in the cold and dark, feel her pain at having lost everyone she cared about.”
He finished his drink. “That was it. She retreated into the dark. I rolled up my sleeping bag and went home. When my parents got back, I told them what happened. My brother got grounded for a month, and the cops checked out the Hackety place. She turned out to be Vera Hackety, a mentally handicapped woman whose family had been taking care of her. Her last surviving relative had died eighteen months before. She’d been living in the basement ever since.”
He looked at Romero. “But a funny thing happened. Something about that encounter changed me. I became fascinated by tales of real-life ghosts, of haunted mansions and treasures with curses, and Bigfoot, and everything else you can imagine. And one of those books-the ghost stories my brother had so thoughtfully given me to scare me even worse-turned out to be a book by E. and H. Heron called Flaxman Low, Occult Psychologist. It was a book of stories about a supernatural sleuth.”
“A supernatural sleuth,” Romero repeated.
“That’s right. A kind of Sherlock Holmes of the spirit realm. As soon as I finished that book, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. Of course, it usually isn’t a full-time job-hence the professorship.”
“But how did you develop your-your skills?” Romero asked. “I mean, there aren’t exactly any graduate courses in enigmalogy.”
“No. But there are lots of treatises on the subject. That’s where being a medieval historian comes in handy.”
“You mean, like the Malleus Maleficarum?”
“Exactly. And many others, even older and more authoritative.” He shrugged. “As with anything else, you learn by doing.”
The skeptical look began to creep back into Romero’s face. “Treatises. Don’t tell me you believe all that stuff about familiars and astrology and the philosopher’s stone.”
“Those are just Western European examples you mention. Every culture has its own supernatural apparatus. I’ve studied just about all that have been documented-and some that haven’t. And I’ve analyzed the elements they have in common.” He paused. “What I believe is that beyond the natural, visible world there are elemental forces- some good, others evil-that always have and always will exist in counterpart to ourselves.”
“Like a curse on a mummy’s tomb,” Romero said. She pointed at Logan’s glass. “How many of those did you have before I got here?”
“Think of atoms or dark matter: we can’t see them, but we know they exist. Why not elemental beings-or creatures we simply haven’t yet encountered? Or, for that matter, forces we simply haven’t learned how to harness?”
Romero’s skeptical look deepened.
Logan hesitated for a second. Then he reached over, plucked the plastic straw from Romero’s drink, and placed it on the white linen tablecloth between them. He placed his hands on both sides of it, palms downward, fingers spread slightly. He breathed in, slowly exhaled.
At first, nothing happened. Then the straw shuddered slightly. And then-after another, more violent shudder- it rose slowly off the table; hovered-trembling-half an inch above it for a few seconds; then dropped back onto the cloth, rolling once before falling still again.
“Jesus!” Romero said. She peered at the straw, then gingerly picked it up, as if it might burn her fingers. “How did you do that? That’s one hell of a magic trick.”
“With the proper training, you could probably do it, too,” Logan replied. “But not as long as you think of it as a trick.”
She looked dubiously at the straw, then put it back down on the table, took a thoughtful sip of her drink. “Just one other question,” she said. “Back at my office-everything you said about me was true. Down to the fact that I was the youngest child. How did you know so much about me?”
“I’m an empath,” Logan replied.
“An empath? What’s that?”
“Somebody with the ability to absorb the feelings and emotions of others. When I shook your hand, I received a series-a flood, really-of very strong memories, notions, thoughts, concerns, desires. They’re nonselective-I have no control over what impressions I receive. I only know that, when I come into physical contact with another person, I will receive impressions, in greater or lesser measure.”
“Empathy,” Romero said. “Sounds like something right up there with aromatherapy and crystals.”
Logan shrugged. “Then you tell me: How did I know all that?”
“I can’t explain it.” She looked at him. “How do you become an empath?”
“It’s inherited. It has a biological aspect and a spiritual one, as well. Sometimes it remains dormant in people their entire lives; frequently it is awakened by a traumatic experience. In my case, I believe it was the touch of Vera Hackety.” He fiddled with his empty glass. “All I can tell you for sure is that it’s proven critical to my work.”
She smiled. “Levitation, reading thoughts… can you predict the future, too?”
Logan nodded. “How’s this: I predict that, if we don’t get to the mess in ten minutes, they’re going to stop serving dinner.”
Romero glanced at her watch. Then she laughed. “That’s the kind of prediction I can understand. Let’s go, Svengali.”
And as they stood up from the table, she picked up the cocktail straw and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.
17
The following morning at nine o’clock, a conference was called to perform a postmortem on the prior day’s accident. Logan wasn’t invited, but-learning about it from Rush at breakfast-he managed to slip into Conference Room A in White on the doctor’s coattails.
The room was large and windowless, with two semicircles of chairs. One wall was covered by several whiteboards; another sported dual digital projector screens. A huge satellite map of the Sudd hung from an overhead support, decorated with pushpins and handwritten legends scribbled on Post-it notes. Logan recognized a few of the assembled faces: Christina Romero was there, and so was Valentino; the chief of the digging operation was surrounded by a small knot of his techs and roustabouts.
Logan helped himself to a cup of coffee, then took a seat in the second tier of chairs, behind Rush. No sooner had he done so than the older man with thinning blond hair-the one he’d seen at the generator the previous day- cleared his throat and spoke.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s talk about what we know.” He turned to a man wearing a white coverall. “Campbell, what’s the status of our power grid?”
The man named Campbell sniffed. “We’ve ramped up generator one to ninety-eight percent of rated load. Our core nominal output is down to sixty-five percent.”
“Status of the methane gathering and conversion system?”
“Unaffected. The scrubbers and interface baffles are at peak efficiency. In fact, with generator two out, we’ve had to dial back fuel production.”
“Thank God they’re still functional.” The older man turned to someone else-a short woman with a tablet computer on her lap. “So output’s down by thirty-five percent. How does that affect Station functionality?”
“We’ve scaled back on nonessential services, Dr. March,” she replied.
Logan looked at the man with fresh interest. So that’s Fenwick March, he thought. He’d heard of March: he was the head archaeologist for the dig. He was, according to Romero, second in command in Stone’s absence-and he seemed to enjoy hearing the sound of his own voice.
“What about the primary search operation?” March asked the woman.
“Unaffected. We’ve diverted power and personnel, as necessary.” Now March turned to a third person. “Montoya? What about a replacement?”
The man named Montoya shifted in his chair. “We’re putting out inquiries.”
March’s expression changed abruptly, almost as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul. “Inquiries?”
