The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(9)

“Once,” Catalina said.

“What happened?”

Catalina focused on the narrow road. “I’m still here.”

“I think I’ll get myself a fork. Hell, make that a gun.”





CHAPTER 4


I’m afraid that Catalina Lark might be something of a problem,” Victor Arganbright said. “And not just because she comes from Fogg Lake.”

Slater Arganbright contemplated the feverish heat and energy of the casino lights on the Las Vegas Strip below the penthouse window. From where he stood in his uncle’s office at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the city, he had a spectacular view. It was two thirty in the morning, but in Las Vegas the night was always on fire. What intrigued him now, as usual, was the darkness of the desert that lay just beyond the city.

He had been awake when Victor had summoned him with a cryptic phone call. That was not an unusual condition for him these days. He had not slept well since the last case. Things had improved a little—the nightmares came less frequently now—but it was still the norm for him to snap into wakefulness on a rush of energy every morning around two. Sometimes he was able to go back to sleep. Sometimes he was doomed to stay awake until dawn.

Still, there were signs of progress. They no longer had to keep him locked up in the attic. Baby steps.

He turned around to confront his uncle.

“Tell me about Catalina Lark,” he said.

Victor grimaced. “It’s complicated.”

Victor was in his early midfifties and in excellent physical shape, which he attributed to a regimen of daily laps in his indoor pool, a mostly vegetarian diet—he did eat fish on occasion—and red wine at dinner. He had the strong, bold profile and fierce amber eyes that ran in the male line of the Arganbright family.

Today Victor’s features were set in the grim expression that was his default mode these days. Five years ago, when he had assumed the helm of the Foundation in what some of the staff referred to as a hostile takeover, he had been energized by the daunting task of transforming the secretive organization into a modern, smoothly functioning operation. He’d had some success, but in the past few months he had become obsessed with what he was convinced was a mortal threat, not only to the Foundation but to the country.

The problem for Victor was that with the exception of his husband, Lucas, no one else believed the danger actually existed. The truth was that rumors questioning Victor’s stability were starting to circulate among the Foundation staff. Some wondered if he had fallen down the rabbit hole of a conspiracy theory. That theory had a name—Vortex.

Aware of the rumors about him, Victor no longer talked openly about his concerns. But Slater and Lucas and others in the family were well aware that he had not stopped obsessing over the legend. There was a driven quality about him. His amber eyes were shadowed with the resolve of a man who has a clear vision of the task in front of him; a man who fears time is running out.

The only outward indication of his obsession lay in the paintings that currently covered the walls of his paneled office. The pictures were everywhere, hanging one on top of the other. Several more were stacked on the floor. A few were valuable works of art by the old masters. Others had been created by modern artists. There were also a number of sketches done by Victor himself.

All of the paintings in the room were focused on the same theme: the Oracle of Delphi.

Most of the pictures depicted the Oracle in the classic pose, draped in a hooded robe and seated on a three-legged stool that straddled a crevice deep inside a cave. In that position she inhaled the mysterious vapors that wafted up from the fissure in the rocky floor of the cavern.

Under the influence of the unknown gases, the Oracle hallucinated and saw visions. She delivered prophecies and predictions, usually in the form of cryptic phrases that had to be interpreted by those who paid handsomely to obtain the otherworldly information.

The oracle business had been a very profitable enterprise for the ancient city-state of Delphi, Slater thought, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t why Victor was obsessed with the ancient legend. Victor already had money—a lot of it. He had made a fortune with his hedge fund before retiring to take control of the Foundation.

His first major change was to move the organization from its old headquarters in Los Angeles to Las Vegas. He had made no secret of his reason for the decision. In a town that specialized in creating the illusion of endless night, a world in which Elvis impersonators, magicians, ageless entertainers, shady characters and those afflicted with gambling fever all coexisted, it was easy for an enterprise dedicated to paranormal research to vanish into the shadows.

“Walk me through this,” Slater said. “Why is Catalina Lark going to be a problem?”

Victor heaved a melancholy sigh. “There was an unfortunate incident in Seattle several months ago while you were recovering.”

“You mean while I was locked in the attic.”

Victor glowered but evidently decided to move on.

“A man named George Ingram died,” he said. “The body was found in a vault in his private gallery. The death was attributed to natural causes, but Ingram was a … collector, so I decided to take a look at the scene.”

When Victor used the term collector it went without saying that the individual he was talking about was not a standard-issue connoisseur of art. It meant the person was obsessed with objects, artifacts and antiques that had a connection to the paranormal.