Oh, thank God you’re there. Dillon—
Then it was as if someone yanked a plug out of the wall. She was gone. His mind was empty of her. Had he imagined it? Had he experienced some kind of waking dream? No, he had not.
Wallace Tammerlane stood up a minute later and faced them. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I got through to her. There wasn’t any answer.”
Ogden turned up the lights.
“Maybe,” Savich said, rising slowly, “the line was busy.”
When at last they were ready to leave, Savich shook Wallace Tammerlane’s hand, then Bevlin Wagner’s. “Thank you for your efforts. We have to be leaving now. If Kathryn makes contact with you, or you happen to find out anything that could help us, please call my cell.” He gave each of them his card.
Cheney turned at the front door. “Do either of you keep journals?”
“Of course,” Tammerlane said, and Bevlin nodded. “All of us do.”
Savich heard everyone else murmur their good-byes, Bevlin assuring them it was okay, that they’d find Kathryn, that Wallace would keep trying.
When Julia and Cheney piled into the backseat, Julia asked, “What do you want me to do, Dillon?”
“First, I want you and Cheney to have that visit you were planning with Soldan Meissen. He’s somewhere in the middle of this, he must be. Then I want both of you to come to the Sherlocks’ house. You’re both going to be guests there, along with the rest of us.”
CHAPTER 43
There was a stark white half-moon shining directly down on Cheney’s borrowed wheels, an older dark blue Audi, on temporary loan from the dealership while his own Audi was getting patched up from its beach run that morning.
It had all happened twelve hours ago. Amazing. He turned to Julia. “You hanging in there?”
“It’s been a wild day, that’s for sure.”
“What did you think of Tammerlane’s séance?”
“Well, I suppose it didn’t work, did it? We’re no closer to finding Kathryn. Do you think she’d dead, Cheney?”
He thought about that for a moment, then said, “No, the fact is, I don’t. However, I’m still not certain why Makepeace took her.”
“How about he believed she could have some visions for him, about where I am. What do you think?”
He laughed. “Yeah, right.”
But Julia wasn’t so sure. She’d lived in the world of psychics for three years, and sometimes she still wasn’t at all certain what was and what wasn’t real.
“I hope I can keep focused. Soldan Meissen’s got to be at the center of this thing, along with Pallack, and now he’s Pallack’s medium.”
She nodded. “I think you’ll find Soldan interesting. He’s, well, he’s even more different. You’ll see.”
“None of the others we’ve spoken to have much respect for him.”
“True. However, given Thomas Pallack’s experience—I mean he was with August and also with the famous medium Linz Knowler before him—I can’t see how Soldan could con him. He’d be very hard to scam.
“I remember seeing Soldan on TV maybe three months ago on one of those Hollywood entertainment shows. He was standing in a gloomy cemetery, naturally after dark, with manufactured fog creeping up to his knees. He was wearing jeans and three-inch stack-heeled boots to make him look more formidable, I guess—tough sell, let me tell you, because Soldan is really quite puny-looking. He was standing next to an oohing and aahing fluffy blonde who was handing him eight-by-ten photos of famous dead people. He told the camera what these folks were doing, how they felt about what their famous living relatives were up to. The blonde seemed to be impressed.
“August always said Soldan couldn’t carry it off in front of a camera, that anyone seeing him would believe he was a gold-plated fraud. He’d say Soldan gave psychics a bad name.”
Cheney pulled into Soldan Meissen’s big circular driveway, stopped in front of the front door, cut the engine, and looked around. “Another big spread. I guess the psychic business is thriving.”
Julia said, “Oh yes. Atherton is one of the biggest hubs of conspicuous consumption in the Bay Area. Soldan used to have a Spanish-style hacienda, then moved two blocks and went Oriental.”
Cheney looked at the long, single-story house, solid windows all along the front, bonsai trees thick on the ground, crowding close to the house. “Is the guy married? Any children hanging around?”
“I don’t know about kids, though there maybe a former wife. A couple of months ago I heard a woman moved in, but I don’t know anything about her. I sure hope he’s here, Cheney. It’s late. Maybe this time we should have called.”
“Nah, a surprise visit you never know what’s gonna pop. Look, there are some lights on at the end of the house.”
They walked along a flagstone path lined with Japanese-garden-style bushes and flowers. There was a double front door lacquered glossy black with shiny gold dragon’s-head doorknobs, flanked by a pair of huge Asian stone statues, too dark to tell any detail. Cheney pressed his finger against a dragon’s snout and heard the bell chime some creepy music from that old Bela Lugosi film Son of Frankenstein.
“Maybe the guy’s a warlock too.”
There was no answer for perhaps a minute, then came the sound of mules flapping up and down on tile. The door was opened by a woman wearing a very low cut frothy peach peignoir that floated around her ankles. She looked, Cheney realized, with those prodigious breasts framed by silk and feathers, like a saloon girl from a western movie, a little over the hill, a little too much makeup, but authentic enough, at least TV authentic.
Cheney said, “Hello. This is Julia and I’m Cheney. We’re here to see Soldan. Is he available?”
“You look familiar,” the woman said to Julia. “You don’t, sir. It’s after nine o’clock. At night. What do you want? Soldan is tired. We don’t see uninvited visitors. Besides, I don’t like the look of either of you.” She stared at Julia. “Yeah, you do look familiar. Is there a reason I don’t like you?”
Cheney smiled at the woman; she looked like she could shoot them both, then blow the smoke off the end of her six-shooter and toss back a shot of straight whisky. “We’re harmless. Actually, maybe you have met Julia. She’s Julia Ransom, Dr. August Ransom’s widow. And I am Cheney Stone, FBI. We won’t take up much of Soldan’s time. And who are you?”
“You’re sounding all chummy, aren’t you now? I’m thinking you’re the best-looking paid federal assassin I’ve ever seen. Fact is, you probably make use of being gorgeous, don’t you, makes it easier for you to flimflam innocent women like me.”
“Nah,” Cheney said. “They don’t pay me that much.”
“A federal assassin making jokes—you’re smart too, but really not that funny.”
“Who are you?” Julia asked.
“I’m Sol’s mother. Okay, okay, you got me. Obviously I’m far too young and beautiful to be his mother. I’m Sol’s sister—younger sister. Hey, I bet if I don’t let you in, you’ll pull a gun and force your way in. Isn’t that what you secret fed enforcers do?”
‘Yeah, that’s exactly what we do,” and Cheney showed her his SIG on the clip at his waist.
For the first time, Cheney saw a flash of genuine alarm in her eyes, though it was hard to tell since she was wearing so much eyeliner. She held out her hands in front of her, to ward him off. “Don’t you dare! All right, come in, I’ll warn Sol.” She gave Julia a dismissive look. “Shame on you, plastering your plain face all over the TV news.” And she sashayed away, clip-clopping on the three-inch peach satin mules.
Cheney said, “Look how that silky thing floats around her as she walks. If she weren’t so scary, it’d be sexy. Is she really his younger sister?”
“Why not? Don’t you know? After all, you’re the federal hired gun.”