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  Abruptly, Caleb asked, “Cummings, do you believe in visions?”

  His bald spot gleaming in the soft lamplight, Cummings looked up and said, “I believe there is some biblical precedent for these things, sir, not to mention doctors Freud and Jung, who analyzed dreams and suchlike for the benefit of their patients.”

  “Yes, yes, but I’m talking about the sort of thing where you’re told to do something.”

  Something suspiciously like a smile touched Cummings’s mouth fleetingly. “A spirit guide, sir?” Cummings asked, pouring a little white wine on the red stain.

  “Not exactly. Cummings, how long have you been with me, fifteen years?”

  “Sixteen and a half, sir.”

  “Long enough. Would you say I am a man given to strange fancies?”

  “No, sir, I would not. You have always appeared to be an eminently sensible, practical man.”

  “Thank you, Cummings. Now, I’m going to tell you something in confidence. Will you swear never to tell this to another soul?”

  “Very well. I swear it.”

  “I’ve just had another vision of an ancestor of mine, Jeremy Morgan.”

  Encouraged by Cummings’s sympathetic nod, Caleb went on. “He insists that I call my Morgan relatives together.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because if I don’t, a ‘cruel oppressor’ will appear and my relatives and I will die along with a lot of others—whatever that means.”

  “Do you know who these relatives are, sir?”

  “Not offhand, but I can find out. Last year I hired a firm to look up my family tree. The information should be somewhere here in my library along with a memoir written by this same Jeremy Morgan.”

  “Perhaps you might want to contact your relatives and tell them that you wish to hold a family reunion. I daresay they would be most eager to visit an elderly, rich relative.”

  “No doubt. But what is this all about? I resent some spirit dictating to me. I won’t have it!”

  “Would it not be best, sir, to ask your relatives to visit you as Jeremy has suggested twice, so he won’t plague you with even more visions? You would lose nothing, but might have some interesting experiences.”

  Caleb shifted restlessly in his wing chair. “Perhaps. I’ll think about it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Caleb Morgan San Francisco, May 18, 1992

  * * *

  The next morning Caleb paused in front of his office building to admire the glass-and-steel structure. He had done well as a developer, and this was his crowning achievement. The doorman greeted him and opened the door. Caleb walked over to the elevator and stepped into it.

  The door closed. Caleb waited in some trepidation, but nothing untoward happened. After moving sedately up to the 12th floor, the elevator came to an almost soundless stop.

  Feeling profoundly relieved, he walked into his outer office where Gloria Stanchon, his secretary, was wearing her usual funeral outfit, a dark suit of a severe cut and a discreet strand of pearls around her neck. She stopped typing long enough to flash him a quick smile, which revealed a set of brilliant white teeth. Then, jerking her head in the general direction of a bundle of letters already neatly sorted and opened for him, she said, “Mail,” and went back to bludgeoning the keyboard.

  He had thought briefly about replacing her with some agreeable young thing with a more colorful taste in dress, but he knew he never would because Gloria was too efficient, too altogether necessary to him. She knew exactly what he needed, even before he needed it.

  When he’d hired her 20 years ago, he’d been impressed by her blonde, blue-eyed good looks, innocent of makeup, except for a dash of lipstick, and short, neatly cut fingernails with only clear polish on them. The woman was still very attractive, even though at 42 her hair was now showing touches of gray.

  She was an enduring sort of woman who would have made some man a fine wife. Why had she never married? She probably scared men off—too strong for most of them. It was their loss, his gain.

  Shaking his head, he walked briskly into his office, where he relished the thought of looking over the plans for the new condominiums he was building in Oakland.

  Collapsing into his brass-studded, leather chair, he began thinking about the events of the night before. One thing was clear: the trouble lay with Jeremy and not with the elevator. Maybe Cummings was right, that the sensible thing was to do what Jeremy asked. Being stubborn about the matter might bring more trouble.

  And there was another reason. Up to now, his work had consumed him. A family would have taken time and energy, so he hadn’t bothered to marry. Women were always available to tend to his physical needs.

  Once, though, he had met a woman who had really intrigued him—his cousin, Elizabeth Morgan from Winnipeg—some city in central Canada about which he remembered vaguely hearing that the winters there could be brutal. He’d never met anyone like Elizabeth. She was, well, different.

  They’d gone into an antique shop where she’d picked up what looked like a folding knife with a worn wooden handle into which were carved the initials R.G. She gave a small cry, and her pale complexion went even whiter against her red hair curling in luxuriant waves around her shoulders.

  Without thinking, he put an arm around her. “What’s the matter?”

  With a faraway look on her face she said, “I see a man wearing old-fashioned clothes, standing on the deck of a small ship being fired on. I think he’s the captain. He’s looking down at a boy lying on the deck.”

  He believed her; he didn’t know why. Maybe it was a sort of knowingness that infused her words.

  The owner had noticed Elizabeth’s distress and hustled over to them. A young guy with a neatly trimmed beard and barely concealed admiration in his eyes—no doubt he had been ogling Elizabeth from the time they had arrived—asked, “Is there something I could tell you about this knife, miss?”

  Elizabeth gave him a sweet smile—the kind that made you want to take care of her.

  “It looks so old.”

  “Archaeologists have found pocketknives with bone handles dating back twenty-five hundred years to the Bronze Age.”

  “Where did this knife come from?”

  “Colonial America. The knife was called a gully, often used by sailors for eating and for cutting things like the tangled rigging of sails.”

  “Whom did it belong to?”

  “A Captain Roger Golding. He was instrumental in rescuing some militiamen from Indians back in the seventeenth century.”

  Caleb picked up the knife and ran his thumb over the crudely carved initials. He opened the blade, tarnished now, and then snapped it back into the handle, which curved slightly at one end. The knife felt comfortable, familiar even, in his hand. He had to have it.

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  “A little pricey.”

  “It’s part of American history, but I could give it to you for 175 dollars.”

  “Done.”

  Caleb paid for the knife. With mischief dancing in those eyes of hers—an unusual color, brown with flecks of gold—Elizabeth said, “I’m glad you found something that appeals to you, Caleb.”

  And all he could think of to say was, “Me, too. Let’s go get some lunch now.”

  That was the last time he’d seen Elizabeth. Work and more work had filled his life. Until lately, he had seldom thought of her. She’d be an old lady now, probably with grandkids, but it would be interesting to see how the years had treated her. Yes, he would invite Elizabeth and the rest of his relatives and see what happened.

  For several months now, his lawyer had been even more insistent than usual that he make a will. What was the point of that when he still wasn’t sure who should get his fortune? A charity? A relative he’d never met? He’d toyed with the idea of meeting some of his relatives but hadn’t done anything about it. Maybe this was the time. Couldn’t hurt, and maybe he’d get Jeremy—whoever he was—off his back.

/>   Pressing the intercom button, he said, “Gloria, come in here. I need you to send out some letters. I want them to go out as soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Jason “J.J.” Kramer Kenora, Canada, May 28, 1992

  * * *

  Spring had come suddenly, as usual, to Kenora. Mingled with the smells of damp earth were gas and oil fumes from the semis bound for Thunder Bay and Toronto. Peering through the window, with Stevens Antiques picked out in gothic lettering, J.J. could see a strip of newly green grass and the sidewalk separating a row of shops from the parking lot. Beyond all that was the boardwalk, where he planned to walk during his break and check out the boats lying at anchor in the harbor.

  Wearing his usual outfit of dark slacks, button-down shirt, sweater, and bow tie—this one with polka dots—Mr. Stevens was stretching and taking a deep breath as he always did before he went out on his daily walk.

  “I’ll be back in about half an hour, Jason,” Mr. Stevens said. “And if anyone wants to buy the Rolex, don’t sell it for under a thousand,” he joked as he walked out the door of his shop.

  “Sure, Mr. Stevens.”

  Mr. Stevens was a great boss. He never questioned Jason about dumb things that parents wanted to know, like how he did on the latest test. His marks were always good—better than good—high enough to get him into just about any university. At 16, he still had time to make up his mind where to go.

  Pulling open a drawer, he took out his favorite catalog and sat down.

  The sound of the bell jangling made him jump up and smooth down his red hair. Customers. But when he looked up, he saw that it was Davis, a big grin on his face. He was wearing his usual summer uniform of shorts and T-shirt. The girl with him wasn’t anyone you’d notice right away. She was kind of skinny, with short brown hair lying flat behind her ears. She had a way of moving, all graceful and flowing, like she didn’t have any bones—sure of herself, too.

  “J.J.!” said Davis. “Thought you might be here. How long you staying in Kenora?”

  “Only a week, just to open the cottage. Then we’re going back to Winnipeg. Near the end of June, we’ll come back for the summer. How’s it going?”

  “Okay. Hey, J.J., this is Crystal. Her parents just bought a cottage around here.”

  The girl nodded, her cool stare making him feel uncomfortable. She flicked a glance around the shop, her gaze lingering on a heavily engraved Victorian tea set as she said, “You’re lucky to work here.”

  “Yeah, but today I’m just helping my boss take inventory. I don’t have regular hours until later in June.”

  Davis broke the awkward silence by saying, “That catalog looks familiar.”

  J.J. held it up so they could see the cover.

  “Eftonscience! Do you remember last summer when we ordered one of those Fresnel lenses?”

  “Yeah. I got into so much trouble.”

  Crystal edged closer to the counter. “What’s a … that lens?” she asked. The warmth in her eyes made her seem prettier somehow.

  “Well, the lens focuses sunlight so you can cook stuff, if you want to.”

  “That’s the small lens,” interrupted Davis. “Tell her what the big one does.”

  “The ad said the big one could melt asphalt, so this guy here wanted to try it, of course.”

  “Figures,” said Crystal, giving Davis a sidelong look composed of equal parts amusement and affection.

  “But we could only afford a little one. I thought it wouldn’t work because you can’t get as much heat from it as from the big one. Anyway, Davis was in the city that weekend, so he stayed with me. We went outside Saturday morning and put the lens in the sun on my driveway.”

  “And forgot about it,” said Davis.

  “Until my dad went to get his car out of the garage. Was he mad when he found out that a piece of his driveway had melted!”

  “I told you it would work. What are you going to order this time?”

  After opening the catalog, J.J. riffled through the pages until he found the one he wanted. “How about this one?” he asked, pointing to the picture of an aluminum ball connected to a base of the same metal by a plastic insulating column. “But it’s kind of expensive.”

  “A two hundred thousand volt Van de Graaff generator,” read Davis in awe. “No way! Imagine what we could do with this!”

  “Let me see,” said Crystal.

  As Crystal bent over to read the ad, J.J. had an almost uncontrollable urge to touch her hair, which looked as soft and silky as a baby’s.

  “What’s so great about ‘demonstrating lightning and Saint Elmo’s fire,’ whatever that is?” she asked, looking at him now with a friendly interest that was causing a warm flush he could feel making its way up his chest and face. That was the curse of the redhead, the pale skin that reacted to your every emotion.

  J.J. was horrified to hear his voice coming out in a hoarse croak as he answered, “I think it’s ‘the repulsion of like charges’ they’re talking about that’s interesting.”

  “So?” she asked with a challenging look.

  “I told you—you should have taken physics,” said Davis, giving her a friendly push. “With that thing we could really make people’s hair stand on end—or your cat’s, J.J.”

  “Uh, you should see the lasers in here.”

  Crystal probably thought he was a real geek. Not that he was out to impress her, but why was it that he could yak his head off with the girls at school but with this girl he seemed to be screwing things up in a big way?

  Davis shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Last week my dad took me down an old trail not many people know about and showed me some pictographs that could have been made by my ancestors. When you come down in the summer, maybe we could go exploring.”

  “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

  “What are pictographs?” asked Crystal.

  “Paintings on rocks. The natives who lived around here made them about eight or nine hundred years ago,” explained Davis. “If you want, you can come with us.”

  “Sure.”

  “I can see your boss coming back, J.J., so we’d better go.”

  “Okay. Nice meeting you, Crystal. See you in July, Davis.”

  As Davis walked out the door, Crystal turned and waved. J.J. felt a massive burden roll off him. Maybe she didn’t think he was such a geek after all.

  On their way out, Crystal and Davis almost ran into Mr. Stevens, who smiled at them in his old-fashioned, polite way. Coming over to the counter, he said, “I think it’s time for a snack.”

  As Mr. Stevens led the way to the back of the shop, J.J. remembered his first day of work there, two years ago, how impressed he’d been by the sheer amount of stuff, some of it really old. A rolltop desk, a curvy-legged writing table in some dark wood, and a fire screen embroidered with roses stood in no particular order next to musical instruments and tables holding tea sets and antique china. But his all-time favorites were the antique pocket watches.

  His boss had begun right then teaching him how to tell the difference between “good” stuff and just plain junk. Not that his boss handled out-and-out trash, but “one man’s junk was another man’s treasure” as he used to say. That’s why an expensive Martin guitar, for example, sat next to a cheap imitation.

  And just last week Mr. S. had asked him to do something really weird—hold some pieces of jewelry for a minute or two in his hand.

  “Just to see what you might pick up,” he’d said. “Most good antique dealers develop a sense about objects. They can tell intuitively if a thing’s a fake or not. If you’re really good, you might be able to tell something of its history, too.”

  Then he’d gone on to tell him about a truck driver, George McMullen, tested in 1973 by a Professor Norman Emerson of the University of Toronto. After handling something dug up from an archaeological dig, George could spout all sorts of interesting stuff about the object. Then the professor would take George out to potential sites an
d let him nose around. George would describe in detail the people who had lived there so that at a later date the professor could come back and excavate the site.

  Getting impressions like that from touching objects sounded more than a little weird. Even though he kept trying, J.J. wasn’t very good at it. It had been a big waste of time, until one day he had picked up a pewter candlestick and felt a strong vibe and heat in his palms.

  Into his mind flashed the picture of an old lady, dressed in a long, black dress with a big white collar, her hair tucked into a white cap with long ties coming down to her shoulders. She was sitting erect—not slouching like people did these days—at one end of a highly polished table. She was frowning and clutching a candlestick. It looked as if she was getting ready to throw it at the young guy sitting at the other end of the table. He didn’t look too happy, either, his shoulders hunched over and his hands clenched as though he wanted to hit her but didn’t dare. There was a gloomy, hateful atmosphere about the whole place.

  The thud of the candlestick hitting the floor had jerked him back to the present. He was sweating buckets, and his hands were icy as he rubbed them on his jeans.

  Mr. S. had babbled on about his “amazing ability.” Just great! Why couldn’t he learn to do something he could really use, like knowing how to act cool with a girl?

  “Try one of these tarts, Jason,” said Mr. S.

  The tart didn’t taste anything like his mom’s; it was too sickly sweet and had a gummy texture that tasted yucky.

  “Some coffee, Jason?”

  “Uh, no thanks.”

  Mr. S. poured a stream of the bitter-tasting stuff into a porcelain cup decorated with blue flowers and gold leaf. “Jason, would you hold this pin I just bought and see what impressions you might pick up from it?”

  He handed him a bronze pin with a solid head, about as long as his middle finger. It was a little weird, this psychometry stuff, but one quick try to satisfy his boss, and that would be it.

  “Take your time, Jason. From what the dealer who sold it to me said, this pin has been around for a long time. It’s going to outlast both of us.”