Sizzle and Burn

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “What?”

  “You cheated.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to try to wriggle out of your gambling debt?”

  “If you think you’re going to collect ten thousand, four hundred and fifty bucks from me, think again.”

  “Maybe we could come up with alternative payment arrangements,” he suggested smoothly.

  She beetled her brows at him. “Such as?”

  “I believe I mentioned last night that there were only two kinds of bets that make a game of cards interesting.”

  She picked up a pillow and tossed it at him. He fell back, laughing. She turned on her heel and flounced off into the bathroom.

  It occurred to her that it was the first time in her entire life that she had actually flounced. It was quite invigorating.

  Twenty-eight

  Bradley examined the fragment of broken china he was holding in his hand. “You’re sure this is from the Shelbyville B and B?”

  He had arrived shortly after eight, wearing his slouchy jacket, his mirrored sunglasses and his cop face. He had removed the sunglasses and he and Zack were both behaving themselves but Raine was uneasily aware of the tension in the room.

  In an effort to avoid a scene, she had made a large pot of coffee. She then instructed the men to sit using the same tone of voice she used with Robin and Batman when they got a yen to exercise their claws on her delicate woven wood window shades instead of their cat trees.

  Zack lounged in one of two chairs that bracketed the coffee table. Bradley had taken the opposite chair. That had left the sofa for her.

  “I’m positive that cup fragment is from the B and B,” she said, answering Bradley’s question. “He was here, right inside my condo.”

  Bradley looked dubious. “Why would he leave a broken cup in the pocket of your coat? It’s not exactly a dramatic message. I guess it could be symbolic of something but it’s a little vague. There was a good chance you wouldn’t even recognize the shattered cup, let alone realize he had left it there for you.”

  She concentrated on pouring coffee. “He has started stalking me but he doesn’t want to leave any hard evidence behind that I can take to the police.”

  “He feels safe,” Zack said, watching Bradley very steadily. “He’s sure that even if Raine went to the cops with that piece of broken china, no one would take her seriously.”

  Bradley ignored him to focus on Raine.

  “How did he get your name? As far as the media was concerned, you were just an unnamed client of a local real estate agent. Doug Spicer and Chief Langdon got the credit for the rescue.”

  “I didn’t land on the six o’clock news, thank heavens,” she said. “But everyone back in Shelbyville knows that I was the person with Spicer when we found the girl. They also know that my aunt’s house now belongs to me.”

  Bradley looked seriously thoughtful. “Are you telling me that you think the killer is a Shelbyville resident?”

  “A resident or maybe someone who spends weekends and vacations in the area. I think he almost has to be a person who knows the community well, not just because he picked up my name so fast after the girl was found, but because he felt comfortable coming and going from my aunt’s house.”

  “I get why he may have focused on you,” Bradley said. “There’s a twisted logic to it.”

  “He hunts witches. I’m the niece of the Shelbyville witch. That makes me a witch, too. I think he fears me.”

  She realized she was no longer regarding Bradley from the standpoint of a hurt and humiliated would-be lover, and, for his part, he wasn’t fixated on manipulating her with guilt in an attempt to obtain her assistance with the Cassidy Cutler book. They were working together again.

  Bradley rubbed his jaw. “If he’s afraid of you, why not just pick up a gun and shoot you?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Raine saw Zack go dangerously still. Energy pulsed in the small space. Bradley must have picked up on it unconsciously because he stirred as though suddenly uncomfortable.

  “You know better than to attribute normal reasoning processes to freaks like this,” she said quickly. She gave Zack a warning frown.

  Zack did not take his eyes off Bradley but she felt the powerful energy dim a little.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Bradley said. He turned the bit of china with his fingers. “He took a risk leaving a chunk of evidence behind, though.”

  “How many people would interpret that broken cup as a threat or a clue?” Zack asked. “Chief Langdon sure as hell wasn’t interested.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” Bradley agreed. “He told me he was busy chasing down the hard leads they got from the latest victim and at the scene. When he called me he apologized for asking me to waste my time. Said he was only doing it because he didn’t want Raine going to the media and making a lot of wild claims about being a psychic.”

  “He thinks I’m either borderline delusional or full-on crazy,” Raine said neutrally.

  Bradley chuckled. “Oh, yeah.”

  She gave him her special smile. “Not a unique opinion among members of the law enforcement community.”

  Bradley had the grace to redden.

  “You sure that smile doesn’t piss you off?” Zack asked with polite interest.

  Bradley looked confused and annoyed. He closed his fingers around the shard and kept his attention firmly fixed on Raine. “I’ve worked with you often enough to know better than to blow off your, uh, observations and insights.”

  She allowed herself to relax a little. “Thanks, Bradley.”

  “What happens now?” Zack asked.

  “I can arrange to have more patrols in this neighborhood at night to keep an eye on things,” Bradley said, “but I can’t give Raine a twenty-four-hour guard. No money for bodyguards in the city budget.”

  “Not a problem,” Zack said. “She’s got one.”

  Bradley gave Raine a quick, searching look and then turned back to Zack. There was wary respect and silent acknowledgment in his expression.

  “Yeah, sort of figured that,” he said.

  “What are you going to do?” Zack asked.

  “The usual routine. I’ll talk to the neighbors. See if anyone saw a stranger in the vicinity last night. Maybe someone noticed an unfamiliar car in the lot.” He took a notebook and a pen out of the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ve got tomorrow off. I’ll drive up to Shelbyville, see what breaks in that direction. Maybe someone saw the guy entering or leaving Raine’s room.”

  “Langdon isn’t going to be real happy to have you asking questions on his turf,” Zack said.

  “We’ll work it out,” Bradley said. He flipped open the notebook and looked at Raine. “Take me through it from the start. I want to hear everything you saw and felt in your aunt’s basement the other day. You know the drill.”

  “Sure,” Raine said.

  She knew the drill but Zack was right. It was different when you were the one at the top of a killer’s To Do list.

  By the time Bradley finally left, notebook crammed with every detail Raine could recall, she felt mentally and emotionally drained. She flopped against the back of the sofa. Batman and Robin jumped up beside her and settled down, purring loudly.

  “Whew.” She stroked the cats. “I think I need another cup of tea.”

  Zack was at the window. “I’ll make some for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re right.” He turned around, his expression thoughtful. “Mitchell did take you seriously.”

  “Told you so. He may think I’m creepy but he knows better than to ignore me.”

  “He’s also got a damn good reason to work this case hard. Bagging the Bonfire Killer would do a hell of a lot more for his reputation than solving a hundred cold cases.”

  She smiled wryly. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Judging by the gleam in Mitchell’s eye when he left, I’ve got a hunch it’s pretty much all he’s thinking about at the moment.”

>   Twenty-nine

  PORTLAND, OREGON…

  John Stilwell Nash stood at the bank of windows that lined one wall of the corner office and watched a steady rain fall on Portland. As far as he was concerned it could pour until the whole damn city washed into the Willamette River. He did not like anything about the place. Every aspect of it, from the too relaxed, too nice, too polite, too environmentally conscious locals to the annual rose festival made him want to hurl the heavy Victorian inkwell on his desk through the plate glass.

  But nothing outside the window was as infuriating as the conversation he was having on the phone.

  “What went wrong?” he asked.

  He was enraged by this latest failure. But he managed, with some effort, to maintain the cold, utterly flat tone that he always used with members of his staff. It was vital to conceal all emotion from one’s underlings. The barest hint of the fury that threatened to consume him could be taken as evidence of loss of control. Within the organization, loss of control was viewed as a weakness.

  “Houdini claims that he was interrupted before he could complete his assignment,” January said.

  The voice on the other end was as icy as his own. Nash had considered that an asset at the start of the operation in Oriana. It was the reason he gave the operative the code name January. After exhaustive analysis, he had concluded that the disaster in Stone Canyon was due to the use of agents who succumbed to the emotional sides of their natures. Lust, envy and greed contributed to the unsatisfactory outcome of that project. He could not afford a repeat.

  “In other words, Houdini failed,” he said. “That means that you failed.”

  “There will be other opportunities,” January said, sounding not the least bit ruffled by the implied threat. “In the meantime, I have come up with a new approach to the problem, one that is more…subtle.”

  Nash ground his teeth. The implication was clear: January was reminding him that it had been his idea to use Houdini to take the J&J agent out of the picture. He had envisioned a quick, surgical strike. The kill was to have looked like a routine parking lot mugging gone bad. No clues. No witnesses. One dead Jones.

  His intense hatred of the Jones family was in his blood, bequeathed to him by John Stilwell, his Victorian-era ancestor. Stilwell had been destroyed by Gabriel Jones and the woman who later became Jones’s wife.

  The Jones family had probably forgotten all about the first John Stilwell. What the bastards had not counted on was the fact that, in the year preceding his death, Stilwell pursued his own personal breeding program. His secret journal detailed how he deliberately seduced and impregnated at least two female psychics in London, women he believed had genuine paranormal talents. John Stilwell had been fascinated with the discoveries of Darwin. He had been curious to see if his own psychic abilities could be passed down and strengthened by mating with women who also possessed such powers.

  Darwin’s theories had proved valid, although John Stilwell had not lived to see the results.

  Phone pressed tightly to his ear, Nash started to pace the office. It was true that using Houdini to deal with Zackary Jones had been his idea. The Stone Canyon project had been wrecked by a Jones. He did not intend to allow another member of that damned family to interfere again. But now that things had gone wrong, he had to make certain that he did not take the blame. If anyone went down, it would be January. Fortunately, he had been careful to insulate himself from any fallout if there was a disaster, just as he had after the Stone Canyon affair. He was certain that members of the Inner Circle had not learned about his connection to that operation. Nevertheless, a second cover-up would be extremely risky.

  The members of the Inner Circle had little patience with failure. He did not blame them. When he assumed his rightful position as head of the organization, he intended to enforce a zero-tolerance policy as well. The Darwinian approach to management ensured that only the strongest and the most powerful survived. But meanwhile, he had to protect himself.

  “You are in charge of this operation,” he said. “It is imperative that you recover what Quinn failed to deliver to us.”

  “It’s unfortunate that Houdini was ordered to dispose of Lawrence Quinn before the data on Quinn’s computer was analyzed and discovered to be false,” January said. “If Quinn had been kept alive he could have been interrogated.”

  He fought back another wave of rage. When this was over, January would most certainly have to go. An unpleasant accident, perhaps.

  “I anticipate that the next time you call, it will be with news of success,” he said evenly. “Otherwise I shall be forced to replace you.”

  “One more thing,” January said, ignoring the threat. “Houdini is asking for a higher dose. He claims that the reason he missed the target was because he was given too little of the drug.”

  Nash stopped in mid-stride, fear streaking through him.

  “What’s your opinion?” he made himself ask.

  “Judging by what I saw last night, I’d say he’s losing control. He couldn’t hold the illusion. Kept switching it on and off. That’s what slowed him down. The experiment is a failure and should be terminated.”

  Cold fear knifed through him. Houdini wasn’t the only experiment the organization had produced. Hell, they were all, to one degree or another, experiments.

  “You’re in charge of the Oriana project,” he said. “It’s your decision to make. But I would remind you that Houdini is a tool, a very expensive one. The particular version of the formula that was prepared for him required a significant financial investment. It would be unfortunate, to say the least, to see that investment wasted. However, if the project is a success, the loss of Houdini could be written off.”

  He ended the call before January could respond, aware that his pulse was racing and he was breathing too rapidly. Fear and adrenaline shivered through him. It took longer than it should have to regain control.

  After a while he crossed the room, opened the door and went into the outer office. His attractive administrative assistant looked up from her desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Nash?”

  “I’m going down to the lab,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. Shall I cancel the meeting with the people from the online supplements company?”

  “No.” Shit. It was one thing after another today. He paused at the door, concealing his impatience. “What time are they due to arrive?”

  She checked the clock. “Forty-five minutes from now.”

  “I’ll be back by then.”

  He went out into the hall and headed for the stairwell. His office was on the third floor of the aging three-story brick building but he rarely used the elevator. He liked to set an example of fitness for the staff.

  He passed a cheerful wall banner announcing that Cascadia Dawn Natural Food Supplements had achieved record profits for the sixth quarter in a row.

  The director of marketing emerged from an office and nodded respectfully. Two women from publicity saw him and greeted him with formality. He acknowledged them, pushed open the stairwell door.

  The top floor of the building was reserved for offices. Online and catalog sales were handled on the middle floor. The first floor served as a warehouse for the wide variety of nutritional products sold under the Cascadia Dawn Natural Food Supplements label.

  The company was successful but it was not large. That was intentional. He planned to see to it that it remained a regional niche player in the nutritional supplement business. It was the perfect cover for an illicit drug lab.

  Cascadia Dawn did not manufacture and package its own products in bulk. It hired an outside firm to do that. But it did possess a state-of-the-art research and development lab where new nutritional formulas were developed and older ones were updated. The lab occupied a large portion of the basement of the building. It was divided into two sections.

  He went down the last flight of stairs, opened a heavy steel fire door and walked into a small office.

  An attendant in a whi
te jumpsuit was seated at the desk. He got up quickly.

  “Good morning, Mr. Nash. Do you want to enter the lab?”

  “Yes, please, Miller.”

  “I’ll get a suit for you, sir.”

  Miller opened a cabinet and took out a sealed plastic packet containing a disposable lab coat, elastic-brimmed hat, gloves, mask and booties.

  Nash stepped into a small chamber and donned the clean apparel quickly. When he was ready, Miller pressed a button that opened another door.

  Nash walked into the pristine space beyond the door. The stainless steel workbenches and equipment gleamed beneath the bright industrial lights suspended from the ceiling. Technicians and assistants gowned in white from head to toe nodded and murmured greetings as he went past.

  Everyone in the room was working on a variety of supplement products of the type found in health and fitness stores across the country. Nash knew that some companies in the field had gone under over the years but for the life of him, he didn’t see how anyone could lose money in the nutritional supplement business. Sheer incompetence was the only way he could imagine going bankrupt. It was astonishing how much money consumers were prepared to throw at any product that promised to help them lose weight, get an erection, reduce stress or improve their immune systems. And all the stuff could be legally sold without any evidence of effectiveness backed up by clinical trials.

  Amazing. And profitable.

  He nodded to several technicians and then went to the far end of the room. There he stopped in front of another stainless steel vault door and paused at the computerized lock. He was one of only two people in the entire building who knew the code. As far as the vast majority of the staff was concerned, the door to the second, smaller lab was secured in order to protect against industrial espionage and theft. The Cascadia Dawn supplement formulas were highly prized proprietary secrets.

  Only a handful of people knew the true value of the unique formulas concocted inside the inner lab.

  This secret facility was not the only lab funded by the organization. There were a few others, equally well disguised, scattered around the country. But he intended for this one to become the most important and successful of all the labs. It was going to be his ticket to the ultimate seat of power, the one held by the director of the organization. As John Stilwell’s descendant, that position should have been his by now. He had a far more legitimate claim to it than the current director. But he knew how to bide his time. He had been born a level-seven hunter. Thanks to the drug, he was now a ten. In addition, the latest version of the formula that had been specially engineered for him was expanding his range of powers. His natural business acumen had been enhanced to the level of a mid-range para-strategy talent. He was also developing some hypnotic abilities.