In Too Deep (16 page)

Another wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Isabella noticed a few skeptical faces.

“The Society is for real,” she assured them. “Just like Fallon is for real. You can trust him to do what’s right with the weapons.”

Heads nodded around the room.

“Jones, here, knows more about those weapons than any of the rest of us,” Henry said. “I think we should take his advice.”

“I agree,” Vera declared. “Given the way the clock showed up at the old Zander place and the fact that there’s a second entrance to the shelter that most of us never knew about, it’s clear we can’t protect those gadgets any longer.”

“What about the skeleton?” Marge asked. “You’re sure it’s Gordon Lasher?”

“According to the ID in his wallet,” Fallon said. He looked at Henry. “And a few other things.”

“There was a ring with the body,” Henry said. He took it out of the pocket of his coveralls and held it up for all to view. “Remember that big old flashy crystal that Lasher always wore? This is it.”

“Okay, so it probably is Lasher,” Marge said. “What are we going to do with it?”

“The body is a small problem,” Fallon conceded.

Violet widened her eyes. “A
small
problem? It’s a dead body.”

“Whatever happened to Gordon Lasher happened more than twenty years ago, and judging from the comments I’ve heard tonight, no one seems to have missed him,” Fallon said.

“That’s for damn sure,” Ben Stokes muttered.

“We’ve got a couple of options,” Fallon continued. “We could tell the county cops about the skeleton but I can’t see the sheriff or any of his men figuring out how to get into the shelter to retrieve the remains, let alone conduct an investigation into the death. You know what the atmosphere is like down there.”

“Jones is right,” Henry said. “The local authorities will realize right away that something downright weird happened down there in the shelter and they’ll contact the Feds.”

“That means the
CIA
,” Fran Hitchcock said darkly. “Or some other clandestine agency. The same folks that set up that lab twenty-two years ago may still be in operation for all we know.”

Oliver Hitchcock looked alarmed. “If that crowd comes back, they’ll be all over the Cove this time, trying to isolate the source of the energy in that fallout shelter. I wouldn’t put it past them to shut down the whole town and kick us out.”

“It will be like Area 51,” Isabella said, getting into the spirit of the conversation. “There will be armed guards all over the place.”

“Fallon says there’s some kind of cosmic energy nexus along this stretch of the coast,” Vera offered. “If the
CIA
discovers that they can tap in to a power source like that, there won’t be any stopping them. Isabella is right. The first step will be to clear out the town.”

“It could be a whole lot worse,” Harriet Stokes said in ominous tones. “They might decide they don’t want any witnesses.”

There was a vast silence while the crowd digested that possibility. Then the hubbub started up again, louder this time.

Beneath the cover of the general uproar, Fallon turned to Isabella.

“I never used the term
cosmic energy
,” he said.

“Details,” she said.

“Cosmic
implies energy from beyond Earth. While some of that may be in play here, it is not, at present, measurable, and has no bearing on the nexus energy that I mentioned.”

She patted his thigh. “Nobody’s listening to you, boss.”

“I noticed,” he said.

The anxious conversations got louder and so did the level of alarm.

Fallon leaned back and extended his arms along the bar. He surveyed the crowd with a satisfied air.

“It’s an amazing thing,” he said to Isabella.

“What?” she asked.

“Being present at the creation of a full-blown conspiracy theory. It’s like watching a galaxy being born. Lots of random, unconnected bits and pieces of matter whiz past each other, exert a little gravitational pull and bingo, they start forming an organized system. The next thing you know you have a complete, wheels-within-wheels fantasy involving the
CIA
, Area 51, cosmic energy and a dead guy.”

She gave him a severe look. “You started this with that business about the
CIA
taking over the town.”

“I never actually said that, either.”

She blinked. “You think this is amusing, don’t you?”

“I do.” He gave her one of his rare smiles, the kind that heated his eyes. “You know, since I started hanging around you, I’ve begun to feel almost normal for the first time in my life.”

“There are serious grounds for speculating about a potential conspiracy here,” she told him.

“No,” he said flatly. “Three people running experiments on some antique weapons twenty-two years ago and the skeleton of a dead con man do not a conspiracy make.”

“Okay, what do they add up to?”

Fallon reached for his beer bottle. “A problem. One that can be easily solved.”

“Really?” Isabella waved her hands to get the crowd’s attention and raised her voice. “Fallon says there’s a solution to the problem of the skeleton.”

Silence descended again. Everyone in the room looked expectantly at Fallon.

“It appears to me,” he said deliberately, “that the simplest approach is to remove the bones from the shelter and dump them into the ocean off the Point. As you know, the currents are very strong there. I calculate a ninety-eight-point-five percent chance that none of the bones will ever wash ashore, at least not near here. Even if a few do, no one will be able to trace them back to the old bomb shelter.”

They all stared at him, expressions of dawning comprehension on their faces.

Henry pursed his lips. “Works for me.”

Fran Hitchcock nodded slowly. “Lasher was always talking about the forces of karma. This strikes me as a fine example of karma in action.”

“I like it.” Ben Stokes brightened. “I like it a lot.”

“Think of it as a burial at sea,” Fallon said.

“Oh, yes,” Isabella said. “That’s perfect.”

Marge nodded quickly. “Perfect.”

There were several more nods around the room.

“Let’s take a vote,” Henry said. “Those in favor of letting Fallon handle this problem, raise your hands.”

Every hand in the room went up with one exception.

Henry looked at Walker. “How do you vote, Walker?”

Walker stopped jittering for a moment. A ferocious expression crossed his thin features. Isabella was sure that his eyes got a little hot.

“Gordon Lasher was a b-bad man,” Walker said.

“I’ll take that as a yes vote,” Henry said. “It’s settled, then. The bones go into the ocean and those weird gadgets in the shelter go to the Arcane Society.”

There was a round of satisfied murmurs. Chairs scraped. People got to their feet and started pulling on their jackets and gloves in preparation for going out into the damp, misty night.

“Don’t look now,” Isabella said to Fallon. “But I think they just elected you sheriff of Scargill Cove.”

“And here my mom always thought I should go into finance.”

OUTSIDE
FOG
enveloped the Cove, the real kind that came with the scent of the ocean. There were no streetlamps in the small community, but the handful of lights in the windows of the inn and in the rooms above the shops infused the air with an otherworldly glow.

Isabella savored the simple pleasure of walking back to her apartment with Fallon. It was good to be with him. It felt right.

Fallon took his phone out of the pocket of his jacket and punched in some numbers.

“Rafanelli? Jones here.”

There was a short pause.

“What do you mean, which Jones? Fallon Jones. J&J.” Fallon sounded irritated. “I need a lab team capable of dealing with weapons-grade artifacts here in Scargill Cove tomorrow…. Yes, I said tomorrow. Something wrong with your phone? Found a cache of Mrs. Bridewell’s curiosities . . . Yes, those curiosities. The infernal devices. Some of them are still operational.”

There was another pause, much longer this time. Isabella heard an excited buzzing on the other end of the connection.

“No, I don’t know yet how they got here,” Fallon said impatiently. “But it looks like they’ve been locked up in an old bomb shelter for more than twenty years. Right. I know Dr. Tremont is the expert on glass, but I checked earlier and she’s on sabbatical in London. That leaves you. Besides, you’re the expert when it comes to decommissioning para-weapons, not Tremont. See you tomorrow. In the morning.”

He closed the phone.

Isabella cleared her throat.

“What?” he said.

“Sometimes you have a tendency to be a tad brusque with people,” she said.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Brusque?”

He said it as if he had never heard the word.

“Short,” she said. “Crisp. Rude.”

“Huh. I like to be efficient on the phone. People tend to waste a lot of time chatting at me.”

“Chatting
at
you? Chatting is generally considered an occupation that two or more people engage in together.”

“I’m not a chatty type.”

“Of course you are. We’re chatting right now.”

“No,” he said, very certain. “We’re having a conversation.”

“Oddly enough, people sometimes resent being ordered around, especially by a person who is not even their official boss.”

“You think I was brusque with Rafanelli?” Fallon sounded offended now. “I was doing him a favor. He’s been fascinated by Bridewell’s work for years. Taking charge of a cache of her inventions will be a huge thrill for him, not to mention a major career boost. He’ll write the definitive paper for the
Journal of Paranormal and Psychical Research
and become a legend in the Society’s research circles.”

“I understand,” Isabella said.

They walked a little farther.

“Well?” Fallon said. “What the hell should I have said to Rafanelli?”

“It’s often helpful to insert a few friendly comments into a business conversation. Asking about a person’s health or their children is always good.”

“Are you kidding? Get people started on their health and their kids and you never get them back on track.”

“Okay,” Isabella said.

They walked a few more steps. Fallon muttered something under his breath and reached back into the inside pocket of his jacket. He snapped the phone open and punched in some numbers.

“Rafanelli? Jones here again.
Fallon
Jones.
Please
bring a team to Scargill Cove tomorrow to pick up the Bridewell artifacts. You’re the leading expert on para-weaponry, and I wouldn’t trust those gadgets to anyone else but you. How’s the wife? See you tomorrow.”

He snapped the phone closed.

“What did he say?” Isabella asked.

“Nothing. Not one word.”

“Probably stunned.”

“I outchatted him,” Fallon said proudly.

“I think so, yes.”

“Told you that personal nattering is a waste of time.” He flipped the phone open again. “That reminds me, I’d better call Zack. He’ll want to know about those curiosities.”

He punched in a code.

“Zack, it’s Fallon. Found a bunch of Bridewell’s inventions here in Scargill Cove. Rafanelli is bringing a team here tomorrow to dismantle them and transport them back to the L.A. lab. Thought you’d like to know. Give my best to Raine. I heard she was expecting. Congratulations. Bye.”

He closed the phone and waited for the verdict with an air of expectation.

“Better,” Isabella said. “But it strikes me that it might be a good idea if I handled more of J&J’s routine business communications. That would leave you free to concentrate on your investigative work.”

“Is that a polite way of saying I don’t have people skills?”

“Not everyone is management material, Fallon.”

“You’re right,” he said decisively. “In future, I’ll let you do the personal chitchat.”

She smiled. “Who says you can’t delegate?”

They reached Toomey’s Treasures and went up the outside stairs to her apartment above the shop. She was intensely aware of Fallon watching her take her key out of her pocket. He was in what she had come to think of as his brooding zone. In the dim light of the bare, low-watt bulb that lit the doorway, his hard face was cast in the light-and-shadow of film noir. The dark passions that burned deep inside him would have made it possible for him to play either the hero or the villain, but whichever role he chose, he would follow his own code.

She got the door open, moved into the apartment and flipped the light switch. She turned to face him.

“What you did tonight,” she said. “Proposing that we dump that skeleton into the ocean.”

He watched her with a shuttered expression. “What about it?”

“You knew that if you gave the body to the authorities, it’s possible that there would be a murder investigation.”

“Unlikely. No one in this county will care about what happened here in the Cove twenty-two years ago. Nobody outside of town gives a damn about this place. Few people even know it exists.”

“I’m aware of that. Nevertheless, if there ever was an inquiry into Lasher’s death, everyone who attended the meeting at the tavern tonight would be a suspect.”

He shrugged. “Sounds like they all had motive.”

“So you didn’t suggest a convenient burial at sea because you’re afraid that some secret
CIA
black-ops agency will take over the Cove. You did it to protect the people of this community.”

He did not respond.

She put her hands on his shoulders and brushed her mouth against his. “You’re a good man, Fallon Jones.”

“Just being pragmatic.”

She smiled and stepped back. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap, Mr. Pragmatic?”

He loomed on the threshold, filling the doorway. His face was set in the stalwart expression of a knight preparing to go into battle.

“You probably want to talk about last night,” he said.

She smiled. “Nope.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Nope?”

“Last night was the most romantic night of my entire life. Why spoil it by trying to explain it?”