“Nincompoop?” Vie said, grinning widely, breaking into a slow jog. “Who says that anymore?”
Beckley sighed, joining her. “My father must be the last man alive to use that word. I have even heard him use nincompoopery, which no one in the whole wide world uses anymore. I don’t know why it is still in the dictionary. When I was a teenager I tried to tell him it wasn’t cool. Do you know what he said?”
“No. What?”
“Poppycock.”
Vie laughed. “You’re making that up.”
“I swear I’m not.”
“I like your parents. They’re really a hip, happening couple.”
“Don’t start,” he warned and she laughed again.
When they arrived at the driveway, Vie was surprised to see two rusty plows marking the entrance. In the Hamptons? She looked at Beckley and raised her eyebrows.
“Just wait,” he said, grinning. “There are plenty of examples of Clark’s compulsion to leave artifacts in the state they were found.”
Reclaimed bricks paved the driveway. These multicolored examples of times past had been kept tidy and immaculately weeded. Like the Hume property, woods lined both sides of the drive. Here and there among the trees and undergrowth, Vie spied arched and pointed church windows sitting upright on ancient stone plinths. Some of the windows retained most of their colorful glazing. A few displayed only pathetically empty mullions. A dozen or so little brown house sparrows flitted in and out of the lace-like openings in one huge carved stone window, twittering at each other. The frame must have come from a cathedral. A shaft of afternoon sunlight shone through the trees and revealed that three red circles of glass still occupied the trefoil at its apex. The effect was rather beautifully eerie.
At night the drive would be illuminated by antique street lights. The cast-iron posts came in many colors but the scaling paint gave way to rust patches marring the elegant, fluted surfaces. Penny-farthing wheels, their spokes mostly gone, linked the posts together in a sort of fence.
Raised voices percolated into this sylvan shrine, spurring Vie and Beckley to race up the low rise, escaping the trees and bursting onto a stretch of green. Lawn ornaments of all types, shapes and ages dotted the cleared acres around the red-brick colonial house. Most of these artifacts had never been intended to be adornments of affluent suburban turf. Oddly enough, the old paneled station wagon fit right in.
Beckley’s parents stood valiantly before Clark Ackerman who squarely defended his home, his legs spread, his shoulders back and a blunderbuss held at the ready.
“This is the man your parents thought would be a good person to watch their house for them?” Vie demanded softly, slowing down to walk. She stepped behind a six-foot-tall wheel, lonely without its tractor, planted just this side of the woods. Beckley joined her.
“His obsession appears to have undergone a radical change since his wife’s death,” Beckley replied in a quiet voice. He stood on his toes and peered around the black treads. “The windows among the trees were her idea. The effect is quite dramatic. But this jumble of nonsense all over the lawn is clearly indicative of…”
“The man’s a nutcase, Beckley,” Vie insisted. “Don’t try to cover it up with a lot of psychobabble.”
He turned back to her. “Clark was deeply in love with his wife.”
Vie glanced at her guide and found him staring at her intently. Her heart softened. “That may explain the junkyard but it doesn’t justify the weapon.”
“I doubt it works.”
“I agree. Even so, we shouldn’t make that assumption.” She held his gaze until he reluctantly nodded. “So far, he’s been saying that he doesn’t have the manuscript. Your parents insist that he does have it and they want it back or else they’ll call the police. He doesn’t believe them. Does he like you?”
“I believe so.”
“Good. I want you to continue up the driveway. Call out to him as if he hasn’t done anything wrong. Comment on his blunderbuss. Ask him when he got it…stuff like that.”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to use this…this junk as cover and while you are distracting him I’m going to sneak into his house. I’ll use my talent to find the manuscript. When I do, I’ll take it and slip back out again.”
Beckley rested his hands on his hips and glared at her. The slight breeze ruffled his curling hair and the sun glinted off the frames of his glasses. “I don’t like the idea of you ‘looking’ without me being with you. The house’s layout is unfamiliar to you. Anything could happen in there.”
“I love that you are concerned about me,” Vie said and kissed him on the cheek. “Even so, I can take care of myself.”
“I’m your guide,” he reminded her.
“You are,” she acknowledged. “But this is what I need you to do for me right now. Your parents need you too. They are both very angry and so is Clark. You can diffuse the situation and keep them distracted while I extract the manuscript.”
Vie put her hand on his cheek for a second, then tapped her forehead. “I promise to keep you posted about my movements. You can give me a signal if there is a problem. I will listen for it. Does Clark have any pets?”
“Not that I know of,” Beckley said. He reached out and pulled her toward him for a fierce, quick kiss on the lips. “Please be careful.”
“I will. I promise,” Vie said, giving him a hard kiss in return. She pulled away. “And don’t forget what I said about assumptions and that gun.” She tilted her head and listened. “They’ve started on a philosophical debate about the merits of restoration verses conservation. Dr. Hume is mocking Clark because he claims to be a conservationist but he doesn’t conserve anything, he just lets it deteriorate further. Which, in this case, will make Dr. Hume’s work harder. Oh, Clark is hopping mad. You better get going.”
Beckley clenched his teeth and watched Vie scurry away. She crouched low as she moved from cover to cover.
Stop admiring my ass and get a move on.
It’s a very fine ass.
True. True. Beside the point, though.
He chuckled to himself and came out of hiding. He walked boldly up the driveway. Within about twenty feet he could hear their shouting match. Clark, with the fever of righteous belief on his side, was holding his own against the combined attack of the restoration infidels. They were so consumed by their argument that none of them noticed him until he spoke during a break in the dispute caused by a three-way gasp of outrage.
“Hello, Mr. Ackerman. It’s been a while since I’ve been by for a visit. How have you been?”
Clark blinked owlishly at him. His purple face faded to sunburnt red, which Beckley took as a good sign. He sharpened his gaze and read the man’s aura. A spike of deep dark-red shooting from his usual dull-blue showed Beckley how angry the man was. He had to diffuse some of that anger—all of it if possible.
“I see you’ve added to your collection,” he said, waving toward the back of the property, away from where Vie was climbing the steps to the side entrance. Everyone needed to be sincerely complimented occasionally. It stroked their ego and made them feel good about themselves. In the middle of the jumble was just the thing. “Isn’t that one of Lyman Whitaker’s? I’ve seen some of his work on Salt Spring Island. You’re lucky to have one.”
“Uh, yes, it is,” Clark said, resting his gun across his arm and looking at the almost seventeen-foot-high double helix-shaped copper wind sculpture twirling lazily in the breeze.
I’m in.
“Son, I told you not to come,” Dr. Hume said, his emotions under tight rein.
“And why shouldn’t he come, Dr. High and Mighty?” Clark growled, turning back to his opponents. “Your son has excellent taste.”
“My son is a book restorer as well,” his mother snapped.
Aghast, Clark turned an accusing expression on this newest member of the hated breed.
“Well, no, Mom. That’s not quite true. I’m a book conservationist.”
“Ah hah!” Clark cried, jabbing a finger at Beckley’s parents.
I’ve “looked” and he’s taken it upstairs. Keep up the good work. Your parents must be flummoxed by your defection.
I asked you not to start, he thought at her even though she was too far away to hear him. “Actually, Mr. Ackerman, I’m not a librarian anymore, you know.”
“You quit like your uncle, huh? I knew it. I knew there was no way they were going to tame that wild streak of yours. You have always been a rebel.”
And to think I didn’t believe you when you told me that on the plane.
“You look like a rebel yourself with that blunderbuss. How old is it?”
“It’s over two hundred years old,” Clark said. His brows came together in a furious frown, which he turned on the older Humes. “And it works. Just as it is.”
“It will more than likely blow up in your face if you ever fire it,” Dr. Hume told him. He shook a long finger at his neighbor. “And we won’t come and visit you when you’re blind either. We want that manuscript back before it rots away entirely.”
“I don’t have your manuscript,” Clark snarled. “I’ve already said that a million times.”
“We know you have it, so you may as well hand it over,” Beckley’s mom said. “Whoever took it had the key to our house and knew the keypad code for George’s workroom. You have a key and you know the code. Who else could it be?”
“It could be a super sleuth,” Clark offered.
His petulant, sly voice was so peculiar and had such a change in tone and emotion that Beckley frowned. He sharpened his gaze again. A sliver-wide wedge now marred the man’s aura. Watcher-man. He held his breath as Clark continued to expound on his theory.
“It could be someone who knows a lot about electronic locks and doesn’t need a key to get into your house.” Clark whipped his head around and fixed Beckley with a watchful glare. “Maybe it was someone who could get into any house he wanted to because he knows things.”
What the bloody hell is going on? I haven’t touched him. It seemed to him that Watcher-man was doing more than hitchhiking in Clark’s mind. Did the older man’s fury weaken him and make him an easy target? His parents muttered to each other, clearly aware that something was newly off about their neighbor. Beckley kept his gaze sharp so he could watch the effect of his next words.
“Mr. Ackerman,” he said, keeping his voice pleasant but forceful. “How have you been since your wife’s death? It’s been two years now, correct? You must miss her very much.”
The golden-brown of confusion and mourning flared in the man’s aura, forcing the wedge out as if there was no room in his energies for anything else. The spikes of dull red began to shrink.
I’ve found the manuscript. He hid it under the floor boards in his bedroom. I’m making my way out of here. Clark is such a packrat. Wait a second. What’s going on? I can’t read your thoughts but I can tell you are really upset.
Beckley took several deep, calming breaths while he observed Clark frown and rub his temple. He looked around at them as if he couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said. His body swayed and he put out a hand to steady himself against the white pillar holding up his porch roof.
“I miss Mrs. Ackerman’s chocolate-chip gingerbread cookies.” Beckley folded his arms and tried to look harmless. “I remember stopping here on the way home from school. I swear I could smell them all the way from the road. What a treasure she was.”
“I still have a few,” Clark confessed. He slid down onto the step and hugged the blunderbuss.
“Really?” Dr. Hume asked softly, the righteous indignation on his face giving way to compassion.
“Yah. In the deep freeze.” Clark passed a hand over his eyes. “When Jenny knew she was dying, she baked me dozens and dozens of them. I didn’t realize until after she was gone. I went to get something out of the freezer and there they were—at least ten ice cream buckets full.”
“Jenny was so sweet and considerate,” Beckley’s mom said, moving forward as if to offer a comforting hug.
“Uh, Mom,” Beckley whispered urgently. She looked at him in surprise. He gave a tiny shake of his head. She frowned but stepped over beside his dad. Beckley exhaled.
Clark didn’t seem to have noticed their exchange. He sighed, set down the blunderbuss and levered himself up. “I don’t know what came over me, Angie, George. Things just aren’t the same for me since Jenny’s death. But this?” He shook his head. “I’ll go get that manuscript.”
Oh crap. Oh crap. Stall him, Beckley. Stall him, whatever you do. I’ve got to get this thing back in its hiding place.
“Thanks, Clark.” His dad put his arm around his mom. “I don’t know what I’d do without Angie if anything were to happen to her. I completely understand.”
“Do you mind letting me have a look at that gun before you get the manuscript, Mr. Ackerman?” Beckley asked, holding out his hand and ignoring his parents’ stunned expressions. “Is it the type of blunderbuss they used to call a dragon?”
“No, no. Dragons have much shorter muzzles than this one,” Clark said, picking up the weapon. He sniffed back his emotions and held the gun out for Beckley to take. Sheepishly, he grimaced and admitted, “It’s not loaded.”
I’m back in his room and putting the manuscript into the floor. Give me another couple of minutes.
“Oh, I see.” Beckley gave the weapon the respect it deserved by handling it reverently.
“Did you know that dragoons were named after the dragon?”
“No, I didn’t,” he lied. “Did you know that, Dad?” Beckley asked, raising his eyebrows and staring at his father, praying that he would follow his lead.
“It’s good to learn something new every day, Son,” his dad temporized, completely unable to tell an outright lie.
“Yah. Mounted cavalry men were issued them because they were easier to load and fire than the longer muzzled guns. They became known as the dragon men and then, gradually, as dragoons.”
His mother did her part by making a sort of high-pitched hm-mm, which Clark was supposed to understand as meaning, “Oh really, how fascinating.” Nevertheless, her menfolk knew this sound actually meant “Can we get on with this, please?”
I’m out. I’ll be waiting just inside the woods. If I showed up now, Clark might become suspicious.
Beckley gave an inward sigh of relief and returned the weapon to its owner. “Thank you so much for letting me look at it. I don’t want to rush away but my new boss is waiting back at the house. Do you think you could—”
“Oh, of course. The manuscript. Yes. I’ll be right out.” Clark took the gun with him when he went into the house.
As soon as the door shut, Beckley’s mother surged forward. He jumped back to avoid the hug she so obviously intended to give him. She flinched and her delicate, arching eyebrows drew together.
“What’s wrong? Why won’t you let me embrace you?” Her eyes darted left and right, a habit she had while thinking. “In fact, you haven’t touched either one of us since you arrived, have you? George? Did he embrace you or shake your hand when you picked him up earlier?”
“No, he didn’t.” Dr. Hume faced his son. “I was too distracted to notice, though. You always embrace us when we meet. Why not this time?”
Beckley hated the hurt, confused look he could see in their eyes. “Vie and I have something to tell you when we get back to the house. We wanted to get this business settled before our discussion. Meanwhile, it’s imperative that we not touch.”
“You and Ms. Tine touch each other,” Dr. Hume said slowly. “Why? Why her and not us? We’re your parents.”
His mother’s eyes widened. “You aren’t ill, are you? Something contagious?” She took a small step forward but stopped when Beckley drew back. “I don’t care if it is. If Vie can touch you, so can I.”
Beckley took a deep breath and then released it. “Vie can touch me because she’s immune.”
His mother gave a little cry and her elegant hand covered her mouth. “Oh. You are contagious.”
“Not in the way you think,” he assured her. “Please, just wait until we can explain properly.”
There’s no way they can understand the sort of bond you and I have.
True to his promise to Vie, Beckley responded to Watcher-man’s snide comment.
We don’t have a bond.
He speaks at last. I’m feeling tingly all over.
“Here it is,” Clark said, joining them again. He held the Ziploc bag out so Dr. Hume could take it. “I’d love to see it again when you’re done, George. It really needs the touch of a master.”
The touch of a master… What a joke. He was ready to kill your father before you came along and reminded him of his dead slut of a wife.
Beckley ground his teeth. You made him like that.
Oh no, that was only me at the end. Clark is merely full of misery, which makes it easier for me to influence him. What a whiner. There are plenty of whack jobs out there who go their merry way, hacking and slashing without any interference from me—fulfilling their secret longings. What is your deepest, darkest longing that you hope you’ve hidden from everyone else?
Go to hell.
I’d say you first, but that’s so cliché.
Get out of my head.
Make me.
Beckley moved away from Clark and his parents. “Excuse me,” he said, smiling at them. “Mr. Ackerman. It has been nice seeing you again. Mom, Dad? I’m going to jog back to the house. See you there.”
What are you afraid of, Beckley Hume? What scares the pants off you?
You do. Is that what you want to hear?
He broke into a jog.
It’s a start.
Where do you live?
That would be telling.
“Who are you?” Beckley asked out loud as soon as he was beyond his parents’ hearing.
So full of questions.
“What if we playedtwenty questions?”
Now there’s an idea.
“What say you? Do you want to play?”
I always want to play…
“Yes or no answers only. No maybes allowed,” Beckley said, clarifying the rules. He slowed his pace to look for Vie. She’d wandered into the woods and was examining one of the church windows. She turned and pushed her way toward him through the undergrowth.
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. Tell her it’s nice to see her. Is she going to play too? How fun.
“Vie, we’re going to play twenty questions. You and I are the questioners. Our…acquaintance is the answerer. Would you like to play?” Beckley wanted to take her hand because he knew the pressure in his head would disappear as soon as he did. However, he clasped his hands behind his back and began walking down the drive. Vie joined him.
“Absolutely. Can I go first?”
Yes. Nineteen questions to go.
Beckley’s lips tightened. “He’s counting that as one of the questions.”
“Oh, a wise guy,” Vie commented, rolling her eyes. “I guess it’s your turn then.”
“Are you a living man?” Beckley asked, glancing at Vie. They had agreed previously to try to keep her telepathic abilities a secret—if they could. He would relay Watcher-man’s answers aloud as they came.
Yes. Eighteen remaining.
“Do you live in the U.S.?” was Vie’s question.
Yes. Seventeen.
“Do you have a criminal record?” Beckley’s question caused Vie to nod at him. He could not help a rush of pleasure at her support.
Yes. Sixteen.
“Do you hate me?” Vie asked. Beckley’s eyes widened at this shock tactic.
Oh, most definitely yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. Fifteen.
“Well, that’s told me hasn’t it?”
Yes. Fourteen questions left. Fool.
After Beckley relayed the answer, Vie folded her arms and glared at him as though he were responsible for Watcher-man’s comments. They moved to the side of the driveway to allow the station wagon to pass. Beckley’s father waved at him and pointed toward home. They wanted them to hurry up. He turned and began to jog after the car. Vie fell into step beside him.
“Do you hate her because she is immune to your powers?” No answer. Beckley decided to make his question more specific. “Do you hate her merely because she is immune to your powers?”
No. Twelve.
“Hold on. There are thirteen questions remaining. You cannot count the questions you do not answer.”
I can. You asked a yes or no question. I could not answer it as stated without partially lying—which everyone knows is against the rules—but it was a legitimate question.
Beckley realized arguing with the bastard would serve no purpose. “Your turn,” he said after conveying the answer to Vie.
“Have you met me in person?” she asked.
No. Eleven left.
“Hunh,” she said.
“You seem older to me,” Beckley commented. “Older than I am, I mean. Are you older than, say, fifty?”
“Good question,” Vie praised.
Yes. Ten questions left. You’ve used up half your questions and learned almost nothing.
They opened their eyes wide at his answer and ignored his mockery.
“Since I’ve never met you, have I done anything directly to you to make you hate me?”
No. Nine.
“Well, that hardly seems fair,” Vie said, her tone aggrieved.
Too bad.
“Were you in prison for murder?” Beckley asked.
No. Eight questions left.
“Interesting. And very telling,” Vie said. They paused together at the edge of the main road and looked both ways before crossing. “Don’t bother trying to get Beckley to push me into the road. There’s no cars coming and he won’t do it anyway.”
What does she mean, telling? I’ve told you nothing.
“You know what Vie’s like.”
I do. Bloody bitch.
Beckley halted at the bottom of his parents’ driveway. “Look, if you can’t be nice, I’m not playing.”
Spoilsport. Get on with it. You’ve got eight questions left.
“You tried to get Beckley to hurt me. Do you make other—”
Beckley broke in, “Wait, don’t ask that question. He told me something earlier that answers it.”
“Okay. Okay,” she said, motioning that they should continue on their way home. “Are you currently incarcerated?”
No. Sev—