All the Colors of Night (Fogg Lake #2)(11)

* * *



—

The following morning the vibration of his phone pulled his attention away from his third cup of coffee. He glanced at the caller ID and got a little rush of adrenaline. Victor Arganbright, the director of the Foundation. With luck that meant another job, which, in turn, meant another distraction.

Or maybe Arganbright was about to inform him he was being removed from the team.

North braced himself and took the call. “You’re up early, boss.”

As far as anyone could tell, Victor worked twenty-four-seven. He was obsessed. The object of that obsession had a name: Vortex.

Vortex held the status of a legend within the Foundation. It was said to have been the most highly classified of all the labs associated with the Bluestone Project. There were those who were convinced it was a myth. Others were certain that if it had been real, it had been destroyed when Bluestone was shut down. But Victor believed not only that Vortex had existed but that something very dangerous had been discovered in the lab. He was afraid that now, after all these decades, someone or some group was intent on discovering Bluestone’s greatest and most deadly secret. “Where are you?” Victor growled.

North got a little ping of premonition. Victor Arganbright growled a lot but there was something different about his tone today.

“I’m at the Abyss,” North said. “Do we have a new case?”

“What we have is an as-yet-unidentified problem. Pack a bag. The Foundation jet is being readied for a flight to Seattle. You and your mother are going to be on board.”

A ghostly whisper of intuition iced the back of North’s neck. His father had gone to Seattle three days earlier on Foundation business.

“Is this about Dad?” he asked.

“A short time ago Chandler was found conscious but unresponsive in his hotel room.”

North felt as if he had just taken a body blow. For a few beats he could not think.

“What?” he finally managed.

“Your mother got a feeling. She couldn’t get ahold of him. She called me and I called the hotel. The front desk sent security up to check on Chandler. That’s when they found him. An ambulance was called. He was taken to Harborview. It’s a level one trauma hospital. I’m told there is no sign of physical injury. No indication he might have suffered a stroke or a heart attack. They’re throwing around terms like pseudocoma and locked-in syndrome.”

“‘Locked-in syndrome’?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know the details. It’s as bad as it sounds. But the bottom line is that the symptoms don’t meet any of the standard diagnostic criteria for a coma, which makes me suspect aura trauma. Our Seattle people were notified immediately. They’re with him at the hospital. They’ll make sure he’s protected until we can airlift him back here to Vegas.”

It took North a beat to realize that our Seattle people meant Lark & LeClair, a small private investigation agency that had recently agreed to accept the Foundation as a client. There was also a cleaner team stationed in Seattle. The team worked out of the Lark & LeClair office.

North tried to concentrate.

“Protected?” he said. “Are you saying you think Dad was attacked? That he’s still in danger?”

“We don’t know what the hell happened.”

“Do you think it’s wise to move Dad before we have a better idea of what’s going on?” North asked.

“Pretty sure we’re dealing with an unusual situation.”

In Victor-speak, unusual situation meant an incident involving the paranormal.

“Have you told Mom?” North asked.

“Yes. She’ll meet you at the airport.”

“You want me to escort Dad back here?”

“No,” Victor said. “Your mother and some medics from Halcyon will handle that end of things. I’m sending you to Seattle because I want you to find out what happened to Chandler.”

Halcyon Manor was the private psychiatric hospital run by the Foundation. It specialized in treating diseases of the paranormal senses. North knew it all too well. He had spent a lot of time there in recent weeks getting fitted for the special crystal glasses that were supposed to keep him sane while he lost his night vision.

He steeled himself for what had to be said.

“Of course I’ll go to Seattle,” he said. “But under the circumstances I may not be the best investigator. You know what’s going on with my talent.”

“You haven’t lost it entirely and my intuition tells me you are the best person for this job.”

“Why?”

“Because your father’s last stop before he returned to the hotel was at an antiques shop that specializes in hot artifacts. He had contacted your mother to tell her that he had a lead on a relic that might have belonged to your grandfather. Chandler said he thought it might be an object that was tuned to Griffin Chastain’s psychic signature. But when Olivia LeClair from Lark & LeClair went through your father’s hotel room and belongings after he was taken to the hospital, she found no sign of an artifact.”

“Stolen?”

“There’s a high probability that is the case,” Victor said. “But if it’s tuned to Griffin Chastain’s signature—”

“Only another Chastain would recognize the relic. In other words, you don’t have any choice but to send me out on this case, because I’m the only Chastain available.”