Harmony 03 After Glow (6 page)

“Wyatt knows the truth, I assume?” she said.

“I assume so. I never asked.”

She widened her eyes. “You assume so?”

“We don’t talk about it, okay?” Emmett sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Mom has always made it clear that as far as she and the law and the benefits office of the Resonance Guild are concerned, I’m John London’s son. Fine by me.”

“I see. A real communicative family.”

He stood and disappeared into the bathroom. “When I was growing up Wyatt came to
Resonance
City several times a year. Whenever he was in town to talk business with the leaders of the Guild, he would visit with me and Mom. He acted like he was some sort of honorary uncle. He always showed up with an armful of the latest toys and games. He gave me my first amber. Showed me how to summon a ghost. Kept track of how I was doing in school. Took my mother out to dinner.”

“How long did that go on?”

Water ran in the bathroom for a moment.

“The dinners with Mom stopped when she married a member of the Resonance Guild Council a few years later,” Emmett said after a while. “She was the one who ended the relationship. I got the impression there was a major battle of wills when she told him. Wyatt was not happy about it but in the end, he had no choice. When my mother makes a decision, she makes it stick.”

“What about your own relationship with Wyatt? Did he continue to visit you?”

“We stayed in touch. When I started to move up in the hierarchy of the Resonance Guild he gave me some pointers, taught me the ropes of Guild politics. But we had a major parting of the ways when he realized that I had my own ideas about the future of the Resonance Guild.”

“What happened?”

“Wyatt was furious when he found out what I planned to do with the organization. He was still locked into Guild traditions in those days. He figured that if I managed to restructure the Resonance Guild as a modern business enterprise, the rest of the Guilds would eventually follow. We had several extremely colorful discussions on the subject. He finally gave up trying to change my mind.”

“Then you proposed to Tamara and dear old dad showed up at your engagement ball and stole your fiancée?”

“To be fair, Wyatt’s wife had died the year before. As for Tamara, she had already decided to end our engagement because I had told her that I planned to step down from my position with the Guild. She just didn’t tell me until the morning after the reception.”

“Heck of a morning-after surprise.”

“My own fault. I should have seen it coming.”

The shower went on in the bathroom, effectively cutting off all communication to and from the bedroom.

Annoyed,
Lydia scrambled out of bed, pulled on a robe, and stalked into the steamy bath. She pushed the curtain aside.

Emmett was sluicing himself off beneath a blast of hot water. She tried to ignore the fact that he looked awfully good naked and wet. Water gleamed on his broad shoulders.

“It strikes me that Tamara’s position is in jeopardy again,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the rushing water. “Her husband is in intensive care. If Wyatt doesn’t make it, she will no longer be Mrs. Guild Boss. On top of that, you are the new Guild chief. She is not going to be a happy woman. Makes it look like she chose the wrong man, after all.”

“Tamara will have to worry about her own problems.” He reached for the razor. “I’m going to be a little busy for a while.”

“You never got around to telling me why you don’t think that you’re in the same danger as Mercer Wyatt.”

“He was fading fast because of the stuff they were pumping into him to control the shock and prep him for surgery. But the last thing he said to me before they wheeled him away was,
Don’t let the Guild tear itself apart because of this. It wasn’t politics, it was personal.”

“You mean he knows who shot him?”

“I think so, but he didn’t tell me. He said he’d take care of it when he got out of the hospital.”

A shiver went through her. “Great. Just great. We’re in the middle of a Guild family soap opera.”

Emmett turned off the shower and grabbed the towel she held out to him.

“When it comes to dysfunctional families,” he said, “I’ll put mine up against anyone’s, anytime.”

S
HE DREAMED ONE
of the Lost Weekend dreams.

She fled down an endless corridor that glowed green on every side. There was no sound behind her, but she knew that her pursuers were back there in the miles of catacombs searching for her.

She clutched something in one hand but she did not know what it was. She only knew that she dared not drop it.

Then, without warning, she was no longer in a corridor but a vast chamber with a ceiling far higher than any she had ever seen underground.

She was breathless. Her heart was pounding. Something very frightening had just happened but she could not remember what it was.

She stumbled and fell headlong on the green quartz floor. Terrified that she had just brushed against some object that might contain an illusion trap, she scrambled to her feet and turned to see what it was that had tripped her.

A human skull stared back. The eye sockets regarded her without pity or remorse.

The jaw moved. The death’s head spoke. . . .

She came awake in a cold sweat, sitting straight up in bed. “The words.”

Emmett stirred beside her. “What’s wrong?”

At the foot of the bed, Fuzz raised his head. She could see all four of his eyes, the green set as well as the blue glowing in the shadows.

“The words on the scrap of paper I picked up off the floor of Professor Maltby’s apartment,” she whispered.

Emmett levered himself up off the pillows. “What paper?”

“I dropped it into my purse just before you and Detective Martinez arrived.” She pushed aside the covers and stood beside the bed. “I got distracted after that and forgot about it.”

She grabbed her robe and hurried down the short hall to the small table where she had left her purse. Emmett pulled on his khakis and followed at a more leisurely pace, yawning. Fuzz perched on his shoulder, no doubt hoping that this midnight expedition would include a raid on the pretzel jar.

Lydia got the purse open and groped inside. “It’s in here somewhere.”

“Take it easy, honey.” Emmett switched on the hall light. “What made you pick up that paper?”

“Because it looked like the last thing Maltby wrote.” Irritated when she could not locate the scrap of paper, she turned the purse upside down and dumped the contents onto the table. “It was unfinished.”

Emmett began to look interested. “You think he was trying to write a message just before he died?”

“Maybe.”

“You didn’t say anything about this to
Martinez.”

“There wasn’t much to say. The message might have been the start of a grocery list, as far as I know. Besides,
Martinez was only interested in you and Mercer Wyatt. I doubt that the death of one more down-and-out Chartreuse addict is a high priority for the Cadence cops.”

Emmett watched her sort through the array of items that had tumbled out of the purse. The mix included her wallet, a small jewelry case containing one of the several spare amber bracelets she had purchased after her Lost Weekend, a comb, her business calendar, and a packet of tissues. He studied the round, green quartz object on the bottom.

“What the heck are you doing with a tomb mirror in your purse?”

“Zane found it the other day. He gave it to me.”

Tomb mirrors were among the most common of alien antiquities. No one knew how the aliens had used them but since one side was usually glass smooth and produced a clear, green-tinged reflection, the experts concluded they might have actually been mirrors. One school of thought held that the mirrors had had religious significance.

Tomb mirrors came in a variety of odd shapes and sizes but like most of the other antiquities that had been discovered on Harmony they were made of the same ubiquitous green quartz that the ancient alien colonists had used to construct almost everything. The stuff was virtually indestructible. As far as the experts could tell it was almost completely impervious to the elements and the biological processes that nature used to recycle everything else.

Emmett picked up the little tomb mirror and studied the ornate carvings that surrounded the reflective surface.

“Nice one,” he commented, turning it over in his hand to examine the elegantly worked design on the back.

“Yes, it is.” She finally spotted the scrap of paper trapped in the fold of her wallet. “Thank goodness. For a minute there I thought I had lost it.”

Emmett put the mirror down on the table and studied the torn bit of note paper she held up to the light.

“Amber Hil?” He frowned. “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“It didn’t register with me, either, when I found it today. But tonight I had another one of those stupid Lost Weekend dreams. This time I was in some sort of massive chamber. There was a skeleton on the floor.” She broke off, struggling to bring back some of the swiftly evaporating details. “Maybe two skeletons, I’m not sure.”

“Sounds like a major anxiety dream.”

“I knew I had to get out of the chamber and keep moving. They were chasing me.” The little piece of paper in her hand trembled.

“Easy, honey.” Emmett put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close against his hard, warm body. “Just a dream.”

Fuzz hopped from Emmett’s shoulder to
Lydia’s and rumbled soothingly in her ear. She raised her hand and patted him.

“I know,” she said, shaking off the aftereffects of the nightmare. “I’m okay. The dream tonight was just my unconscious reminding me about this little note.”

There was no point in telling Emmett that the Lost Weekend dreams were getting more frequent and more bizarre. He would only worry. He had problems enough at the moment.

The truth was, she was hopeful that the nightmares were a sign that her amnesia was starting to clear. In recent months she’d had an increasing number of fleeting glimpses into the dark place where her memories of the Lost Weekend were hidden. To date she had seen nothing solid or identifiable, though. It was like catching sight of a wraith at the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, it disappeared.

But she was convinced now that one day soon she would remember exactly what had happened to her down in the catacombs. When that day arrived, she planned to file the mother of all lawsuits. To that end, she was already drawing up a list of inexpensive lawyers. The problem would be finding one who was gutsy enough to take on the Cadence Guild.

She turned briskly away from the table and went toward the kitchen. “There’s something familiar about what Maltby wrote down. I know I’ve seen these words somewhere else.”

“Any idea where?” Emmett asked behind her.

“Yes.” She yanked open the refrigerator and peered into the glowing interior. “On a milk carton.”

Emmett moved close behind her and studied the carton of milk sitting on the top shelf. “
Amber
Hills Dairy.”

“Yes.”
She waved the piece of paper. “Frankly, I just can’t see a man who was preparing a fix of Chartreuse worrying about picking up a carton of milk at the grocery store, can you?”

“He could have written the words earlier and gotten distracted.”

“Emmett, when you make out a grocery list, you write milk, not the name of the dairy.”

“Huh.”

“I take it you don’t make out a lot of grocery lists.”

He shrugged. “I just go into the store and buy what I want.”

She shook her head and closed the refrigerator door. “Another thing, Maltby’s handwriting was very good and very precise. I saw some examples of it on his desk. But look at the penmanship on this piece of paper.
Amber Hil
was written with a hand that was shaking badly.”

“Maybe,” Emmett said, clearly unconvinced.

“Know what I think? I think Maltby was trying to write Amber Hills Dairy because he knew he was dying. He was leaving me a clue.”

“Slow down, honey. Why would he use those last few moments of his life to write the name of a commercial dairy?”

“Good question.” She swung around and started toward the bedroom. “I’m going back to his place to see if I missed something else.”

“Now?” Emmett asked warily.

“I can’t think of a better time, can you?”

“Damn,” Emmett said. “I was afraid of that.”

T
HE FOG HAD
rolled in off the river earlier in the evening. It had flooded
Hidden Lane, thickening the already deep shadows that nestled in the narrow passage. It was one-thirty in the morning. Only a handful of the windows in the aging apartment buildings that rose on either side of the lane were lit at this hour.

Emmett was well aware that the lack of illumination did not mean that there was not a lot of lively business activity going on in the vicinity. Most of the entrepreneurs who plied their trades and sold their goods in this part of town preferred to work at night and in the shadows. The sole exception might be the Greenie huddled at a small table beneath the lane’s single streetlamp, books stacked in front of him. He did not look all that happy to be on the job at that hour. Emmett didn’t blame him.

The Slider fit, just barely, into a tiny space near the entrance to the flophouse where Maltby had lived. Emmett de-rezzed the engine and looked at
Lydia with what he hoped was an expression of stern authority.

“Stick close to me,” he ordered. “I go in first. If anything happens, you let me handle it, understood?”

“Relax.” She unbuckled her belt and opened the door. “What can go wrong? I told you, I just want to have a quick look around Maltby’s place. We’ll be in and out in five minutes.”