In Too Deep

him something important had come in.
    The new e-mail was from the head of security at the L.A. Arcane museum.
    bq.
bq.
bq. . . . Can confirm that the entire staff submitted to a Q&A with Clare Lancaster Jones, the lie detector-talent you recommended. Everyone passed with flying colors. The list of names is attached. I’m at a loss to explain the theft of the mirror. A full inventory is currently being conducted to determine what other artifacts, if any, were stolen….

    The sense of urgency was pushing adrenaline through his veins, but he desperately needed answers. He pulled up the list of museum employees who had passed the psychic version of a lie detector test and compared it with the list he had ordered from the museum’s personnel department.
    There was one name on the list of employees that was missing from the list of people who had submitted to Clare’s Q&A.
    Lights lit up all over the grid as the connections slammed into place. He now knew who had sold the Quicksilver Mirror and, most likely, a number of other artifacts on the black market. But first he had to get to Isabella.
    He went down the stairs to the empty first floor. When he reached the street, he headed for the grocery store.
    Harriet Stokes was at the counter. She looked up from a gardening magazine when Fallon entered.
    “Morning, Fallon. How’s it going?”
    “Fine.” Fallon looked around, taking in the shelves of canned goods, the small freezer section and the bins of bulk nuts and grains. “Where’s Isabella?”
    “Haven’t seen her yet this morning.” Harriet put down the magazine. “Expect she’s over at the café having coffee with Marge and Violet and Patty. Everyone in town wants to know how Cinderella got on at the ball.”
    “What ball?”
    “That would be the one which required a fancy dress and glass slippers.”
    “What are you talking about?” Fallon headed for the door. “Never mind. I don’t have time now.”
    He went outside and cut back across town to the Sunshine. When he yanked open the door, Marge, Violet and Patty stared at him.
    “Where’s Isabella?” he asked.
    Marge frowned. “She left a while ago. Said she was going to pick up the mail.”
    Fallon went cold. “She never made it to the grocery store.”
    Violet smiled. “Take it easy. She said she was going to check up on Walker first. She was a little worried about him for some reason.”
    “Son of a bitch.”
    He broke into a run, heading toward Walker’s cabin on the bluffs. He was dimly aware of Marge, Violet and Patty following him. Other people peered curiously out of doorways and shop windows.
    When he went past the Scar, Oliver Hitchcock came out of the front door.
    “Hey, Jones, what’s up?” he shouted.
    “Isabella,” Fallon said. “She’s in trouble.”
    The crack of thunder and the flash of lightning announced the rain.
    By the time he reached Walker’s cabin, he was thoroughly soaked. He did not feel the cold. An icy psi fever was burning in him.
    He went up the steps and pounded on the door.
    “Isabella. Walker. Open the damn door.”
    There was no response. He was about to kick in the door when he discovered that it was unlocked.
    The utter emptiness of the interior of the cabin gave off the ominous vibes of violence. He could feel it in his bones. He wanted to howl his rage into the teeth of the storm, but he made himself take a couple of minutes to search the cabin.
    Footprints told part of the story. Isabella had entered the cabin. He could see her small, muddy prints on the floor. Two people in running shoes had entered through the back door, gone down the hall to the bathroom and then returned to the front room.
    He went out through the kitchen into the backyard. Fresh tire tracks yielded more information. Walker did not own a car. The heavy tread belonged to an SUV .
    He had missed something, he was sure of it. The fever searing his blood was making him careless. He had to stop and think or he would not stand a chance in hell of helping Isabella.
    He went back into the cabin and stood quietly for a moment, opening his senses without trying to focus. The residue of some familiar currents of energy shivered in the atmosphere. He recognized them. One of the missing Victorian gadgets. That was how they had grabbed Isabella.
    He saw the corner of the business card sticking out from under the rug. He picked it up. The name on the card confirmed his theory of the case.
    “Son of a bitch,” he whispered again.
    He