Dark Oracle (3 page)

Enough about her. Tara quickly drew the next card from the deck. The eighth card represented the environment. She drew the Tower, the card of disaster, of revolution. It depicted a tower, struck by lightning, from which two people fell to the ground. A powerful image, and a powerful event of upheaval, betrayal, chaos. Sophia had said there had been an explosion in which the scientist had disappeared. Tara looked carefully at the figures falling from the tower, wondering if they would survive.

She placed the ninth card above the Star. This represented inner emotions, hidden things. The Star. A maiden bathed in a starlit pond, gazing up at a starry sky. She poured water from two cups, pouring energy back into the universe. This was a softer release of power than the Tower, a subtle transmutation. It represented hope, truth.

Tara pulled the last card and put it on the table above the Star, finishing the vertical column. This card, the Six of Swords, represented the final result. A ferryman rowed a boat carrying six swords over water to a green, distant shore. It was a card of movement, of travel, but of carrying a precious burden.

Tara leaned back in her chair. The reading was mixed. She felt sure some of the cards called to her personally; others reflected the larger situation of the missing man. The reading was heavy on swords, which symbolized the element of air but, of the Minor Arcana suits, involved the most conflict. A large number of Major Arcana cards suggested the situation involved significant forces in play.

Oscar rolled over dramatically, his tail twitching the deck she’d laid to the side. She reached over to rub his speckled belly with one hand as she jotted down the spread and her impressions in the little notebook. She wrote down the date, the question she’d asked, and the cards she’d drawn, in order. Below each card, she jotted her thoughts of how they interacted with the situation, what details stood out, which associations she made in her mind. She left plenty of blank space, especially for those cards she didn’t understand fully now. Perhaps their meaning would become clear in the future.

She knew Dr. Magnusson had little time. Most missing persons had to be found within the first hours or days of their disappearances, or risk being lost forever. In her head, a mental clock was set, ticking softly. Sophia had said he’d just disappeared. Perhaps there was still time. She grimaced inwardly. She hated the idea of getting involved, but the photo pulled at the rusty wires of her heartstrings. If that young woman was left without parents, as Tara had been. . . Tara didn’t think she would be able to set aside the guilt. The cards had come alive to her, at least in part. She knew she could help.

Her gaze lingered on the last card, the journey card. That card, at least, was very clear to her rusty senses. She sighed and reached for the phone to ask for Sophia to reserve her a plane ticket and arrange for someone to feed the cat.

Chapter Two

T
HE DESERT
wasn’t what Tara had expected.

She’d thought it would be shades of brown and gray, not awash in color. As she peered out the plane window, gray sky contrasted with the soft violet of the mountains, capped in snow. Cloud shadows played over the mountains like water, seeming to gather close to the rust-colored earth. The mountains washed down to sand, rimmed in green and studded with pine trees.

The greenness of the landscape surprised her as the small plane circled in a tightening landing spiral. The Los Alamos County Airport tarmac spread in a short, black ribbon below the mountains, set in a patchy sage and brown lawn. The plane descended sharply to approach the runway. Tara couldn’t hear the voice of the pilot beside her over the roar of the Cessna 172’s propeller. She was the only passenger, occupying the copilot seat. She sat on her gloved hands to keep them warm. The cold of the long trip at high elevation had seeped into her bones.

The wheels bumped the tarmac, and the pilot expertly reined the light plane in to a landing. Still, Tara’s heart crawled into her throat as the end of the runway neared. The pilot pulled the plane into a graceful turn and taxied gently toward the terminal: a low concrete building capped with a turquoise roof. The buzz of the propeller slackened as the Cessna pulled into the run-up area adjacent to the terminal.

The propellers slowed to a stop. Tara reached back to the baggage area for her single bag. Old habits died hard, and Tara always packed light. She released the latch and hopped onto the asphalt. The wind gusts pulled at her hair, which—hours ago—had been neatly tied back. Self-consciously, she smoothed her coat over her black pantsuit. The suit was many years old. Probably not the latest cut, but she wasn’t here to impress. She was here to work.

A man briskly strode across the run-up area toward her. Tara immediately sized him up. Federal agent, to be sure. He was an Asian man in his mid-thirties, a serious set to his jaw. His tailored coat very nearly hid the bulge of a shoulder holster. The charcoal suit was practically government-issue. Tara could see the knife-sharp creases in his slacks from yards away. Well-shined shoes spoke to seriousness and attention to detail.

“Dr. Sheridan?” he asked over the ringing in her ears.

“Yes.”

The agent offered his hand in a brusque handshake. “I’m Agent Li. Welcome to New Mexico. This way, please.”

“Thank you.” Tara slung her bag over her shoulder and trotted off after Li. She noted he didn’t look back to see if she followed him. He skipped the terminal entirely and headed to the parking area, flashing FBI credentials at a guard. Tara glimpsed them as he tucked them back in his coat pocket.

They weren’t real.

Tara had seen credentials of all descriptions. She knew what to look for, and the way Li had hesitated for an instant before he chose a pocket to reach into suggested he had more than one set on his person.

Bemused, she followed him to his car, a nondescript dark sedan with blue and white U.S. government plates. As she took her time unloading her bag into the backseat, he scanned the parking area. He jingled coins in his pocket, an unconscious gesture of impatience.

“So,” she began conversationally, as Li climbed behind the wheel and put the car in gear. “Who do you really work for?” She kept her tone light, as if she asked about the weather.

Li had stretched his arm behind her seat as he backed out of the parking space. He paused, and an eyebrow crawled up his forehead. He answered carefully, “My creds say I work for the Bureau.”

Tara smiled. The evenly parsed answer wasn’t a lie. It suggested Li was uncomfortable with lying. And that was a good thing. “I’ve held all kinds of creds, myself. Some real, some not. Which ones of yours are real?”

Li pulled out of the parking area, glancing sidelong at her. “Department of Justice, Special Projects Division.”

Tara nodded, willing to accept that vagary for now. “You didn’t seem the military type.”

Li frowned. “Your investigative skills are still sharp, Dr. Sheridan.”

“I try.”

“Your file’s been heavily redacted.” Li took a left turn onto a two-lane highway. His tone was direct, matter-of-fact. “What remains describes your academic background. . . PhD in psychology, though you never practiced. Several academic articles on Jungian psychology, Gestalt therapy, and synchronicity. A short stint profiling with Special Projects, in behavioral science profile investigation. What is it, exactly, that you do?”

She shrugged. “I find people. As you said, I was a profiler.”

“And now?”

“And now, you could say I’m a consultant.”

Stalemate. Neither one wanted to give up information that wasn’t need-to-know. Tara changed the subject. “How did you draw babysitting duty?”

Li paused. She’d hit the nerve of his impatience.

“I’m not in charge of this investigation.” Tara saw by the tightness around his eyes he was doing as he was told to do, and he didn’t like it. But he conformed to the rules.

Tara reached over, hit the power button on the car radio. Unexpectedly, the sounds of death metal rattled through the car, shaking the glass in the windows. Tara lifted her eyebrows and looked at Li.
Interesting.

Li gripped the wheel with both hands and stared resolutely into the distance.

She turned down the volume, but just slightly. “Where are we going?”

“The last location Lowell Magnusson was seen.” He stabbed a thumb at the backseat. “Your radiation suit’s in the trunk. I brought extra duct tape.”

THE CRIME SCENE WAS STRAIGHT OUT OF A SCIENCE-FICTION
film. In an ancient caldera nestled in a plain between the mountains, grasses drenched with ash twitched in the chill breeze. A concrete ring looped in on itself in a figure eight, curving around a half-destroyed structure at its heart. It reminded Tara of aerial photos she’d seen of crop circles. A hastily erected tent covered the plain concrete block building, white plastic snapping like a surrender flag in the wind. People wearing hazmat gear streamed in and out of the tent, carrying metal scraps and radiation detectors. Long plastic hoses connected to trucks on the remote dirt road snaked into the tent like tentacles. It seemed as if a giant alien jellyfish had descended from outer space upon this sere place, and was busily consuming and regurgitating spacemen. Fire trucks parked beside it seemed like small toys seen from this distance. A fine dusting of snow had begun to filter down from the gray sky, frosting the scene with an otherworldly gleam.

Military police rimmed the perimeter, checking cars at the gate. When Agent Li pulled up, the MP was apparently unimpressed with his credentials, handing them back with white gloves that smelled like gunpowder. Tara sat back in her seat, arms folded. Territorial bickering. This could take a while.

“Sorry, sir. Essential personnel only.”

“We’re here with clearance from DOJ Special Projects Division.” Li handed over a sheaf of papers the MP frowned at.

“This isn’t a DOJ installation. This facility is under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Army.”

“I understand that. DOD asked us to be here.”

“I’ll have to check with my CO.”

“You do that.” The MP walked back to the gate, speaking into a staticky radio. Li glared through the windshield at him, fingers drumming out an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. Tara glanced at the chain-link fence, eying the ribbon razor wire curled over the top. Interesting. The top segment of the fence was slanted inward, a design typical for prisons: it made it more difficult to climb up the slant. Contrary to the MP’s behavior, this installation was apparently just as concerned with keeping people
inside
the fence as it was with keeping people
out.
Perhaps the people who worked inside were less than enthusiastic about being there.

“Is this part of Los Alamos National Laboratory?” she asked, watching the snow spiral over the fence.

“Officially? No. It’s technically farmland.”

“Nice crop of spacemen down there.”

“It does belong to them.” Li blew out his breath in frustration. “As such, our jurisdiction is limited. Special Projects is here as a formality, to do any civilian legwork off-site and bless the findings of the military investigators.” His mouth twisted, as if the words tasted sour.

“This isn’t your usual area of expertise, is it?”

Li glanced at her. “White-collar crime. Embezzlement. That sort of thing. Shady balance sheets and stock market manipulation.”

“So what did you do to get sent here?”

Li shrugged, glared at the MP. It seemed they would be here a long time. “Once upon a time, I caught a senator doing a very bad thing with campaign finances.”

“Hookers and beer?” Tara guessed.

“Hookers and cocaine.” Li gave a half smile that crinkled his face. Tara liked the expression. . . a crack in the official façade. “And clown porn.”

“Clown porn?” Tara wrinkled her nose.

Li shuddered. “Clown porn. That stuff’s surprisingly expensive.”

“Didn’t end well, did it?”

“Evidence miraculously disappeared before I could get it to the grand jury. Let’s just say I’m in purgatory until Bozo the Senator’s term runs out.”

The MP had finished talking to his radio. A Jeep rolled up, and a familiar figure swung out of it and strode to Agent Li’s car. He was dressed as a civilian in an overcoat and tie: no military uniform, no spaceman suit. Closely cropped gray hair framed a sharp-edged face, punctuated by nearly invisible glasses with weightless frames. He bent to look in the car window, cocked his head.

“Dr. Sheridan,” Agent Li began, “this is my case supervisor, Division Chief Corvus.”

Corvus kept his hands in his pockets. “Tara. Nice to see you’re well.” His gray gaze seemed to disassemble her, molecule by molecule, for evidence to the contrary.

Tara’s mouth felt dry as lint. “Richard. Congrats on the promotion.”

“Thank you. The Division was never the same without you. We were sorry to see you go. And even sorrier to have lost track of you.” His solicitude was plastic, obligatory. “I have to admit to being rather. . . startled to learn from the powers-that-be that you’d decided to rejoin us.”

Tara smiled, though it did not touch her eyes. He didn’t want her here. The order had come from above. She had no idea
how
far above, had no idea how far the Pythia’s reach extended, but it had been far enough to annoy Corvus.

Tara gestured with her chin to the scurrying white figures in the caldera. “What’s going on down there?”

Corvus’s eyes flickered past the fence. “Magnusson’s particle accelerator blew up, and they’re checking for residual radiation from the accident.”

Tara’s mouth twisted. Corvus called it an accident. He’d already made up his mind. “Have you been down there?”

Corvus smiled. “I thought I’d let you two look around.” He gestured for the MP to reel back the gate. “Get back with me when you’re done.”

Agent Li put the car in gear and coasted past the gate. “I didn’t know that you knew Corvus.”

Tara frowned. “He and I were assigned to the same unit, several years ago.” She stubbornly refused to elaborate.

“Is it normal for him to be so. . . hands-off?”

“What do you mean?”

Li gestured to the plastic bubble and frustration shone in his voice. “He hasn’t even looked around. I haven’t worked with him long, but. . .”

Tara smirked. “Small piece of advice, Agent Li. Richard Corvus never gets his hands dirty, nor is he in the habit of putting himself in harm’s way. He doesn’t want to get any glowing particles from the atom smasher on his new suit.”

Li’s eyes widened at her directness. “I, uh. . . Thanks for the tip.”

“Sure.” Troubled, Tara turned away and looked at her reflection in the window, a pale ghost against the desert landscape. She’d half expected Li to jump to his supervisor’s defense. She’d said what she did to both provoke him and warn him. Li seemed a decent enough guy, and she didn’t want what had happened to her to happen to him.

TARA’S BREATH FOGGED THE PLASTIC SHIELD OF THE RADIATION
suit helmet, obscuring her vision. The white disposable Tyvek suit was too large; it pooled around her wrists and ankles, cold and sticking to her skin. A suit like this wasn’t intended to prevent direct touching or inhalation of radioactive particles, and was nowhere near as safe as a dense material like Demron or a vapor-sealed Level A encapsulation suit. Although Li had double-secured the seams with duct tape to try and make it vapor-tight, Tara knew that a thin suit like this didn’t provide a complete barrier against radiation. The military wouldn’t have enough encapsulation suits on hand for a disaster like this. The suits at least offered some protection and, maybe more importantly in military-think, they made people
feel
safer.

She could hear her breath rattling in the flimsy respirator helmet, swirling, making fog-ghosts, and being sucked back through her mouth and the filter. It seemed like a walking meditation, as she could not escape her own breath. She tried to focus on it, even it out, while ignoring the zing and panic of thoughts that buzzed between her ears. At this elevation, her inhalations felt shallow in her lungs. She smelled chemical fire-retardant foam, and it made her eyes itch.

As soon as she’d donned the hood, she’d felt trapped. The air, thin at this elevation anyway, seemed entirely too close and stale. She had to be careful to control her breathing. Her chest tightened. Tara had the sense of being suffocated in a plastic bag. If she breathed too quickly, the plastic crackled. She tried not to envision sucking the plastic into her nose and mouth, choking her. Tara took deep draws of air, trying to compensate for her fear and the weak oxygen.

Breathe. Just breathe,
she reminded herself, trying to resist the urge to rip the mask off her face.

She turned her head, and the hood did not move with her. Agent Li had carefully duct-taped the hood to her shoulders and the gloves to her sleeves. The suit was one piece, footed like children’s pajamas, crinkling as she walked. She held her small digital camera wrapped in a plastic storage bag concealed in her palm. She always took a camera to every crime scene: the lens of a camera could capture details that were easily missed but could be detected and dissected later. She paused to catch her breath under the guise of snapping a few photos.