In Too Deep

3

She waited for him in the car, doors locked, key in the ignition. She was ready to speed off to safety if necessary. But no one burst out of the house wielding a meat cleaver. The mansion loomed, bleak and dripping with ominous energy.

Her pulse was still beating too fast and the hair on the nape of her neck hadn't settled down by the time the black SUV pulled into the drive. She glanced at her watch. It had taken Fallon less than ten minutes to reach her, driving through pouring rain on a narrow, winding road.

He got out of the big vehicle and walked toward her. The hood of his black rain jacket was pulled up over his face partially concealing his features, but she could tell that he looked even more grim than usual, and when she revved up her senses, she saw a little heat in his eyes.

She opened the driver's-side door and extricated herself from behind the wheel, fumbling again with the umbrella and her pack. Fallon took the umbrella from her, snapped it open and held it up to shield her from the elements while she got herself organized.

"You do realize that agents who get spooked by a haunted house don't make J&J look good," he said.

"You ever see one of those slasher horror films?" she asked. "The kind in which the too-stupid-to-live perky blond teenager goes down into the dark basement and gets hacked to pieces by a serial killer in a mask?"

"Can't say that I have."

They started toward the stone steps. Getting to the front porch was much easier with Fallon holding the umbrella and using his big frame to protect her from the worst of the squall. There were some advantages to size, she reflected.

"Let's just say I didn't want to star in the role of the perky blond teen," she said.

"You're not blond," he pointed out. "And you're not a teenager."

"But at least I'm perky, right?"

He gave that some thought. "I don't think that's the right word."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a tendency to be extremely literal, boss?"

"Yes," he said. "Usually at the same time that I'm being told I don't have a sense of humor."

"Nonsense. Of course you have a sense of humor."

"I do?" He seemed genuinely surprised to hear that.

"It's just a little offbeat, that's all."

"Like my talent?" His voice went flat.

"Like your talent," she agreed. "It's not as if I'm exactly normal, myself. Which is probably why I'm working for J&J."

She opened the door. Fallon collapsed the umbrella and stood quietly for a moment, contemplating the darkened foyer. She sensed energy shiver in the atmosphere around him and knew that he had heightened his talent. She did the same. Once again, icy mists pulsed and seethed in the entry hall.

"What do you see?" Fallon asked.

"A lot of energy that is infused with some really dark ultralight. Looks like fog."

"Huh."

"It's hard to explain," she said. "All I can tell you is that when I'm in my zone, I see the residue of energy laid down by people with something to hide. Most of the time I ignore it because everyone has secrets. But occasionally I detect the sort of currents that tell me there is a secret that needs to be found. And before you ask, I can't explain that part, either. As the old saying goes, I know it when I see it."

He nodded once, satisfied. "You're a kind of finder-talent."

"Yes."

"Any idea what the fog in here is telling you?"

"No." Another frisson of awareness chilled her. "But like I said, the answer is in the basement, and I don't think that it's going to be good."

"The house feels empty."

"I agree." You could always tell, she thought. Empty houses gave off their own unique vibes. "But something feels wrong."

"Let's take a look at the basement," Fallon suggested.

"Okay." She took out her flashlight and switched it on again. "Electricity is off."

"No surprise there."

He moved into the foyer and reached inside his jacket. She was startled when she saw the gun appear in his hand.

"Wow," she said. "You brought your gun."

"You made me nervous when you called and said you needed backup."

"Oh. Sorry. I really don't think there's an immediate threat. As you said, the house feels empty. But I hate finding dead bodies by myself."

"And that's what you're expecting?"

"I've seen this kind of fog before."

She followed him into the foyer, her senses wide open.

He took a flashlight out of the pocket of his coat and switched it on. "Which way?"

"I forgot you can't see the energy." She aimed the beam of the flashlight directly in front of him. "Turn left. The basement door is halfway down that hall."

He glanced at the floorboards. "Lot of footprints in the dust."

"Don't forget, Norma Spaulding has been in here. She also said that there were indications that transients had camped out in the house from time to time."

"Probably the source of the rumors about the place being haunted." He stopped in front of the basement door. "Is this the right door?"

"Yes."

Fallon opened the door. They both looked down the concrete steps.

"Still feels empty," Fallon said.

Isabella moved closer to the opening and studied the cold light roiling and surging below. The sense of urgency that had set her nerves on edge climbed higher.

"We need to find whatever it is down there that needs finding," she said, resigned. "Crap. I hate this part."

He studied the scene below. "Interesting."

She glanced sharply at him. "What?"

"A wooden floor."

"What about it?"

"Looks new."

"Maybe one of the previous owners finished off the basement," she suggested.

"I did a quick search of the property records after you left the office today. No one has lived in this house for over forty years. That floor was put in recently."

"Okay, I'm not arguing the point." She tried to ignore the fact that she was shivering. "The good news is that I don't see any bodies down there."

"Wait here. I'm going to take a closer look."

"No, I'll come with you."

He looked at her. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

It wouldn't be the first time she had followed the currents of fog to a bad end.

"When I get this far, I need to find the answer," she said.

He surprised her with one of his rare smiles. "Same here."

"Two of a kind," she said, keeping her voice light.

He seemed briefly startled by the comment, as if it had never occurred to him that he might have something in common with another human being. But he did not say anything.

She followed him down the steps. When they reached the bottom, they stood knee-deep in the sea of fog. The paranormal cold was so bone-chilling now that even Fallon sensed it.

"You're right," he said. "Lots of bad energy down here."

She studied the glacial whirlpool in the center of the room. "I think most of the really terrible stuff is coming from under the floorboards."

He raked the windowless room with the beam of his flashlight. "What about the armoire in the corner?"

She studied the old-fashioned wooden wardrobe. The doors were closed but a lot of fog shivered around it.

"Definitely something in there," she said. "But it's different from the stuff that's coming up from under the floor."

He started to prowl the room with the flashlight. "No dust down here. Someone keeps this room clean."

She sniffed the air. "I can smell some kind of strong detergent or disinfectant. Damn, I knew it. This is going to be one of those body-in-the-basement scenarios."

"Starting to feel that way." He looked at her. "Not your first, I take it?"

"No. Unfortunately, with my kind of talent I get this kind of thing occasionally. Goes with the territory. When do we call the local cops?"

"As soon as we know for sure that we've got something to show them," Fallon said. "Without hard evidence, we'd just be asking for trouble."

"I guess J&J can't just pick up the phone and tell the local authorities that one of the firm's agents has had a psychic vision telling her that there's a body in the old Zander house."

"Regular law enforcement tends to take a dim view of people who claim to have paranormal powers. Can't blame the cops. Lot of fake mediums and phony psychics out there. They've given our end of the investigation profession a bad name."

"I know."

"I'll check the armoire first." He started toward the wardrobe.

"Fallon," she said. "Wait."

He stopped and looked back at her.

"Do you hear a clock?" she asked.

He went silent. They both listened to the steady, stately ticking of an old-fashioned antique clock.

"It's coming from inside the armoire," Fallon said. "I didn't hear it a few seconds ago. It just started up."

"Sounds like the clock on your desk in the office," she said. "The old one that you said was a Victorian-era antique."

"Yes," he said. "It does."

He opened the door of the armoire and aimed the flashlight inside. Isabella held her breath, half expecting a body to fall out.

But the only object in view was a large, ornate mantel clock. It sat on a shelf. The beam of the flashlight glinted on the brass pendulum and gilt trim.

Isabella stilled. "Please don't tell me that we're going to have to decide whether to cut the blue wire or the red wire."

"No." Fallon examined the clock and the interior of the wardrobe with the flashlight. "No wires. It's not attached to anything. It's just a clock. Looks Victorian, like mine."

"Old-fashioned clocks like that have to be wound every week or so. The fact that it's ticking indicates that someone comes down here on a regular basis."

"But we didn't hear it when we first entered the basement," Fallon said. He aimed the flashlight at the back of the clock, clearly fascinated now. "I'll be damned. It's one of Mrs. Bridewell's inventions. I can see the alchemical symbol she used as her signature. How in hell did the device end up here?"

"Who is Mrs. Bridewell? Never mind, you can explain later. Why did it start ticking?"

"Our presence activated it. Which makes this a red-wire-blue-wire scenario after all." He came toward her swiftly and grabbed her arm in one of his big, powerful hands. "Out. Now."

"What's going to happen?"

"I have no idea," Fallon said. "But it won't be good."

They got as far as the bottom step before the flashlights failed, plunging the basement into midnight. The faint twilight that filled the doorway at the top of the stairs darkened rapidly.

"What's going on?" Isabella asked softly.

"The clock." Fallon drew her to a halt halfway up the steps and lowered his voice. "It's doing this. Generating some kind of energy that is eating all the normal light in the house. Filling the place with night."

The relentless ticking continued.

"I don't get that, but I agree we definitely need to leave," she said.

"Too late." Fallon's voice was very low now. He spoke directly into her ear. "We're going back down. Hang on to the railing. If you fall on these stairs, you could break your neck."

She seized the metal banister and probed cautiously for the edge of each concrete step with the toe of her shoe. Simultaneously she pushed her talent a little higher. The para-fog did not illuminate objects the way normal light did, but the seething psi whirlpool in the center of the space and the dark light around the armoire were clearly visible. The luminescence provided a general sense of direction.

She sensed Fallon heightening his own talent and wondered how the basement appeared to him. He seemed remarkably sure-footed on the steps. It occurred to her that with his unusual ability, he had probably created a very clear mental construct of their surroundings.

"Why are we going back down?" she breathed.

"Because we are no longer alone in the house," he said.

The floorboards squeaked overhead. Fallon was right. The house was no longer giving off empty vibes.

"Something tells me that is not a prospective buyer," Fallon said.

"But the darkness extends to the floor above. I saw it filling the hallway. It must be like midnight up there now. How can he navigate?"

"Probably because he is some kind of talent."

Fallon must have turned his head toward her then, because she could suddenly perceive the dark heat in his eyes.

"You can see in this night?" she whispered.

"I come from a long line of hunter-talents. Good night vision runs in the family. Whatever happens, keep silent. I'll handle this."

They reached the last step. Fallon drew her through the cold sea of energy and brought her to a halt. The absolute night was disorienting, but when she put out her hand, she realized that they were standing under the staircase.

They listened to the footsteps overhead. The long, sure strides were definitely those of a man, Isabella thought. He was moving like someone who could see in the dark.

The intruder was coming down the hall toward the basement entrance. A moment later she sensed the presence in the open doorway at the top of the staircase. She knew from Fallon's great stillness that he, too, was aware of the stalker.

The intruder started down into the basement.

"Welcome to my little game," the man said. Unwholesome good cheer reverberated through the words. "I've never used local players. Too risky. But when I heard that the silly new real estate agent in town had hired an investigator to clear out the ghosts in the old Zander place, I knew I would have to change the rules for this round."

The hunter paused midway down the steps.

"Then, again, you aren't exactly local, are you? The office of Jones & Jones is over in Scargill Cove. So, I guess I'm not bending the rules all that much after all. Let's see now, you're hiding either under the stairs or behind the armoire. There is no other option in this room. Keeps the scoring simple. I'll try the armoire first."

Isabella sensed the hunter's sudden movement on the staircase. At first she thought that he was rushing down toward the armoire. But in the next instant she heard the jarring thump of running shoes on the floor directly in front of her. The hunter had vaulted over the railing.

"Fooled you," the stalker said happily. "I chose the stairs. Bonus points for me. My name is Nightman, by the way. Think of me as an avatar."

A pair of eyes hot with madness and psi burned in the mist from a distance of less than two yards. The preternatural speed, balance and agility with which the intruder had moved, as well as the intense energy in the atmosphere, told Isabella that the intruder was a true hunter-talent.

"Well, well, well," Nightman said, "I can sense a little energy in the atmosphere. Maybe you two aren't complete frauds, after all, huh?"

"No," Fallon said. "We're the real deal."

"Once in a while I pick up a player who has a little talent," Nightman said. "Adds spice to the game. Tell you what, I'll do you first, Mr. Private Eye. Save the lady for some fun later. After you and I are finished, I'll take her upstairs and let her run. It's so much fun to watch them try to find a door or a window in the darkness."

"Where did you get the clock?" Fallon asked as if it were a matter of idle curiosity.

"Interesting gadget, isn't it?" Nightman chuckled. "I found it in an old tunnel under the floor in this room a few months ago. I was checking out the place to see if it would be a good platform for my games. The innards of the clock were in pretty good shape considering that it had been sitting in a damp cave for quite a while. It was stored in a weird glass box. I cleaned it up and got it working. Imagine my surprise when I discovered what it could do."

"It generates night," Fallon said.

"Sure does." Nightman laughed. "I have to tell you, it makes my little live-action video game very interesting for all concerned."

"What turns off the clock?" Fallon asked, still speaking in tones of academic interest.

"It runs down after about three hours," Nightman said. "Then it has to be rewound. It's motion-sensitive, though. When I'm in the mood for a game, I pick up some junkie whore on the streets of Oakland or San Francisco and bring her here. I set the clock, explain the rules and turn the player loose in the house. We play until I get bored."

"The bodies go under the floorboards here in the basement, right?" Fallon asked.

"There's a tunnel down below. Probably an old smuggling route. This stretch of coastline is riddled with caves."

Isabella could not stand to remain quiet any longer.

"You must have really freaked when you found out that Norma Spaulding had hired Jones & Jones to investigate this place," she said.

The hunter's vicious eyes switched to her. "I'm afraid I'll have to do something about Norma. Can't let her actually sell this place, not after I've put so much creative effort into my game."

"How do you plan to explain the fact that we're both missing?" she asked.

"Nothing to explain." There was a shrug in Nightman's voice. "There won't be any bodies to find. I'll drive your cars to one of the roadside lookouts and leave them there. No one's going to look too hard for a couple of missing psychic detectives from Scargill Cove. Everyone knows the town is populated by crazies and losers."

"What kind of weirdo loser picks a name like Nightman for his avatar?" Isabella demanded. She was pretty sure she heard Fallon heave a small sigh but she ignored him. "Or didn't you know Nightman was what they used to call the guy who cleaned out the cesspools and emptied the privies in eighteenth-century England?"

"That's a lie." Nightman's voice rose in shrill rage. "You're laughing now, but wait until I start using my knife on you."

"New rules tonight," Fallon said.

Isabella felt energy flare fiercely in the unnatural night. She heard a choking gasp and knew that it came from Nightman.

The killer uttered a strangled scream. His eyes got hotter, this time with the energy of terror and comprehension of his impending death.

"No," he wheezed. "I'm the winner. I'm always the winner. You can't do this to me. It's my game."

There was a dull thud as his body hit the floorboards. The hot psi dimmed in his eyes and vanished altogether.

The clock continued to tick into the sharp silence that descended on the basement.

"Fallon?" Isabella whispered.

"Game over," he said. His eyes were still hot.

She felt him move away from under the staircase and realized that he was crouching beside the fallen man.

"Dead?" she asked.

"I couldn't let him live." Fallon's voice was flat on the surface but underneath there was a soul-deep weariness. "He was too strong. A hunter-talent of some kind. If the cops had tried to arrest him, it would have taken him about five minutes to escape and disappear."

"Don't get me wrong, I wasn't complaining. But what do we do now? There's no way we can explain that clock to the police."

"We're not going to explain it to the cops. We'll take it with us. They won't need it to find the bodies and figure out what was going on here."

She heard a rustling sound and realized that he was going through the killer's clothes.

"We'll have to find a way to stop that clock before you drive it back to Scargill Cove," she said. "It's generating too much energy, enough to fill this entire house. You might be able to see where you're going, but the driver of any car that you pass will be temporarily blinded."

"It's just a damn clock," Fallon said. "Got to be a way to stop it. Mrs. Bridewell's curiosities all incorporated traditional mechanical escapements."

She shuddered. "I can't wait to hear more about this Mrs. Bridewell."

"I'll tell you later. The point is that, paranormal aspects aside, the clock's mechanism is very similar to the one in my office."

She sensed his movement when he got to his feet. He crossed through the strange night, a dark shadow silhouetted against the eerie mist. There was a squeak of small hinges and a cranking sound. The ticking stopped abruptly.

The flashlights reignited, spearing beams of light across the basement. At the top of the stairs, the entrance was once again filled with normal shadows.

"That worked," Isabella said.

"Which means this really is one of her infernal devices, not some new variation," Fallon said. "That's the good news."

"Why is it good news?"

"I wasn't looking forward to hunting down a modern-day inventor who had decided to create a high-tech version of some of Bridewell's gadgets. The originals are bad enough. The question now is, how did the clock get into this house? But we'll deal with that later."

He aimed his flashlight at the body on the floor. Isabella looked at the crumpled figure of Nightman. The killer's face was set in a death mask of stark horror. He looked to be in his midthirties, sandy-haired and lithe in build. He was dressed in dark green work pants and a matching shirt. The logo on the pocket of the shirt spelled out the name of a construction firm based in Willow Creek.

She looked away. "He told us he found the clock in a cave beneath this basement."

Fallon swept the light across the floorboards. "Before we call the cops, I want to make sure the evidence is there."

She speared her flashlight at the section of the flooring that was in the heart of the whirlpool of energy. "Try that section."

He walked to the circle of light created by her flashlight, crouched and began probing with his gloved fingers.

"Here we go," he said. "A trapdoor."

She went toward him, watching as he opened a wide, square section of the flooring. They aimed their flashlights into the darkness below. A metal ladder disappeared into the depths. Isabella leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better view of the object near the foot of the ladder.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Looks like a body bag," Fallon said.

Isabella straightened quickly. "Norma Spaulding is never going to sell this house now."

"Real estate has always been a tough market in this part of California." Fallon reached for his phone.

Isabella cleared her throat. "One thing before you call the cops."

"Don't worry, you won't be here when they arrive. You're leaving now."

"Right, thanks." She exhaled slowly. "But there's a complication. Norma knows that I was the one who promised to check out the house for ghosts."

"As far as everyone involved is concerned, including Norma Spaulding, I got an intuitive flash of impending disaster and decided that I would handle the Zander house case personally. I sent you back to the office before I found the bodies. Now go. Get out of here."

"Right," she repeated. She turned and hurried up the stairs. When she reached the doorway, she paused and looked back at him.

"An intuitive flash of impending disaster?" she said.

"I'm supposed to be psychic, remember?"

"Of course."

"Where did you pick up that factoid about the meaning of the word nightman?"

"I had what you might call an eclectic education."

"Homeschooled?"

"Yes. Plus, I read a lot."

"When this is over, maybe it's time you told me who or what you're hiding from," Fallon said quietly.

"I should have known better than to take a job as an assistant to a psychic detective."