Running Hot

Honolulu tomorrow.”
    “You’re sure you don’t mean this morning?”
    “I don’t make mistakes like that. She’s booked on a flight from Portland, Oregon, tomorrow morning that leaves at eight. Got a pen?”
    Luther went back inside the apartment. He found a pen and a pad on the kitchen counter.
    “Go,” he said.
    Fallon rattled off the flight number and repeated the date. “She lands in Honolulu at eleven thirty-five. The two of you will travel on to Maui under your new IDs and check into the hotel.”
    “She lives in Portland?” Luther asked.
    Not that it mattered where Renquist lived.
    “No, a little town on the Oregon coast,” Fallon said. “Place called Eclipse Bay.”
    “Never heard of it.”
    “Yeah, well, I get the impression that’s why Miss Renquist likes it there.”
    “A lot of senior citizens get off the planes here,” Luther said. “How will I recognize her?”
    “She’ll probably be wearing gloves.”
    “Gloves? In Hawaii? It’ll be eighty-one degrees here tomorrow.”
    “Miss Renquist likes to wear gloves,” Fallon said. “She’s a little eccentric that way.”
    “She’ll stand out in the crowd, all right. Tell her I’ll be in khakis and a dark brown shirt.”
    “Is the shirt with or without flowers?”
    “Without.”
    “I’m sure the two of you will find each other without too much trouble.”
    Fallon ended the sentence with a couple of odd snorts and cut the connection.
    Luther left the piece of paper with Grace Renquist’s flight information on the counter and went back out onto the balcony. He would get a few hours’ sleep and then he would call Petra and Wayne and tell them he had taken the Maui job. At least they’d be pleased.
    He finished the whiskey and thought about the strange vocalizations Fallon had made just before ending the call.
    If it had been anyone other than Fallon Jones, he would have sworn that the odd snorts were laughter.

FOUR
    Eclipse Bay, Oregon . . .

    She would get a dog when she returned from the Maui assignment.
    The decision made, Grace Renquist turned away from the dresser and placed the neatly folded nightgown into the suitcase. There was nothing sexy about the plain white cotton garment. The sleeves were long and the hemline fell to her ankles. It had not been purchased for purposes of seduction and enticement. She had selected the cozy gown for its practical virtues. Winter nights were chilly on the Oregon coast.
    The nightgown was all wrong for Hawaii and so was everything else she was putting into the suitcase, especially the spare pair of thin black leather gloves. A year ago she had fled her old life with only the clothes on her back. She did not even own a bathing suit; hadn’t needed one in Eclipse Bay. But she was not about to buy a whole new wardrobe for what she had been informed would be a very short trip to Maui. The Arcane Society paid well but not nearly as well as her previous job. In her new life as a psychic genealogist, she had to exercise some financial restraint.
    The work was fascinating and rewarding but it wasn’t enough to banish the increasing gloom of loneliness. Should have gotten a dog months ago. But she knew why she had resisted the temptation. There had been so many uncertainties during this first year as Grace Renquist. What if the Florida authorities tracked her down? What if the two men whose auras pulsed with dark energy found her? What if her new identity didn’t survive scrutiny by J&J? She had wanted to be prepared to disappear again in the blink of an eye. A dog would have complicated any escape plan. She knew that she would not have been able to abandon it.
    But it had been a little over twelve months since Martin Crocker had died. Surely if anyone had been looking for her she would have sensed it by now. Her survival instincts were inextricably linked to her peculiar version of aura talent. Both had been honed razor sharp at the age of fourteen. Even more reassuring, she had made it through the J&J background checks. She was safe now; tucked away in that great dusty vault of the Arcane Society officially known as the Bureau of Genealogy. True, the contents of the vault these days were housed online and she accessed them with a computer; nevertheless, the metaphor still applied.
    She was safe. It would be okay to get a dog.
    Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the coded number and answered immediately.
    “Good morning, Mr. Jones,” she said. The formality was automatic, one of the