The Sinister Touch (7 page)

Zac rushed to accept rescue with the same alacrity with which wagon trains used to greet the cavalry. “Of course, Gwen. I was just saying good night to Elizabeth. The security work I’m doing for her firm is almost finished, you know. It’s been quite a project.” He put his arm around Guinevere’s waist and turned to smile politely at Elizabeth Gallinger. “It’s been a great party. I’ll see that the final report on Gallinger Industries’ security needs is on your desk by Friday. Have your secretary contact me if there are any questions. Ready, Gwen?”

“Ready. Good night, Elizabeth.”

“I’m so glad you both were able to come,” Elizabeth was saying with automatic graciousness. But she didn’t get a chance to finish the farewell. Zac and Guinevere were already halfway back to the French doors. A moment later they disappeared inside the elegant living room.

Five minutes later they were climbing into Zac’s aging Buick and heading toward the floating bridge that linked Mercer Island with the city of Seattle. Nothing was said until he was parking the car in front of Guinevere’s apartment house. It was obvious, Zac realized, that if he didn’t break the fraught silence, no one would.

“I have never,” he growled as he opened the security door, “been so embarrassed in my entire life. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, Gwen. I couldn’t believe it. From a
client
, no less.”

Guinevere said nothing. She was already on the second-floor landing, inserting her key into her lock. Zac reached out and took it from her to finish the job.

“She wanted me to stand at stud for her, Gwen.”

“Can you do it standing up? You must show me sometime.”

“Gwen! Listen to me. This has been one of the most unnerving nights of my entire life. You have no idea what it was like. The woman assumed she could buy my
genes
.”

“Are they for sale?” Guinevere marched through the open door, her back ramrod straight.

“Gwen, don’t do this to me. You’ve got to understand what happened back there.” Zac hurried through the door, closing it quickly behind him as he struggled for words to explain the ordeal he had just lived through. But whatever words he might have found, died forgotten as he saw Gwen’s sudden stillness. She was staring across the room at a blank wall. “Gwen? What the hell . . .” Instantly he was moving forward, looking for the source of her shock.

Abruptly Zac remembered that there had been a large mirror hanging on that wall. It lay now in huge, jagged shards on the floor. Someone had pushed the broken pieces back into a semblance of the original shape of the mirror. And after that had been done, a black pentagram had been painted on the shards, a pentagram with a crude bolt of lightning in the center.

Chapter Five

“Get out of here.
Now
.” Zac’s large hand was already closing around Guinevere’s arm, crushing the delicate red silk. In this mood one didn’t argue with him. Guinevere had seen him like this once or twice, and she knew it wasn’t the moment to have a rational discussion.

An instant later she was out in the hallway while Zac meticulously walked through the apartment. By the time he reappeared a few minutes later, she’d had a chance to do some thinking.

“All right,” he said quietly, “there’s no one here now. Come on back inside.” His face was set in hard, cold lines. “Take a good look at that mirror. It’s the same kind of pentagram drawing that someone made on Adair’s painting, isn’t it?”

Guinevere nodded, staring down at the broken mirror. There was something unnaturally menacing about the simple damage, as if the shards of mirror were somehow more threatening than a broken vase would have been, perhaps because of the eerie effect the pieces caused when one looked into them. Guinevere gazed at her shattered reflection and shivered. “It’s the same sketch. Someone must have taken the mirror down from the wall and dropped something on it to make it break like this. Then whoever it was drew the pentagram.” She lifted her head, her gaze anxious. “Zac, I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but we’re going to get some answers tonight.” He was already heading toward the door. “This has gone far enough.”

“Zac, where are you going?” She didn’t like the grimness that enveloped him. In its own way it seemed as threatening as the mirror.

“I’m not going anywhere.
We
, however, are going to have an informative little chat with Mason Adair. His problems seem to have become yours. And that makes them mine.”

“But, Zac, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I don’t really give a damn what time it is. Move, Gwen. I want those answers and I want them now.”

“I don’t think Mason’s going to know any more about what’s going on than we do,” she protested, but she obeyed his summons, hurrying forward as he stepped out into the corridor.

“Believe me, he knows a great deal more than we do.”

“How do you know?” she demanded as he herded her quickly back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk.

“Trust me.”

“Uh-huh.” Guinevere stifled the remainder of her skepticism. Zac was hurrying her along at a brisk pace. She wished she’d had a moment to change into more comfortable shoes. Trotting along a city sidewalk in three-inch heels made one conscious of the social restraints imposed on females in this society, she reflected. “What if he’s not home?”

“For his sake he’d better be home. I’m in no mood to wait around for him.”

“Zac, you’re acting as if this is all Mason’s fault.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it is. Whatever part of it he’s not responsible for, you are. I told you to stay clear of him and this whole mess, didn’t I?”

“You’re slipping into one of your unreasonable moods, Zac. When you get like this, you’re impossible.”

“I’ll probably get worse as the evening wears on. All in all, it’s been a hell of a night.”

She found out how he’d gotten into Adair’s apartment building the previous evening. When Zac reached the door now, he slipped a small wire out of his jacket pocket and in less than a minute had the security door open. Zac was good with his hands.

He urged her up the stairs and at the top turned her down the hall toward Mason’s closed apartment door. In front of it Zac raised his fist and pounded imperiously.

Embarrassed, Guinevere shot a look at the nearest apartment doors, afraid they would spring open to reveal irate tenants. “Zac, don’t do that, you’ll cause a scene with the neighbors. Try the door bell.”

“Pounding on his door is infinitely more satisfying.” He raised his hand and slammed the wooden panel once more. It swung open before Zac could strike it again. Mason stood there dressed in only a pair of jeans. He blinked sleepily.

“What the hell? Oh, it’s you, Zac. What are you and Gwen doing here at this time of night?”

“We’re here to ask you a few questions.” Zac was already pushing his way inside, tugging Guinevere after him.

“Well, sure, but why now?” Mason backed obligingly out of the way, his questioning gaze going from Zac’s implacable features to Guinevere’s apologetic expression.

“I’m sorry about this, Mason,” she said. “But I’m afraid there’s been a slight, uh, incident over at my apartment, and Zac felt that perhaps you could shed some light on the situation.”

“Shed some light?” Mason looked even more perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, and Gwen’s polite way of phrasing things isn’t helping to clarify the situation. Shut up, Gwen. I’ll do the talking.”

Guinevere raised her eyes ceilingward in silent exasperation but said nothing.

“All right, Adair,” Zac said, “I’ll lay this out in words even an artist should be able to follow. Gwen and I got back to her apartment tonight and found that someone had been inside. Whoever it was took great pains to crack a mirror and then draw one of those damn pentagram symbols on the broken pieces. The damage looked a lot like what was done to your painting the other night, and after what happened to you last night, I’m finding tonight’s little ‘incident’ too much of a coincidence. Whatever is going on comes under the heading of weird. You are the only one around who’s had some connection with weirdness. I want the whole story, including the rundown on that crazy group of witches you supposedly hung out with a couple of years ago.”

Mason glanced helplessly at Guinevere. “Witches?”

“I’m sorry, Mason,” she said softly. “I told Zac a little about that crowd you were involved with. I thought he might see some connection between them and what’s been happening to you.”

“Don’t apologize, Gwen. I’m the one who should be sorry. I had no idea anything like this would happen.”

“What exactly is happening, Mason?” she asked gently.

He swung away in obvious frustration, starting to pace the floor in front of the arching studio window. Across the way there was a glow through closed mini blinds, reminding Guinevere that she must have left the lights on earlier in her kitchen. She didn’t recall doing so. Perhaps the intruder had switched them on while prowling through her apartment. It gave her chills to think of someone invading her privacy that way.

“I’m sorry,” Mason said again, sounding shaken. “I’m really sorry, Gwen.”

“Sorry isn’t going to get us anywhere.” Zac sounded completely untouched by Mason’s obvious distress. “Talk, Adair.”

Mason stopped in front of a half-finished canvas, shoving his hands dejectedly into his back pockets. He shook his head. “Zac, I honestly don’t know what this is all about. That group I was involved with two years ago doesn’t exist anymore. At least none of the people who were my friends are still in it.”

Guinevere thought back to something Mason had told her on the way back from the art gallery. “You said something about leaving it when some of the members started getting too serious.”

Mason nodded. “I did leave it. So did just about everyone else.”

“But there were some left in it?” Zac demanded.

Mason hesitated. “Possibly.”

“Possibly? Come on, Adair, you can be a little more specific than that. I’m not going to play twenty questions with you. I don’t have much patience left this evening. I want to know everything you know and I want to know it now.”

Guinevere opened her mouth to urge Zac to lay off but changed her mind when she saw the relentless expression in his eyes. Nothing she could do or say at this point would deflect him. There was no point in trying. Mason looked at his canvas as if studying it in great detail. Slowly he began to explain.

“I’ll tell you what I know, Zac, but it isn’t much. A couple of years ago some friends of mine got off on this occult kick. It was just a joke, an excuse to roll a few joints and drink a little booze, read some poetry, and, well, party. We were all struggling to make it with our art. Most of us were just barely scraping by, waiting tables or working in bookstores. We were a group with a lot of things in common.”

“What did you have in common besides art?” Guinevere asked.

“Oh, the usual. None of our families approved of either our career goals or our lifestyles. We were all living at the poverty level, and we kind of supported each other emotionally. When times got really tough, we supported each other financially. It was a close-knit group for a while.”

“And then some of you started selling your art?” Zac leaned against one high-ceilinged wall, folding his arms across his chest. His penetrating gaze never left Mason.

Mason nodded. “Yeah. Patty started finding a market for her ceramics, and then Walt sold a few pictures. Sylvia got lucky with her prints. Nothing big, but enough to give everyone hope.”

“And make a few people envious?” Zac didn’t stir from his position against the wall.

“I didn’t think so at the time,” Mason said slowly. “I honestly didn’t think so. We were too close for that.”

“Don’t feed yourself that line,” Zac told him. “Whenever a tight-knit group of struggling nonsuccesses suddenly starts producing a few successes, someone is going to get mad. Believe me. It’s human nature.”

Mason glared at his painting. “As far as I know, none of the others ever had anything like this happen to them during the past couple of years. I was one of the last of the group to get lucky with my art. Why should someone wait until now to pick on me?”

Zac shrugged. “Maybe because you’re getting lucky in such a big way. One of your paintings was hanging in Elizabeth Gallinger’s home tonight. Gwen tells me that’s the big time, Mason. A real sign of success. Maybe one of your ex-buddies resents one of the group breaking out in such a showy style. Who knows? We’ll get to that part later. Go on with your story about this cheerful little party club.”

“Well, there isn’t much to tell. We got together on Saturday evenings at Ron Sandwick’s house.”

“Where’s that?” Zac interrupted.

“Up on Capitol Hill. One of those old-style places.” Mason grimaced. “Run-down neighborhood. Lots of atmosphere.”

“Is that why you chose it?”

Mason shook his head. “No. We used it because it was available. Sandwick had inherited it. But he couldn’t afford to keep up the payments for long. Not on a starving artist’s income. He put it up for sale almost as soon as it was his. But it didn’t move very quickly. The real estate market had been flat for ages, and that old place would have been a real millstone around anyone’s neck. All the old plumbing and electrical wiring needed repair, not to mention the decaying basement. Sandwick finally unloaded it through a real esate agent about six months ago. An all-cash deal, he said. He took the money and split for the South Seas to play Gauguin. He still owes me fifty bucks,” Mason added reflectively.

Zac assimilated that. “Tell me exactly why the group drifted apart.”

“A couple of new people joined,” Mason said quietly.

“Who brought them into the group?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. I think they were friends of Sandwick, but to tell you the truth, it was never really clear. All I knew was that these two started showing up on Saturday nights and they were really into the occult bit. For them it was more than a joke.”

Guinevere shot a glance at Zac, who was obviously about to ask another question. She slipped one in instead. “How do you know they were taking it seriously, Mason?”

“Oh, they started insisting on the accuracy of the stupid little rituals we played with when we wanted to pretend we were reaching into the next dimension. They brought in old books that had specific rules for the way things should be done. Until those two came along we just lit a few candles in the basement, poured some wine, and did a little chanting. But they insisted on black candles and chants they got out of one of their nutty books.”

“Did anything supernatural ever happen?” Guinevere asked, fascinated.

Mason smiled wryly. “Of course nothing ever happened. How could it? Don’t tell me you actually believe in that kind of thing?”

Guinevere shook her head hastily, aware of Zac’s derisive glance. “Absolutely not. I just wondered if anything, well, abnormal ever occurred during these ceremonies.”

“Valonia and Baldric sometimes claimed they could see into the next dimension and claimed they were ‘feeding’ on power from it, but it was all a bunch of cow fertilizer.”

Zac cocked a brow. “Valonia and Baldric?”

“Those were the two who started demanding the proper rituals.”

“Were they artists, too?”

Mason paused, considering. “You know, I was never real sure what they did for a living. But I don’t think they were part of the Seattle art world, either the low end or the high end. I’ve never run into them since those Saturday-night gatherings at Sandwick’s.”

Zac took a small pad of paper out of his pocket and started making notes. “Are they still living in Sandwick’s place?”

“No. They never did live there as far as I know. Like I said, Sandwick sold the old house six months ago, anyway. Whoever Valonia and Baldric were, they couldn’t have afforded to buy it. They definitely didn’t have that kind of money.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. They were one step off the streets. Maybe not even that far. Baldric always wore a huge backpack, and Valonia carried a big satchel. I got the feeling that they lived out of both. They were pretty scruffy and sometimes a little hungry, too. The Saturday-night group broke up, and I never saw or heard from those two again.”

“But you did keep in touch with the others?” Guinevere asked.

“Oh, sure. To some extent. I know where most of them are. One or two moved down to Southern California. Sandwick left the country. A couple bought a house in the woods down in Oregon as soon as they started selling their stuff. And the other two are here in town. They’re doing okay. I was the last of them to start selling.”

“The pentagram,” Zac said musingly. “Was that part of the Saturday-night rituals?”

“Sometimes,” Mason admitted. “Pentagrams are a very common magical symbol. Traditional, even. But the ones our group used in the beginning didn’t have that jag of lightning in it. Valonia and Baldric added that little nuance.”