ROSE WAS AT HER DESK, deep into a heavy tome that bore the equally heavy title Fundamentals of Psychology. She looked up when Chloe and Hector came through the door.
“We need to talk, boss.”
“That sounds ominous,” Chloe said.
She went on into her office, sat down behind her desk and powered up her computer.
Rose slapped the book down and hurried into the inner office.
“I know you, boss,” she said. “You’re afraid that maybe Jack Winters is attracted to you just because you found that lamp for him, aren’t you? That maybe what he feels for you is gratitude.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a man went through that phase after a case was closed.” She watched her calendar open. “Oh, good, I see you made a couple of appointments for me with new clients.”
Rose glanced at the calendar. “The one this afternoon is Barbara Rollins. You did some work for her husband last year, remember?”
“I arranged for him to acquire some very nice Roman glass.”
“Turns out Mr. Rollins died a couple of months ago. The widow is getting ready to sell his collection. She wants to talk to you about moving the pieces on the private collectors’ market.”
“The same way that her husband acquired them.” Chloe made a note.
Rose cleared her throat. “Listen, about Jack Winters.”
“What about him?”
“He may be feeling grateful to you, but that is definitely not why he is sleeping with you. By the way, speaking of sleep, do you realize that in the entire time I’ve known you, Jack is the only man you’ve allowed to stay overnight? This is huge, boss. A major breakthrough for you.”
“Rose, I really do not want to talk about my private life.”
“I’m just afraid you’re going to screw up this relationship the way you have all the others.”
“Screw up? I hate it when you use technical jargon. Sometimes I wish you would change majors. Ditch the psychology classes. How about accounting? We could use an accountant around here.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Chloe exhaled slowly. “I know what you’re talking about, but I am not going to talk about it. Got it?”
Rose eyed her with an air of clinical speculation. “Wow. I don’t believe it. You really are afraid you’re going to screw up again, aren’t you?”
“Terrified.”
45
HIS NAME WAS LARRY BROWN, AND HE WAS THE QUINTESSENTIAL nerd. He was seventeen and a half years old, short, thin and not the least bit athletic. He played chess, not football, and what life he had he lived online. For as long as he could remember he had been the chosen victim of every schoolyard, locker-room and classroom bully who came along. And sooner or later, a bully always came along.
In school he had been able to avoid a lot of the traps the mean kids set for him because he had a sort of sixth sense that warned him when trouble was coming his way. But his keen intuition wasn’t much help against the biggest bully of them all, his father. A few months ago he had done the only thing he could do to survive—he had left home. Things on the streets weren’t going well, however. The bad guys were more dangerous than the classroom bullies, although none were any worse than his dad.
But now, thanks to the online website he had stumbled across three weeks ago, his life was about to change forever. He was being offered the Holy Grail of all victims of bullying everywhere: Power.
“You’ve had three injections of the new version of the formula,” Dr. Hulsey said. He filled a syringe from a small vial of clear liquid. “This will be the fourth. It should be more than enough to open the channels between your latent dream-psi energy and your para- senses. After that you’ll be put on a maintenance dose in order to keep them open.”
“I don’t feel too good,” Larry said.
He was sitting on the edge of a gurney in a small, white-walled room that looked unpleasantly like a medical examining room. He was shivering, and for some reason the fluorescent lights made his eyes water. The muffled clang and thud of heavy gym machines overhead was painful. Everything hurt.
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Hulsey said cheerfully. “The new version of the drug is very powerful and works very quickly. Your body and your senses just need some time to adjust to the rapidly rising levels of talent. You were approximately a Level Three when you came to us. Within twenty-four hours I have every expectation that not only will you be a Level Eight or Nine but you also will have an additional talent. It will be interesting to see what it is. Second talents, you understand, are quite unpredictable.”
Larry watched Hulsey fill a syringe. He didn’t like the doc. The guy was creepy, looked like an oversized praying mantis with glasses and a lab coat. But he was pushing past his intuition because the nice lady who had recruited him had promised that the results of the injections would be worth it. When this was all over he was going to be able to control people with psychic powers. How cool was that? No one would ever be able to bully him again.
Hulsey gave him the shot. It stung, just like last time. A flash of sick heat rolled through him. He felt nauseous.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“Now we wait,” Hulsey said.
“For what?”
“For the lamp, of course.”
“What lamp? Why do I need a lamp?”
Hulsey chuckled. “Well, for one thing, you’ll die without it. But what really concerns me is that without the lamp, the entire experiment will be a failure.”
46
SHE LEFT HECTOR ON GUARD IN THE FRONT SEAT OF THE CAR and went up the front steps of the imposing house. The residence was one of the many secluded homes on Mercer Island, an expensive chunk of land situated in the middle of Lake Washington.
Mercer Island real estate was a classic example of the oldest rule in the business: Location, location, location. The I-90 bridge linked the island directly to Seattle on the west and to the sprawling upscale suburban communities on the east side of the lake. Waterfront homes on Mercer Island were priced somewhere in the stratosphere. Large yachts were parked at the docks in front of the properties that rimmed the edge of the island.
She checked her watch and pressed the doorbell. Three o’clock.
The last time she had come here a housekeeper had opened the door, but today Barbara Rollins greeted her.
Barbara was an elegantly groomed woman in her midseventies. Her hair was silver white and cut in a short bob. Her beautifully tailored cream-colored trousers and pale blue silk shirt looked like they had come from the couture department at Nordstrom’s. A small blue-and-cream scarf was knotted around her throat. There was a short stack of gold bangles on her left arm and some extraordinary rings on her fingers.