"Thank you. Let me have your jacket."
She turned around and allowed the jacket to slide down her arms. The rustle of the fabric sounded expensive. The drape of the deceptively simple dress she was wearing suggested that someone had taken a great deal of care in both cut and design.
He gestured at the sofa. "Please."
She sat down on the very edge of the seat, but then, probably realizing how tense she looked, settled deeper into the cushions.
"Can I offer you a drink?"
"Sherry. If you have it."
He walked to the drinks cabinet and took out a glass and a bottle of bone-dry amontillado. Another change here. She never used to drink. Well, no doubt all the fancy cocktail parties and glamorous socializing of her new lifestyle necessitated her moving on to something a little more sophisticated than OJ.
She took the glass from him. He noticed she wore no rings. The light of the floor lamp gave a golden sheen to her brown hair. He sat down in the deep leather armchair, which stood in the shadow, outside the circle of light.
She was staring down at the amber liquid in the glass, frowning slightly. As he watched her he was surprised at how detached he felt. After all, he had loved this woman. Not only that, she had been his first love. And what with the first cut being the deepest and all that, surely he should feel some emotion; a little quickening of the pulse, at least. Instead, here he was, his mind Zen calm, his heartbeat even. Pretty amazing.
"You look good, Gabriel. You've hardly changed."
"Thanks."
"You're supposed to respond in kind, you know." She smiled faintly. "It's only polite."
"Oh, sorry. You look great." Which was actually true. Her face had matured and she had lost the baby fat she had still carried around at age twenty. She looked elegant, groomed, and she had the air of a woman who was sure of herself and her abilities.
She had become a stranger.
"You've done well for yourself." She glanced around her.
"So have you."
She flushed at the irony in his voice.
"You've met William. He's a remarkable man."
"Indeed. How old is he?"
The flush deepened. "Sixty-three."
He lifted his eyebrows. "Well. He looks good for his age."
"Doesn't he." There was something in her voice now that he didn't understand. Not that he was all that interested. Time to cut to the chase and end this.
"Why are you here, Frankie?"
She placed the glass on the side table flanking the sofa and looked at him steadily. "You know why I'm here."
"Your husband sent you."
"No." She shrugged her shoulders. "This is me coming to you. But yes, I'm here on his behalf."
"Why didn't you approach me yourself in the first place?"
"We thought you might be more interested if you thought it a purely financial arrangement. If you had given him a chance, William would have explained how he can make it very much worth your while." She paused. "I hope I'm not offending you."
"Money never offends me."
There was a tiny mole at the side of her cheek, just above her jawbone. He remembered it well. She saw him looking at it and touched her fingers involuntarily to her face. And in that movement, slightly awkward, he suddenly saw the old Frankie. The shy but determined girl whose smile had been enough to make him dizzy. She used to have such faith in him; it made him feel ten feet tall. Until the day her face went blank with disappointment. Disappointment in him… the man she was supposed to love no matter what.
He took a deep breath, looked away. "You should go to the police. They deal with missing persons."
"The police have given up. Oh, they don't say that, of course. But it's obvious. And I also think they believe Robbie's not so much missing as wanting to be missing."
"Why?"
"Robbie and William have a rather… problematic… relationship. Robbie took off once before-William finally tracked him down to a commune in California. Sort of a New Age hideout where they start the day with a group hug and grow hemp and weave baskets. You know the kind of place I'm talking about. That was three years ago."
"So what makes you think he's not there now?"
"He's not."
Below in the street someone was pressing the horn of a car impatiently. The sound was strident, irritating.
He leaned forward and smiled at her. "So Daddy and his little boy don't get along."
"You could say that." There was hostility in her eyes now. She clearly didn't like where this was going.
"Let me guess. The heir doesn't measure up. Footsteps too big to fill. Parental expectations too high?"
She didn't answer but he sensed he had hit the bull's-eye.
When she spoke again, he could hear her trying to keep her voice level. "I wouldn't have come to you if there was any other choice, Gabriel. I'm asking you to help me… for old times' sake."
Old times' sake? God, what a cliche. What a crock. And suddenly he was angry. Gone was his calm. His breathing came fast and he knew his face was flushed.
"You'll be a rich widow one day. With no son around, things will be a whole lot less complicated when it comes to the will. Have you thought of that?"
"Jesus." Her face contorted. "What the hell's happened to you?"
He stood up, his movement so violently abrupt that she flinched. "OK. Enough of this. I can't help your husband. Not in the way you want. You of all people should understand that."
"He's dying."
"What?"
"William. He's dying."
He stared down at her, his mind refusing to compute what she said. "What do you mean, dying?"
"Just that. Another year, eighteen months at the most." Her face was eerily serene. Her hands were clutched together so tightly, the veins stood out at the wrists. "William wants to reconcile with his son. As you can imagine, it's become a matter of urgency to him. I don't think that will be possible. I think Robbie is dead. In fact, I'm almost sure of it."
He sat down heavily. His remark about the rich widow suddenly seemed unbelievably crass. "If he's dead, Frankie, then what do you expect of me?"
"I want to find out what happened to him. I want William to know why his only child disappeared. I can't give him that certainty. I wish I could. You can. You have the gift."
"You have the gift as well."
"No, I have an aptitude, that's all. You have the fire, I don't."
He didn't deny it. What she said was true. Her RV skills had been of a high enough level to get her into Eyestorm. And she had worked hard at sharpening a natural talent. But practice, craft and discipline can pump up the muscle of the mind only so far. Despite Alexander Mullins's insistence that remote viewing was merely a latent sense that could be refined and developed by hard work and application- like honing a reflex action or developing a nose for wine-every RV knew that there came a point where remote viewing moved not only beyond science but also beyond art. Capricious energy. Flashes of fantasized lightning illuminating the dark side of the brain. Some were better at slamming the ride than others.
"I take it you've tried to locate him yourself."
"Of course." She nodded emphatically. "And that's why I don't think he's alive anymore."
"You sensed nothing."
"Total strikeout. No ride. And I knew him well, Gabriel. Before he moved into his own place, we had lived in the same house for almost a year."
Gabriel knew that Frankie's cognitive style relied heavily on personal rapport. She needed to establish some kind of emotional connection with her subject in order to generate any psi-data. The more she knew of her subject's feelings and emotions, the more likely she was to get a reading when she exercised her remote viewing skills. Therefore, if she had actually lived in the same house as her missing stepson, the personal framework she needed to "switch on" would already be in place. If Frankie couldn't sense Robert Whittington at all, that was bad news. Sadly, it would mean she was probably right. He was in all likelihood dead.