A log cracked and fell apart, sparks flying upward. Shadows formed fantastic shapes on the walls. There was no sound. All of them settled in during the long moment of silence, and their hands remained clasped. Then Wallace said, “I’m thinking about you, Kathryn, trying to see you. Can you hear me, hear my mind? You must tell me where you are. You’ve done it before with me, do it now.”
More silence.
In those long moments, Savich felt the soft warm air settle over him, enfolding him like a blanket. He felt Sherlock’s hand in his, as soft and warm as the air, and he concentrated on Kathryn Golden, pictured the photo of her he’d seen on her dresser. A handsome woman, an intelligent face, eyes that saw, perhaps, things other people’s eyes didn’t. He remembered Samantha Barrister, long dead, yet he’d seen her, spoken to her, that long-ago night in the Poconos. But unlike Samantha Barrister, Kathryn Golden was alive. He wasn’t sure how he knew this, but he knew.
Was it possible for Kathryn Golden’s mind to connect to Wallace Tammerlane’s?
Kathryn was smart, he knew she was smart, knew she was so frightened that her fear was eating deep. Savich stilled, and felt a ripple of awareness touch his mind, veer away, circle back again. It was very gradual, this awareness sifting like a shadow through his mind. No, not a shadow now. Savich felt a sudden ferocious fear—frantic and violent. It burrowed into him, paralyzing and chaotic. Then he perceived that whatever it was touching him had begun to change. The fear softened, the cacophony waned, and then there were jagged lines. He saw them clearly, like the static on an old TV. Savich forced himself to focus again, to smooth away the jagged lines. They began to slow and lighten until they finally faded into nothing. Savich saw it clearly now, a movement, not from the corner of his eyes, but straight in front of his face. It was a pale and vague image, rippling in soft colors, then it slowly sharpened, and he saw her clearly even though she was in a dark place. A woman, her hair straggling around her face, her clothes ripped, her feet bare, tied to a chair, a gag in her mouth. He saw her head jerk up. It was Kathryn Golden. She was alert now, her every sense focused on him. Oh God, who are you? I feel you. He’s left me, but not for long. Help me. Dillon? Is that your name? Help me.
Savich focused on her face, the ugly bruise on her jaw where Makepeace had struck her. Without even wondering what he was doing, he thought, I will, stay calm.
Oh, thank God you’re there. Dillon—
Then it was as if someone yanked a plug out of the wall. She was gone. His mind was empty of her. Had he imagined it? Had he experienced some kind of waking dream? No, he had not.
Wallace Tammerlane stood up a minute later and faced them. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I got through to her. There wasn’t any answer.”
Ogden turned up the lights.
“Maybe,” Savich said, rising slowly, “the line was busy.”
When at last they were ready to leave, Savich shook Wallace Tammerlane’s hand, then Bevlin Wagner’s. “Thank you for your efforts. We have to be leaving now. If Kathryn makes contact with you, or you happen to find out anything that could help us, please call my cell.” He gave each of them his card.
Cheney turned at the front door. “Do either of you keep journals?”
“Of course,” Tammerlane said, and Bevlin nodded. “All of us do.”
Savich heard everyone else murmur their good-byes, Bevlin assuring them it was okay, that they’d find Kathryn, that Wallace would keep trying.
When Julia and Cheney piled into the backseat, Julia asked, “What do you want me to do, Dillon?”
“First, I want you and Cheney to have that visit you were planning with Soldan Meissen. He’s somewhere in the middle of this, he must be. Then I want both of you to come to the Sherlocks’ house. You’re both going to be guests there, along with the rest of us.”
CHAPTER 43
There was a stark white half-moon shining directly down on Cheney’s borrowed wheels, an older dark blue Audi, on temporary loan from the dealership while his own Audi was getting patched up from its beach run that morning.
It had all happened twelve hours ago. Amazing. He turned to Julia. “You hanging in there?”
“It’s been a wild day, that’s for sure.”
“What did you think of Tammerlane’s séance?”
“Well, I suppose it didn’t work, did it? We’re no closer to finding Kathryn. Do you think she’d dead, Cheney?”
He thought about that for a moment, then said, “No, the fact is, I don’t. However, I’m still not certain why Makepeace took her.”