Dark Oracle (10 page)

The topmost row represented past influences on her question. She flipped the cards over, one by one.

The first image showed a skeleton robed in black riding a white horse, surrounded by white roses, trampling corpses in its wake: Death. This card rarely indicated a physical death, but was a card of endings and transformations. Involuntarily, her mind replayed the “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” ringtone from Harry’s cell phone, and she thought of Corvus. This figure from a past cycle had reappeared in her life, in a powerful way.

Tara had never thought of Corvus as being an agent of change. But the image of Death’s horse walking over the pale corpses resonated with her. Corvus would walk over anyone to achieve his ends. Whatever his influence on her past, he clearly had influence on the current situation. Tara made a note of this card and its position in her notebook, and moved to the second card.

The Page of Swords, reversed. A lithe figure held a sword raised, watchfully surveying a bleak landscape. Traditionally, the Page represented spying and covert actions. Reversed, it suggested a nasty surprise and deviousness. As the card was upside down, the Page’s sword was pointing down at Tara. She imagined the rifle that must have been concealed beneath the shooter’s coat as he fled Magnusson’s house. Her eyes roved over the Page’s face. In Tara’s deck, the pages were all depicted as women. Pages were missing from the modern playing card deck. Insignificant to modern games. But Tara sensed feminine power strongly from this card, and it confused her. The only conclusion she could draw was that the card signified more than one concept in the reading, that perhaps there was another player in the game: a woman. A dangerous woman.

She turned over the last card in the past events row. The King of Wands, reversed, showed an armored man holding a flaming staff, charging forward on a black horse. Only his eyes were visible under the helmet. She thought of the difficulty in reading Gabriel’s body language when she met him yesterday, owing to the obscuration of the radiation suit. Reversed, the King of Wands signaled a severe, aggressive, or overbearing man. It warned of danger, a dispute with a powerful man.

Tara took in the whole row: Death on the white horse paralleled the King of Wands on his black mount. They were mirror images, and there were no coincidences in the Tarot. Between them lay the shooter, the Page. Pages were always messengers, and acted at the behest of other powers. Deep in her chest, she recognized their proximity, knew all three were in league with one another.

In her notebook, she jotted down the layout, with the note
Corvus + shooter + Gabriel.

She turned her attention to the second row, representing the present situation, flipping the card below the Death card over. The Two of Cups depicted a man and a woman holding a chalice, gazing into each other’s eyes. A winged lion spirit rose from the chalice with the symbol of the caduceus, the traditional physician’s symbol of healing. The card signified the balance of opposites, a partnership or friendship, possibly the early stages of a relationship.

She thought about Li. So far, it had proved a workable, if rocky, partnership. The card spoke of trust, reliance. Her eyes flickered up to the nearby Death card. This Two of Cups felt shadowed by Corvus’s presence. She had been Corvus’s partner, once upon a time.

Still, she made the conscious decision to trust Harry. Perhaps their divergent perspectives would prove to be an asset. She deliberately chose to ignore the skip her heartbeat had made when she first saw the card. Anything more than a professional relationship was out of the question. Though Harry was an attractive man, she knew, deep down, she had nothing to offer him.

The card beside it, still in the present, was the Hermit. Tara’s feeling of trust from the Two of Cups carried over to the Hermit. She let her mind rove over the landscape of the card: an old man, standing before sunset-drenched mountains, holding a staff and a lantern that captured a star. It represented solitude, reflection. She thought of Martin on the steps of his trailer, holding his flashlight and his shotgun. This card was placed beside the partnership card she associated with Harry. Not surprising.

The third card in the present, the Nine of Swords, depicted a sleepless woman, sitting up in bed and holding her head in her hands, weeping. Above her hung the threat of nine sharp swords. This was the card of nightmares, representing anxiety, the despair of inner doubts. The card spoke of illusory fears.

Tara thought of her own sleeplessness, the disturbing dreams of darkness and enclosed places that came to her in slivers in the night. These nightmares were based in reality, her mind stubbornly insisted. Still, some part of her wished they could be sent away as easily as an illusion.

The last row of three cards represented the future, what could come to pass if events were allowed to unfold without interference. Tara knew no future foretold by the Tarot was immutable or ever set in stone. Rather, it was a possibility that could be embraced, or, with enough determination, deflected. But until resolved, similar situations would often arise, again and again.

She turned over the Moon, the card of illusion. It showed a serene moon goddess in a dark sky, flanked by two pillars representing two separate paths, a black pillar and a white one. A wolf howled at the full moon, and a crayfish emerged from the sea to behold it.

The Moon suggested intuition, dreams, illusion, fluctuation; the need to discern that which is hidden. It whispered of secrets, hidden knowledge. Tara sensed the investigation was moving toward a precarious time, and frowned.

The next card showed a man driving a chariot pulled by a black horse and a white horse. The fierce horses pulled in opposite directions. Her attention turned back to the Death and King of Wands cards, which made a triangle with this card and mirrored the horses. The Chariot was a card of conflict, struggle, forward movement. She felt Corvus and Gabriel would be relentless in their pursuit.

She turned over the last card, revealing the Nine of Wands. The card pictured wounded, despairing soldiers leaning on their staffs. The card encouraged determination, perseverance in the face of larger forces. Tara rested her chin on her hand. This was the correct attitude to assume in this situation, she was convinced.

She scribbled notes in her book, eying the overall spread. Harry, Cassie, and Tara would not be able to remain here; she could feel the struggle would move relentlessly forward. They would have to find a better way to protect Cassie.

Troubled, she sought more clarification. Thinking on how to protect the girl, she pulled one more card from the deck.

The Seven of Swords depicted a man stealthily making off with five swords slung over his shoulder, leaving two behind stuck in the earth. The man’s expression was surreptitious as he fled into the darkness. The card suggested the need for guile, evasion, and deception. The swords left behind caught Cassie’s attention. . . What could they mean? What had been left behind? Her thoughts immediately jumped to Magnusson’s computer. What had he left behind for Cassie, locked in the secrecy of his passwords?

A knock rang on the door. Tara jumped, reflexively covering her cards with her hands.

“Hey, you okay in there?” Harry’s voice, sounding very close through the thin metal.

“I’ll be right out,” she called, gathering up her cards and tucking them into her bag.

They’d given her much to reflect on. She didn’t think Harry would like those ideas, at all. . . to say nothing of where they’d come from.

Chapter Nine

I
DIDN’T SAY
thank you.” Cassie pulled the covers of Martin’s bed up under her chin. Dressed in Martin’s too-big flannels, with the makeup washed from her face, Cassie looked very much like a small child. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Tara crawled in the other side of the bed, clicked out the bedside light. She could hear Martin snoring on the living room couch. He’d insisted Harry take the second futon in the small second bedroom, declaring he slept better on the couch. When Harry had protested the overwhelming hospitality, Martin had threatened to cut off the home-baked bread.

A dog collar jingled as Maggie launched herself into bed, snooted, and circled. Dog paws poked ribs, and a cold nose sniffed over exposed faces.

“Oof.” Tara rolled over to keep her injured arm out of the way.

“Maggie, lie down.” Cassie ordered. The dog settled down at the foot of the bed across the women’s feet, giving an audible sigh.

Silence stretched out, like an unraveling string. Cassie was first to seize it at the frayed ends. “Do you think my dad’s alive?” Her voice was very small, as if voicing a doubt could make the unthinkable come to pass.

Tara looked up at the shadowed ceiling, her hands folded over her stomach. Her intuition was silent, not nudging her one way or the other. “Honestly, I don’t know. But I can promise you that Harry and I will do our best to find him. We’ll do whatever it takes, okay?”

“I can’t lose my dad. I just
can’t.
” Cassie let out a shaking breath. “He’s all I have.”

Tara turned over in bed to look at her. The girl’s fingers gnawed at the edge of the blankets.

“I know that it’s almost unfathomable. . . to imagine that the one constant in your life could disappear. But you’re going to get through this.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Cassie whispered. “It’s like he was there, and now he’s not. It’s like there’s a hole in space.”

“I
do
know. I lost my mother last year.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t. . .”

Tara frowned. “It was a shock to me, too, having her missing all of a sudden. One day she was there, all was normal. The next, she wasn’t, and everything had gone to hell.”

“What happened?”

“Cancer. I didn’t know about it. . . She didn’t tell me. I was wrapped up in some of my own problems. I think I’d expected that she’d always be there, that she’d always come to my rescue. . .” Tara’s voice trailed off. “It makes me angry to think it could have been different.”

“How?”

“She. . . didn’t continue medical treatment. She abandoned it. I think she didn’t tell me because I would have tried to force her into it. Instead, she just let it eat away at her.” Tara’s vision blurred, and the darkness became softer. “She told an old friend of hers, but she didn’t tell me.” Tara’s mouth tightened. She hadn’t forgiven Sophia and the Pythia for standing by and doing nothing, and she probably never would.

“You still sound angry at your mom.”

Tara paused, startled. “Yes. I guess I am. She always expected me to fight, to survive. . . but when it was her turn, she just. . . she just laid down and died.” She scubbed her soft flannel sleeve over her eyes, changed the subject of the conversation. “But my mother is not your father. Your father is a fighter.”

“I’m afraid. . . I’m afraid my dad is in far over his head. I mean. . . he’s a professor. What the hell is he doing out here, taking orders from men with guns?” Cassie’s tone burned bright with anger. Perhaps Tara’s admission of her own fury gave the girl permission to voice what bubbled through her thoughts. “How could he leave me alone like this?”

“He didn’t leave you alone. He left you with clues,” Tara insisted. “He knew you’d come, and he left his laptop in a place where only you would find it.”

“But I don’t know the password,” Cassie moaned. “It’s about as useless as a big, light-up brick!” Her fingers picked at the satin binding of the blanket. “I’m supposed to have a photographic memory,” she muttered. “I can remember what I had for breakfast three years ago on this day, and what’s been in every load of laundry I’ve ever done. I can even remember all the names of the dolls I had when I was three. But what good is all that. . . data. . . if I can’t find the answer to something this important?”

“It’ll come to you,” Tara said with certainty. “He wouldn’t have left you a puzzle you couldn’t figure your way out of.” The Moon card suggested hidden knowledge, but she had faith in Cassie’s ability to triumph over those. Tara had associated Cassie with the Star card in her mind, and all the success and hope it encompassed.

“Hnh. You’re much more confident in him than I am.”

“Tell me about him.” Tara rolled onto her back and stared at the fuzzy ceiling, thinking about the Magician Tarot card, bringing matter from spirit in his own secret alchemy. “I’ve got a profile of him in my head, but it feels thin.”

Cassie was silent for a moment. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything that jumps to mind. What kind of sense of humor does he have? What does he do in his free time? Does he wrap his spaghetti around his fork, or does he cut it?”

She could see Cassie smiling in the dark. “He cuts his spaghetti. He thinks rolling it is an impractical affectation.”

“Cuts to the chase, does he?”

“Yup. He also licks the filling out of Oreos and puts the chocolate wafers back in the bag for later.”

“Impatient. . . achievement-oriented. . . and likes to give others surprises?”

“You could say that.” Cassie’s grin faded. “You know, I always wanted him to be proud of me. I don’t think I ever really grew out of that. You know how some kids go through a rebellious phase?”

Tara resisted the urge to comment on the blue-streaked hair. “Sure. I went through a phase where I shocked my hippie mom by telling her I was going to grow up and become a cop.”

“Yeah. Like that. Only I never did that.”

“You never rebelled? No sneaking out of your bedroom window to chase boys or smoking on the back porch at three
am
, freezing your ass off in the dead of winter?”

“Nope. Never did it. I guess I really. . . I really craved Dad’s approval when I was younger. Got straight As. Got good scholarships. Went to grad school in his field.” She flipped her hair between her fingers, voiced Tara’s thought. “He hasn’t seen the hair yet. Or know about the art-school boyfriend.” Cassie’s voice softened. “I think I never did grow out of wanting his approval.”

Tara reached over and squeezed the girl’s hand.

“I’d give anything for it now.”

“I know.” A parent’s blessing could be a powerful talisman, invisible until the caster was gone. Its power was never really felt until then, when you had to pick up the pieces to carry on the spell.

•   •   •   •

“F
IGHT
.”

Tara could smell blood and earth, copper and clay. She could hear her breath moving in this small space, surrounding her. She didn’t know which she’d run out of first: air or blood. She shivered from shock, cold, her clothes sticking to the slash wounds crisscrossing her body. The darkness overwhelmed her. If she screamed, no one would hear.

She struggled to remove her belt, ripping off the buckle. She awkwardly tied it in a tourniquet around the fast-seeping wound in her thigh, gripped the buckle in her slick, sticky hands.

Tara dug the sharp edge of it into the wood above her, working it back and forth, hearing it splinter, feeling dirt trickle into her face.

She would not lay down and die here, would not surrender to the darkness. Her mother had raised her to be a fighter, and she was going to fight until she saw daylight.

T
ARA WOKE WITH A JERK, HANDS CLAWING THE AIR, BREATH
shallow in her throat. She lurched upright, wanting to seize the feeling of being awake. Her arm burned. She could see the black tracks of the stitches in the dark, seeming to twist against her pale skin, reminding her of what it was like to feel precious fluid seeping through her skin. At her feet, Maggie stirred. Beside her, Cassie slept peacefully, fingers wound tightly in the pillow.

It was too close in here. The ceiling felt only a finger’s breadth from her nose, and the walls were near enough to touch. The covers were too thick, suffocating, and she threw them off.

She slipped out of bed and felt around for her clothes. Tara climbed into the old jeans, buttoned a flannel shirt over Martin’s T-shirt. Grasping her shoes and her ripped coat, she tiptoed through the half-open bedroom door and down the hall.

Martin snored softly on the plaid couch, his hands folded over his chest. He’d kicked the blanket off his bare feet to feel the warmth in the fading embers of the potbellied stove.

She carefully disengaged the safety chain, opened the door, and stepped out onto the little porch.

Her breath steamed in the darkness. Stars spilled out above her in a sweep of light, marking the Milky Way’s path across the sky. The road to heaven, she thought, craning her neck to follow it from horizon to horizon.

Tara crept down the porch steps, careful not to make a sound, and wrapped her arms around her elbows. She always associated the open sky with freedom, and smiled. Her mind’s eye traced the familiar constellations: Canis Major, the dog, lifting his head to bark at the moon hidden below the horizon; Auriga, the charioteer, ascended high in the sky; Gemini, the twins, nearly setting out of sight.

These pictures in the sky reminded her of the cards she’d drawn earlier in the evening: the Moon, bayed at by the dog; the Chariot; and the Two of Cups. Her subconscious was nagging her to reveal the hidden information quickly, before. . .

Her brow wrinkled, and she fixed on a moving star, across the chest of Auriga. It was too fast to be a satellite, and no distinctly colored left and right lights, as she’d expect on a plane. A forward light flashed in front of a steady taillight.

The screen door squeaked behind her.

“What is it?” Harry padded down the steps, yawning. His hair was mussed from sleep in spikes, and he wore the sleeping bag draped over his shoulders.

Tara pointed up at the sky, and he squinted after her hand. Sleep cleared from his eyes as he focused on the distant light. Another one emerged, traveling at right angles to it.

“Helicopters, flying in a search grid,” he muttered grimly.

“I take it that’s not the Forest Service looking for lost hikers.”

“No. It’s not.” His mouth was pressed in a grim slash. “They’re looking for us.”

Tara’s heart dropped, and she sat down on the porch steps. “How long until they find us?”

“They can’t see much at night. They’re just looking for lights, now.” Harry sat down beside her. “A couple of days, maybe. Depends on if they’re just looking from the air or on the ground, too.”

“Won’t they know your. . . Martin is here?”

Harry shook his head. “I doubt it. Pops—Martin—lives pretty well off the grid. He’s got his own natural gas and water wells. I’m not sure the electricity is legal, but I don’t want to know.” He smiled sheepishly.

“Sounds much different from growing up in Chicago.”

“It is. Pops always hated the noise, the traffic. He saved up his whole life for this, for the peace and quiet.” Harry smiled. “We used to come out this way summers, on vacation. He fell in love with it. So did I.”

“I understand, I think.” Tara stared up at the stars. “I have a little place tucked away in the woods, too. In Tennessee. That’s where I was until I was called in on this case.”

“Pondering the thoughts of Walden?”

“Sometimes. It’s a good place for forgetting.”

“An oubliette.”

Tara paused, thinking on what Sophia had said, of the Four of Swords, the knight lying in effigy in a church. Was it a dungeon or a haven? She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, shivered. “Yes,” she admitted. “It’s a good place to forget myself.”

“You’re cold.” Harry opened the edge of the sleeping bag, like a wing. “C’mon. I won’t bite. Hell, Martin would throw me out for displaying bad manners if I did.”

Tentatively, Tara scooted over and let Harry drape the edge of the sleeping bag over her shoulders. Harry’s shoulder was warm, and she tucked her cold fingers between her knees.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“We’re going to have to figure out how to hide Cassie, at least until we figure out what’s on that computer and can hopefully use it as leverage.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Magnusson has some impressive security on that laptop. I’ve been trying to brute-force my way through it, but the password’s too strong. I would need a data forensics lab to bypass the hardware to even try to get at it. Even then, there’s some risk to the data. God knows what booby traps he’s got programmed in there.”

“Magnusson wanted Cassie to find it. That means that, somehow, she knows the password. We just have to get to it.”

“Got any profiler magic that can do that?”

Tara shrugged. “I could put her under hypnosis.”

Harry looked sidelong at her. Skepticism was written all over his face. “Really? You can do that?”

“I am still licensed to practice psychology in two states.”

“I mean. . . does that really work?”

“It can’t hurt, Harry. If she agrees to it, there’s no harm to be done. She’s got that information in there somewhere.”

Harry shook his head. “Honestly, I have no idea how you do what it is you do. . . how you pull evidence out of thin air. . . the watch, the computer, saving Cassie’s life.”

Tara drew away a bit. “I can’t really explain it.” She
wouldn’t
explain it. Harry’s cynicism ran too deep.

“Try me.”

She looked into his face, at the earnest expression in his almond eyes. She wanted to trust him, but he didn’t belong in her irrational world.

“It’s not a scientific process. It’s not about assembling profiles based on statistical likelihoods. . . at least, it’s not that way for me. Are you familiar with synchronicity?”

Harry frowned. “That’s from Jung. The idea of totally unrelated events having meaningful coincidences.”