After Dark Page 2

  “Not real discreet or confidential,” Melanie agreed.

  “Considering the circumstances, he was amazingly civil about the whole thing.” Lydia propped her chin on her hands. “He didn’t say anything rude, but I know I’ll never see him again.”

  “Hmm.”

  Lydia cocked a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, really. It just occurred to me to wonder why a rich, successful businessman who likes to keep a low profile would contact a para-archaeologist who worked in a place like Shrimpton’s House of Ancient Horrors.”

  “When he could have had his pick of university consultants from the Society of Para-archaeologists?” Lydia asked grimly. “Okay, I’ll admit I sort of wondered about that, too. But I didn’t want to push my good luck, so I refrained from posing such delicate questions.”

  Melanie leaned across the desk to pat her arm. “Hang in there, pal. There will be other clients.”

  “Not like this one. This one had money, and I had plans.” Lydia held up her thumb and forefinger spaced an inch apart. “I was this close to giving my landlord notice that I would not be renewing my lease on that large closet he calls an apartment.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Yeah. But maybe it’s all for the best.”

  “What makes you say that?” Melanie asked.

  Lydia thought about the too casual way London had asked her if she had murdered Chester. “Something makes me think that working for Emmett London might have been almost as stressful as finding dead bodies in the Tomb Gallery.”

  2

  AN HOUR LATER Lydia emerged from the stairwell on the fifth floor of the Dead City View Apartments.

  She was gaining stamina, she thought as she walked down the dark hall to her front door. She wasn’t panting nearly as much after the five flights of stairs now as she had in the first week after the elevator had stopped functioning. Better than a gym workout, and much cheaper.

  It was important to stay positive.

  She slid the amber key into the lock, gave it a small pulse of psychic energy, and opened the front door.

  Her pet dust-bunny, Fuzz, drifted toward her across the floor. If she had not been anticipating his greeting, she would not have seen him until he appeared at her feet. None of his six paws made any sound on the tile floor of the postage-stamp-size foyer.

  Fuzz’s daylight eyes were open, glowing a brilliant, innocent blue against his dull, nondescript fur. He was fully fluffed, making it impossible to see his ears or his paws. He looked like something that had just rolled out from under the bed.

  “Hey, Fuzz, you are not gonna believe the day I had.” Lydia scooped him up and plopped him on her shoulder. Oomph! Been into the pretzels again?”

  The sturdy weight of the little beast always surprised her. One tended to forget that the scruffy, unprepossessing exterior of a dust-bunny concealed the sleek muscles and sinews of a small but serious predator. “Chester Brady got himself murdered in my new sarcophagus. The one I told you I got for Shrimp’s museum super cheap from the University Museum because they had two hundred extra ones in the basement. Plus they owed me, on account of I found a couple of dozen of their best examples in the first place.”

  Fuzz rumbled cheerfully and settled into a more comfortable position on her shoulder.

  “I know, I know, you never did like Chester, did you? You were in good company. Still, it’s strange to think that he’s gone.”

  Several months ago she had stopped worrying about whether or not her one-sided conversations with Fuzz were an indication of deteriorating mental and psychic health. She’d had more pressing matters to occupy her attention. Chief among them had been finding a job and stabilizing her personal finances after the disaster.

  Besides, as far as everyone else was concerned, she had cracked up big time after her Lost Weekend. Given the diagnosis she had gotten from the shrinks following the incident, talking out loud to a pet seemed pretty close to normal.

  The disaster in the Dead City six months ago had not only destroyed her career at the university and wreaked havoc on her personal finances, it had also left phrases like “psychic dissonance” and “para-trauma” sprinkled liberally about in her medical records.

  The doctors had recommended that she avoid excessive stress. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done when one was trying to forge a new career on the ruins of one that had crashed and burned.

  For all their pompous-sounding pronouncements, Lydia knew that the rez-shrinks didn’t have a clue about the true state of her mental and psychic health. Neither did she, for that matter. She remembered almost nothing about the forty-eight hours that had passed after she fell into the illusion trap.

  The doctors said she had repressed the memories. They claimed that, given her high-rez psychic profile, it was probably better that way.

  The paranormal ability to resonate with amber and use it to focus psychic energy had begun to appear in the human population shortly after the colonists came through the Curtain to settle the planet of Harmony. At first the talent was little more than a curiosity. It was only gradually that the true potential of the phenomenon became apparent.

  Today, almost two hundred years after the discovery of Harmonic amber, it was routinely used for everything from switching on car engines to running dishwashers. Any child over the age of four could generate enough psychic energy to “rez” untuned amber. Few people, however, could summon enough psi power to do more than use it to drive cars or operate a computer. But there were exceptions.

  In some people the ability to para-resonate took odd, extremely powerful twists. Lydia was one of those people. In technical terms, she was an ephemeral-energy para-resonator. The common term was “trap tangler.” For some unknown reason she could use tuned amber to resonate with the dangerous psychic illusion traps that had been left behind by the long-vanished Harmonics. Being able to de-rez the nightmarish snares practically guaranteed that a person would end up in the field of paraarchaeology. The alternative career path was dealing stolen antiquities.

  Until six months ago, she had been advancing quickly through the hierarchy of the academic world. It had been only a matter of time before she made full professor in the Department of Para-archaeology.

  And then came the disaster.

  Her only clear recollection of what she privately called her Lost Weekend was that of coming to in a Dead City catacomb and discovering that not only was she alone but she had somehow lost her amber. Without it she faced the nearly impossible task of finding her way to one of the exits.

  But Fuzz found her. She had never figured out how he got out of the apartment, let alone prowled the Dead City until he discovered her. But he had. He had saved her life.

  She was not the first strong para-archaeologist to lose control and be overwhelmed by the alien nightmares enmeshed in the traps, but she was one of the few who had not wound up in an institution after the ordeal.

  Lydia removed Fuzz from her shoulder and dumped him on the bed while she changed clothes. If it weren’t for his bright blue eyes he could have been mistaken for a large ball of lint sitting on the quilt.

  “Bad news on the client front today, Fuzz. Looks like we won’t be moving into that spiffy new apartment at the end of the month after all. And I may have to cut back your pretzel ration.”

  Fuzz rumbled again. He watched without much interest as she kicked off her low-heeled shoes and climbed out of her business suit.

  She pulled on a pair of well-worn jeans and an oversized white shirt, then resettled Fuzz on her shoulder.

  Barefoot, she padded into her pint-size kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine from the twist-cap jug she kept in the refrigerator, and fixed a plate with a couple of crackers and some cheese. She removed the lid from the pretzel jar and grabbed a handful of munchies for Fuzz.

  When that was done, she carried the makeshift hors d’oeuvres and the wine out onto the minuscule deck. Sinking into one of the loungers, she fed a pre
tzel to Fuzz, propped her feet on the railing, and settled back to watch the sun go down behind the great green quartz wall that surrounded the Dead City.

  Her small apartment was overpriced, considering its size, the outdated kitchen, and the bad section of town in which it was located, but it had two important features. The first was that it was within walking distance of Shrimpton’s House of Ancient Horrors, which meant she did not have to buy a car. The second, and in some ways more important, feature was that it was located in the Old Quarter, near the western wall of the Dead City. From her balcony she had a tiny sliver of a view of the ruins of the Dead City of Old Cadence.

  It seemed to her that the ancient, mysterious metropolis was at its most hauntingly magnificent when it was silhouetted against the light of the dying sun. She contemplated the narrow wedge of the wall that she could see from the balcony and watched the last of the daylight illuminate the emerald glow of the stone. The nearly indestructible green quartz had been the Harmonics’ favorite building material. The four dead cities that had been discovered thus far—Old Frequency, Old Resonance, Old Crystal, and Old Cadence—had all been constructed of the stuff.

  Aboveground the architecture of the various alien buildings assumed a dazzling variety of fanciful shapes and sizes. No one knew how the Harmonics had actually used any of the structures that were being painstakingly uncovered by the archaeological teams contracted to the university.

  The only thing para-archaeologists could be sure of was that whatever had gone on aboveground in the eerie ruins, it was nothing compared to what had gone on underground. By several estimates, less than twenty percent of the catacombs had been explored. Illusion traps and energy ghosts made the work slow and fraught with danger.

  She had told the doctors that she had no memories at all of what had happened during the forty-eight hours she had spent in the glowing green catacombs, but that was not entirely true. Sometimes, when she sat on her deck like this and watched night descend on the Dead City, fleeting images came to hover at the farthest corners of her mind. The wraiths always stayed just out of sight, disappearing whenever she tried to draw them into the light of day.

  A part of her was more than content, even eager, to leave them in the shadows. But her intuition warned her that if she did not eventually find a way to expose them, the phantoms would haunt her until the end of her days.

  She sipped her wine, gazed at the green wall, and felt the familiar little shivers go down her spine.

  The knock on her door startled her so profoundly that wine sloshed over the edge of her glass.

  Fuzz rumbled in annoyance.

  “Could be Driffield.” Lydia sucked the drops off her fingers as she got to her feet. “Maybe he got my last letter threatening to call a lawyer and decided he’d better do something about the elevator. Naw, I can’t see him climbing five flights of steps to tell me he’s going to get it fixed.”

  With Fuzz on her shoulder, she went back into the apartment and crossed the miniature living room. When she reached the door she stood on tiptoe to peer through the peephole.

  Emmett London stood in the hall. He did not appear to be breathing hard after the five-story climb.

  For a few seconds she just stared, unable to believe her eyes. Emmett gazed calmly back. He was not exactly smiling, but there was a trace of amusement in his expression. He was obviously aware that he was being observed.

  She noticed that he had picked up the evening edition of the Cadence Star, which had been left on her doorstep, and held it absently in one hand. She could read the head-line of the lead story: MUSEUM ASSISTANT QUESTIONED IN MURDER.

  She wondered if London had stopped by to tell her just how much he disliked being connected to a murder investigation.

  Taking a deep dreath, she summoned up enough bravado to open the door.

  “Mr. London.” She gave him her best professional smile. “What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” he said dryly.

  Not bloody likely, she thought. Hers was not the sort of neighborhood that attracted upscale businessmen who were inclined to worry about getting mugged.

  On the other hand, something told her that Emmett didn’t fret too much about street crime. He looked quite capable of taking care of himself.

  Fuzz rumbled. It wasn’t a warning. The dust-bunny sounded inquisitive.

  “I see.” Lydia looked at the newspaper in Emmett’s hand. “It really wasn’t necessary to go out of your way to tell me that you’ve changed your mind about hiring me as a consultant. I already assumed I wouldn’t get the job.”

  “Did you?”

  “You, uh, indicated that you were real big on discretion. I sort of figured that what with the dead body and the cops and the evening headlines, you might conclude that discretion wasn’t my strong point.”

  “Apparently not.” He glanced back along the shabby hallway and then looked at her. “I would prefer not to continue this conversation out here in the hall. May I come in?”

  “Huh?” At first she thought she had misunderstood. “You want to come inside?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  She flushed and hurriedly stepped back. “Oh, sure, sure. Please, come on in.”

  “Thank you.”

  When he moved into the foyer, he made no more noise than Fuzz did. That was where the resemblance ended, Lydia decided. Emmett London did not in the least resemble a dust-bunny blowing across the floor. There was nothing haphazard, fluffy, or scruffy about him.

  He looked like someone who made his own rules. The expression in his uncompromising eyes and the severe lines of his face told her that he also lived by those rules. An ominous sign, she thought. In her experience, people who adhered to a rigid code were not particularly flexible.

  Emmett studied Fuzz with a thoughtful expression as Lydia closed the door. “I assume he bites?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Fuzz is perfectly harmless.”

  “Is he?”

  “As long as all you can see are his daylight eyes, there’s nothing to be concerned about. The only time you have to worry about a dust-bunny is when he stops looking like a wad of dryer lint.”

  Emmett raised his brows. “They say that by the time you see the teeth it’s too late.”

  “Yes, well—as I said, there’s no need to be alarmed. Fuzz won’t bite.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  The conversation was deteriorating, Lydia thought. She needed a distraction. “I just poured myself some wine. Will you join me?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She relaxed slightly. Maybe he wasn’t here to tell her that he was annoyed with her for getting him involved with the cops. Surely he wouldn’t accept an offer of hospitality and then inform her that he was going to sue her and Shrimpton’s House of Ancient Horrors.

  Then again, maybe he would do exactly that.

  “When I heard your knock, I thought you were my landlord.” She went into the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator, and removed the jug of wine. “I’ve been after him to get the elevator fixed. It isn’t working—but I expect you noticed.”

  Emmett came to stand in the doorway. “I noticed.”

  “Driffield is a lousy landlord.” She poured the wine into a glass. “I’m trying to get enough cash together to move soon. In the meantime, he and I are locked in an ongoing war. So far he’s winning. I’ve given him so much trouble lately that I have a hunch he’s looking for an excuse to evict me.”

  “I understand.”

  Oh, sure. She seriously doubted that anyone had ever tried to evict Emmett London, but she decided it would probably not be politic to say so.

  “Enough about me,” she said smoothly. “It’s a dull subject. Let’s go out onto the balcony. I’ve got a view of the ruins.”

  He followed her outside and carefully lowered himself into the other lounger.

  It was amazing how much smaller her treasured balcony seemed with him occupyi
ng such a large portion of the limited space. It wasn’t that he was an especially big man, she thought. He probably qualified as medium on most counts. Medium height, medium build. It was just that what there was of him was awfully concentrated.

  She had a feeling that with Emmett, like Fuzz, by the time you saw the teeth it was too late.

  In spite of having spent nearly half an hour with him this morning, she knew little more about him than she had when he’d called her office and made the appointment. He had told her only that he was a business consultant from Resonance City who collected antiquities.

  “We didn’t have a chance to finish our conversation this morning,” Emmett said.

  Lydia thought about Chester’s body in the sarcophagus and sighed. “No.”

  “I’ll come straight to the point. I need a good P-A and I think you’ll do.”

  She stared at him. Apparently he wasn’t going to sue her, after all. “You still want to hire me? In spite of the fact that I got you into the evening papers?”

  “I’m not in the papers.” He sampled the wine. “Detective Martinez very kindly refrained from giving my name to the press.”

  She whistled softly. “Lucky you.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it.”

  She relaxed slightly. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m really very good at what I do.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” His smile lacked all trace of true humor. “It’s not like I’ve got a lot of choice.”

  That gave her pause. She recalled Melanie’s question that afternoon. Why hadn’t he gone to the Society or to a classy museum to find a para-archaeologist?

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t want to talk myself out of a job, Mr. London, but you do seem to be, for want of a better phrase, financially comfortable.”

  He shrugged. “I’m rich, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I mean. Let’s be honest here. With your money you could go to the Society of Paraarchaeologists and pick a private consultant who has established a reputation with big-time collectors.”