Idon’t like this,” North said.
“Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing,” Sierra said. “And so does Mr. Jones. Under other circumstances I wouldn’t be using his special services. But given those crazy Puppets that Loring is running, it makes sense to purchase the security upgrade. Besides, Las Vegas is paying for it. Arganbright can afford it.”
“I understand. But when I gave that crystal tuner to Jones this evening I lost control of it. It’s my only leverage.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Jones is handling this exchange personally,” Sierra said. “He knows an artifact when he sees one. He won’t hand over your tuner unless he’s sure he’s got the night gun.”
“He’s never even seen a night gun.”
“Neither have we. But you gave him a description, and if it’s the real deal it will be very hot,” Sierra said. “It’s not as if you can fake that kind of heat.”
“I know.”
“But you’re not happy about losing control of the tuner. I get that.”
They were sitting in her booth in the basement level of the Vault. There were two glasses of sparkling water on the table. The music from the club on the upper level reverberated through the floorboards that formed the ceiling. It was twelve thirty. Most of the tables and booths were occupied. This was the busy time of night for those who dealt in the paranormal. In the shadowed corners of the club, deals were going down. Buyers and sellers were scheduling deliveries with go-betweens.
Two hours ago she had delivered the tuner to Jones. He had disappeared with it and several members of his security team.
Sierra’s phone pinged. Even though she had been expecting the message, she was startled. She glanced down. Exchange completed. Private quarters.
“Here we go,” she said.
She slid out of the booth. North joined her. They went toward an unmarked door. It opened just as Sierra raised her hand to knock. A woman in her twenties who was dressed as a Vault security guard smiled.
“Hi, Sierra,” she said. “Mr. Jones is expecting you. Downstairs in the showroom. You know the drill.”
“I do,” Sierra said. “Thanks, Ally.”
“Congratulations on a major deal, by the way.” Ally surveyed North. “A Foundation client, no less. Sweet. That outfit has money, and they always pay their bills.”
It occurred to Sierra that her reputation as a go-between was going to go up several notches if all went well tonight.
“Thanks,” she said again.
She walked through the door with North at her heels. They descended another set of steps into a sleek, contemporary office. The door above closed, cutting off the last of the throbbing music.
“Sierra.” Ambrose rose from behind a glass-and-steel desk. He was dressed, as usual, in a black pullover and black trousers and a black linen jacket. He nodded at North. “Welcome to the Vault, Chastain. Always a pleasure doing business with the Foundation.”
“Just to be clear, this is a personal matter for me,” North said.
“I understand.” Ambrose came out from behind the desk. “I never did believe those stories about your grandfather, by the way. Always figured Rancourt got to him.”
“You were right,” North said. “Sierra and I found Griffin Chastain’s body yesterday. He was shot twice at close range and left in a lab at the Fogg Lake facility.”
Ambrose nodded. “I’m sorry your family didn’t get the satisfaction of seeing Crocker Rancourt brought to justice. Heard he died of a heart attack years ago.”
“All I care about at the moment is the weapon that was used on my father,” North said. “Did you get it?”
“I got a crystal artifact shaped rather like a flashlight, just as you described. No question but that it’s hot, and the heat definitely has the vibe of vintage lab energy. I hope it’s what you need.”
“Let’s see it,” North said.
“Follow me,” Ambrose said. “Your artifact is in my private vault.”
He crossed the room and pressed a concealed lever. A section of wooden paneling slid aside, revealing a steel door. A security panel glowed a faint yellow. Sierra sensed paranormal heat in the mechanism.
North smiled for the first time, a faint, appreciative smile. “Crystal tech?”
“In my spare time I fancy myself something of an inventor,” Jones said. “I specialize in security technology. This lock responds only to my paranormal signature.”
“I’ve got a similar setup at home,” North said. “My grandfather installed it.”
“According to the legends, Griffin Chastain was a brilliant engineer.”
When Ambrose touched the panel the color changed from a pale yellow to bright green. There was a series of muffled clicks before the thick steel door opened.
Heavy currents of energy wafted out of the vault. Sierra’s senses rose in response. Artifacts of all kinds lined the shelves. Many of them glittered and glowed with the unmistakable radiance of the paranormal.
“This is an amazing collection,” North said.
“Thank you,” Ambrose said. “Not all of these items belong to me. In addition to my other services, I offer to store and secure artifacts that are especially valuable or dangerous until a go-between can put a buyer and a seller together.”
North studied the array of relics. “Not just lost lab artifacts. Some of these relics are very old.”
“Humans have been messing around with the paranormal since they discovered fire,” Ambrose said. “My own family has a long history linked to the study of psychic phenomena.”
Sierra remembered the old book North had pulled off a shelf in the Fogg Lake library.
“Are you by any chance talking about the Arcane Society?” she asked.
For the first time since she had met him, Ambrose Jones appeared to have been taken by surprise.
“You know about the Society?” he asked.
“North found a reference to it in the library at Fogg Lake,” she said.
“A family named Jones was evidently at the heart of the Society,” North said. “We wondered if it was just a coincidence that you’re also a Jones.”
Ambrose gave him a cryptic look. “You know what they say—there’s no such thing as coincidence.”
And that, Sierra knew, was all they were going to get out of Ambrose Jones on the subject of the Arcane Society. North apparently came to the same conclusion.
“If you ever get tired of trying to protect these artifacts from the raiders, the Foundation would be happy to take them off your hands,” he said.
Ambrose chuckled. “Victor Arganbright has already made that clear. But at the moment I’m quite capable of protecting my little trinkets. The weapon you want is in that glass case, by the way.”
The object in the case looked exactly like the night gun that Marge and Matt Harper had described—a clear crystal artifact shaped like a flashlight.
North went swiftly across the room and started to open the case.
“Hang on,” Sierra said. “It’s my job to authenticate the artifact, remember?”
Reluctantly, North stepped back
Sierra opened the lid of the glass case, stripped off one leather glove and reached inside to pick up the crystal device. The instant she touched it she sensed the energy in it.
“It’s definitely hot,” she said. “And definitely dates from the era of the lost labs.” She handed it to North. “Also, the last person to handle this gun was very unstable.”
“Probably one of the Puppets,” North said. He took the weapon from her. Energy shifted in the atmosphere. “It’s been damaged but it definitely has Griffin’s signature.”
Ambrose watched him with an interested expression.
“Can I ask what you plan to do with that artifact?” he asked.
North glanced up. “Reverse engineer it to figure out how it works and then retune it.”
“You sound like an engineer.”
“Probably because I was trained as one.”
Ambrose nodded. “I see. A family talent. But you became a cleaner instead.”
“I had my reasons,” North said. “Turns out criminal investigations require a similar skill set.” He slipped the night gun inside his jacket. “There’s no way to know yet if I can use this to save my dad, but it’s the artifact I’ve been chasing. Thanks, Jones. I owe you.”
“You’ll get my bill,” Ambrose said. “And Sierra’s as well.”
North looked at him. “Loring was satisfied with the crystal in that radio you traded for this?”
“Yes.” Ambrose raised his brows. “Any reason why he might not have been satisfied?”
“No, the crystal was originally tuned for Crocker Rancourt. I’m sure it has his psychic signature.”
“I see. Well, I can tell you that all Loring seemed to care about was that the crystal was live. Not shattered.”
“He would also have known that the provenance was clean,” Sierra said. “After all, the crystal has been sealed up inside the old Fogg Lake lab since the day Griffin Chastain was murdered.”
Ambrose studied North. “What do you know about Loring?”
“We have reason to believe he’s the grandson of Crocker Rancourt,” North said. “Stenson Rancourt’s son. If we’re right, Loring is Harlan Rancourt.”
“Interesting.” Ambrose looked intrigued. “I’m aware of the explosion that was said to have killed Stenson Rancourt and his son. I don’t believe they ever found Harlan Rancourt’s body.”
“No,” North said, “they didn’t.”
Ambrose looked at North. “I assume the crystal is dangerous?”
“It was originally tuned for Crocker Rancourt,” North said. He paused. “But the last person to have access to it was my grandfather. By that time he was well aware that he could not trust his research partner.”
Ambrose got a knowing look. “Your grandfather was a magician, wasn’t he?”
“And an engineer.”
Ambrose nodded. “So that crystal is very dangerous. It will be interesting to see if Loring can handle it. If you’re right about his identity, he probably has his grandfather’s psychic signature.”
North smiled a grim smile. “I’m counting on it.”