I highly doubt that.”
“I can fix this. Let me go back to my ship. The right boxes –”
A cold smile touched the corners of Tuan’s lips. “Yes, Captain. I suspect that if you were to return to your ship, you would find ten crates of Turkish opium. But I do not think the boxes were mislabeled. I believe you intended to cheat me.”
“No. Of course not. Why would you even think –”
“I’m afraid my mind is quite made up on the matter,” Tuan replied. He gestured, and the workers who stood behind McCreedy’s sailors lunged forward, then reared back, tightening garrotes around the men’s throats and lifting them off their feet as the metal wires dug into their necks and their bodies bucked and kicked.
“To hell with you,” McCreedy said, pulling his Colt Paterson revolver from his belt. He managed to get off one shot before Tuan’s workers tackled him. The bullet caught the old lady full in the chest, knocking her backward onto the floor.
McCreedy was a fighter. He had four shots left, and dropped as many of Tuan’s workers in their tracks. When the others closed in on him, he used the pistol grip as a bludgeon, snatching up a crowbar to keep

his attackers at bay. The numbers were against him. Even he must have known how it would end. He backed up, hemmed in on all sides by Tuan’s workers, until he was against the desk. Tuan slipped between two of the workers to approach McCreedy, and now the old man carried a long knife with a carved bone handle.
“I make it a point to be clear about shipping terms,” Tuan said. “The contract clearly states ‘no returns or exchanges’.” He gave a predator’s smile. “So sorry. Our business is at an end.”
Two things happened at once. Tuan lunged forward with the knife, driving it between McCreedy’s ribs, and McCreedy snatched the Foo dog sculpture from the desk with his right hand and brought it down with a sickening thud on Tuan’s skull.
A cry went up from the workers who surged forward. Somehow, they had all managed to draw knives, and as McCreedy sank to the floor, the workers swarmed over him, their knives rising and falling as he screamed. Blood covered the floor. It pooled beneath the old woman’s body, and under Tuan’s head where the heavy sculpture had laid open his scalp and crushed his skull. Rivers of blood were running from where McCreedy lay, and the Foo dog’s base diverted it into eddies as the blood just kept flowing…