Chill of Fear (16 page)

"She probably died there in the stream or nearby; there was nothing to indicate it might have happened somewhere else. Nothing to indicate that she fought her attacker, or even that she struggled at all. The last person to see her alive, as far as they could determine, was me."

That surprised Diana. "You?"

"Yeah. Late that afternoon. I was coming back up from the stables, and met her near what's now the entrance to the Zen Garden. That's when she tried one more time to tell me that she was afraid, that there was something... wrong here. But I was hot and tired and just wanted to go to our cottage and take a shower. I thought she'd had a nightmare, or maybe was just making up a story, for whatever reason."

"Could there have been a reason?"

He shrugged. "Because the other kids and I had been spending more time riding the horses, and she never went along since she was afraid of them. Because the summer was winding down and we were all getting a little bored, a little tired of one another's company. Whatever. So I brushed her off." He paused, then added steadily, "They fixed the time of death as just under two hours later."

"And nobody saw her in all that time?"

"Nobody admitted to it. In all fairness, they probably wouldn't have noticed her. She was—she had the knack of slipping past people without really being seen."

"Like a ghost?"

"Like a ghost."

In the privacy of her office, Stephanie Boyd grimaced as she held the phone to her ear. She was pretty good at keeping her thoughts and feelings to herself, but it was a relief now to relax physically as she couldn't allow herself to verbally. With this man, at any rate.

Her boss had, not surprisingly, reacted badly to the news of the remains of a child being found on the grounds of The Lodge. His reaction was even worse once he grasped the probable ramifications of the police investigation already under way.

"You couldn't stop them, Stephanie?"

"How?" she asked, repressing the urge toward sarcasm. "The police are bound by law to investigate something like this, and I have no authority to stop them. Offhand, I can't imagine any local judge or politician trying it, either, not when it concerns the death of a child."

She drew a breath. "Setting aside, of course, the fact that it could only further damage the reputation of The Lodge if we seemed in any way reluctant to find the truth of this tragedy, we are morally compelled to do whatever we can."

"Of course. Oh, of course." Doug Wallace tried hard to sound as if he cared about the long-ago murder of a little boy. And he almost pulled it off. Almost.

Stephanie kept her own tone brisk and businesslike. "Under the circumstances, I believe our best course is to cooperate fully with the authorities. The police captain in charge of the investigation has assured me that he will do his utmost to conduct all relevant inquiries as discreetly as possible." She decided not to mention the FBI agent who was, after all, here very much unofficially.

Wallace sighed. "Yeah, I've heard that before."

Pressing, Stephanie said, "And I have your permission to extend our cooperation to the police, to make our records available to them?"

"Christ. Is that really necessary?"

Unconsciously, Stephanie tilted her head to one side. "Is there any reason why it would be a problem, Mr. Wallace?"

He was silent for a beat or two, then said, "Stephanie, you're aware that most if not all our clients—

our guests—value their privacy."

"Yes, sir." She stopped it there, waiting. In her experience, silence quite often produced answers where insistent questions wouldn't.

"We have had some Very Important Clients."

"Yes, sir."

He sighed again, impatient. "One of the services we offer is discretion, Stephanie. The very reputation of The Lodge was founded on that. Our specialty, as it were, the lure to get people to such an isolated spot. So if a Very Important Client checks in with a companion not his wife, we respect his privacy. If an actress recovering from cosmetic surgery or the unfortunate repercussions of an ill-judged affair wishes her presence to remain... well... secret, we oblige. If a group of businesspeople requires a secure and discreet setting in which to discuss the future of their company, we provide that."

"Yes, sir."

"Dammit, Stephanie, we mind our own business. And our paperwork reflects that."

Evenly, she said, "Sir, I very much doubt that the records of any of the situations you describe could possibly be relevant to this police investigation and would, therefore, be of no interest to them."

Wallace swore, not under his breath. "Stephanie, what I'm trying
to
tell you is that there have been occasions in the past during which
no
records were kept. Officially or unofficially."

"Sir, I was never told that anything of that nature would be part of my duties," she said stiffly.

"No, of course not. We don't do that sort of thing these days," Wallace was quick to say. "We keep a private ledger—which I'm sure you
were
told about since I told you myself—for those more discreet occasions. But there were regrettable instances in the past in which Lodge employees accepted... um...

additional gratuities ... to keep a guest's name or the situation entirely off the books."

Somewhat grimly, Stephanie wondered what she'd gotten herself into. It had seemed like such a nice little job. "I see, sir."

Wallace's tone was strained but steady. "I don't know how thoroughly these police officers mean to examine our books and other records, or what they expect to find, but someone familiar with hotel accounting would certainly notice some... discrepancies."

Stephanie knew. "Such as food and beverages charged to supposedly unoccupied rooms. Such as spa services booked and not charged."

"Yes, yes, exactly those sorts of things." Wallace drew a breath. "I can assure you that all monies were reported and accounted in accordance with the law. We merely protected the anonymity of our clients."

And Stephanie believed in the Easter Bunny. She wondered how many secrets this place really held.

And which of them would blow up in her face the instant they were exposed.

"Yes, sir." There really wasn't much else she could say, at least as long as she kept this job.

He cleared his throat. "My point being, of course, that if the police should look closely at our books, they could conceivably find things that could send them off on quite useless and needless tangents in their investigation of this child's tragic death."

Baldly, she demanded, "What do you expect me to do, sir?"

"You're on the scene," Wallace said, his tone persuasive. "You can... guide... the local police. Keep them focused on details relevant to their investigation."

"Guide them, sir?"

"Don't be deliberately dense, Stephanie. You can make certain that the police aren't allowed to paw indiscriminately through our accounts and records. Boundaries. Boundaries must be set."

"I've already been asked to allow access to employment records and historical documents stored in the basement."

"I don't see how those could be relevant."

"I've been assured it's simple procedure. The police need to know who was here at the time this child was murdered, and since ten years have passed, they'll need whatever paperwork they can find."

"You need to see those records first, Stephanie."

"Sir, are you asking me to interfere with that investigation?"

"Absolutely not." He sounded offended now, though also harassed. "I'm not suggesting you keep anything of value from the police, merely that you take a look before they do. Weed out what your common sense tells you cannot possibly be relevant. And notify me should you find anything... unusual."

"Unusual, sir?"

"Just anything that might strike you as odd, that's all. Nothing to do with this murder, obviously."

Stephanie had pretty good instincts, and right now they were practically doing handstands to get her attention. Trying to "guide" the police away from discrepancies in the bookkeeping was one thing; actively searching through documents herself in order to report back to Wallace was something else entirely. And suspicious as hell.

What did he expect her to find?

"Stephanie, I'm making a perfectly reasonable request that you keep in mind the best interests of your employers, that's all."

Stephanie was tempted, but decided not to try and pin him down to more fully explain his meaning.

He was adept at sidestepping, for one thing. For another, she really didn't want him worried enough about what she might do to hop on a plane out in California and come here himself. Not before she figured out what this was all about, anyway.

If there was anything army brats learned young, it was that the more information you had in hand, the better your likelihood of making the best decision possible. Nobody could sneak up on you if you knew where they stood.

In other words, protect your goddamned flank. And your ass, while you were at it.

Keeping her own tone calm but just faintly impatient, she said, "Very well, sir. I'll take a look downstairs and report to you anything that seems to me unusual. And I'll work as closely as possible with the police, to keep fully abreast of the investigation."

"Good." Wallace sounded a bit wary rather than satisfied, as if he realized that Stephanie had not quite sung the team fight song. "Good. I'll expect regular updates, Stephanie. No matter how this plays out."

"Yes, sir." She crossed her fingers. "With the weekend looming, I doubt much will get done until Monday, at least. I'll call then with an update."

"Very well."

She cradled the receiver, then leaned back in her chair, propped her feet on the desk, and thought about this.

Item: there were discrepancies in The Lodge's accounts, and possibly other paperwork as well. Item: Douglas Wallace, properties manager for the very wealthy group of investors who owned The Lodge, was worried about the wrong person finding the wrong thing while sifting through that paperwork. Item: whatever Wallace was worried about might or might not have something to do with the murder of an eight-year-old boy ten years ago. But either way, Wallace was just this side of scared and not hiding it well.

Which meant bad news any way you cut it.

Final item: Stephanie Boyd was sitting in the hot seat.

"Shit," she muttered. "I knew this job was too good to be true."

"You can't blame yourself," Diana said.

"Rationally, I know that." Quentin shrugged. "I've told myself to let it go and move on with my life.

God knows other people have told me the same thing. But whether psychic abilities, a guilty conscience, or simple instincts, something inside me has insisted all these years that I had to find Missy's killer. And let her rest in peace. It's something I have to do. Something I'm meant to do."

Recalling the thin face and sad eyes she had seen and drawn, Diana said slowly, "I wish I could tell you she was already at peace. But..."

"But you can't. You saw her, which means she's still in—for want of a better term—limbo. Even after all these years, she hasn't been able to move on."

"On to where?"

He smiled slightly. "Do you want me to say 'heaven'?"

"I don't know. Would it be true?"

"Not a question I can answer. Whatever I know of the future tells me nothing of the spirit realm. Or anything beyond this life. So far, anyway."

Diana frowned. She sipped her cooling tea, then said, "My sketch of Missy. I drew that before I saw her."

Quentin knew what she was asking. "It's a form of automatic writing. Your subconscious and psychic abilities were on autopilot, more or less."

"Why?"

"We have a few theories. Automatic writing or drawing is almost always triggered by stress. I know of only a couple of psychics who are able to deliberately tap in to the ability; for the rest of you, it tends to manifest itself because something is being suppressed."

She stared at him.

"Your abilities have been trying to surface for most of your life.

Trying to. Between the meds and therapies and denial, they've been pushed down again and again.

Beaten back, imprisoned. But something that powerful finds a way, sooner or later, to escape whatever's restraining it. You said something about blackouts earlier."

Diana frowned uneasily. "I did?"

"Yeah. I'm guessing the blackouts began sometime during your early teen years, during the physical and emotional chaos of adolescence. And that either they've grown stronger with time or else tend to occur when you're under unusual levels of stress."

Grudgingly, she said, "The latter."

Quentin didn't let her see how relieved he was by that information. If the blackouts were erratic and stress-related, then it was less likely that Diana's abilities were becoming a danger to her.

Less likely. Not impossible.

"Which means?" Diana prompted.

"Which means—or probably means—that you black out only when your abilities can find no other way of breaking free."

She set her cup down on the coffee table and leaned back, crossing her arms over her breasts.

"Okay, now you're really creeping me out. You make these so-called abilities of mine sound as if they have a mind of their own."

"Energy, Diana. Your brain is naturally designed to tap in to energy, and it has to also be able to release it. Think of steam building up inside a pot holding boiling water. If the lid's on tight, the pressure can intensify until it's a destructive force, until the container itself is endangered. Some of the steam has to be allowed to escape."

"Okay, but—"

"The energy you tap in to has to have an outlet, something your instincts have always known. If you can't provide that release valve consciously, by allowing yourself to undergo the sort of visions you experienced earlier today, then your subconscious will find a way to do it for your own safety. The blackouts."

"I don't remember what happens then." She hesitated, then added, "But I...I've awakened in strange places. Doing strange things sometimes."