Always.
"I have a question."
We are here for answers.
"Okay. Okay." I took a deep breath, and plunged forward. "Is there anyway that I can save him?"
He does not need to be saved, Sam.
"Please."
We all have free will, Sam. You can do anything you want.
"So there is a way to save him?"
Of course there is. The body can heal itself immediately if it so chooses. What your doctors call miracles.
"But I know of another way."
I know, Sam. There are many ways. Many paths. The key is to find the right one. The one that feels the best.
"So my way is such a road."
Of course. But does it feel right, Samantha?
"It feels right to me," I said quickly, although doubt ate at me.
Then so be it.
I took a deep breath. "Well, you haven't told me not to do it."
I would never tell you not to do anything, Samantha. This is called a free-will universe for a reason.
"But would you caution against it?"
I would caution against doing anything that doesn't feel right, Samantha. Always ask yourself if the choices you are doing feel right, and act according to your feelings. Then you will know you are on the right path. Always.
"But how do I know how I feel if I'm truly confused?"
You always know, Sam. Always.
Chapter Forty-six
I was driving.
My mind was still reeling from the phone call with Maddie. My mind was still reeling from my conversation with Kingsley. Reeling from my conversation with Saint Germain. Reeling from the possibility that my son could be saved. Possibly.
I was doing a lot of reeling and no doubt a lot of erratic driving, too. I forced myself to calm down. To focus.
It was early afternoon. My sister and daughter were with Anthony. I had work to do, and this was my time to do it, even if I was a royal mess.
I could head out to Simi Valley now, but I suspected I would be waiting a long, long time in the casino before anyone of note showed up. It was better to wait, and head out there later.
For now, I knew where to go. And it just so happened to be right around the corner, too.
* * *
I parked at the Wharton Museum and dashed across the parking lot, past the rich and not-so-famous dining at the Wharton outdoor cafe, and ducked into the main building, gasping for breath I didn't need, and feeling as if I had just run across hot coals.
"You okay?" asked the security guard at the door.
"I'm fine," I lied. Actually, I felt like shit.
He asked if I wanted some help and I waved him off and did my best to walk with some dignity toward the side offices, all too aware of a slight burning smell wafting up from my skin.
I've never felt sexier.
A few minutes later I was seated across from a shell-shocked Ms. Dickens. The old lady didn't look well, and I didn't blame her. A lot of bad luck had come her way. Granted, not as bad as the night guard I had found stuffed in an oversized Igloo.
"I guess the cat's out of the bag," she said. She was holding her forehead in her hands.
I nodded.
"No more hiding the fact that the sculpture was stolen."
"Sometimes there's more important things than stolen sculptures," I said. "Like dead people."
She looked up at me briefly, parting her hands slightly to do so. Her blank stare told me that perhaps she didn't subscribe to my philosophy. A stolen crystal egg, apparently, meant more to her than human life.
"Yes," she said, reluctantly agreeing. "I suppose so."
After a few more minutes of our strained silence, I asked her if I was still on the job. After all, part of my job description had been to help find the missing art piece before the official opening this weekend.
"Yes, of course," she snapped. "We still need to find it. We will just have to deal with the backlash of the theft and death. We've overcome tragedy before, and we will overcome this, too. The Wharton will be world famous someday. World famous. Mark my words."
I nearly stood up and cheered.
Now that we'd established that I still had a job, I thanked her for her time and left her at her desk, where she didn't move or acknowledge my departure.
The police had come and gone in the wee hours of the morning. With their initial investigation completed, the museum had opened on time and business was as usual. To a degree. The place was mostly empty; I felt as if I had it all to myself.
I headed deeper into the museum, looking for Mr. Wharton himself.
The resident ghost.
Chapter Forty-seven
I used my temporary security pass to enter the back room and although it was still daytime, you would never know in here. The place was dark and ominous, and knowing there was a ghost creeping around here made the fine hair at the back of my neck stand on end.
There were two security cameras back here, both placed in such a way that they could see anyone coming and going. The cameras could also see down the main aisle that led between all the side aisles.
Except the cameras weren't working for 20 minutes. Long enough for someone to come in and get out with a prized sculpture worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, or whatever he could get for it on eBay. Long enough to kill a guard and stuff him in a freezer.
As I stood there taking in the back room, I heard shuffling down a side aisle. A ghost? A murderer? Neither. A few seconds later, a young girl emerged. She looked thoroughly freaked out. I didn't blame her. A theft, a murder, a ghost and a vampire. Had I been anyone but me, I might have been freaked, too.
She saw me and gasped, clutching her throat. I smiled apologetically and she relaxed a little. She was holding a box of something. Small museum pieces, although I couldn't see what. She moved quickly past me with a forced smile, and left through the same door I had just stepped into.
Crime scenes can take hours or weeks to clear. The fact that the Santa Ana Police Department had cleared this one in a matter of hours was telling: it meant there was little, if any, evidence. The crime scene itself had been trampled to hell. If there had been evidence, it was probably gone.
With very little clues to collect, and with little hope of collecting anything of value, the museum had been given the green light to open for business with no apparent disruptions. That didn't mean the Santa Ana PD wouldn't take the murder case any less seriously. It just meant they had little to work with.
Although not on public display, many of the artifacts back here were still highly valuable and some were one-of-a-kinds. The muted, indirect lighting was no doubt UV and IR free so as not to cause any damage to the highly sensitive paintings and sculptures and various rare artifacts.