The Vanishing

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  He got a packet out of his pocket, ripped it open and sheathed himself in the condom. When he was ready he hoisted her up into the air. A rush of feminine heat swept through her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and sank her teeth lightly into his earlobe.

  He groaned and kissed her neck. She closed her eyes against the giddy heat. She felt him move and assumed he was going to put her down on the bed. Instead her back was suddenly up against the wall. He braced her there, gripped the undersides of her thighs and slid into her, slowly, relentlessly, filling her completely. She tightened her legs around his waist and dug her nails into the muscles of his shoulders.

  He retreated a little. She cried out in protest and clutched him close.

  In response he eased back into her, going deep once again. She fought to keep him where she needed him to be. But again he pulled back.

  She gave a muffled moan of protest. Her nails became claws. She was gasping now, straining to take control of the rhythm and depth of each penetration, but he refused to let her set the pace. Again and again he sank himself into her, only to ease back out.

  She was so tense, so tightly wound, so desperate for release she started to get frustrated.

  “Damn it,” she said.

  At that he let go of her right thigh. She was still trapped against the wall and she still had both legs chained around him. He reached down between them and found the taut, swollen bundle of over-stimulated nerve endings. He stroked gently.

  It was too much. Too intense. She gave a muffled shriek and came undone. Her climax rippled through her in deep, heavy waves. She could not catch her breath.

  He drove into her one last time, his own climax crashing through him, fierce and exultant.

  When it was over he somehow got her to the bed. They collapsed together in a damp tangle.

  “If we keep doing this,” Slater said after a while, “we really are going to set the bed on fire.”

  Catalina smiled. “Fireworks and lightning.”

  * * *

  —

  She came awake to the sound of loud knocking on the bedroom door. When she opened her eyes she saw that the fog was tinted with enough daylight to suggest that morning had arrived, just barely. The question about how she and Slater would manage to fit on the narrow bed had been settled at some point during the night. They had gone to sleep spoon fashion. She was still tucked into Slater’s heat. His arm was draped over her hips. She could feel the beginning of his morning erection pushing between her thighs.

  “Sorry to interrupt you two,” Olivia said through the door, “but Victor Arganbright is here. He’s got some news about Nyla Trevelyan. Oh, and in case you’re interested, I’ve got coffee going.”

  “Coffee sounds good,” Slater whispered into Catalina’s ear. He stroked her hip. “But I can think of better things to do first.”

  “Forget it.” Catalina got up and reached for her robe. “You heard what Olivia said—your uncle is here with some news.”

  “Victor has lousy timing,” Slater said.

  “I think we can agree on that.”

  Slater rolled out of bed and pulled on his trousers and a T-shirt. “No need for you to rush. I’ll go see what is so important that Victor felt he had to wake us up.”

  He went out into the hall. Catalina took a few minutes to pull on a flannel shirt and jeans. She ran a brush through her hair and hurried out of the bedroom. She found Olivia, Slater and Victor gathered in the kitchen. Olivia was pouring coffee for them. The men looked grim-faced.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nyla Trevelyan is dead,” Victor said.

  Stunned, Catalina turned to Slater. “That sedative in the auto-injector? Is this my fault?”

  “No,” Victor said. “It wasn’t the sedative. We know because she woke up a few hours ago. She was having chest pains. She asked for her medication. The librarian said everyone in town knew she had a heart condition.”

  “That’s true,” Catalina said.

  “There was a bottle of prescription meds in her backpack,” Victor said. “I let her take a dose. She collapsed and died a short time later.”

  “Maybe the shock of the failure of her scheme was just too much for her heart,” Catalina said.

  “Maybe,” Victor said. “But I’m going to order an autopsy, and I’m also going to have the meds analyzed as soon as we get back to headquarters.”

  Slater gave him a knowing look. “You think someone got to her, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Victor said. “Whether or not she was successful, I don’t think she was supposed to survive this business.”

  “But why murder her?” Catalina said.

  “She obviously knew too much,” Victor said. “Now all we have to do is figure out what the hell she knew.”

  CHAPTER 38

  The Fogg Lake operation had ended in disaster. A complete fuckup.

  Trey Danson’s fingers shook a little as he dropped the phone into his pocket. He wasn’t sure if it was rage or incipient panic that was rattling his senses. Probably both.

  There was no point hoping that the information was wrong. The Vortex operative who had just texted him had made it clear that nothing could be salvaged from the project. The lost lab had been located, all right, but somehow the Foundation had gotten there first and was now in full control.

  The Vortex operative had been quite clear. The recruitment offer had been rescinded. There would be no further contact. No second chances.

  Trey Danson got up from behind his desk and went to stand at the window. From his office on the fortieth floor of a gleaming downtown tower he could see a storm coming in over Elliott Bay. It would strike soon.

  He jacked up his senses and forced himself to consider the number one priority—his own safety. He was almost positive that Vortex would not make any move against him. The organization had no reason to take the risk of having him killed. The operative had been careful to remain in the shadows. Even if the Foundation arrived on his doorstep this afternoon and shot him full of some sort of truth serum, he could not give them any useful information about Vortex. They wouldn’t get anything from his phone, either. He was sure of that because he had tried to trace the Vortex connection himself. The messages had been placed using an anonymous cover provided by a Darknet service.

  Vortex had dumped him but he did not think that he had to fear them.

  That left the Foundation. According to the Vortex source, the cleaners had picked up all three of the Harkins triplets and Nyla Trevelyan. The triplets were not a problem. They were just hired muscle with a little talent. They were distant cousins from the Harkins side of his family. He had recommended them to York/Trevelyan because they had what it took to sell drugs and run hot artifacts. As far as the three were concerned they had been working for Trevelyan. They knew nothing about him.

  Alma York/Nyla Trevelyan knew everything about him, of course. But she was dead. There had been no way she could have been allowed to survive, regardless of the outcome of the project. He had done his research. The last time he had picked up her medication he had substituted the tablets in the bottle with a substance that was guaranteed to be lethal to a person with her particular heart condition.

  Mentally he went down his checklist. York/Trevelyan was no longer a problem. The triplets did not know enough to be dangerous to him. There were only two people who could conceivably cause trouble for him now—the same two people who had been a problem right from the start.

  So close. He had been so close. He had taken so many risks, and all for nothing. Because of Catalina Lark and Olivia LeClair.

  A smart man would walk away now, cut his losses and leave Seattle. He had money stashed in an offshore bank. He could leave town tonight and vanish. There was nothing to link him to the disaster in Fogg Lake.

  But the longer he thought about
how it had all gone wrong, the hotter the fires of rage burned. Someone needed to pay.

  He would start with Catalina Lark.

  CHAPTER 39

  Catalina pulled into the driveway in front of the old Victorian mansion and parked her car behind an aging Cadillac.

  Beatrice Ross had phoned Lark & LeClair that morning and pleaded with Catalina to examine what she was sure was a crime scene. She explained that she was thinking of redoing her will because she suspected her nephew was plotting to murder her to get his inheritance.

  “I’m sure now that he murdered my sister,” Beatrice had explained in quivering tones. “I’m afraid I might be next.”

  The sister’s death had been attributed to natural causes. A lifelong smoker, she had suffered from a variety of ailments, including lung disease. Beatrice had found the body on the floor of the kitchen one morning a few weeks earlier. There was no obvious reason to suspect murder. Then again, those were often the kinds of cases that convinced people to call in Lark & LeClair.

  Catalina grabbed her handbag and slipped out from behind the wheel. Looping the strap of the bag over her shoulder, she walked along a stone path to the front door of the faded mansion.

  She pressed the doorbell and surveyed the expansive gardens while she waited for a response. The house sat on a large chunk of property located in an exclusive neighborhood on the shores of Lake Washington. The views of the lake and downtown Seattle made it worth a fortune. Beatrice Ross had been a successful actress. She had made some sound investments over the years and now lived quietly.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall. A moment later the door opened and an elegant wisp of a woman peered out. Beatrice was in her early eighties. It was clear that she had been a beautiful woman in her younger days. Her blue eyes glittered with intelligence and a barely concealed excitement.

  She was dressed in an expensive knit trouser suit. The jacket was studded with snappy gold buttons. The diamonds in her ears and around her throat looked real. Gold bracelets were stacked on each thin wrist. Rings adorned several fingers.

  It was obvious that she had gone out of her way to dress for the meeting. She beamed at Catalina.

  “You must be the psychic,” she said. “I’m Beatrice Ross.”

  “I’m Catalina Lark from Lark and LeClair. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in? Let’s go into the living room and have tea while I explain my problem. This way, dear.”

  Beatrice led the way into a heavily shadowed living room. Catalina followed, heightening her senses. Old homes were the most difficult to read accurately. The energy of decades of emotions had seeped into the floors, walls and ceilings. The heavy vibe could confuse her senses. Whatever the cause, she was getting the someone-just-walked-over-my-grave chill that told her something was very wrong in the mansion.

  The lack of light was unnerving. There were wall sconces in the hallway and lamps in the living room but none of them were illuminated. The blinds were open, but the woods outside, combined with an overcast sky, filtered out most of the sun.

  “Do take off your coat, dear,” Beatrice said. “You look as if you’re ready to rush out the door.”

  “I’m a little cold at the moment,” Catalina said. “I’ll leave my coat on if you don’t mind.”

  “Suit yourself, dear. Please, have a seat.” Beatrice indicated a cream-colored sofa. “My lawyer arrived a few minutes ago. I asked him to wait in the solarium at the side of the house. Trey insisted on meeting you because he knows I am prepared to change my will immediately if your investigation confirms my belief that my sister was murdered. He’s quite concerned. You know how lawyers are.”

  “I see.”

  A man appeared in the doorway.

  “You’re here, Ms. Lark,” he said. “Right on time.”

  Catalina turned quickly to look at him.

  The energy of rage radiated in his aura.

  She recognized him immediately. He was fifteen years older and his head was no longer shaved, but she knew she was looking at the man who had murdered John Morrissey. He was not in hiking clothes today. Instead he wore a stylish trench coat not unlike her own. Underneath the coat he had on a pair of tailored trousers and a dark pullover. His right hand rested casually inside one of the deep pockets of the trench.

  “There you are, Trey,” Beatrice said. “Ms. Lark, allow me to introduce you to my lawyer, Trey Danson.”

  “I didn’t know that there would be a lawyer present today,” Catalina said, playing for time.

  “There’s a great deal at stake, I’m afraid,” Trey said. “Ms. Ross is a wealthy woman. If she decides to change her will, there will be some significant ramifications.”

  “I see.”

  “Let’s go into the solarium,” Trey said. “Beatrice, please wait here while I explain the situation to Ms. Lark. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Very well,” Beatrice said. “I suggest you use the library instead. You’ll have more privacy. And don’t be long about it. Ms. Lark charges by the hour. So do you. I don’t want to waste time.”

  “We won’t be long, Beatrice,” Trey Danson said.

  Catalina walked slowly out into the hall.

  “The library is on your right,” Danson said. When they were two steps away from the living room and out of Beatrice’s sight, he spoke again. “You recognize me, don’t you? I was afraid you would.”

  Catalina glanced over her shoulder. She saw that Danson had taken his right hand out of his pocket. He held a gun.

  A wispy vision floated across her senses. He would use the gun if he thought he had no choice, but he preferred to use a more subtle method. A syringe full of some lethal drug, no doubt.

  “One thing I’m curious about,” she said.

  “Only one thing?”

  “Why haven’t you made a move against Olivia and me for the past fifteen years? You must have known we were in Seattle.”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary to take the risk. Nyla was sure the tea she gave you and Olivia in the days following your escape from the cave would mess with your memories. And even if you did remember bits and pieces, you had no way to identify me. At the time I lived in California. I didn’t move to Seattle until about three years ago. It seemed unlikely that our paths would ever cross.”

  “That’s not the only reason you didn’t try to kill us, is it? You and Nyla were afraid of drawing the attention of the Foundation.”

  “Nyla was terrified that if something happened to you and LeClair, your parents would call in the Foundation. Fifteen years ago she was afraid of the Rancourts. Later she was even more worried about Victor Arganbright.”

  “She wanted to protect her drug business.”

  “Poor Nyla lived in fear that one day the Foundation would show up at her door and take her away to Halcyon Manor,” Trey said. “She always claimed she would rather die than be locked up. But I couldn’t be sure that, when the time came, she would actually follow through, so I made certain she got her preferred ending.”

  “You put something deadly into a bottle of her prescription meds.”

  “I knew that one day she would probably become a liability, so I kept a bottle of the special meds handy. When I delivered Olivia LeClair to Nyla I took the opportunity to replace Nyla’s regular tablets with a medication I knew would be lethal to someone with her heart problems. I must admit I didn’t know that she would take the pills so quickly, but it worked out well.”

  “You poisoned your own sister?”

  “Half sister. We weren’t close.”

  “I sort of figured that out. You’re the collector who murdered Ingram and Royston, aren’t you?”

  “Both of them were eager to show off the latest additions to their vaults to someone who would understand the significance of their new acquisitions.”

&n
bsp; “You didn’t find what you wanted in Ingram’s vault, but you did discover it in Royston’s vault.”

  “I see you and the Foundation crowd have put most of it together,” Trey said. “Yes, I chased the rumors of that logbook for six months before I finally found it in Royston’s collection.”

  “All for nothing.”

  “The project has come apart, thanks to you and Olivia LeClair. Fortunately, now that Nyla is gone, there is no connection between me and the murders and kidnapping.”

  “Except for Olivia and me.”

  “It has become clear that your memories have returned. I can’t afford to take any more chances.”

  “You’re going to get rid of me today. But what about Olivia?”

  “She is your best friend, remember? She will be devastated by your death. She’ll have a few drinks and get into a fatal car crash. There’s the library door. Open it.”

  Catalina turned the knob, pushed open the door and walked into another shadowed room. There were a number of books on the shelves. A home theater, complete with red velvet curtains and gilded chairs, took up one half of the library.

  “If you shoot me, Beatrice Ross will hear the shot and call the cops,” she said. “You’d have to kill her, too. But you’re not planning to do that, are you?”

  “No,” Danson said.

  He reached into his other pocket and took out a syringe.

  A man walked out from behind the curtain. He had a gun in one hand, a badge in the other.

  “Police,” he said. “Drop the gun, Danson. And the needle. Hands on your head. You’re under arrest for the murders of Ingram, Royston and John Morrissey. You are also under arrest for the attempted murder of Catalina Lark. And then there’s the kidnapping charge.”

  Danson froze.

  The library was suddenly swarming with people in SWAT gear. Danson lowered the gun and let it fall on the carpet. He put the syringe down next to it.