Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,12

out of Dodge isn’t on the self-service menu, either.”

Reinforcements arrived, cutting off all exits. They were the expected gorilla types, rather than the dapper man who had me tasting wallpaper.

“Thanks, Bertram.” It was the intern. I recognized his wheeze. He’d hauled himself up from the floor and limped over to join us. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Carson?” I could almost hear the butler raise an eyebrow.

I could totally hear the grinding of Mr. Carson’s teeth. “Yes. You can let her go.”

Bertram did, and I turned around, flexing my arm and viewing the butler with new respect. Poker-faced, he held out the tray to me. “Your coffee, Miss Goodnight.”

I took it. Frankly, I was afraid to piss him off.

“Mr. Maguire wants to see you,” said Mr. Carson a little impatiently, probably because I made him wait while I added cream from the tiny pitcher and stirred with the tiny spoon.

And then the name made it to my brain, and I dropped the spoon onto the tray with a clatter. “Hold on a sec. You mean Alexis Maguire’s father? That Mr. Maguire?”

“Yes,” said the intern. “That one.”

After the initial surprise, the new information sank in. It was almost a relief, because I could imagine what he wanted, just not why he’d gone through this much trouble to talk to me. All he had to do was ask, and I’d tell him Alexis was alive. Somewhere.

I turned to Mr. Carson, planning to say just that, but paused when I got my first good look at him.

My first impression didn’t lie. Young. Twenty-one-ish. Younger than Agent Taylor, and almost as tasty. And tall. I’m five foot ten, and I had to tilt my head to look at him. His hair was brown, still wet, and standing up all over. His eyes were a dusky green—no, hazel—and I’d last seen them in the Minnesota cold, just before everything went dark.

“You!” I exclaimed, with all the melodrama his offense deserved. “You’re the one who whammied me behind the police station.”

He didn’t look chagrined or apologetic. He looked annoyed. “I did not whammy you anywhere. You passed out without my doing anything to you. Which is more than I can say for what you did to me.”

“You kidnapped me! I’d say that’s something.”

Bertram gave a wordless warning and held the tray under my wildly gesturing cup. Carson—I refused to give him a “Mr.”—just stared me down, unfazed. Then he turned, signaling the goon squad to make sure I followed along.

“Come on. You don’t want to keep the big man waiting.”

6

MAGUIRE’S INNER SANCTUM loomed ahead like the gates of Mordor, except with fewer orcs. Just one man sitting guard outside the double doors. He’d stood when we came into the office foyer, and he and Carson exchanged nods.

“The boss is expecting us,” said Carson, and the guard straightened his jacket before tapping on the door. I knew from my FBI associates that jackets never fell quite right over a shoulder holster.

I reached automatically for the psychic lay of the land. Some people do a tactical assessment, counting exits and potential threats. I read the room for remnants, telling me who to watch out for, which way lay danger.

So far there hadn’t been any spirit resonance worth mentioning, but that wasn’t weird for a semipublic part of a house. I got a bit of a buzz off the door guardian, like maybe a loved one lost, and the goons behind me carried the whiff of violence and threat, but not actual death. That was good, I guess.

But these rooms where Maguire did business? Unnervingly blank. It was as if all the psychic fingerprints in the place had been wiped clean.

It seriously bothered me, because I didn’t know what it meant. I was in enough of a jam without there being something weird about it. The knots in my stomach had knots, and I was only a little ashamed to admit that I really wanted Taylor to show up and handle this. I wouldn’t even have minded Agent Gerard. I was plenty proud, but I was even more worried that I was in way over my head.

“It will be all right.” I looked up, startled by Carson’s low voice in my ear. He stood close, maybe in case I decided to bolt again. His eyes had gone grayer. A trick of the light, but the color matched the steel in his voice.

He might believe his words, but I didn’t. “How?” I asked. “It’s already not