The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Read online

  FANTOME

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locations are used factiously. Other names, characters, incidents, and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Michael Siemsen

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof.

  First Fantome trade paperback edition October 2012

  FANTOME and logo are trademarks of Fantome Publishing, LLC, the publisher of this work.

  ISBN 978-0-9834469-2-7 (print)

  ISBN 978-0-9834469-1-0 (ebook - ePub)

  ISBN 978-0-9834469-3-4 (ebook – Mobi)

  Connect with the author:

  facebook.com/mcsiemsen

  www.michaelsiemsen.com

  [email protected]

  twitter: @michaelsiemsen

  This book is dedicated to Darian, Christina, and Erik

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  SAMPLE CHAPTER: A WARM PLACE TO CALL HOME

  ONE

  If Tuni’s best friend ever asked what she and Matt had done for their six-month anniversary, she would have to lie about the most important part. “I gave him a rock” sounded, well, odd, and she wouldn’t really be able to go into further detail.

  She felt the stone’s smooth weight in her hand as they walked along the well-worn trail, shaded by lush tropical foliage. Colorful birds flitted about them, adding their haunting, musical calls to the white noise of an unseen watercourse. She finished the “note” and tucked the rock into a fold of her sarong.

  The trail widened, and Matt paused for her to catch up and walk beside him. Oblivious to her plan, he took her hand in his, and a look passed between them that they had shared often lately. He wasn’t great with the whole words part of the relationship, but they could and did talk about things, and she didn’t feel the lack of intimacy that had finally sent her running from each of her previous boyfriends.

  Like the others, he told her she was beautiful, but somehow, from his lips, it didn’t sound the same. And she believed his corny declaration that he liked her even more without makeup, in her comfy clothes, and white athletic socks.

  “Matthew,” she said in her London accent tinged with Anglo-South African. Of all the people he had ever met, she alone put the emphasis on the end: “maTYEW.”

  She tugged on his gloved hand, but he was already stopping. She followed his gaze through the gap in the trees to the view of the lagoon: a breath-slowing panorama on an idyllic Bora Bora afternoon. Miles away, over the ocean, dark clouds volleyed silent bolts of lightning.

  “Yeah?” he said without turning.

  “Thank you again for bringing me here,” she said.

  Now he turned, smiling brightly, and leaned in—carefully—for a kiss.

  Running her fingers over the bump the rock made in her sarong, she decided to give it to him later, when they were back in the suite. It would be more comfortable for him to read it there, anyway. Conditions there would be optimal for a real kiss, too. She had learned there were certain . . . logistics involved when it came to physical intimacy with Matthew, but it seldom bothered her. They started down the hill.

  Her head buzzed with excitement about her gift. He always maintained that he wasn’t a telepath, couldn’t read minds. But that was only technically true. Because he could read people’s imprints on objects—feel their emotions, experience their thoughts, see through their eyes—it was really only an issue of timing. If, right now, she were to make him sit down and take off his glove, and placed the rock in his hand, he would be reading her thoughts of a few moments ago. To her, the difference was merely semantic. She had the opportunity to share her feelings about who he was to her, in a way that no one else on earth could do for another. True, this was the honeymoon period of their relationship, and the intensity of their feelings might well diminish over time. No, not diminish, she realized. Rather, their feelings would become something they both could savor, as opposed to wolfing them down in desperate gulps. Whatever the future held for them, he would always have the rock, and with it, he could experience this snapshot in time whenever he wished. And unlike a written message, its power and meaning could never fade.

  They reached the bottom of the hill, back on the resort’s grounds, where the wild jungle growth gave way to manicured plumeria, ginger blossoms, and bird-of-paradise. Other couples roamed the paths, some with that intent pace that bespoke a clear destination, but most with the happy aimlessness of lovers lost in each other.

  Tuni noticed the odd single soul standing alone by one of the bungalows. Attractive, sharp suit, hair in a tight ponytail. She made eye contact with the stranger for an instant before both broke off to look elsewhere.

  She and Matt followed the orchid-lined path around the end of the building, toward the grand lobby.

  “You ever feel like we’re being watched here?” Matthew asked.

  “You noticed her, too?” Tuni whispered.

  “Who?” he mock-whispered back.

  “The woman in the suit back there. I thought you said that because—”

  “Oh, no, I was being ironic.” He gestured at his decidedly untropical attire of cargo pants, turtleneck, gloves, shoes with socks. “Since you mention it, though, I did see a woman in a suit yesterday, but it looked like the resort workers’ uniform. Was it gold?”

  “Yup. She’s an employee; it’s the same suit.” She pointed at the concierge as they passed his mahogany lectern. “Let’s hurry up and fetch our booze before I turn into a bloody paranoiac. I need a shower, too.”

  * * *

  Tessa Hollander pinched the button on her earbud wire. “Looks like they’re headed for the lobby. Should I follow or post?”

  The path the couple was on would lead them right past her. This would be the closest they had been since Tessa began—

  Oh, shit! The female subject had looked directly at her, made eye contact. Major screw-up. She should have had her shades on, at least. Definitely not going to report that little detail. The couple disappeared down the path. She heard the tinny sound from her dangling earbud and popped it back in, then activated the mic again, “Sorry, Garza, I didn’t catch that.”

  “I said post in sight of their cottage and let me know as soon as they’re back. We move on your word.”

  “Got it.”

  He sounded pissy. Still sore from l
ast night’s rejection, no doubt, but rules were rules, and he was married, besides. Tessa pulled off her gold Noa Noa Resort coat and turned it inside out, folding it over her arm as she walked back down the path to the overwater bungalows. Based on this pair’s habits over the past few days, they’d likely be back soon.

  The male, Matthew Turner—Caucasian, 26 years old—was the millionaire. About five-eleven with light-brown hair, he looked thicker than the agency’s file photo of a gaunt, pale kid. He must have packed on a good fifteen to twenty pounds in the gym since the picture was taken. Odd thing with this one, though: he was always overdressed for the weather. Yesterday, through binocs, she had seen him on a boat, in a full-body wet suit. The warm water made a wet suit unnecessary, but if he insisted on it, why not the cooler short-sleeved Farmer John style? And same thing today—who went hiking in cargo pants and a turtleneck when it was ninety degrees? Strangest of all—and she had missed this the first couple of times—he always had on these thin flesh-colored gloves. At first, she had thought him a burn victim, or maybe he was covered with swastika prison tats, until she saw him on the deck of their bungalow in just shorts. He was pale as a ghost but didn’t seem to have anything to hide. Maybe he was one of those germaphobes.

  And Turner’s file was missing a page. The bottom of each sheet read 1 of 4, 2 of 4, 3 of 4, but she didn’t have 4. Her boss, Garza, in his usual macho fashion, had just said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  The female, Tuni St. James (South African-born, joint UK and U.S. citizenship, 32 years old), looked like a runway model, though she had the unconcerned walk of someone more studious than social. Privately, Tessa thought it the walk of a bitch, but she had to allow that a D cup size, along with five inches over her own height, may have colored her thinking about the woman. Tessa was accustomed to being the eye magnet in the room, and anyone who shifted the attention from her was apt to get on her bad side.

  Both subjects were associated with a museum in New York City. And both were about to have their vacation rudely interrupted.

  Tessa grabbed a beach chair from the row atop the grassy ledge and dragged it onto the sand. A young couple with an excitable Chihuahua strolled alongside the placid turquoise lagoon that led to the bungalows. Other couples—it seemed everyone on this side of the island came in pairs—walked without purpose, as if intoxicated by cloying, nauseating, undying romantic love.

  Tessa kicked her sandals off and slid her slacks down to her ankles, revealing the bottom half of her purple bikini. Her blouse joined the jacket and slacks on the sand, and she sat down, intentionally slowly, temporarily interrupting the honeymoon bliss of more than one nearby couple. She pulled her shades down from the top of her head and shifted her eyes left, pretending not to notice a wife’s reproachful glare at her man’s wandering attention. Tessa smiled inside and turned her focus to the bungalow of interest.

  “In position,” she murmured.

  * * *

  Matt slid the key card through the slot and swung the door wide for Tuni. “After you,” he said theatrically.

  Inside, the cool air felt good, but he knew she would soon be too cold. He turned the thermostat up a few degrees on his way into the bedroom. The bed was still in sweet disarray. No maid service needed here, he mused. No surprise imprints to smack into when removing his gloves for a quick face washing. Let the housekeeping staff “dirty” the place all they liked—after he and Tuni were done with it.

  He dropped his gloves and peeled off the sweaty turtleneck, tossing it into one of the closets, then grabbed a washcloth and used it to turn on the water. You’ve touched this faucet before, he chided himself. He scrubbed his face and turned off the water with his bare hand—no issues.

  Tuni called from the other room, “What are we doing right now? I still have to shower.”

  “I was going to lie out on the balcony—get a few more rays before sunset.” He looked himself over in the mirror and said, “I don’t think I’m even white yet!”

  He kicked off his cargo pants on top of the turtleneck and slid on some long swim trunks.

  Tuni leaned in the bathroom doorway, threw her sarong atop the growing pile, and laughed. “I don’t mind you transparent, you know.”

  He smiled and grabbed her wrist in passing, leading her through the living room to the sliding glass door. He reached for the handle, then hesitated, his hand hanging in the air as if frozen.

  “Crap, have I . . . ?”

  “Twice now, yes.”

  “Sorry,” he said with a sigh. “This will never stop being weird.”

  He forced himself to clutch the handle, exhaled when nothing happened, and slid the door open.

  “See?” Tuni said. “This is what you paid for. Everything new from the resort’s expansion. I know you asked for twenty-four-seven ‘do not disturb,’ but the housekeeping staff wear gloves all the time—I’ve seen them.” Now she took him by the hand out onto the patio. On the glass-topped wicker table between their two cushioned deck chairs were two sweating glasses of spiked cola. Beyond a low guard rail, the lagoon reflected the sinking sun. “Remember,” she said, “it’s not worth a bloody nickel if you can’t enjoy it.”

  Matt sat down on the chair nearer the door as Tuni walked back inside. He stretched out, well aware of his bare legs, back, neck, elbows, and heels, all rubbing against foreign objects of unknown provenance. He picked up the glass beside him and sipped. His lips touching strange glass.

  * * *

  Tuni grabbed the rock from her purse and took a deep breath. She walked back outside onto the balcony and climbed on top of Matthew, careful to keep her bikini bottom touching only his long shorts, and not letting her top get too close to him. He looked up at her and smiled with elation.

  “How daft is all this?” she said.

  “How’s that? Which part?”

  “’Which part?’ Look at you! Bloody wearing shorts? Not even a T-shirt?”

  He smiled, stroking her arms. “Get what you pay for, right?”

  She gave him a quick kiss on the mouth and carefully stood up, peering out at the sky. She had the stone palmed at her side. No better time than now . . .

  “You are so frickin’ beautiful, it’s scary,” he said.

  She turned, one brow aloft. “Odd compliment, dear. Let’s stow that one away permanently, shall we?”

  One of her exes had always said something similar. Matthew couldn’t possibly know. He was just being immature—an attempt at cuteness. But the memory had blemished the moment, so she decided to give him the rock after dinner.

  “Sorry . . .” He suddenly leaned up. “Oh, shit! What time is it?”

  She glanced at the wall clock inside the room. “Half past six, why?”

  He started to get up. “Our reservation! For some reason, I thought we had more time . . .”

  “Relax, Mr. Punctual. They’re not going to give our table away if we’re five minutes late. I’m still all sandy anyway—gonna take a quick shower. Enjoy the view for a few before you get dressed, okay?”

  She walked inside, leaving the sliding glass door open behind her. The room felt a bit cold, so she flicked off the thermostat on her way past. The wall jets in the shower sprayed from three sides, and she tossed her bikini top and bottom onto the growing mound of clothes and stepped in.

  * * *

  Matt closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the deck chair cushion. Everything new, he reflected. Four thousand a night was a small price to pay for a week like this. He still worried, still hesitated before letting his skin touch anything, but that wasn’t really a habit he wanted to break. For the sake of the vacation, he had to find a happy medium. If he touched something with an imprint, Tuni would be stuck with the consequences. Though they had seemed to fall into a good rhythm on avoiding hazards, he couldn’t have his ability dominate their budding relationship. That had happened to him before, and it didn’t work. Tuni was the best thing in his very weird life, and he wasn’t about to make the same mistakes wit
h her.

  “Hello, Mr. Turner,” an English-accented man’s voice said from above his head.

  Snapping his head back quickly, Matt saw the last face he had ever expected to see again. Dr. Garrett Rheese, one of the few people who knew of Matt’s ability—and the only one who could set off the alarm now shrieking away in Matt’s head. Rheese’s middle-aged face sagged oddly from looking down on him, but the triumphant smile was unmistakable. Two tall men with buzz cuts flanked him as he held out a big, thick book.

  “I’m going to need your help tracking down a little something,” he said. “Thank you in advance.”

  The book dropped onto Matt’s stomach. His body fell limp on the chair, and the familiar rushing sound sucked into his ears as his body shifted into a fetal position. But it wasn’t his body he was feeling.

  I am Heinrich Strauss. I am thirty-four years old. I live in a mansion in Salzburg, Austria. The year is 1917. I’m crying, curled up in my bed. My wife has left me for a poor dancing man from Vienna. I pray on this Bible that I may find the strength to go on.

  TWO

  He spoke in a sympathetic tone, his brow furrowed with concern. “Little cuts—only little ones, dear.” His manner was that of a pediatrician about to give a shot. “They hurt a teensy bit at first. Then, unfortunately, you will begin to anticipate the next one, and the next, until, in your head, they become the most painful thing you could ever imagine. And they feel surprisingly hot. Once the cuts are halfway up your arm or leg, the entire area feels this heat. But I’m going to start you off at the ankles today, okay? That is okay, isn’t it? You look angry. That’s okay. Just be sure to stay still; otherwise, a little cut becomes a big cut, and there’s only so much I can do for those.”