Sunday, 11 a.m.
Icy water dripped off my fingers as I turned the jagged
stone into the light. I tilted the bucket that displayed
uncut, unpolished rocks and lifted a block of greenish
rough from its water bath. There were striations in the
rough that might make it unstable. I flipped open my
jeweler's loupe and studied the colors that swirled
through the mottled bronzed petzite. It was lovely rough,
but felt friable. It wasn't worth the risk to purchase it
for cutting, carving and shaping, unless I could get it
cheaper than the rock hound was asking. A lot cheaper. I
named a rock-bottom price and when the owner was offended,
I moved on.
Across the makeshift aisle in the old convention center, a
man in a brown plaid shirt and khakis moved with me. He'd
been in my area several times since I arrived at the rock-
andgem show, and I adjusted the backpack that was slung
across my shoulder. Though there was little chance of a
light-fingered theft in the crowded room, it paid to be
cautious. And in such a crowded space, I couldn't draw on
my natural gifts to read him. Too much emotional
interference. The man in brown stopped at a display and
lifted two uncut agate nodules.
Maybe I was being paranoid, but I was glad I'd left the
spring designs in the hotel safe. Security for the
patterns was something new for all of us, but since the
Oscars last year, we'd had to be more careful. Bloodstone
Inc. became the hottest jewelry design company on the East
Coast after Evelyn Crosby wore one of my ruby necklaces
when she accepted her award. We were making money, and
competitors weren't shy about trying to get advance notice
of our concepts.
I smoothed down the Velcro closures on my pack and checked
the strap hooking it to my belt. As if he knew he'd been
seen, the brown man drifted away, but I got a good look at
his face. Scruffy. Ordinary. Medium brown color scheme
from hair to eyes to clothing to boots, as if he'd been
designed for dull. He ducked his head as he moved into the
aisle near the outer door.
In the next booth I caught a glimpse of something
different. The fine hairs along my arms lifted in
excitement. At the bottom of a white plastic bucket was a
large lump of dark charcoal-tinted stone with one bluish
nub where the owner had polished out a nickel-sized spot.
When I pulled the double-fist-sized hunk of rock from its
water bath into the light, I found I was holding a slab of
labradorite. Its color was an unexpected deep shade of
finely mottled blue, deeper than lapis, with pale blue
swirls like water in the Mediterranean Sea. The color
softened into water-green, wrapping around the blue like a
lover's arms, hues soft and satiny.
I kept my face impassive, but put my canvas backpack on
the display case and hefted the hunk of stone from hand to
hand, turning it slowly. It was free of cracks and showed
no evidence of damage from the elements. With a corner of
a cloth attached to my jeans belt loop just for that
purpose, I wiped the slab, scrubbing at its craggy
surface. The blue swirled through and through.
"How much of this you got?" I asked before I even bothered
to look at the booth proprietor. "For you, Tyler, much as
you want."
I looked up quickly. "How you doin', Rett?" I asked
easily, hiding my disappointment. I figured the price had
just gone up dramatically. That seemed to happen a lot
now, as rock hounds followed the money to Bloodstone's
successful door.
"Good 'nuff, I reckon. You can have that at a reasonable
price, long as you give me a good deal back on a necklace
and earrings set for the wife, cut from that bluest part
right there." Everett Longworth nodded to the polished
blue nub and scratched his belly with one hand while
punching numbers into a nineteen-seventies adding machine
with the other.
"Emily Sue likes your work and I got me a twenty-five-year
anniversary coming up in September. Lez you and me dicker
some," he said with relish. Rett loved to dicker over
stones. Any way he could get out of paying sales tax or
reporting earnings to Uncle Sam was good by him. And Rett
was enough of an emotional projector that I knew he liked
me. That always helped.
We dickered. We settled on three lumps of rough
labradorite for me and a good price — a really good price —
for Longworth's sterling-silver-and-labradorite
anniversary gift in a design that would be created just
for Emily Sue, his long-suffering wife. Once we agreed on
a price, Rett threw in several polished cabs of a lovely
gray kyanite I could easily use and some freshwater
blister pearls in the same shade as the cabochons. Two of
the pearls were larger than the pad of my thumb and had a
spectacular shape, flat and free-form. Noelle would flip
over them. It was nice to know at least one of the rock
hounds of my acquaintance wasn't trying to take me to the
cleaners.
Deal concluded, a promissory note for an anniversary gift
in Rett's hands, I pulled the backpack to me to add in the
twenty pounds of well-wrapped rough and cabs, and un-
hooked the pack from its strap. I'd done well.
Pain slammed into me. In a single instant, time snapped
and stretched. I lurched, hurled slowly forward across the
labradorite. The world tilted. My breath left in a shocked
spasm. I caught myself with both hands. Buckets of rough
flew, stone and water in the air. A second blow made a one-
two punch of pure agony. Piercing pain blossomed from both
kidneys. Paralyzing. My knees collapsed. The display table
smashed down beneath me. Air shot from my lungs. I had a
glimpse of the brown man's face as I twisted in midair and
landed on the concrete floor in a puddle of icy water,
clattering stones, and a nearly electric misery. I saw a
boot coming at me.
Everett shouted and surged forward. My backpack and canvas
tote seemed to hang in midair for a single moment, then
they whipped away. Bodies blurred by pain sped by. Time
wrenched back as I curled up on the floor, tried to
remember how to breathe and wondered whose blood was on my
hands.
It was mine.
I was patched up in first aid, the big red cross painted
on the wall next to the security sign. Spitting mad, I was
left sitting on a stretcher in a sterile cubicle, my hand
in a bowl of icky-looking brown cleanser, instead of being
out on the convention-center floor looking for my
assailant along with the security officers.
I was so mad I couldn't pick up anything from anyone
around me, even the EMT guy only two feet away. It all was
an emotional and mental haze. So much for the St. Claire
family gift. Psychics-R-Us had failed me again. As usual,
being a receptor for the mental and emotional feedback of
others hadn't saved me from danger or prevented bad things
from happening.
I'd cut my palm as I fell, most likely on a jagged piece
of rough. I didn't tell the EMT that I'd been kidney-
punched in addition to the flesh wound. He might have made
me go to the hospital to pee in a cup, and I figured I
could tell all by myself if my urine turned red and bloody.
The head of security, a pompous off-duty cop with the
unlikely name of Tommy Thompson, stepped in
from "reviewing the crime scene," as he'd called it when
he slogged out the door ten minutes earlier. "You're
lucky, little miss." He wiped his shiny forehead and
huffed two quick breaths, winded by the thirty-yard
walk. "He could have used a knife on you."
He could have used a bazooka, too, I thought, but I didn't
say that.
"I've determined that the incident took place in a
location not covered by the security cameras. And further,
that your backpack and canvas tote are both gone." He
spoke as he pulled a form from his desk and started
writing, detailing his startling observations for
posterity I'd guess.
"Oh. Really?" I said.
"You could use a stitch or two," the paramedic on duty
said, grinning into my face as if he had read my mind.
Now, wouldn't that be a change around. "But if it was me,
I'd just make do with the butterfly strips, ointment and a
bandage, and take it easy."
"I'll take the latter."
"Your call." He gathered supplies and dried the icky-
looking stuff off my hand prior to applying butterfly
bandages. I hissed a breath when he pulled the first weird-
looking adhesive strip across my flesh and closed the
wound. It hurt like heck. The second strip wasn't any less
painful.
"You had seen the man several times today, you said?"
Tommy asked, dropping his bulk into a tired-looking chair
and peering up at me from under his brows. When I nodded,
he said, "And all you can tell me is he was medium height,
medium weight and brown. Wonder why you didn't report him
to the security department? That's what I'm wondering."
"I saw several people various times today. It's a pretty
small crowd in an enclosed space." You idiot. "You want
everyone here paranoid and reporting all the multiple
sightings? It's a show, for pity's sa — Ow!"
"Sorry," the paramedic said, teeth showing in a grin. But
he pulled a white elastic mesh tighter still as he wrapped
my hand.
"How much you think he got?" Tommy asked.
"My money is in a wad in my jeans, along with my driver's
license and credit card." I shrugged my shoulders to
rearrange the wet shirt across them. It was cold in the
room and the cloth was chilling. "But the value of the
gems and rough exceeds seven thousand dollars."
Tommy whistled.
I agreed. It sucked an ostrich egg. "If you'll let me see
the tapes I'll be able to point him out. I'm sure," I said.
"This it?"
I looked up to see an elderly man in the doorway, the red
cross bright on the wall behind him. His bald head seemed
to rise out of a too-large collar, the security uniform
making him look like a kid playing dress-up in his daddy's
cop clothes. He was holding up my canvas backpack, the
straps dangling.
"Yes!" I leaped down from the table, strawberry-blond
braid flying, unsuccessfully trying to hide a grimace of
pain. The paramedic sighed, a resigned sound that said he
knew I was hurt worse than I had claimed. He finished
wrapping my hand as the tiny security man dumped out my
belongings on the stretcher.
"Good work, Lionel," Tommy T. said.
The tiny man grinned. "I fount 'em in the men's room in
section D. In the back stall. I gathered 'em up and
brung 'em here."
"Anything missing?" Tommy asked.
I plundered through the pile. The papers and notebook were
still in the back pocket, which was surprising. The
receipts for the precious metals I'd ordered from a rep
I'd bumped into were still there. And the rough I had
purchased earlier, and which would have been harder to
replace than ID or mere money, was all tumbled in the
backpack, including a hunk of green turquoise with vibrant
colors I had paid way too much to obtain. The sizable hunk
of rare African bloodstone rough was safe, still in its
newsprint wrappings. More surprising, the small bag of
ruby cabs and predrilled focal stones I had picked up for
a paltry $5,000 was here, as well. Relief washed through
me. Forgetting my discomfort, I counted the cabs. All
fifteen were still in the pack. Either the thief had been
chased off before he finished looking or he hadn't known
what he had.
"What's missing? What's them?" Tommy T. asked, and poked
the felt bag that held the rubies.
"Cabochons," I said, which was the truth as far as it
went. I pocketed the bag and pawed through the pile
again. "The card key for my room. It's gone." And why
would anyone take only a room card key, unless they knew
exactly what it was and where it should be used?
"Maybe I better call your hotel and talk to security there
to keep an eye out." Tommy T. picked up the old-fashioned
phone. "What's your hotel and room number?" I told him and
he dialed out.
I looked at my watch. Over forty-five minutes had passed.
I had deliberately chosen a hotel close to the old
convention center so I could walk back and forth to the
rock-and-gem show. If the thief had wanted into my room,
he'd had plenty of time to be in and out by now.
Within minutes, Tommy discovered that my room door in the
hotel was hanging open and the place had been
tossed. "Spit and decay," I cursed as I listened to the
conversation, cuss words from my youth. "We'll bring the
little miss right on over," Tommy said.
"You'll meet us in the room with the police? We got an
assault to report to them boys anyway. Yeah. Good 'nuff.
Hang on and I'll step in the hallway a sec." Tommy T.
carried the phone into the hallway and closed the door.
"Important cop business," the EMT said. "Not for the likes
of us lesser creatures."
I grinned at the man and read his name tag. "I like you,
Winston."
"Ditto, little miss."
I punched his arm and we both laughed, engaging in small
talk as he secured the trailing end of the white elastic
mesh wrapped around my hand.
Tommy T. reentered, hung up the phone and looked at me
hard. "You wasn't by any chance carrying any drugs, was
you, little miss?"
"No." You caricature of a hillbilly cop, I wanted to add.
"Contraband?"
"No. Not that I'd be stupid enough to tell you if I was,
but no. I'm guessing he was after the spring designs. I'm
Tyler St. Claire, of Bloodstone Inc. in Connersville. And
there are certain competitors who might resort to theft if
they thought they could get away with it."
"Uh-huh."
"The designs are in the hotel safe."