Quicksilver by Amanda Quick Page A

a more cautious sip and lowered the glass.
    “May I ask what you saw tonight when that storm of hallucinations struck?” she said.
    “I saw the victims of the murders that I have investigated over the years,” he said. “The ones I failed.”
    She exhaled slowly. “You mean those poor souls for whom you could not find justice?”
    “And those I arrived too late to save. They are the ones who haunt me.” He went to stand in front of the fire. “What did you see, Virginia?”
    She crossed the carpet to join him at the hearth. “My visions were not unlike your own. Like you, I saw the ones I failed, those who died by violence. The ones for whom there was no justice because the killer was never caught.”
    He nodded once, understanding.
    For a long moment they stood side by side, gazing into the fire.
    “Do you ever wonder why we have been cursed with talents such as ours?” she asked after a time.
    “There is no such thing as a curse,” he said. “That is superstitious nonsense.”
    She almost smiled. “I was speaking metaphorically, Mr. Sweetwater.”
    “Of course. My apologies.” He drank some more brandy. “I tend to be quite literal when it comes to matters involving para-physics.”
    “I understand.”
    “I will tell you the truth, Virginia. The reason I responded so sharply just now is because there have been many times when I have asked myself the very same question.”
    He had used her first name again. But she now thought of him as Owen, she reminded herself. It was astonishing how sharing danger had a way of injecting a degree of intimacy into the atmosphere between two people who were otherwise barely acquainted.
    “I am a modern thinker, sir,” she said. “Like you, I certainly do not believe in the supernatural. But have you ever come up with an answer to the question?”
    He gripped the edge of the mantel and contemplated the fire. “I can give you an answer that conforms to the laws of para-physics, at least what I know of those laws. There is, as I’m sure you know, a great deal left to be discovered in the field.”
    “I am aware of that. Well? What is the scientific answer to the question?”
    “A person who commits murder or an act of violence generates a heavy surge of psychical energy. Even the coldest of killers leaves a hot trail.”
    “Yes,” she said. She shivered at the memory of some of the images she had seen in the mirrors.
    “The same is true of the victim if he or she has time to react to the assault,” Owen continued. “Strong energy does not simply evaporate. It continues to oscillate in the atmosphere of a space and is absorbed into the surfaces of furniture, walls and floors.”
    “And looking glasses.”
    He inclined his head. “Yes, although I cannot perceive what you do when you look into a mirror. The physics of looking glasses are quite unique.”
    “I comprehend that both of us are sensitive to the residue of the energy that is laid down by violence. But why do we both feel the need to find answers for those who are left behind?”
    “I cannot answer that.”
    She swirled the brandy in her glass. “Do you think that all of those who possess talents like ours experience the compulsion to seek justice and answers?”
    “No, far from it.” He downed the last of the brandy and set the glass on the mantel. He did not take his attention off the flames. “There are people endowed with talents similar to our own who savor the atmosphere of murder in the manner of connoisseurs who appreciate fine art and great wine.”
    She nearly dropped the brandy glass.
    “What?” she said, and gasped.
    Owen’s jaw hardened. He looked at her. A cold fire replaced the other kind of heat that had lit his eyes only a moment ago.
    “There are those who seek out the scenes of murder and horrific violence in order to indulge their senses in the sensations that were generated in the moment of death,” he said.
    It seemed to Virginia that the room chilled. “That is