Literally the loss of a soul.

Which means—what? That we’re fighting the devil?

No. No, there was nothing supernatural about the other side. So far, nothing that had been done by them could not be explained logically and rationally. In fact, everything he’d found out about this conspiracy—with the exception of its bizarre focus on psychics—smacked of all-too-human violence, and felonious intentions rather than mystical behavior.

Sure, the other side was or appeared to be all around them—though that perception was probably more paranoid than real. And they did seem to have vast, even limitless resources. But Tucker was still convinced that what lay at the heart of this conspiracy was a very ordinary and even unimaginative (if presently inexplicable) plan to profit in some way. To gain something—power, perhaps.

Even as those thoughts took form in his mind, Tucker was reminded of crossing a graveyard at night as a young boy. Whistling, as boys would, to prove to himself there was nothing wrong. Not looking to the left or the right, and surely to God not looking back, but only straight ahead. Marching briskly. Because there was nothing hiding in the graveyard, nothing about to jump out at him from behind a headstone.

Nothing was going to get him.

Half-consciously, Tucker turned up the Jeep’s heater.

They had been on the road about an hour when Sarah stirred and opened her eyes drowsily. Tucker had been waiting for her to wake and spoke immediately, hoping to use the unexpectedness of the question to tap into that odd well of knowledge she couldn’t seem to reach into deliberately—or, at least didn’t admit she could.

“Sarah, where are we going?”

“Hmm?” she murmured.

“Where are we going?”

“Holcomb. It’s a little town northwest of Bangor.”

The answer surprised him, but he tried to keep his voice calm and without any particular inflection. “Why there?”

“Because that’s where it ended.”

“Ended? Past tense?”

Sarah’s eyes opened wider and she turned her head to look at him. For a moment she looked a little lost and more than a little puzzled, the pupils of her eyes wide like a cat’s in the dark as they always seemed to be now. Then she shrugged and half-closed her eyes. “I don’t know what I meant. A slip of the tongue, probably.”

Tucker didn’t think so. Her too-dark eyes were veiled against him, and her voice held an evasive note. He wanted to push, to insist that she tell him whatever it was she was holding back. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to, not now. She was still exhausted, strained, and even in the delicate bones of her face was the finely honed look of unspeakable stress and pressure; he was afraid that if he pushed her now, forced her now, she would simply break.

So he forced himself to be patient. For now.

“But it is Holcomb we’re headed for?”

“I— Yes. Yes, I think so.”

Tucker thought about it, then shook his head. “The only city of any size roughly between here and Bangor is Portland.”

“But that’s on the coast.”

“Yeah…but from there it’ll be less than a hundred and fifty miles to Bangor. We can be in Portland in a few hours, spend the night there. Then go on to Holcomb tomorrow.”

“On the last day of September,” Sarah said.

“We’re safer in large cities, and you’re in no shape to drive straight through to Bangor.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You need to sleep about twelve hours.”

“I don’t want to sleep that long. It wouldn’t help anyway.”

He glanced at her, then turned his gaze forward once again. “All right. But you do need to rest. And we need to decide if we want to look up another psychic. There are three on the list who presently live in Portland.”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was evasive again. “We’re running out of time.”

“Maybe we should risk spending a few extra hours in Portland, Sarah. Visit at least one more psychic. If we go on to Holcomb with no idea of what to expect there…”

“What if the next psychic is…another of their tools? What if they all are?”

That hadn’t occurred to Tucker, and he felt a chill. “They can’t all be on the other side. Surely…”

“No?” Sarah closed her eyes again, and added softly, “But what if they are, Tucker? What if they are?”

TWELVE

Duran glanced back over his shoulder when Varden came into the room, then turned and faced the other man. “I’ve decided to deal with Mason myself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which means you’ll be continuing on to Portland without me.”

Varden nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you? Then don’t fail me, Varden. I want Sarah Gallagher.”

“I will get her for you, sir,” Varden said coolly.

“Will you? We’ll see, Varden. We will see. In the meantime, I’ll rejoin you at the next stage of the operation.”

“Yes, sir.” Alone at last, Varden went to the window for a moment and looked out. But there was nothing much to look at, and he turned back into the room with a faintly irritated shrug.

He was pleased, though. It had worked out better than he could have hoped for. He had time now, and a chance to run the operation the way he wanted, the way it needed to be run.

He picked up the phone and placed a call to a number he knew well. “Astrid. I want you in Portland, immediately.”

“You want me?” Her voice was, just faintly, mocking. “Does Duran know about this?”

Varden kept a rein on his temper. “Of course.”

“Well, in that case, I’m on my way.” Definite mockery now.

Varden allowed the disrespect to pass unchallenged. It hardly mattered, after all. When his plan worked, Astrid would have no doubt at all who was her superior.

And neither would Duran.

By four o’clock that afternoon, they were checked into yet another chain hotel in another small suite. Sarah, who had said nothing else after their brief conversation and had at least appeared to sleep all the way to Portland, agreed only reluctantly to eat something before retreating to the bedroom and going to sleep once again. Despite what she’d said about sleep not helping, it seemed her body or mind demanded it.

Tucker checked on her several times during the next few hours, only to find her so deeply asleep that she never even changed position on the bed. That the depth of her sleep bordered on unconsciousness disturbed him, but he was reluctant to force her awake before she was ready. Especially given what lay ahead of them.

He was left with far too many hours alone in which to brood. He tried to occupy himself in searching for and gathering more information about the conspiracy surrounding them, but everything he found was more nebulous confirmation of his beliefs and theories—but no proof whatsoever. He finally turned off the laptop and slouched back in the uncomfortable chair at the desk near the window, staring across the room at the muted MSNBC on television without noticing what had gone on in the world today.

It was maddening that he’d been unable to find a shred of solid proof to confirm what they suspected. Yes, psychics had seemingly died or disappeared, all over the country and for years, yet each instance appeared accidental or at least explicable. There had even been people convicted in abduction cases and put away—and in at least a couple of cases executed—for murders, despite the absence of bodies. As far as the legal system was concerned, each was an isolated incident. Despite all the various databases beginning to connect diverse law enforcement agencies across the country, none had, apparently, noticed any kind of pattern.

There was no evidence of a conspiracy. No evidence, that is, that anyone not involved in this would believe.

Tucker began to feel some sympathy for the conspiracy “nuts” he’d heard about for years, those who insisted that someone else had fired at JFK from the grassy knoll, or that the government was hiding the existence of extraterrestrials, or that Elvis was alive and well and living in Topeka.