“Point taken.” Gwen sat back. “Have you received any more email from the blackmailer?”
“No, thank goodness. But there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
“What?”
“I’ve had a really weird dream two nights in a row. They both featured Grady Hastings.”
Gwen frowned. “The crazy guy who staged that home invasion in your client’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s not surprising that you would have some bad dreams for a while. That was a very frightening situation.”
“True, but what is freaking me out about the dreams is that I’ve started sleepwalking. I’ve never done that in my life.”
“There is nothing unstable about your talent,” Gwen said, “if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“You’re the one who told me that a disturbance in the dreamstate can be an early indication of serious problems with the para-senses.”
“It’s true, but that kind of disturbance is visible in the aura. You’re fine.”
Abby framed the base of her glass in a triangle formed by her thumbs and forefingers. “Take a look. Please.”
“Okay, okay.”
Gwen heightened her talent. Abby felt energy shiver gently in the atmosphere. A few feet away, a middle-aged businessman who was slouched on a bar stool suddenly turned his head and looked around, as though searching for someone or something. Abby knew that he had felt the tingle of psi in the vicinity but probably did not know what it was that had lifted the hairs on the nape of his neck. Over in the corner, a redheaded stylist drinking a cosmopolitan glanced uneasily around the room before turning back to her colleagues.
Abby waited while Gwen did her thing. After a couple of minutes, the energy level in the atmosphere receded.
“I’m not picking up any bad vibes,” Gwen said. “Just the indications of stress that I’ve mentioned before. There is some deepening in the intensity of ultralight coming from the hot end of the spectrum, but nothing alarming. I didn’t see anything that I associate with instability of the para-senses. Also, for the record, I didn’t see the kind of dreamlight that is associated with regular sleepwalking.”
“Then what in the world is going on?”
“I’ve tried to explain to you that what happened to you in the Vaughn library was the equivalent of a category-five hurricane, as far as your para-senses are concerned. You channeled an enormous amount of volatile energy. For heaven’s sake, you managed to render a man unconscious. There was bound to be some blowback, to say nothing of the fact that you could have been killed that day. You need to give yourself time to recover from the shock.”
“I can’t continue sleepwalking,” Abby said. “What if I open the sliding glass doors and decide to take a walk off the balcony?”
“Calm down. You’re not going to do that. Your para-senses would kick in fast if you tried to do anything that might put your life in danger.”
“You have more faith in my senses than I do.”
Gwen grew thoughtful. “In this dream, do you have any sense of where you’re going or what you want to accomplish?”
“I see Grady Hastings. He’s reaching out to me, begging me to help him. He tells me I’m the only one who can.”
“Is that all?”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay, I’m sticking to my theory that the fugue states you’re experiencing are being triggered by stress you experienced the other day. But there is another possibility that you should not overlook.”
“What?”
“Your intuition may be trying to tell you something important.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “But you’re too smart to ignore the implications. Try turning the dream into a lucid dream, and then take control of it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Well, it’s certainly easier for a strong talent than it would be for someone who doesn’t have much psychic sensitivity,” Gwen said. “Before you go to sleep tonight, set your psychic alarm clock to alert you when you start dreaming. Then take control of the dream.”
“That will work?”
“Yes, if you do a good job of setting the alarm. The trick works on the same principle that makes it possible for you to tell yourself that you have to wake up at a certain time in order to catch an early plane. Lots of people, even people with very little talent, do that all the time.”
Abby took a slow breath and reminded herself that this was Gwen’s area of expertise. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot.”
Gwen aimed a finger at her. “You know what you really need?”
“Please don’t say a new boyfriend.”
“You need a vacation. You should come with me to Hawaii tomorrow. It’s not too late. I’ll bet we can find you a seat on my flight. There are always last-minute cancellations.”
“Sure, at full fare. You know I can’t afford that. Besides, leaving town now is out of the question. How can I enjoy a vacation if I know there’s a blackmailer waiting for me when I get back?”
“I guess that would put a damper on things,” Gwen conceded. “But you’ve hired Coppersmith to take care of the extortionist for you. Let him do his job while you relax on a beach.”
“I don’t think you can just hire an investigator and then go merrily off on vacation while he cleans things up for you.”
“Why not? You’re finished with the Vaughn job, and speaking as your friend and psychic counselor, I’m telling you that you need some time off to let your senses recover. Put the ticket to Hawaii on your charge card and tell your investigator to file reports of his progress by email.”
“I don’t like the idea of turning Sam Coppersmith loose, unsupervised, on what is essentially my very personal and private business.”
Gwen smiled knowingly. “You like to be in control.”
“Who doesn’t? But trust me, if you ever meet Sam Coppersmith, you’ll know why staying in charge is a very sensible idea.”
“What’s he like?”
“Think mad scientist with a basement lab.”
“Doesn’t sound like the typical profile of a private investigator.”
Abby picked up her glass again. “There’s nothing typical about Sam Coppersmith.”
When they emerged from the restaurant, a light misty rain veiled the Belltown neighborhood. The wet pavement glowed with the reflected light of the streetlamps. Neon signs illuminated the windows of the innumerable restaurants, pubs and clubs that lined both sides of First Avenue.
Gwen shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her trench coat. “I’m thinking that maybe I should cancel Hawaii tomorrow. I don’t like leaving you here alone to deal with Coppersmith and a blackmailer.”
“You are not going to cancel. Your new client is paying you a huge fee and all expenses just to have you go there to do a reading. You can’t turn your back on that kind of money.”
“Screw the money. I’m worried about you, Abby.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Promise me that if you start to feel like you’re in more trouble than you can handle you’ll call Nick, first, because he’ll be the closest. And right after you call him, you’ll call me. I’ll be on the next plane back to Seattle.”
“I promise,” Abby said.
Neither of them mentioned the possibility of her going to her family for help. It was not an option, and they both knew it. Gwen and Nick Sawyer constituted her real family, Abby thought. The bond among the three of them had been forged in the fires of their years together in the Summerlight Academy. Nothing could sever it.
She was about to add more reassurance, but a flash of intense awareness stopped her cold in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Abby?” Gwen stopped, too, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“He’s here,” Abby said quietly.
“Who?” Gwen asked.
Abby watched a shadowy figure detach itself from a darkened doorway and walk forward in
to the light. The man wore a black leather jacket open over a dark crewneck pullover and dark trousers. The collar of the jacket was pulled up against the chill and the rain, shadowing his features.
He carried a black leather gym bag in one hand. With her senses on alert, she had no difficulty at all perceiving the faint heat in his eyes. A thrill of excitement fizzed through her veins.
Sam looked at her, eyes heating a little. “I’ve been waiting for you. You know the old saying.”
“What old saying?” Abby asked.
“You can run, but you can’t hide.”
Abby looked at Gwen. “Meet Sam Coppersmith.”
8
SAM HEARD THE CLICKS OF DOG CLAWS ON A WOODEN FLOOR before Abby got her door unlocked.
“That’s Newton,” Abby explained. “He isn’t keen on strangers, especially strange men.”
“I’ll try to make a good impression,” Sam said.
She turned the key and pushed the door open. A scruffy gray dog of uncertain ancestry lunged forward to greet Abby as if she had been gone for a year.
“Sorry I’m late, Newton.” Abby leaned down to scratch the dog affectionately behind the ears. “We’ve got company.”
Newton regarded Sam with an expression of grave misgivings.
“I’m with her,” Sam said.
“Generally speaking, he doesn’t bite,” Abby said.
“You don’t have to make that sound like a character flaw,” Sam said.
Newton was on the small side, but that was about all he had in common with the typical condo dog, which, in Sam’s experience, tended to come in two versions: tiny, white and fluffy or chunky pug. Newton was a condo-sized version of a junkyard dog.
“Where did you get him?” Sam asked.
“The animal shelter.” Abby gave Newton an affectionate smile. “It was love at first sight, wasn’t it, Newton?”
Newton spared her a brief glance, acknowledging his name. Then he turned his attention back to Sam.
Sam set the leather duffel bag on the floor, crouched and extended his hand toward Newton. The dog tilted his head slightly to the side and pricked up his ears. He sniffed Sam’s hand and then condescended to allow himself to be patted a few times.
“Congratulations,” Abby said. She slipped out of her coat and turned to hang it on the red enamel coat tree. “Newton approves of you. He doesn’t take to everyone.”
Sam got to his feet. “I think it’s more a case of tolerating me.”
“Well, yes, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s going to go for your throat.”
“He’s a condo dog,” Sam said. “The most he could go for is my ankle.”
Abby glared. “Do not, under any circumstances, underestimate Newton. He picks up on vibes in the atmosphere. He knows when he’s being insulted.”
Sam looked at Newton. “Is that so?”
Newton gave a disdainful little snort and trotted off down the hall.
Sam looked at Abby. “Since your guard dog has decided to allow me over the threshold, is it okay if I take off my coat?”
Abby flushed. “Yes, of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”
“I got that impression.”
He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her. When she took it from him, her fingers brushed against his, sending an intimate little thrill of awareness across his senses. He knew she felt the small flash because her brilliant eyes widened slightly in surprise. She gave him a startled look and then just as swiftly looked away.
She hung his jacket on the coat tree and led the way down the short hall to the living and dining area.
A few minutes ago, Gwen Frazier had discreetly vanished in a cab to her own apartment a couple of blocks away. Sam had felt the energy shiver in the atmosphere when Abby had introduced him to her friend. He was fairly certain that Gwen had used some talent to make a judgment call. She had evidently decided that Abby was safe with him, at least for now, because she had not tried to hang around.
Things were looking up, he decided. He had managed to get through two lines of defense tonight, the protective friend and the protective dog. He was on a roll.
“Your friend is also a talent, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes. Gwen is a psychic counselor. She does aura readings in a shop in the market.”
“Aura readings. Right.”
Abby gave him a severe look. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“You think Gwen is using her talent to con people. For the record, she doesn’t do fortune-telling or palm-reading. And she certainly doesn’t pretend to talk to the dead. She really can read auras. Her clients come to her for advice and guidance. She analyzes their energy fields and tells them what she sees and makes recommendations. She’s a kind of therapist.”
“Got it.”
Abby sighed. “I’m probably overreacting here. It’s just that so many people think Gwen is a fraud. Storefront psychics aren’t exactly held in high esteem by psychologists and traditional counselors. Would you like some herbal tea? I’d offer coffee, but I don’t drink it at night, at least not lately.”
And that was all the information he was going to get on Gwen Frazier, he thought. “Tea will be fine. Thanks.”
“I’ll get the water started.” She hesitated, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. “Please, sit down.”
He studied his options. The condo was small, but it was a corner unit with an open, flowing floor plan. The walls were a sunny Mediterranean gold with dark brown accents. The floors were hardwood. There were two area rugs decorated with modernistic designs in deep red, teal, green and yellow. Newton was lounging on the one near the window. He watched Sam with deep suspicion, but he showed no signs of going for the jugular or the ankle.
There was a comfortable-looking L–shaped sofa, a reading chair, some bookshelves, a lot of healthy-looking plants and a glass-topped coffee table. There was a book on the table. He took a closer look. Families by Choice: A Guide to Creating the Modern Blended Family by Dr. Brandon C. Radwell.
“That’s my father’s new book,” Abby said.
He picked up Families by Choice and turned it over. The back-cover photo showed a smiling Brandon C. Radwell holding hands with an elegant-looking woman who had to be his wife. Behind the beaming couple stood Abby, a man about her age, and two very attractive women who appeared to be nineteen or twenty.
“This is your family?” Sam asked, holding up the book to show the photo.
“That’s the Radwells, the perfect modern blended family,” Abby said. She turned away and became very busy with the teakettle. “That’s my stepbrother, Dawson, and my half sisters standing with me behind Dad and Diana.”
“Your half sisters look like twins.”
“They are. They’re in college.” Abby set the kettle on a burner. “I was twelve when they were born. Dawson was thirteen.”
He put the book down on the coffee table and finished his examination of the room. One corner had been turned into a home office outfitted with a desk, a computer and some storage cabinets.
The tiny balcony and wraparound floor–to–ceiling windows took full advantage of the cityscape view. The lights of the Space Needle glittered in the night.
The whole place glowed with a cozy, inviting warmth that suggested a very personal touch. A lot of time and attention had been lavished on the little condo to transform it from a living space into a home.
“Nice,” he said.
Abby smiled, the first genuine smile he had gotten from her. She was suddenly radiant. Deep satisfaction and delight lit her eyes. “It’s my first home. I’ve been renting forever. But I finally managed to save enough for a down payment. Moved in three months ago. Did the decorating myself. My friends helped me with the painting and built-ins.”
There was more than just pride of ownership in her voice. “It’s my first home” said a lot. The little condo was ve
ry important to Abby. Something else she had said struck him, too. Her friends had helped her paint and decorate. There was no mention of any assistance from her stepbrother and half sisters.
He walked to the granite counter that divided the living area from the kitchen and angled himself onto one of the bar stools.
Abby took a canister down out of the cupboard. “I assume you came to see me tonight because you’ve made some progress on the investigation?”