crouching beside the fallen man.
"Dead?" she asked.
"I couldn't let him live." Fallon's voice was flat on the surface but underneath there was a soul-deep weariness. "He was too strong. A hunter-talent of some kind. If the cops had tried to arrest him, it would have taken him about five minutes to escape and disappear."
"Don't get me wrong, I wasn't complaining. But what do we do now? There's no way we can explain that clock to the police."
"We're not going to explain it to the cops. We'll take it with us. They won't need it to find the bodies and figure out what was going on here."
She heard a rustling sound and realized that he was going through the killer's clothes.
"We'll have to find a way to stop that clock before you drive it back to Scargill Cove," she said. "It's generating too much energy, enough to fill this entire house. You might be able to see where you're going, but the driver of any car that you pass will be temporarily blinded."
"It's just a damn clock," Fallon said. "Got to be a way to stop it. Mrs. Bridewell's curiosities all incorporated traditional mechanical escapements."
She shuddered. "I can't wait to hear more about this Mrs. Bridewell."
"I'll tell you later. The point is that, paranormal aspects aside, the clock's mechanism is very similar to the one in my office."
She sensed his movement when he got to his feet. He crossed through the strange night, a dark shadow silhouetted against the eerie mist. There was a squeak of small hinges and a cranking sound. The ticking stopped abruptly.
The flashlights reignited, spearing beams of light across the basement. At the top of the stairs, the entrance was once again filled with normal shadows.
"That worked," Isabella said.
"Which means this really is one of her infernal devices, not some new variation," Fallon said. "That's the good news."
"Why is it good news?"
"I wasn't looking forward to hunting down a modern-day inventor who had decided to create a high-tech version of some of Bridewell's gadgets. The originals are bad enough. The question now is, how did the clock get into this house? But we'll deal with that later."
He aimed his flashlight at the body on the floor. Isabella looked at the crumpled figure of Nightman. The killer's face was set in a death mask of stark horror. He looked to be in his midthirties, sandy-haired and lithe in build. He was dressed in dark green work pants and a matching shirt. The logo on the pocket of the shirt spelled out the name of a construction firm based in Willow Creek.
She looked away. "He told us he found the clock in a cave beneath this basement."
Fallon swept the light across the floorboards. "Before we call the cops, I want to make sure the evidence is there."
She speared her flashlight at the section of the flooring that was in the heart of the whirlpool of energy. "Try that section."
He walked to the circle of light created by her flashlight, crouched and began probing with his gloved fingers.
"Here we go," he said. "A trapdoor."
She went toward him, watching as he opened a wide, square section of the flooring. They aimed their flashlights into the darkness below. A metal ladder disappeared into the depths. Isabella leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better view of the object near the foot of the ladder.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Looks like a body bag," Fallon said.
Isabella straightened quickly. "Norma Spaulding is never going to sell this house now."
"Real estate has always been a tough market in this part of California." Fallon reached for his phone.
Isabella cleared her throat. "One thing before you call the cops."
"Don't worry, you won't be here when they arrive. You're leaving now."
"Right, thanks." She exhaled slowly. "But there's a complication. Norma knows that I was the one who promised to check out the house for ghosts."
"As far as everyone involved is concerned, including Norma Spaulding, I got an intuitive flash of impending disaster and decided that I would
"Dead?" she asked.
"I couldn't let him live." Fallon's voice was flat on the surface but underneath there was a soul-deep weariness. "He was too strong. A hunter-talent of some kind. If the cops had tried to arrest him, it would have taken him about five minutes to escape and disappear."
"Don't get me wrong, I wasn't complaining. But what do we do now? There's no way we can explain that clock to the police."
"We're not going to explain it to the cops. We'll take it with us. They won't need it to find the bodies and figure out what was going on here."
She heard a rustling sound and realized that he was going through the killer's clothes.
"We'll have to find a way to stop that clock before you drive it back to Scargill Cove," she said. "It's generating too much energy, enough to fill this entire house. You might be able to see where you're going, but the driver of any car that you pass will be temporarily blinded."
"It's just a damn clock," Fallon said. "Got to be a way to stop it. Mrs. Bridewell's curiosities all incorporated traditional mechanical escapements."
She shuddered. "I can't wait to hear more about this Mrs. Bridewell."
"I'll tell you later. The point is that, paranormal aspects aside, the clock's mechanism is very similar to the one in my office."
She sensed his movement when he got to his feet. He crossed through the strange night, a dark shadow silhouetted against the eerie mist. There was a squeak of small hinges and a cranking sound. The ticking stopped abruptly.
The flashlights reignited, spearing beams of light across the basement. At the top of the stairs, the entrance was once again filled with normal shadows.
"That worked," Isabella said.
"Which means this really is one of her infernal devices, not some new variation," Fallon said. "That's the good news."
"Why is it good news?"
"I wasn't looking forward to hunting down a modern-day inventor who had decided to create a high-tech version of some of Bridewell's gadgets. The originals are bad enough. The question now is, how did the clock get into this house? But we'll deal with that later."
He aimed his flashlight at the body on the floor. Isabella looked at the crumpled figure of Nightman. The killer's face was set in a death mask of stark horror. He looked to be in his midthirties, sandy-haired and lithe in build. He was dressed in dark green work pants and a matching shirt. The logo on the pocket of the shirt spelled out the name of a construction firm based in Willow Creek.
She looked away. "He told us he found the clock in a cave beneath this basement."
Fallon swept the light across the floorboards. "Before we call the cops, I want to make sure the evidence is there."
She speared her flashlight at the section of the flooring that was in the heart of the whirlpool of energy. "Try that section."
He walked to the circle of light created by her flashlight, crouched and began probing with his gloved fingers.
"Here we go," he said. "A trapdoor."
She went toward him, watching as he opened a wide, square section of the flooring. They aimed their flashlights into the darkness below. A metal ladder disappeared into the depths. Isabella leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better view of the object near the foot of the ladder.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Looks like a body bag," Fallon said.
Isabella straightened quickly. "Norma Spaulding is never going to sell this house now."
"Real estate has always been a tough market in this part of California." Fallon reached for his phone.
Isabella cleared her throat. "One thing before you call the cops."
"Don't worry, you won't be here when they arrive. You're leaving now."
"Right, thanks." She exhaled slowly. "But there's a complication. Norma knows that I was the one who promised to check out the house for ghosts."
"As far as everyone involved is concerned, including Norma Spaulding, I got an intuitive flash of impending disaster and decided that I would
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