“And the small devices you want me to stash?”

“I think you were right. They’re tone generators — built to emit the ultrasonic wave Project Sin was studying.”

“That makes sense,” Kim said. “Because I’ve analyzed the Machine further, and as best I can make out it’s some kind of amplifier. A primitive, yet nevertheless very complex, amplifier.” She paused a moment, thinking. “But why do you want me to hide those things away?”

“So they can’t be used to hurt anybody else.”

Kim froze as the meaning of Logan’s words hit home. “Are you saying—”

“I’m saying that whoever found the forgotten room and resurrected the research is using those devices — first on Strachey, and then, I suspect, on me.”

“So he, or they, intentionally drove Strachey crazy?”

“In order to halt work on the West Wing.”

“Then why didn’t…sorry, but I have to ask: why didn’t it have the same effect on you?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question. I think it has to do with our, ah, ‘ghost catchers.’ ”

“Those necklace things we’re wearing?”

“Yes. The hemishell of a nautilus is the central component. I’m no acoustical engineer, but I’ll bet the logarithmic design of the shells’ chambers breaks up, distorts the sound waves, reducing their effect. Reducing, but not nullifying — because I’ve been feeling rather unstable myself these last few days.”

“And you suspect I’ll find that device along the wall you share with Wilcox because he had no such…protection.”

“Exactly. Instead of me being incapacitated, Wilcox ended up in the ICU.” There was a pause. “Kim, I just didn’t see it. I was convinced the Machine was a device for detecting, maybe communicating with spectral entities. Given my line of work, I guess that’s the kind of assumption I’d easily slip into.”

“Well, I’d say the Machine is a device for communication — just not the kind you initially thought.”

“All those materials I found in Lux’s files about ‘ectenic force.’ No doubt somebody was looking into paranormal phenomena — but it wasn’t those three.” Another pause. “Look, I’d better get back on the road. Traffic’s looking a little lighter and the storm’s growing worse — I don’t want to risk a closure of Route 114. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Kim. And please — be careful. Don’t take any chances.” There was a click as Logan hung up.

As Kim placed the phone back on the pillow, she heard another noise. But this was no slam of a shutter — it sounded like a footstep, coming from the direction of Leslie Jackson’s room.

“Leslie?” Kim called out. “What, you decided not to go after all?”

No reply.

Frowning, Kim rose from the bed and walked to the middle of the room, peering through the common bathroom and into the room beyond.

“Leslie?” she called again.

Was that movement, black upon black, amid the woven shadows of Leslie’s room? If Leslie was there, why wasn’t she answering? Why hadn’t she turned on the light?

Had somebody been there all along, in the darkness, listening in on her phone call?

Suddenly, and for the first time, Kim felt, understood, the full weight of the danger she and Jeremy Logan were now in. If somebody had resurrected the work of Project Sin, and was willing to let Willard Strachey die to protect their secret…what would happen if her own role was discovered?

Be careful, Logan had said. Don’t take any chances.

Was that more movement in the deep shadows? The cold gleam of metal?

Instinctively, Kim wheeled toward the door. As she did so, her feet slipped on the carpet; falling, her skull impacted the wainscoting of the nearby wall with an ugly sound of bone against wood; and her body dropped to the floor.

A moment passed. And then a tall, thin man emerged from the darkness of Leslie Jackson’s room. His expressionless eyes surveyed the scene. Then he slipped a heavy blackjack back into a pocket of his tweed jacket and dragged Kim’s body into a nearby closet. And then, plucking the pillow from the bed, he dabbed away the blood and tossed the pillow into the closet, as well.

“I’ll be back for you shortly,” he murmured, then slipped once again into the shadows.

44

Half an hour later, Logan pulled his Lotus Elan into the long, curving drive that led to Lux’s parking area. The normally fastidiously tended greensward ahead was a riot of twigs, leaves, and — strangest of all — seaweed and spindrift, blown all the way from the coastline a quarter of a mile away. He had to negotiate around heavy branches that had fallen across the drive; he could make out at least half a dozen trees uprooted from the greenery that stood before the encircling brick wall. The main massing of Lux itself reared up against a black and furious sky, its battlements winking ominously in the flashes of livid lightning.

He managed to gain the relative safety of the near-empty parking lot in the shelter of the building’s East Wing, turned off the engine, and then paused a moment to catch his breath. The entire journey back from Fall River had been tense — with the traffic, howling wind, and lashing rain — but the final ten minutes had been the worst. When he’d turned onto Ocean Avenue for the last leg of the drive, the full, unconstrained brunt of the hurricane hit: merciless buckets of rain, and a straight-line banshee wind that threatened to pick up his car and fling it into the surf. More than once, he’d thanked the automotive gods he owned a hardtop Elan; a canvas top would have been ripped away hours before. And he’d made it back just in time; the guard in the security house by the front gate informed him that the governor had just declared a state of emergency and instituted a curfew, effective immediately, and that the National Guard was being mobilized.

Logan waited another moment, then — peeling his fingers from the steering wheel and taking a deep breath — grasped the handle and opened the door. A screaming gust of wind forced the door right back at him, and he had to manhandle it open again with all his might. He gathered his strength, then rolled away toward the rear of the car as the wind flung the door closed. And then, bent forward until his head was almost level with his waist, he bulled his way toward the mansion’s side entrance through air so thick with seawater he was almost drowning in it.

Just as he reached the door, he heard the buzzing sound of a motor cut through the wind. There was a light behind him, and he turned to see Ian Albright, the Infrastructure Supervisor, pulling up in a large golf cart, two men seated behind him. The cart stopped beside Logan and the three got out, all wearing identical sou’westers.

Albright stared at Logan as if he was from another planet. “Dr. Logan?” he asked. “You’ve just arrived? Don’t tell me you’ve been motoring through this dirty great storm?”

“Something couldn’t wait.” Logan pointed at the cart. “What’s your excuse?”

“A dozen slate tiles have blown off the kitchen roof, and the water’s pouring in. We’ve got to get a tarp over it before…” The rest of his sentence was cut off by a shattering peal of thunder, followed by the crash of another tree falling over.

“Well, now that you’re here, you’d better get inside,” Albright said. “Dr. Olafson, Dr. Maynard, they cleared out hours ago, along with almost everyone else. There’s just a skeleton crew now, a handful of security and maintenance and a couple of stubborn eggheads that refused to leave. But the storm’s just been upgraded to a category three, and the worst is—”

A sudden shriek of wind staggered the four men, and the golf cart promptly turned over onto its side. “Sweet mother of fuck!” Albright cried in dismay, making for the cart as he simultaneously motioned Logan toward shelter.

Inside, the thick walls of the mansion dulled the roar of the hurricane to a constant, low-pitched moan. Logan made his way through the strangely deserted halls to his rooms. Save for the never-ending boom of the weather, the entire place seemed cloaked in a watchful silence. He placed his duffel on the desk, sat down, and transferred the notes he’d taken during his meeting with Sorrel to his laptop, along with some observations and questions that had occurred to him during the exhausting drive back. And then he glanced at his watch. Almost half past nine. He shut the laptop and stood up from his chair. It was high time he checked on Kim.