Bloodstone

by Gwen Hunter

  Evan’s arms came around me to take a glass. When he drank, his cheek was next to mine, his coppery beard rough on my skin. “I am a hero,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  He swallowed again and tightened his arms around me. “Yeah. This is good.” He crunched down on a cracker. “I caught a certain cat escaping down the stairs.”

  “Oh, no! You are a hero. I forgot about her.” I turned in his arms, rose up on tiptoe, pulled his face down to me and kissed him. I felt my worries melt away in a wash of warmth. I curled an ankle around his knee and pulled him closer. With my lips against his I asked, “Did you remember to close the loft door after you let her go again?”

  “I did.”

  “Even better.” I kissed him again. He kissed back. The cold of the empty loft receded.

  “Even better than being a hero, I noticed that Jane managed to lift a few of the CD boxes from the Secure Room before we evacuated it. Assuming that your virus-fighting skeleton is still guarding your PC, I brought my laptop up with me.”

  “Smart and a hero. I like that in a man.”

  “Don’t forget, I’m good in bed, too.”

  “Braggart. A gentleman would leave that judgment in the lady’s hands.”

  “I intend to. As soon as humanly possible.”

  He pulled me to the sofa, sat me down with my feet up, and then went back for the wine, glasses and plates. He put a glass in my hand, tucked the down throw around me, and sat beside me, putting my feet in his lap and the laptop in my lap. All very cozy. I liked the way this man thought.

  My eyes were on the laptop, my feet pleasantly warm and resting in Evan’s lap, being massaged by his big hands. My belly was full of wine and fruit, cheese and crackers, and the gas-log fire popped and roared, creating a cocoon of intimacy. I was scanning through CDs, reading bits and pieces of the contents to Evan, sharing the screen with him on some.

  Jane had managed to bring three wooden boxes from the Secure Room. Two contained floppies and CDs similar to the ones we had inspected on her PC. The other was less full and contained CDs with very different contents. These CDs contained personal information scanned from paper documents, comprehensive and complete. One contained medical records, another tax forms and data, documents for posterity. I skimmed the contents and something caught my total attention.

  I stared at a document on a CD labeled Official Documents in Davie’s precise hand, and cold chills ran up my arms. It was a death certificate for a twenty-two-year-old woman named Jannetta Warren Lowe. Minimized on the screen was her birth certificate and a marriage license. She had married one David Lowe, in a chapel on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. Warren was a St. Claire name, part of the matrilineal line.

  “I remember a Jannetta from a family reunion one year,” Evan said. “She was my age, give or take. I remember the aunts and uncles gathered there for the reunion all whispering about her gift. She was supposed to be a prodigy.” He looked at me. “A St. Claire prodigy, with a gift that no one had seen before. How did she meet David?”

  I shook my head.

  “He didn’t tell you about her?”

  “No. We never talked about his time away. He never seemed ready and I never pushed. Which was really stupid.” But I remembered a distant cousin from my one trip to the St. Claire holdings. She had been Jannetta Claire Warren then, an older, black-haired girl, with pierced ears and huge dangling hoops. She had done cartwheels in the backyard, and had that mysterious glamour that teenaged girls a few years older often had. A hint of womanhood, a status I had longed for. That Jannetta, that worldly, winsome girl, had married my brother, born him a daughter and died, all in the space of one year. And I never knew. This was how Jane, named after her mother, carried the St. Claire gene.

  “Tyler?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” I looked over at the trundle bed, at the curve of Jane’s head, her dark hair tangled on the pillow, partially under the sleeping form of Dyno, who was draped over her. If I held my breath, I could hear the cat’s soft purr. “The biggest question is why Washington, D.C.? Why didn’t they get married on St. Claire holdings, like all the other St. Claire weddings?” It was a tradition, whenever a St. Claire married, for the event to take place at Aunt Matilda’s, on the lawn if the weather was pretty, in the nearby Catholic church if not, and if hurried due to pregnancy or other extenuating circumstances, in the huge old house itself. I had broken the custom, thumbing my nose at family and getting married in a chapel in town and getting divorced soon after. But Davie…?

  “And how did a marriage between two powerful St. Claires take place without Aunt Matilda getting involved? Because Aunt Matilda always sticks her nose into wedding plans,” he said. “But she knew about Jane, so we have to assume that while she didn’t know about the wedding, she knew about the baby.”

  Something in his statements made me pause. Something out of place, some niggling little inconsistency. Letting it rest in the deeps of my consciousness, I asked, “Is that cop instinct?”

  “St. Claire intuition. And on that note,” he said, standing, “I’m going to take my tired self downstairs to my borrowed, squeaky, lumpy, slightly musty smelling bed. Unless you want to invite me into yours? We could carry Jane downstairs and lock her in. As long as you don’t howl like a chimp during hot monkey sex, we should get away with it.”

  I closed down the laptop and put the CD back in the box. “That’s tempting, and a terribly romantic come-on, but I’ll pass.” I stood on tiptoe and kissed Evan good-night. Good-natured about his ousting, he left, once again foiling Dyno’s escape attempt.

  I was standing at the top of the landing, listening to Evan’s footsteps as he passed through the shop, when I suddenly understood that niggling little thing about Davie’s wedding and Aunt Matilda. Davie had told me almost nothing about his life in the years while he was away. But it seemed he had told Aunt Matilda everything. I couldn’t help the flicker of envy that realization caused.

  The clock ticked steadily near the door as I settled myself on the rug in front of the couch. A candle burned in front of me to focus my eyes, both spiritual and physical. The lights were off, only the gas logs flickering in time with the candle flame.

  I hadn’t asked God to help. Not since my first attempt to find my brother. I prayed silently now, prayed for help in using a gift I feared and scorned. Prayed to El for calm, for peace, for a clear mind. For once in my life, I need a stronger gift. And I threw down my wall.

  Pain started in the front of my head, a needle over my right eye this time. It was my usual headache, though milder than before, a cool pressure rather than burning agony.

  Calm rested on me even before I was centered, before I had my breath under proper control, a strange calm like a heavy coverlet, warm and promising and soothing. It was a peculiar calm, an outside-of-me thing, rich and deep and with a texture to it, like the buzz of bees. Or like the breath of another.

  Fury rose, a violent tide. “Aunt Matilda!”

  Don’t raise your wall!

  I halted the action even as she named it. Spit and decay. What do you want?

  You can hear me?

  Sort of. You sound like a bunch of angry bees in my mind. Get out!

  I’ve been waiting on you. You said you would try a scan for Davie. I want to follow you in. Breathe. You’re losing focus.

  I breathed. Slowly. The buzz receded. The pain that had rebounded with my discovery of my nosy aunt eased. I didn’t know you could do that, follow someone into another person’s mind. Even in my head, the tone sounded surly.

  You were never trained. Some of us can piggyback. Actually, you have always been near unto impossible to scan for and read, but you’ve been distracted. I managed to find you. That wall of yours stands firmly in the path of every beneficial thing, but we can study that later. Are you ready to scan for Davie?

  I resented her presence in my mind, but I needed help. Hadn’t I just prayed for help? El had a wicked sense of humor. Yeah. Fin
e.

  You have something of his?

  I opened my eyes and saw the ornate key and the clump of gold and the CD. Yes. Now, be quiet.

  When I was centered, so calm my skin pulsed with life, my muscles liquid, bones soft and pliable, I took up the quartz in my left hand. It was warm, and nestled into my palm as if alive. I placed the CD in my lap. Took up the key in my right.

  Davie? Davie, I’m here. Davie? I called with my mind, searching for my brother. Davie? Where are you? Davie. Davie. Davie. As always, the cadence of the syllables slowed, matched to my heartbeat. Davie. Davie. Davie…

  Something there, some muzzy almost-scent, almost-sound, almost-texture against my mind. Davie?

  Brat? Davie awakened fast, his mind instantly alert.

  Aunt Matilda’s here. She’s piggybacked. Tell us fast. Where are you?

  I don’t know. I’ve been moved twice.

  I saw a room, windowless, cramped. Empty rails over his head and shelves at the back. A walk-in closet with a mattress on the floor.

  But I’m warm now and they got me some medicine. I’m on antibiotics, cephalosporin. The label’s been ripped off, but the bottle belonged to a little girl. I can sense her on it. She had a kidney infection. If you find the little girl, you can find someone who is part of this.

  My eyes roamed the room as we spoke. As in the first room where he was held, there was a table. On it was a lamp, a decanter, and something that glinted. Davie blinked and looked away. That was the first indication that I was seeing through his eyes. Vertigo undulated through me. I swallowed it back down and tried to remember to breathe. Okay. What else can you—

  I’ve been trying to reach you. There are three parties involved now. They’re in negotiations over me. It’s not just about the gold anymore, but if you offer the gold, the first party may take—

  Davie?

  Davie?

  He was gone. I made it to the bathroom, where I retched, emptying a noxious mixture of wine and brie into the toilet. I collapsed on the floor. I was going to have to get a rug for the bathroom if I kept spending so much time on my knees in here. The tile was freaking cold.

  Are you still there?

  It was Aunt Matilda.

  I’m here.

  Breathe.

  Yeah. Right.

  You did well. And she was gone.

  It was silly. Stupid. Infantile. But a hint of pride rose up in me at her words.

  I rinsed out my mouth and made it to the bed. Snuggled deeply in the down pillows, with the down comforter pulled over my head to keep out the encroaching cold, I was almost asleep when it hit me, the little inconsistency on Davie’s personal CD. In all the files, so total and complete, there was no copy of Jane’s birth certificate.

  15

  Sunday, dawn

  The weather channel threatened snow for the afternoon. Dawn brought dull light, lowering clouds and a gathering wind that had begun to whine as it passed through the buildings. I was curled on the sofa working, watching the sun rise behind the clouds, lighting the overcast gray. My mind hyperalert, I had given up on pretending to sleep and had gone back to the CDs. What I found, or rather hadn’t found, had stopped me in my mental tracks.

  Not only was Jane’s birth certificate missing, every record about Jane, until age four, was missing.

  I couldn’t believe it was an oversight. Not something so important. Davie was too anal to have misplaced her early records. But there was no old data on Jane at all, only recent records. I couldn’t even find a Social Security number for her, which would be required for her schooling. The paper trail for Jane started when she came to Connersville, when she was already walking and talking.

  After going through the records box twice, I sat and simply watched the sunrise. Jane’s mother had been a prodigy. A St. Claire savant. A woman with talents beyond any I could imagine. Jannetta had apparently married Davie without family consent. Davie, who had disappeared as if from the face of the earth. Davie, who had used more than one name. I had finally thought to look at the properties of the CDs from the Department of Defense. They had been created, modified or copied by one David Lowe. And David Lowe was the name that Adam Wiccam had used when he asked for my brother.

  I had used Bloodstone’s online account and run a credit report on David Lowe and David St. Claire. I knew my Internet search was likely not as good as what the cops could do, but I had hoped I might get lucky, and if knowledge translated as luck, then I had. It seemed David Lowe and David St. Claire were two different people, born in different states, in different years, of different parents. They had lived at the same time, both paying taxes or filing taxes on time, within hours of each other. But David St. Claire had neither made nor spent a dime until David Lowe vanished. At that exact moment, David St. Claire had come into a huge amount of money, over nine million dollars, which had been invested offshore, and had moved to Connersville, NC.

  I had frittered away the night for that smidgen of information, wasting the opportunity for rest and only deepening my disquiet. Where had Davie gotten nine million dollars? How had he turned it into eighteen? I counted the years and figured that a very canny investor might succeed in growing a fortune so vast. I wondered if the DOD had really lost nine million at the same time. Was my brother a crook?

  To put my anxious mind at rest, I went through each and every CD a final time, this time carefully, not distracted by a man’s hands on my feet. The only good thing I gained as the clock ticked toward morning was a letter. It was addressed to me on the first CD in the personal records box. The file was labeled Bloodstone and was in Word format, easy to open but not the first thing I might see amidst the contents of the CD.

  The dawn sky grew brighter over my shoulder and Dyno started to stir again as I read it. The small cat had kept me company off and on through the night, prowling and exploring, once even walking across my body as if I was just so much furniture. Now, as I read and tears obscured my vision, Dyno sprang to my lap and purred against my face as if sensing my distress. Or maybe she was just in need of salt and smelled it gathering in my eyes.

  Dear Tyler,

  What is it you say? Spit and decay? If you’re reading this, then maybe all that is left is spit and decay—and my records. I’ve tried to prepare for any eventuality, and you, dear sis, are my final fallback measure. I know it must really tick you off that I’ve left you again, but believe me—this time it wasn’t my idea. I never want to leave you and Jane.

  Anyway, if you found this letter, then things have gone to hell in a handbasket. It means that Jane is in your care, you have been given your key, and you’ve learned about the house’s last-ditch defense measures. That means I’m either dead or missing, because Jane has firm orders not to give you the personal records box, or the other boxes, until it looks like I’m not coming back.

  So, I guess a history lesson is due. I told you the truth as far as it went about my life when I left home for the first time. I took off for Vegas. I was too young to make it on the professional poker circuit, so I created a new identity for myself. It was a pretty cool lifestyle for an eighteen-year-old guy, you know? Once I started working, right way I was able to make a pretty good living. Not wealthy, but I did okay for a couple years.

  Then, about my twentieth birthday, when you would have been sixteen—man, I wish I had been there to see you finish growing up, wish I had been there for you. Anyway, this thought started to pop into my head at the oddest times, that Dad was still alive somewhere, in a cage, being made to do freaky things, like for the government or something. And I knew about Q Core. We all did. So I contacted them under my new identity and went to work. Since I had started the fake ID so early in life, it worked, even for the government.

  But my first real day on the job? I spot Jannetta. And she spots me. That old St. Claire thing, you know? I thought I was screwed, man. But it was like electricity, like lightning, like fireworks on the Fourth of July between us. And she thought it was cool that I was searching for Dad
, so she kept my secrets. Even then, her shields were better than mine and she taught me some stuff, which helped me to shield from the up-line guys without them knowing it.

  What I discovered is all the stuff in the boxes. I found out about Dad within the first eight months. I guess you’ll find it shortly, so I won’t spend time here detailing it. Pretty weird, huh? That one of us got blindsided so fast. Makes you think about security measures and keeping alert, on your toes.

  But as I dug deeper, I found out other stuff. Some really not cool stuff. Using the information gathered by the inner core—pardon the play on words—of Q Core, the bureau chief was creating a private organization with its own funding, assets shunted to accounts not part of the official oversight stuff. He had amassed five million bucks. That was pretty good pocket change, but nothing to start a war with or anything.

  Q Core had started setting its own policy. I found records where they had killed people, using their gifts, as unofficial actions during official project objectives. They were doing evil, man. And St. Claires had been forced to participate. It had, like, torn up their minds. I had plans to take it all to an oversight committee. And it was major hard to keep it all from the scans they ran on us. I kinda thought they were getting suspicious of me.

  But then Jannetta and I got pregnant. And it was real clear that high-muckety-mucks were way too interested in the baby. So Jannetta and I got ready. The day the baby was born, I was ready to send reports to the Intelligence guys in Congress, bring down the whole she-bang.

  That night, Jannetta started bleeding. And I lost her. I can’t tell you how bad that was. It was like having my insides ripped out. I pretty much lost it.

  They gave me leave and made me take it. And then, using the social services people, they came after my little girl. So I did the only thing I could at the time. I sent records to the oversight and Congressional Intelligence committees, took the money and hit the road. Nearly four years later, we had lost them well enough to show up in your store.