They followed him, through the bullpen that was mostly deserted except for three deputies, two of them talking on landline phones while taking notes and the third frowning in obvious frustration at his computer console. It was a sizable bullpen holding more than a dozen desks, and they could see the adjoining conference room, since the wall between the two spaces was glass from about halfway from the floor to nearly the ceiling.
When they went into the conference room, they found a scene that was familiar to Hollis and DeMarco and less so to Galen since he tended to spend more time out in the field, often literally outside, during a case. There was an oval conference table that could seat about a dozen people in relative comfort, with a power strip down the middle and a conference phone sitting in the center. Whiteboards had been set up along the wall opposite the glass partition to the bullpen, blank but with markers and erasers ready.
Archer introduced his chief deputy, Katie Cole, and if her smile was welcoming and easygoing when she greeted the feds, there was definite strain in her hazel eyes.
Hollis knew immediately that she was psychic but wasn’t sure of the specific ability.
“We don’t have much in the way of a start in here,” she said to the feds a bit wryly. “The photos we took this morning at the Bowers house and the ones from the Gardners’ are being printed out now—if one of our techs can fix the printer. We have deputies out talking to people related to or friends with both families, and with neighbors. We haven’t called in anyone to give a statement yet. The notes taken by deputies are being printed out—or just copied with a bit more neatness and detail from their notes.” She grimaced slightly. “Our printers and computers are being as temperamental as the cells and radios.”
“Getting worse?” Hollis asked.
“Yeah, seems to be. It was just the cells and radios at first. Now it’s electronics in general.” Katie started to reach for the nape of her neck but quickly stopped herself.
Hollis knew the feeling. She wanted to rub the nape of her own neck, which was not only tense but a bit crawly, worse than it had been earlier.
“I don’t get that,” Archer said, frowning. “We’ve never had any trouble before, and it’s not like the equipment we’re using is either too old and breaking down, or too new and still full of bugs.”
Hollis hesitated, still unsure of how the sheriff would react to what he needed to know, but there was a clock ticking in her head and it was getting louder. Any minute now, they were going to be called to the scene of yet another baffling, violent event he would most certainly find inexplicable, and she just didn’t know . . .
Making up her mind for better or worse, Hollis half sat on the conference table and looked squarely at Archer. “Sheriff, how much do you know about energy? Electrical, magnetic?”
His frown deepened as he returned her gaze. “About as much as any layman, I guess. We use a hell of a lot of electrical energy every day to run our homes and offices, all our gadgets. Magnetic energy . . . Hell, I don’t know. Are we talking about the cells and radios not working right? Equipment not working right?”
“Yes. And why it’s getting worse. And why people are dying in your town.” Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
“It’s connected?” He didn’t look or sound disbelieving, just startled and baffled.
“We believe it is. For some reason we don’t—yet—understand, there’s an abnormal amount of electrical and magnetic energy in this valley. Highly abnormal. We don’t know the source, don’t know if it’s more than one source. We don’t know if it’s permanent or temporary. We don’t know if it’s a naturally occurring phenomenon or something being . . . manufactured.”
“Deliberately? By a person?”
“It’s been done before. You know about EMPs—electromagnetic pulses?”
“Yeah, they’re supposed to knock out electronics.”
“Right, they do. Electrical energy can be overloaded. Shorted out. The current can also be unstable; it can surge, become much, much stronger as well as much weaker, suddenly.”
“Okay, I get all that. I even get—sort of—that something like that could be interfering with cell service and our radios, the computers. Hell, sunspots do that. But the murders today—”
Hollis kept her voice calm and matter-of-fact. “The human brain is basically an organic, electromagnetic computer. Our thoughts, our actions, our emotions, all are created, triggered, controlled, by electrical impulses in our brains. Synapses firing off all the time, faster than thought. Different areas of the brain responsible for different things, lighting up when active and going dark when not. If a specific area of the brain is stimulated by an electrical current, or influenced by a strong enough magnetic field, then the brain . . . responds.”
“With suicide and murder?” There was, now, disbelief.
“Remember when I told you there was a lot of strange and crazy in the world? We’ve seen a fair amount of that. Enough to not discount something that’s scientifically possible—even if wildly unlikely.”
“Like energy that—drives somebody to kill?”
“Yeah, like that.”
* * *
? ? ?
ELLIOT WESTON SET his gun down on the kitchen counter and looked at his two clients in a sort of vague curiosity. Former clients. Charles Simmons had a neat, round hole in his casual shirt just above his heart and a very surprised look on his ugly face.
One or more of the bones in his burly chest must have stopped the bullet, Elliot realized, because there was no sign of blood from an exit wound underneath his sprawled body.
Lorna Simmons lay beside him, her mouth open, wide eyes blank, her clipboard flung aside. There was a neat, round hole in the center of her blouse, and beneath her body a pool of scarlet blood was spreading slowly.
Smaller bones, Elliot supposed. Or just a smaller body.
Elliot knew, on some deep, quiet level of himself, that he had done something horrible. Something beyond horrible. But wherever that level was, it was unreachable right now. All he knew was that he was finished here, and he needed to make a few notes in his cell phone.
He turned and went outside, sitting down on one of the white wicker chairs of the nicely staged front porch, and pulled his phone from his pocket.
No bars at all, he noted, but he didn’t need to make a call. He just needed to make a few notes on his schedule, that was all. Notes that this house was still available, that maybe they should look for less demanding clients next time.
He made his notes and put his phone away, then just sat there staring peacefully into space. He felt very calm.
* * *
? ? ?
ARCHER MOVED A little way around the conference table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He could see all of them from his position, his gaze roving from one calm face to another. Even Katie’s face, he noted, was calm. Until a fleeting wince tightened her features, and she reached up absently to rub the nape of her neck.
She’d been doing that a lot lately, he realized.
“So . . . electricity made Sam Bowers kill himself. Electricity made Leslie Gardner slaughter her entire family. Her kids. That’s what you’re telling me.” Archer knew he sounded incredulous. He felt incredulous. And it was sort of good to feel something other than sick horror.
Hollis moved to take a seat directly facing the sheriff, and the others pulled out chairs as well. She said, “No, that isn’t what I’m telling you. It isn’t that simple. Not exactly electricity. Energy.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Electricity is only one form of energy. There’s nuclear energy, for instance. Atomic. Solar. Wind. It can all be converted to what we call electrical energy, and used by us that way. But there’s also energy we don’t . . . actively use. There’s an electromagnetic field around most living things. Around this planet. The sun. Around the electrical devices we use every day.”