Duran glanced back over his shoulder when Varden came into the room, then turned and faced the other man. “I’ve decided to deal with Mason myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which means you’ll be continuing on to Portland without me.”
Varden nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you? Then don’t fail me, Varden. I want Sarah Gallagher.”
“I will get her for you, sir,” Varden said coolly.
“Will you? We’ll see, Varden. We will see. In the meantime, I’ll rejoin you at the next stage of the operation.”
“Yes, sir.” Alone at last, Varden went to the window for a moment and looked out. But there was nothing much to look at, and he turned back into the room with a faintly irritated shrug.
He was pleased, though. It had worked out better than he could have hoped for. He had time now, and a chance to run the operation the way he wanted, the way it needed to be run.
He picked up the phone and placed a call to a number he knew well. “Astrid. I want you in Portland, immediately.”
“You want me?” Her voice was, just faintly, mocking. “Does Duran know about this?”
Varden kept a rein on his temper. “Of course.”
“Well, in that case, I’m on my way.” Definite mockery now.
Varden allowed the disrespect to pass unchallenged. It hardly mattered, after all. When his plan worked, Astrid would have no doubt at all who was her superior.
And neither would Duran.
By four o’clock that afternoon, they were checked into yet another chain hotel in another small suite. Sarah, who had said nothing else after their brief conversation and had at least appeared to sleep all the way to Portland, agreed only reluctantly to eat something before retreating to the bedroom and going to sleep once again. Despite what she’d said about sleep not helping, it seemed her body or mind demanded it.
Tucker checked on her several times during the next few hours, only to find her so deeply asleep that she never even changed position on the bed. That the depth of her sleep bordered on unconsciousness disturbed him, but he was reluctant to force her awake before she was ready. Especially given what lay ahead of them.
He was left with far too many hours alone in which to brood. He tried to occupy himself in searching for and gathering more information about the conspiracy surrounding them, but everything he found was more nebulous confirmation of his beliefs and theories—but no proof whatsoever. He finally turned off the laptop and slouched back in the uncomfortable chair at the desk near the window, staring across the room at the muted MSNBC on television without noticing what had gone on in the world today.
It was maddening that he’d been unable to find a shred of solid proof to confirm what they suspected. Yes, psychics had seemingly died or disappeared, all over the country and for years, yet each instance appeared accidental or at least explicable. There had even been people convicted in abduction cases and put away—and in at least a couple of cases executed—for murders, despite the absence of bodies. As far as the legal system was concerned, each was an isolated incident. Despite all the various databases beginning to connect diverse law enforcement agencies across the country, none had, apparently, noticed any kind of pattern.
There was no evidence of a conspiracy. No evidence, that is, that anyone not involved in this would believe.
Tucker began to feel some sympathy for the conspiracy “nuts” he’d heard about for years, those who insisted that someone else had fired at JFK from the grassy knoll, or that the government was hiding the existence of extraterrestrials, or that Elvis was alive and well and living in Topeka.
The very idea of yet another vast, inexplicable, and secretive conspiracy sounded so absurd that the tendency was to laugh or shrug it off, or at the very least greet each new conspiracy theory with a roll of the eyes and patent disbelief. You could pile the facts one on top of the other, list a long string of events too similar to be coincidence, and come up with a neat (if bizarre) theory to explain it all—and there was absolutely no concrete evidence to back up your claims.
Even more, there was no explanation, no reason you could offer to add weight to the theory. Psychics were being taken. Why? Who was taking them? Where were they being taken?
And—oh, by the way—how come nobody but you noticed them being taken?
For something so vast and long-lived, this thing had left few tracks for anyone to follow and no fingerprints at all. There was no clue as to who was behind it. No clue as to the reasoning or purpose behind it. No evidence other than speculation, and precious little of that.