Deeper Than Red (Red Returning Trilogy) (21 page)

Ian knew he should have spent more time warning Henry about such things. Even knowing his companion’s resistance to spiritual matters, Ian should have anticipated such a moment as this and better prepared his buddy for what Ian knew on a too-personal level. His own sister had plunged into the occult as a teenager, subjecting herself to a medium in whose Key West home a group of young people indulged in such pagan practices as divination and necromancy, summoning spirits of the dead and communing with them. Only after one of those teens committed suicide did Ian’s sister flee the group, but she never escaped the spirit world’s demonic hold on her. She later forfeited her sanity and spent the rest of her life in an institution.

Ian peered into Henry’s questioning eyes for an instant more, then answered the woman. “No, we won’t be going to that, but thanks for telling us about it. We would like to visit that fellow at the University of the Spirit, though. What’s his name? Vandoren? Just to get another perspective on what you all practice here.”

The woman looked thoughtful. “You’ll find lots of information at our camp bookstore.” She pointed next door. “Ask for Spencer Fremont. Real nice guy. He’ll help you.” She perked up again. “By the way, the meatloaf tonight is outstanding.” She smiled and returned to her station at the door.

Just then, the young man at the next table leaned over. “Forgive me for overhearing, but it appears you haven’t been to the camp before.”

“Correct,” Henry answered. “You?”

“First time for us, too. So you haven’t been to the school either, or know anything about it?”

“Nope,” Henry answered.

Ian mused at the mercurial nature of conversation with Henry. The guy at the guardhouse got more information than he needed. This poor man had nothing to work with.

“What do you know about this Vandoren fellow?” Ian asked the man. The fisherman was casting about wherever he could.

The young woman’s eyes flitted instantly to the man’s face as he spoke, “Not much. Are you a, uh, spiritualist like the others here?”

“No, just a couple of curious fishermen. What brings you here?”

“The same. Curiosity.” He glanced at his companion. Ian didn’t notice wedding rings on either.

“You going to this séance tomorrow?” Ian asked him.

A waitress arrived with two plates of food for the couple. “Probably,” the man answered and turned back to focus on his meal.

Ian noticed two women enter the restaurant, then heard the hostess greet them affectionately. “Mona. Tally. Come give me hugs.” Ian and Henry both turned to see the new arrivals gathered into a group embrace. Like the hostess, one of the women was in her midforties, slim, with a powdery, doll-like face.

“I promised my daughter a home-cooked meal. From your kitchen, not mine.” The woman laughed skittishly and wrapped an arm about the younger woman’s shoulders. But this one wasn’t laughing. Her sullen face offered no light, no permission to draw closer. Dressed in black running shorts and a plain white polo shirt, she held herself like an athlete, square-stanced and sure of her strength. But the eyes weren’t so sure. They darted too quickly about the room, searching, appraising. And just then, they came to rest on Ian. Embarrassed for staring, he turned away and wondered if she’d grown up in this environment. No, he
worried
about it. His sister had been about the same age when she left for Key West.

“Sad girl,” Henry said without turning to look at her again. “I had one of those.”

Ian studied his friend’s sharp-nosed profile as he gazed out the window. “And I caused it,” Henry added stiffly.

“But you repaired it. So stop slamming yourself against meat hooks and move on, my friend. Liesl adores you.”

Henry casually stole another look at the girl. “There’s a tempest brewing in that one. I know the look.”

Ian was about to turn back for another glance at her when the hostess steered her and her mother to the next table. Taking their seats, the girl sat facing Ian, her eyes steady on him. “Hello,” he said warmly to both women.

The mother gushed a smile at him and Henry, who now offered his own semblance of greeting, which was barely a nod.

“You must be visitors,” the mother said. “Welcome to the camp. Are you here for the séance?”

“Didn’t know about it until we arrived this evening,” Ian allowed, noticing the young couple on the other side turn their heads slightly toward them.

“Are you staying at the hotel?” the woman asked.

“A little too nosey, Mom,” the girl interjected without looking up from the menu she’d hastily buried her nose in.

Ian observed the pinched young face, then answered the woman, who seemed to ignore her daughter’s comment. “No. We’ve got a boat at the marina.” He caught a visual jab from Henry.
Oh, yeah, we’re supposed to be spies.
That meant covert, not loose-lipped, and that was going to be real hard for him. “But say,” he continued, “maybe you could tell us about this university place and Curt Vandoren.”
Just wade right in
, he resolved.

The woman looked kindly at him. “What would you like to know?”

For starters, is he plotting murder with Ivan Volynski?
But what he said was, “We were told people come to his place from around the world.”

“That’s true,” the woman said. “By the way, I’m Mona Greyson and this is my daughter, Tally.” The girl lifted a wobbly smile and looked back at the menu.

It just occurred to Ian that he and Henry hadn’t thought about aliases. That was in the category of bold-faced lies, which Ian found distasteful. If this was indeed Volynski territory, though,
O’Brien
might not flag anyone’s attention, but
Bower
sure would. Ian hoped first names would suffice.

“I’m Ian and this is Henry.” He hurried past the surname omissions. “Now, about Vandoren …”

“I take classes there myself,” Mona said, “and yes, ironically, people travel great distances to come here and learn about the spirit world hovering just beyond their fingertips.”

Tally looked at her mother with unveiled disdain. Her mother returned a scolding glance at her.

Ian tried to ignore the fleeting yet awkward exchange and cast on to the next question. “Well, uh, ever get anybody here from, say … Russia?”

The question dangled in a silent void for too many seconds. Then the woman answered. “Well, let me see. Maybe one or two.” She appeared only mildly surprised by the question.

But there was nothing mild about her daughter’s reaction. The head shot up from the menu and the eyes bore down on Ian. He’d struck something. “Do you remember anyone?” he asked Tally directly. Her retreat from him was just as swift, and Ian saw something he hadn’t before.
She’s afraid.

“No,” Tally answered him, then looked at her mother. “I just want a hamburger and that’s all.”

And that was all Ian would get from her, for now. Somehow he had to pursue this young woman. There was something there. He sensed it. In a colony of mediums, he reminded himself, sensing anything could be dangerous.

After a while, the couple on the other side rose to go. They both nodded courteously toward Ian and Henry. “Hope you enjoy your stay,” the man offered, and they left.

A shuttle bus pulled up across the street and began dispensing others now headed for the hotel. The mother and daughter beside them appeared to have drawn a curtain on further communication with the old fishermen.

“Ian, leave those people alone,” Henry said. “Let’s just eat our meatloaf and get over to the bookstore before it closes.”

T
he camp bookstore, like the hotel, boasted no architectural personality, just function. As with many South Florida structures, its squat profile offered little resistance, therefore more resilience to hurricane-force winds. Its unadorned cement block walls had been painted a pale green to complement the small facility’s only saving attribute: an encircling profusion of hibiscus, ixora, elephant ear, and swayback palms.

It was after eight when Ian and Henry entered the store. Though the sign on the door indicated normal closing time of six, the place was full of people. The two men cruised slowly past what to them was a baffling assortment of books and pamphlets, overhearing snatches of conversations from customers, mostly about their past visits to the camp and expectations for tomorrow night’s big event. “Henry, who did that hostess tell us to ask for in here?”

“Guy named Fremont, I think.”

“That’s me,” came a cheerful voice beside them. They turned to see an older gentleman with a pleasant smile and an armload of books. “Spencer Fremont. Sorry I can’t shake your hand, but how may I help you?” He was hunched around the shoulders and light of frame, but having no trouble with the weight in his arms.

“Well, it’s real nice to meet you, Spencer,” Ian chirped. “My friend and I are looking for something like a for-dummies handbook on, uh, what you do here.”

A twinkle rose in the clerk’s eyes. “But you’re not sure what that is, correct?”

Both men nodded. “Sort of,” Henry allowed.

“Perfectly all right. Follow me.”

From a rack near the check-out desk, Spencer selected two small volumes and handed both to Henry. Ian had been distracted by the two women just entering the bookstore, Mona and Tally Greyson. When Ian turned back to the clerk, he saw the man’s eyes also on the pair, then Mr. Fremont looked quickly back at Henry and tapped the spine of one book. “That’s a complete overview of spiritualism, which the camp’s residents and mediums practice. The other is a guide to the individual services offered at the camp.”

Something about his wording made Ian curious. “Do you … I mean, are you also a resident?”

The man smiled hesitantly. “Yes.”

Ian waited for more but had to press for it. “So, are you a medium?”

“No.”

Henry went straight to what Ian was fishing for. “Do you believe what they do?”

The man was clearly taken aback and glanced around him with what Ian interpreted as caution. Though it wasn’t an answer, the clerk responded softly, “They’re good friends and neighbors.” He looked away, seeming to hunt for something, or someone. “Please excuse me. If you need further help, just lift your hand. My assistant or I will be happy to help.” It was polite but perfunctory.

Ian and Henry watched the man hurry off toward the front door where Mona Greyson had just left her daughter standing alone. Ian was surprised to see Tally and Spencer Fremont drop into quick conversation, their heads slightly inclined toward each other. Though every impulse told him he wouldn’t be welcome, Ian headed straight for them. As he drew close, though, the two stepped just outside the door. Ian followed, painfully aware that he was about to make a nuisance of himself. But something about the word
Russian
had given Tally Greyson a start and Ian would bludgeon on until he knew what it was.

When he opened the door and approached, Tally and Spencer snuffed out their conversation and stared at him. “Excuse me for interrupting,” Ian began, slowly stroking his beard to mask his awkwardness. “Young lady, I’m afraid I did or said something I shouldn’t have at dinner, and I want to apologize.” He was feeling his way along a narrow limb, uncertain if it would hold. “I’m not sure what it was, but you seemed a bit startled when I asked if any Russians ever visited here. I was just curious why.”

Then it happened again. This time with Spencer Fremont, who suddenly turned wide, searching eyes on Ian, his mouth falling slightly ajar.

I’ve struck a vein
, Ian thought. But before he could pursue it, Tally’s head jerked upward at the sound of a small plane approaching the camp. Spencer instantly did the same. But after searching the skies, now turning night shades of cobalt and lavender, he refocused on the two people before him.

Why had an incoming plane so completely snared their attention? Ian wondered. And what was that? The old man and girl had just met each other’s eyes before resuming their watch on the sky. Something unspoken had just passed between them. Ian was certain of it. Now, he looked back to see the blinking red and green lights emerge from the hazy distance and the profile of a private jet materialize. He was surprised to see it drop in altitude as it neared the camp.

“Is there a place to land around here?” Ian asked.

“At the university,” Spencer answered without looking at him.

“You’re kidding. Vandoren’s got a landing strip?”

Tally remained silent and fixed on the plane. Spencer seemed too preoccupied to entertain any more of Ian’s questions. “I must get back to my post,” he told them, but his gaze held Ian’s a few moments more. There was a question in it and Ian wished the man would ask it. But he returned to his duties without more than a courteous nod to Ian. Tally also excused herself and followed Spencer into the store.

When he told Henry about the plane and the reaction it had caused, they decided to have a look at the landing strip. They paid for the materials Spencer had selected for them and left the store. Back on their bikes, they approached the camp gate and slowed. Ian wondered how to proceed toward the university at this late hour without drawing an inquiry from the guard, but the young man wasn’t there.

They turned onto the road that ran alongside the camp. Where the fence ended and a wall began, they stopped to peer into the darkness. There appeared to be another gate ahead, but they weren’t anxious to openly approach it. They looked about for an alternate route toward the bay, having learned that the university campus skirted many acres along the waterfront. Henry got off his bike and retrieved a flashlight from his pocket. It was a low beam he aimed into the surrounding woods. “There’s some kind of trail through there,” he told Ian. “I’m going in. You’d better wait here.”

“Why’s that?” Ian objected.

“Because you’re old … and slow,” Henry answered without expression. “Now let’s get these bikes off the road, then you hide yourself. If you need me, do some kind of birdcall or something. I’ll know it’s you.”

“Well, that’s just brilliant,” Ian growled. “I’ll just stay right here and take my blood pressure while you’re gone. Maybe check my pulse.” But even as he fumed at being left behind, he knew the history of the man now slinking off into the woods, the one who’d crawled through sinkhole woods to watchdog after his daughter. Ian had heard the tales of the runaway father declared dead on a Mexican beach, then returned to shadow Liesl through her long career, mastering disguises, running midnight patrols past her home, confronting Russian spies who broke into her house. And she never knew, not until the day she found him at the island off Charleston Harbor, finally at the end of himself. He’d lived too hard in the wilds, undercover and fiercely protective. Just like now.
So let him go
, Ian told himself.