Touched by Darkness (17 page)

Five vehicles lined the street in front of the house

north of Kara—the same house where Luz had

taken Alex after the discarnate entity made an

appearance. One vehicle was an ambulance, sitting

silent, with its rear doors closed and no sign of

interior activity. Two vehicles were police cars, but

their engines were off, and there were no flashing

lights. The house, however, had lights blazing from

almost every window.

Inevitably, a group of people had accumulated

outside to watch the comings and goings, despite

the descending night and the cooling temperatures.

It was probably more excitement than a quiet town

like Zorro experienced in a year. Grimly predicting

that would change in the near future, Damien

parked and strode around the knot of people and up

the sidewalk.

The area hadn't been cordoned off, and no one was

posted at the front door, an indication that this

wasn't being treated as a crime scene. Inside, two

uniformed police officers were standing in the

immaculate, stylish living room, one of them

making notes on a clipboard. They went on alert

when they saw him, started forward to head him

off.

"Chief Greer wants me here," he said, sending a

slight mental push to back up his words. "I'm

supposed to be here. It's all right for me to look

around. You won't find any of my actions unusual

or strange." As with most humans, it was easy for

him to manipulate their minds, and they nodded

and relaxed.

Damien took a deep breath to center himself and

lightly touched the medallion resting beneath his

sweater. Made of the purest pink quartz crystal, it

was attuned it to the energies of great Tuaoi crystal

that lay amidst the ruins of Atlantis, in the depths of

the Atlantic Ocean. Hanging from a chain of silver,

the stone was framed in intricately woven silver.

Both the crystal and silver were conduits for the

wisdom of The One.

Wearing the crystal was a calculated risk; any

Belian who saw it would recognize it and know the

bearer was a Sentinel. But the crystal facilitated a

quicker rise of higher chakra energies and

strengthened their focus, especially on a psychic

scan of a Belian crime scene. Only a human

conductor could offer a more powerful

magnification.

Taking another deep breath, Damien allowed the

crystal's power to flow through him and open his

chakras, as he expanded his awareness, letting it

flare out around him. He mentally slammed against

a wall of darkness, felt the oppressive weight of

evil and utter absence of divinity. A Belian had

been here.

As he made the connection, images came to him,

like a movie, only choppy and uneven, as if a

strobe light was flashing in the scene. He saw a

human form engulfed in an overcoat, with a cap

pulled low over the face. He couldn't see any

features; Belians were adept at blurring their

psychic projections.

In jerky images, the figure jimmied the lock on the

front door, slipped inside, and headed to a nearby

hallway. The outside darkness in the vision told

Damien it was nighttime, and Mrs. Burgess had

been alive yesterday afternoon, so that narrowed

the time frame of the murder. There was no doubt

she'd been murdered. If a Belian was involved,

there would be no other alternative.

He followed the dark trail to the hallway and down

it as he watched the psychic replay of the Belian's

actions. It was more difficult to pick up an actual

signature. He had learned to create a mental sphere,

surround it with the powerful, protective energy of

the Light, and then suck the negative, oppressive

energies into the sphere.

Later, he could work with the energies and

manipulate them into the Belian's psychic

signature. With the help of a conductor, he could

amplify the signature even more, and begin to

differentiate characteristics that would lead to the

human identity of the Belian.

The stench of evil became more pronounced as

Damien went down the hall, his vision leading him

unerringly to the last doorway on the left. On an

ethereal level, he watched the man/Belian enter the

room, while on a physical level he heard voices as

he approached the doorway. There were at least two

men and Kara. He recognized her voice, pitched

higher than usual, her agitation evident.

"Mr. Sampson, there's no way you can declare this

a natural death," she was saying.

Damien paused outside the door, abstracted the

energy that was even more decadent and evil here.

"Dr. Cantrell, there's no evidence to the contrary,"

said a brisk male voice.

Damien stepped to the doorway, balancing the

psychic replay of last night with real time. In the

replay, a shadowy figure approached the sleeping

woman in the bed, visible only in the faint glow of

the night light.

In the here and now, all lights in the room were on;

people and equipment framing the centerpiece of

attention—an elaborate, four-poster bed bearing the

lifeless, stiff and bent body of Mrs. Burgess. He felt

a brief flare of pity for her soul and its ruined shell,

but ruthlessly quashed it.

Kara faced two men, her hands clenched by her

side, looking pale but determined. At the foot of the

bed, two EMTs, a man and a woman, waited beside

a raised gurney. Their black leather equipment

cases sat on the floor, closed up, useless in the face

of death. Everyone looked Damien's way as he

entered the room, letting go of the psychic trail for

now. He'd come back later to study the crime and

the energies.

He recognized Chief Tom Greer, a weathered,

middle-aged man with thinning, graying black hair

and brown eyes. He was dressed in jeans and a

sweatshirt and sported cowboy boots, and had a

cowboy hat clutched in his left hand. Apparently

he'd been off duty when the call came in.

The police chief's eyes narrowed when he saw

Damien. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"I'm here to offer my assistance," Damien said,

moving to stand by Kara. He felt her tension, and

maybe a tingling of relief, as she shot him a quick

glance before returning her attention to Greer.

"Well, you can just take yourself out of here," the

chief said. "We don't need a reporter, and an

outsider at that, snooping around at a time like

this."

"I'm a writer, not a reporter. And I'm not here in an

official capacity. I'm here because of my

association with Dr. Cantrell." Damien left it at

that, and let them draw whatever conclusions they

would. They'd better get used to him and Kara

being together, because he intended they would be

spending a lot of time with one another until the

Belian was identified and Atlantian justice

dispensed.

"I don't give a damn about your so-called

association with the doctor," Greer snapped. "I

want you out of here now."

Her eyes wide, Kara stepped in front of Damien.

"Chief Greer—"

"Is this a crime scene?" Damien asked, taking her

arm and moving her to the side.

"Not at this time," Greer said, placing his hand on

his gun in an intimidating gesture. "Now get out."

"If there's been no crime, then you can't possibly

object to my presence here." Damien met Greer's

gaze squarely, although he was reluctant to use a

mental push with the chief, because he didn't trust

the man, didn't want to alert anyone or anything to

his identity. "Unless, of course, you want me to air

any suspicions I might have regarding Mrs.

Burgess's death in my magazine."

His face turning red at the implied threat, Greer

took a step forward. "Now see here—"

"Let it go, Tom," said the other man. He was

dressed in a dark wool suit, and was older, with a

shock of white hair and a gray mustache and vivid

blue eyes. "It doesn't matter if this man is here,

because this isn't a crime scene."

"I don't agree with you, Mr. Sampson," Kara

protested again. "I'm not convinced Doris died of

natural causes."

Damien glanced at her sharply. She knew

something, or had sensed something. Or perhaps

her previous experiences with Belians had led her

to the logical conclusion that this was the work of

one.

"But there's no reason to believe that Mrs. Burgess

met with foul play," Sampson told her.

"He's right, Dr. Kara," Greer said. "There's no

evidence of forced entry."

"The front door was unlocked when I got here."

Kara turned her attention to him. "I know Doris

keeps her doors locked."

"She probably just forgot to lock it, then," Greer

replied. "As I said, there's no indication the lock

was tampered with. And there's no sign of injury to

the body—to Miz Burgess. She was an old woman

—what? Seventy-eight, seventy-nine?"

"Seventy-five," Kara said. "And she was very

healthy for her age. I just saw her on Monday."

"Seventy-five ain't all that young. It's not

uncommon for an old person to die in their sleep,"

the chief pointed out. "And Miz Burgess had

diabetes. That tends to take some years off a

person's life." He turned to the two EMTs. "Either

of you see anything suspicious when you examined

the body?"

They shook their heads in the negative.

Kara's expression became more determined. "Think

what you will. I still want an autopsy performed."

"It costs us almost two thousand dollars for every

body we send to the medical examiner in Austin,"

Greer argued. "That's a lot of money, and our

budget is limited, especially since we bought those

new police cruisers."

"By law,
unattended or suspicious deaths require an

autopsy. Part of the same laws you've sworn to

uphold. Just because you have the signature of a

justice of the peace—" Kara paused and shot

Sampson a hard look, alerting Damien to the man's

identity, "on the death certificate, doesn't make it

legal, or right."

"No, it doesn't," Damien interjected, throwing in

with her. It was actually to his advantage that

people knew Mrs. Burgess had been murdered. If

they were on the alert, it might be harder for a

Belian to operate in their midst.

"As a crime writer," he continued, "I know the state

laws better than most. Texas law requires an

autopsy for all unattended deaths, unless there are

special circumstances. If there's any doubt in the

matter, then I would suggest you err on the side of

caution, and defer to the letter of the law."

"Damn it!" Greer slapped his hat against his thigh.

"A sick old woman dies of natural causes in her

sleep and you folks want to go and make a crime

out of it—and spend the police department's

money."

"I'm not signing the death certificate without an

autopsy," Kara said. "Of course, Mr. Sampson has

the authority to do it, but elections are coming up

in, oh, eight months?" She stared pointedly at

Sampson. "Aren't you up for reelection, Mr.

Sampson?"

He made a sound of disgust. "Fine. Let's keep this

clean. Tom, request the autopsy, and let me know

the results." He turned toward the door. "I'm done

here."

Greer gestured to the EMTs to load up the body and

left behind Sampson. They prepared to move the

gurney to the side of the bed.

"Wait," Kara said. "Just a minute, please." She

walked to the bed and stared at Mrs. Burgess a long

moment, reaching out to stroke the stiff face.

"Good-bye, my friend," she whispered. "I'm sorry I

doubted you." She leaned down and pressed a kiss

to the old woman's forehead. Slowly, she stepped

back, her grief and sadness tangible. Tears rolled

down her cheeks.

"Come on." Damien moved to her side and took her

arm. "There's nothing more we can do here."

"I know." With a last glance at Mrs. Burgess, she

swiped a palm over her face and allowed him to

lead her from the room and out of the house. In the