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board stood in a corner. Windows provided a view of a sloping lawn, and the shimmering blue Pacific in the distance.
    The Esalen Institute was an informal collection of buildings scattered over a lush, green, hilly landscape by the sea. When they arrived, a pleasant woman in her sixties had led them to this house, where they’d waited for Burgess for a few minutes.
    “They call this the Big House,” Burgess said. “Sounds like a place where they send people as a punishment, but they hold meetings and other gatherings here.”
    Brandy quickly returned with a short, stubby, nervous man in tow. Karen estimated he was in his early thirties. He wore an ill-fitting short sleeve blue shirt only partially tucked into his grey slacks, which weren’t quite long enough to cover his white socks. One of his sneakers was untied. He wore thick metal-framed glasses that slightly magnified his eyes. His sandy hair was cut short and parted rigidly on the left. Carrying a scuffed black briefcase, he stumbled into the room behind Brandy and came to an abrupt halt when his eyes fell on Karen. His mouth opened a moment, then snapped shut. He quickly pushed his glasses up on his nose with a finger as he nervously averted his eyes, then cleared his throat.
    “I’d like you to meet Harvey Altman,” Burgess said. “Harvey, these are the investigators I told you about—Karen Moffett from Los Angeles, Gavin Keoph from San Francisco.” He turned to them again. “Would you like anything? Something to drink or eat?”
    “We stopped for lunch on the road,” Gavin said. “I’m fine. Karen?”
    “Nothing for me.”
    “Then let’s get comfortable,” Burgess said. “Have a seat.” He pulled five of the chairs into a circle and they each took a seat. Harvey put his briefcase on the floor beside his chair, and Brandy did the same with her bulging satchel. Burgess checked his watch. “We have plenty of time before your jet is ready to take off, so we don’t have to rush.”
    “Our jet?” Gavin said.
    “I’ll explain in a minute.” He reached over and put a hand on Harvey’s shoulder. “I’ve known Harvey for about six years now. He’s brilliant, a hard worker. He’s done a lot of research for me, and he keeps me up to date on events in the, uh... well, you two know the kind of things I’m interested in. Harvey has his finger on the pulse of the paranormal community. He’s a computer wiz, and when it comes to researching a subject, he’s like a bloodhound, he can find anything and everything. He’s only one of the network of sources who help me out in my work and in my own personal interests, but he’s the best. He’s honest and trustworthy, and I want you to take what he has to say very seriously. Harvey is incredibly devoted to his work, so he doesn’t get out much, and he’s uncomfortable in groups of strangers, so bear with him.” Burgess turned to the younger man. “Okay, Harvey. You’re among friends. Don’t be embarrassed. Fill them in on this whole thing.”
    “Uh, okay, well... “ Harvey pushed his glasses up on his nose again. As he spoke, his nervous eyes flitted only now and then at Karen and Gavin. “My, uh... associates and I have been tracking a man named Daniel Fargo for a few years now. We stumbled onto something called the FRC—the Fargo Research Center—which had been set up more than a decade before. Completely funded by Daniel Fargo. He was an English professor at Harvard, married to the heiress of a glue fortune. His wife and pregnant daughter and her husband were murdered on Thanksgiving Day in 1992 when a group of intruders burst into their home and brutally attacked them. Fargo was badly beaten and almost died, spent a lot of time in the hospital. After recovering, he disappeared. Just seemed to vanish. He used his wife’s fortune to fund this research center, but the field of research was very hard to determine. The whole thing was shrouded in secrecy. But we kept digging. It seems that