The barking subsided immediately. The six dogs stood waiting, ears pricked, eyes cold and watchful.
Isabella was the first one to open the door.
“Hello, Poppy,” she said to the big shepherd mix. “You look lovely today.”
Overcome with delight, Poppy rushed forward, tongue lolling, to greet her. Isabella rubbed her ears. Poppy swooned. Orchid, Clyde, Samson and the rest crowded in eagerly. Isabella patted them all.
Fallon opened his door and got out. “Don’t know what it is with you and those dogs.”
“I like dogs,” Isabella said. She gave Poppy one last pat. “I’m thinking of getting one of my own.” A dog would make it official, she thought. A dog would mean that she had settled here in Scargill Cove, that she had found a home.
Henry peered at her. “How’s the toaster working?”
“Great,” Isabella said. “It’s the best toaster I’ve ever owned.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Fallon’s brows climb but he made no comment.
Henry grunted, satisfied. “Don’t make ’em like they used to.” He looked at Walker and Fallon. “I take it this is about the things in the vault?”
“How did you know?” Fallon asked.
Henry angled his head at Walker. “Only one reason Walker would get into a vehicle. What’s up?”
Walker got out of the SUV, jittering a little. “They found s-something, Henry. Something that belongs in the vault. I could feel it, you know?”
Henry gave Fallon a long, considering look. “Is this connected to the Zander house business?”
“You figured that out in a hurry,” Fallon said. He went around to the back of the SUV, opened the rear door and removed the blanket-wrapped clock.
“Heard about the bodies buried under the basement,” Henry said, watching him. “It was all over the evening news last night. They said they found the killer’s body, too. Heart attack.”
“Yes,” Fallon said.
“Real neat and tidy ending,” Henry said. “Vera and I like that kind of ending.” He squinted at the object in Fallon’s hands. “What did you find?”
“A clock,” Isabella said. “Not an ordinary clock, though.”
Walker twitched. “It’s one of the alien weapons stored down in the vault, Henry.”
Henry frowned. “It sure as hell didn’t come out of there since Vera and I have been watching the place. Must have been removed before we locked it down all those years ago.”
“The Zander house killer told me that he found the clock in a glass box hidden in a cavern beneath the basement of the mansion,” Fallon said. “Got a feeling the clock had been hidden for quite a while.”
Henry looked interested. “You and the killer had a chat before he croaked?”
“Guys like that have to brag,” Fallon explained. “Guess he wanted to impress me.”
“Uh-huh.” Henry grew thoughtful. “And after he finished with his bragging, he had his heart attack. Hell of a coincidence.”
“It happens,” Fallon said.
“Nope,” Henry said. “No coincidences. Not when it comes to anything that came out of that vault.”
Isabella moved to stand beside Fallon. “We understand that Walker sees things through his own private prism, but please don’t tell us that you really believe that aliens from another galaxy visited Scargill Cove and left some baggage behind.”
“Not aliens,” Henry said. “They told us they worked for a small research company, but everyone around here knew that was probably a cover. The black-ops folks use a lot of private contractors when they want to keep a low profile.”
“Right,” Isabella said. “Everyone knows that.”
Fallon winced, but he did not comment.
Henry contemplated her, and then he studied Fallon for a few seconds. Isabella could see him making a decision.
“You two are locals now,” Henry said. “You’ve got a right to know what happened here twenty-two years ago. Come on inside. Vera is making coffee. Tea for you, Isabella. We’ll tell you what we know, but I gotta warn you up front, it isn’t a whole lot.”
11
Walker trooped into the lodge and took a seat on a window bench. He wrapped his arms around his waist and rocked quietly.
Isabella scooped a pile of books off the cushion of an old-fashioned, padded leather armchair and sat down. Fallon grabbed one of the two wooden chairs at the small dining table, reversed it and sat down astride it. He put the clock, still covered in the blanket, on the floor beside his left boot and folded his arms on the back of the chair.
The interior of the lodge reminded him of his own office or at least the way it had looked until Isabella had swept in and taken charge. Every available surface was cluttered with books, magazines and printouts. There were a computer and a printer on the dining room table.
A fire burned in the big fireplace. Two rows of framed portraits hung on the wall above the mantel. Each featured a young man or woman. Some were in caps and gowns. Others wore military uniforms. One of the women stood, smiling proudly, in the doorway of a restaurant. Fallon knew that the name of the restaurant was her own.
Over the decades a number of runaways and homeless kids had wandered into Scargill Cove. Most did not hang around for long, but those who did were quietly taken in, sheltered and educated. Vera and Henry were the town’s unofficial schoolmasters. The framed photographs were portraits of the Cove’s graduates.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fallon saw Isabella glance briefly at the top page of a ream-thick stack of paper positioned on the arm of her chair. Her eyes widened a little and then she smiled. He was coming to know that particular smile. It meant that she had just solved some small mystery.
He winked. She laughed.
Vera, a good-looking, strong-boned, full-bodied woman in her midfifties came out of the kitchen carrying four mugs by the handles. Her graying-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore a long, loose-fitting dress of green and purple that fell to her ankles. Faded tattoos peeked out from beneath the sleeves of the dress. In spite of the chill of the day, she had a pair of flip-flops on her feet.
“Hello, Isabella, Fallon,” she said, her voice pleasantly husky. “Nice to see you both. You, too, Walker.”
She made no comment about the strangeness of seeing Walker indoors.
Isabella tapped the printout sitting on the arm of the chair. “You are Vera Hastings, the writer, aren’t you? You do the suspense series featuring the vampire and the witch. I love those books.”
Vera chuckled. “Thanks. Actually Henry and I are Vera Hastings. He does the vampire. I do the witch.”
“Those novels are terrific,” Isabella enthused. “I loved the one in which the vampire had to drink the witch’s blood because he was dying, and her blood made him drunk.”
Fallon decided it was time to step in and regain control of the conversation. “About the clock.”
“The clock?” Vera echoed.
“The one in the blanket,” Fallon said.
Walker jittered. “It came from the vault.”
With a worried expression, Vera studied the blanket-covered clock next to Fallon’s boot. “You’re right, Walker. Whatever is under that blanket must have come from the vault.”
Walker rocked harder. “You can feel it. Like me.”
“Yes,” Vera said. She set the mugs on the table. “Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn’t it? We always knew that someday whatever is in that vault would cause more trouble.”
Henry came out of the kitchen, a pot of coffee in one meaty hand, a pot of tea in the other. “We just never got around to figuring out what we’d do about it when the trouble came down.”
“Because we didn’t have any great ideas,” Vera said. She looked at Fallon. “Have you told anyone else in town about finding that . . . thing, whatever it is, under the blanket?”
“Not yet,” Fallon said. “Walker sensed it while I was taking it upstairs to my office. He made it clear that we needed to talk to you and Henry right away. I figured he knew what he was talking about.”