“Because Victor and Lucas are still alive. This has all been very interesting, but I vote we get on with the business at hand. I’ve got an obsession, too, remember? I want to find the person who murdered my mother.”

For a couple of beats Harlan looked as if he had no idea what to do with her statement.

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?” he said.

“The monster theory? No. I’ve got more pressing issues. So do you.”

Harlan took a breath, swallowed the last of his coffee and got to his feet.

“Time to visit Swan Antiques,” he said.

“Too early. The shop won’t be open yet.”

“In my experience, that’s the best time to catch people who have information I need. Where does Swan live?”

“Over her shop.”

“Convenient.”

CHAPTER 14

The rumble of the boat’s engines shattered the tranquility of the island morning just as the Piper was putting the final touches on one of the topiary crypts.

He had a name, Jake Spode, but he preferred the code name the government agency had given to his father—Piper. Spode had adopted it at the start of his own career.

The boat engines slowed. Anticipation twisted with fear flashed through him. Maybe the plan had gone smoothly. Maybe they had picked up the oracle. He would not know until they docked. There was no communications technology on the island. No computers. No phones, not even landlines. The only way to make a phone call or use a computer was to take the boat to a neighboring island or a town on the mainland.

It was inconvenient, but the strict policy against any and all tech was one of the strategies that had made it possible to hide in plain sight. The island with no name was no longer invisible, thanks to GPS and other forms of modern technology, but the Piper had discovered another tactic for maintaining a cloak of invisibility—private ownership concealed under layers of shell corporations and trusts.

Spode forced himself to power down his excitement. Strong emotions were dangerous inside the maze. The hot currents of energy played havoc with them. The heavy paranormal atmosphere tended to enhance and distort spikes of fear, rage, hope and desire.

He took a few more snips and stood back to admire his artistry.

The crypt was large and architecturally detailed. He had designed and built the frame using a photograph of an elaborate stone burial vault he had admired in the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires. That had been a few years ago, when he was still powerful, still getting contracts from clandestine intelligence and security agencies around the world—back in the days when he had been able to leave the island whenever he wanted and remain away for extended periods of time.