Chill of Fear (25 page)

"Until Missy?"

He nodded again.

"Quentin...you're not saying it's been the same killer all these years. Are you?"

"You said it," he reminded her. "Down in the caves."

She remembered. Scary though it was, she remembered it all. But... "Whatever Missy knows, I only know what I said. I mean, I don't understand how it could be the same killer. How a dead man could still be killing more than a hundred years after his own death. And I don't understand why, if it is somehow true, his— its—behavior changed with Missy. Anything hunting and killing that long, successfully, wouldn't change. Would it?"

"Not likely." Quentin was too good a profiler not to have thought of that, and offered a possibility.

"Unless something external forced the change."

"Something like what?"

"Diana, spiritual energy has its own plane of existence. It can only exist in our world temporarily, and only then if a doorway is provided, or if the energy itself is strong enough to force its way through."

"So you're saying the spirit of this killer was strong enough to cross over, strong enough to kill?" She was dimly surprised that she didn't sound more incredulous.

"My guess is that it killed by—for want of a better term— possessing a person. Most likely someone who was vulnerable to that kind of attack. Mentally or emotionally unstable, or physically weakened in some way. The killer took them over and... used their bodies for a while. Enjoyed their terror and confusion. Maybe even forced them to kill someone else."

"Quentin—"

"That would help explain the time between these disappearances and deaths. There would have to be an interlude of rest after expending so much of its strength, but the interludes wouldn't be consistent because the amount of energy necessary would depend on whether it was merely possessing someone or using them to physically kill."

"Merely?" was all she could manage.

"It's possible, Diana. It's possible that the spiritual energy left behind when Samuel Barton was virtually buried alive held enough rage, enough evil, to go on killing, and hiding his crimes, all these years.

At least until he killed Missy. Until he killed someone capable of somehow preventing him from hiding her body the way he'd hidden or buried all the others."

How?" Diana asked. "How could a little girl have done that? What
could
she have done if he'd killed her?" "I don't know. Yet. But I know that something changed when Missy died. I feel it."

Diana didn't know how to challenge his certainty. She didn't even know if she should. So all she said was, "We have a lot more questions than answers."

"Yeah, I noticed that."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but we won't know anything new from Jeremy's remains, or the bones down in the cavern, for a while yet."

"Maybe quite a while. Forensics takes time, especially when it comes to skeletal remains."

She hesitated, then said, "I have the sense that something is going to happen here, and soon.

Something bad. I—I haven't told you, but I've seen other ghosts. People who very obviously lived in another age. Two women, a man, two little boys. Not in the gray time, but here, looking flesh-and-blood real. Like Jeremy. Asking me to help them. And at least one said something about it being time. There was an intentness about them, an urgency I could feel."

Quentin didn't bother to ask why she hadn't told him until now. "I gather they didn't tell you how you could help them."

"No." Diana got to her feet. "But Becca told me there was something in the tack room, and she was right about that. She also told me there was something in the attic I needed to see. That it would help me understand."

Quentin smiled, wondering if she had any idea of how much stronger she was since waking up. He didn't know how, but it seemed that providing a voice for Missy down in those caves had somehow enabled Diana to turn a corner. She had stopped protesting the reality of her abilities; she wanted answers.

"I wondered why you asked Stephanie so pointedly about the attic," he said.

"Now you know. Shall we?"

Quentin took only a few moments to lock his laptop and notes away in his computer case, habit making him cautious. Then he walked with Diana back to the main building.

It wasn't until they were climbing the stairs toward the attic that he said, "I guess Rebecca wasn't very specific about whatever it is she thinks you need to see in the attic?"

"No. As you said, they never seem to be specific when it would be helpful."

"They?"

"The guides. Spirits, I guess."

"Nice to see you're coming to terms with their reality," Quentin said.

A little laugh escaped Diana. "Reality? I'm not sure I know what's real anymore. Actually, I'm not sure I ever did."

"You know. You just have to trust yourself."

"Forgive me, but that sounds a lot like the psychobabble I've been listening to for years."

"There's a major difference," Quentin said, taking her hand as they climbed. "I know damned well you aren't sick and you aren't crazy, and I'll never try to convince you that you are. You can trust me. And you
can
trust yourself, you know."

"Can I? How do you know that?"

"Diana, what you've been through just in the past couple of days would have sent half the psychics I know into shock or into a coma." He nodded as she glanced up at him. "You're a hell of a lot stronger than you realize."

"I hope you're right," she murmured.

A few minutes later they reached the attic, and looking around the vast, cluttered space, Diana really did hope he was right. Because it was going to take plenty of strength and energy just to go through everything up there, never mind coping with anything unexpected they might find.

"Damn," she said with a sigh. "Why can't things ever be easy?"

"The universe frowns on that." Quentin sighed as well. "Want to flip a coin, or should we just start at opposite ends and work our way toward the middle?"

"You're the seer," she said, only slightly mocking. "Why don't you see where we should start?"

"It doesn't really work that way."

"Figures." Diana looked around, absently admiring the beauty of the stained-glass windows illuminated by the afternoon sunlight. There were shafts of colored light shining in, almost beaming in, she thought, so that a stack of old storage trunks in the fairly clear aisle down the north/south axis of the attic seemed to glow in a brilliant spotlight.

Spotlight.

"Or maybe," she murmured, "it can be easy, after all."

Quentin followed her gaze. "Well, well. Almost as good as a sign, huh?"

"You sound a bit doubtful."

"I mistrust signs, as a rule. They tend to point me in directions I probably should avoid."

Diana lifted her eyebrows and waited.

"This is your sign," he said. "Let's go."

As they worked their way toward the stacked trunks, Diana said somewhat ruefully, "I can't decide if I should blame you for all this or just be glad you're here to help me steer."

"I vote for the latter."

"I'll just bet you do."

"Like I said from the beginning, you and I are both here for a reason. We both need answers."

Reaching the trunks, Diana eyed them and said a bit tentatively, "Yeah, but what are the questions?

You want to know who killed Missy, and I want to know if I'm nuts?"

"We've already established you aren't nuts."

"Then what answer do I need?"

"Maybe the one Rebecca told you was up here." Quentin reached for the side handle of the topmost trunk. "Hang on, and let's see if this is as heavy as it looks."

It wasn't, thankfully, and they were able to line all three trunks up end-to-end along the aisle. None of the trunks was locked, and when all the lids were raised, Diana and Quentin found themselves contemplating semi-organized chaos.

"Lovely," Diana said with another sigh. "The one on this end looks like it has mostly old clothes inside." She pulled out a feather boa that more or less disintegrated in her fingers, and sneezed. "Mostly."

"Bless you. The one on this end and the one in the middle also have old clothes, but—" He knelt at the trunk on his end and pulled out a creased box filled with loose papers. "—we also have what look like letters, invoices, receipts. At least a couple of ledgers and journals. Jesus. It's going to take hours to go through all this."

"No kidding." Diana knelt at the middle trunk and pulled out a scrapbook that was barely holding together. She checked a couple pages, and said, "You'll love this. Lots and lots of photos of The Lodge, some of them from when it was being built."

"Great. Set it aside to take downstairs, will you? We'll get Stephanie's permission to look over anything interesting somewhere more comfortable. The light up here is very colorful, but not the best for studying this sort of thing."

"That's for sure." Diana set the scrapbook aside, along with another one she found in the trunk. Then she pulled out an old box with lost and found stamped on its lid. She opened the box, discovering bits of costume jewelry, several hair clips and combs, a beaded change purse, other small items, and a number of loose photographs.

She lifted up the photos to see what lay under them, and one slid out to the side. In the bright, colorful light spilling into the box, the old black-and-white image seemed to glow.

Diana reached for the picture, allowing the box to tumble back into the trunk. She saw her fingers tremble, and wasn't surprised.

"What is it?" Quentin asked. He shifted a bit closer, looking at the photo she held, and sucked in a surprised breath. "That's Missy."

She sat on what looked like the front steps of an unidentifiable house, dressed for summer in shorts, her long dark hair parted in the middle and caught up by ribbons beneath each ear. She was smiling, one hand stretched out to touch the big dog lolling beside her.

And on the other side...

Diana's finger lightly touched the image of the little girl on the other side of the dog. She too was dressed for summer, but her fairer hair was shorter and less restrained, her grin not so shy as Missy's.

"She looks familiar," Quentin said. Then he swore under his breath as he looked at Diana.

"My father carries this picture in his wallet," she said slowly. "But only half of it." She touched the image of the fair little girl again. "This half. The part with me in it."

"You might as well use this lounge," Stephanie told Quentin, adding, "It isn't used much even when the hotel is full, and with the early check-outs we've had since yesterday..." She looked across the beautifully furnished third-floor room at Diana, who was standing by one of the windows gazing out over the gardens, and added in a lower voice, "Is she all right?" All Stephanie knew about the photograph they had found was that it might indicate a familial relationship between Diana and one of the children killed here at The Lodge; she hadn't asked for details.

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "The last twenty-four hours have been... Christ,' rough' isn't the word for it. Her entire life has changed." He shook his head. "I don't know what happens now."

Stephanie eyed him uncertainly. "Aren't you supposed to? I mean, isn't that your psychic thing, seeing the future?"

Quentin didn't bother to once again explain that he never
saw
anything. Instead, he merely said, "The irony hasn't gone unnoticed, believe me. With a couple of minor exceptions, my abilities have pretty much been absent since I got here. Maybe the explanation is that I've been so focused on the past, the future's been out of my reach. At least that's what my boss says, and he's usually right."

"I don't pretend to understand any of it," Stephanie said frankly. "Look, do you want me to have some coffee sent up? It looks like you guys are going to be here for a while."

"That'd be great, thanks."

"Okay. Good luck finding something helpful in that lot." She nodded toward the two boxes filled with stuff Quentin had transferred, with her permission, from the trunks in the attic.

The lounge could be closed off from the hallway outside by pocket doors, but Quentin didn't bother to draw those closed after Stephanie left. The Lodge really did feel practically deserted, and he doubted they'd be interrupted or disturbed by a guest wandering casually into the room.

He approached Diana warily, more than a little worried because she'd said next to nothing since they had found the photograph in the attic. The photograph she still held in one hand, though she had stopped staring at it to gaze out the window.

Before Quentin could speak, she said in a perfectly composed voice, "You were right, you know, about any magnetized cards I carry not working for long."

He knew she was going somewhere with this, so he followed without question. "Yeah, something about our electromagnetic field affects them."

"The keycards die faster than credit cards."

"Probably because they're rekeyed or remagnetized more than once in a process meant to be fairly temporary."

She nodded slowly. "So the magnetic information on credit cards is intended to be more permanent, and so is more resistant to interference."