Olivia frowned. “Define ‘wider paranormal underworld.’ ”

“Bluestone wasn’t the first project designed to investigate the paranormal, and the Foundation is not the only organization that tries to explore, monitor and police atypical phenomena.”

“I know there have always been some people with talents but I wasn’t aware of other organizations dedicated to the paranormal.”

“Most are frauds and cons, but yes, there are other groups that take a serious interest in the subject. Back to Vortex. A few people have died under what I consider suspicious circumstances. Rogues, raiders, a couple of dealers. And it’s not true that there isn’t any solid evidence of the existence of Vortex.”

Olivia paused, her wineglass halfway to her mouth. “I assume Victor and Lucas know about this evidence?”

“They do now. Why do you think they asked you to cooperate with me?”

Olivia contemplated him for a long moment. He took the opportunity to drink some more wine.

“This evidence,” Olivia said after a moment. “Is it connected to my mother’s murder?”

“I’m sure it is. I just don’t know how. Not yet. But there’s a link. There has to be.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“I may not be the creative type, but I’m pretty good when it comes to connecting the dots.”

“Everyone I know, psychic or not, thinks they’re intuitive, including me. But it turns out we all make serious errors in judgment anyway.”

“Trust me, I’m aware of that.”

“What is this evidence you’re talking about?”

He took out his cell phone and pulled up the photo he had shown to Arganbright and Pine. He set the device on the table in front of Olivia.

She looked at the image, intrigued at first. Then she sat back, stunned.

“My grandmother painted that picture,” she whispered.

“That,” he said quietly, “is the theory I have been working on for the past few days.”

He had spent hours examining the scene. It depicted a small, neatly laid out trailer park in the center of a clearing. A forest of pine and fir punctuated with granite outcroppings constituted the landscape. The corner of a long white building studded with narrow windows and topped with a tile roof could be seen in the background. It looked like an old convent or monastery.

The trailers were identical, vintage mid-twentieth century, painted camouflage green. There were no vehicles in the scene, just bicycles and scooters. The artist had labeled each of the trailers. Some were tagged with names, and other tags indicated a function—café, medical clinic, grocery.

There was a hooded figure in the front of the scene. The words Here there be monsters were written in flowing script.

“Ever seen this picture before?” Harlan asked.