Hardly the room of a teenaged doper. Her wardrobe is meager, and somehow that makes me sadder than anything else I’ve seen so far.
But I don’t find anything that gives me a clue as to where she might have gone. No diary. No notebooks with scrawled notes on the covers.
I close the door respectfully behind me and turn again to Carolyn. “When Trish ran away before, where did she go?”
Carolyn’s shoulders hunch a little. “What does that matter?”
“You’re kidding right?”
She frowns and purses her lips. “Where she went before doesn’t matter. She’s not there now. I checked.”
“Not where, Carolyn? I want an answer.”
She strikes a defensive pose. “She went to my parents, okay? But she’s not there now.”
I feel my jaw muscles clench. “I thought you said last night your parents didn’t want anything to do with you or Trish?” But the truth strikes me as I say it. “It’s not Trish they don’t want anything to do with, is it? It’s you.”
Carolyn glares at me with reproachful eyes. “What do you want me to say? That my mom and stepdad are disappointed in me? That my life didn’t turn out the way any of us had hoped? Okay. I’ve said it. Now what are you doing to find Trish?”
“You’re sure she’s not with them?”
Reproach veers to anger. “Yes. I called them. Now they have something else to blame me for. My mother is on her way here right now to make sure I don’t screw anything else up.”
“On her way from where?”
Rancor colors her face and words. “Where she lives with her rich husband,” she replies. “Boston.”
“Did you know that’s where Daniel Frey is from? And the Franco’s as well?”
She flicks at a wisp of hair. “Should I? Boston is a big place. There are lots of people from Boston. It’s a coincidence.”
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Chapter Ten
That’s the last thing Carolyn says to me before she shuts down. When she reaches for a pack of cigarettes, it’s my signal to leave. I don’t see any point in our getting together again this evening. I tell her on my way out that I’ll make her excuses to my folks. I wonder just how much I’ll tell them about the mother of their only grandchild.
Probably not much.
On the way back to school I mull over the recurring theme-the Franco’s, Daniel Frey, and Carolyn’s parents-all from Boston. Carolyn says it’s a coincidence. She may be right. David found no connection between them. Nevertheless, I’ve never put much stock in coincidences.
It’s a little after twelve when I pull in at the school. Mom is holding a press conference on the steps in front of her office. Chief Williams is beside her. A crowd of students gather to the side, some weeping and some talking in low voices. The TV news cameras swarm in to catch it all.
I drive around back and park in the same lot as this morning. Most of the teachers must have left for the day because there are far fewer cars. When I get to Daniel Frey’s classroom, however, he is there with a half dozen students. He detects my presence immediately. He wraps up his conversation and the students drift out. No one pays the least bit of attention to me, though they make their way around me like a wake around the bow of a ship.
He joins me at the doorway. “I need a ride home. Why don’t you take me.” He doesn’t ask it like a question.
I raise an eyebrow. “And why would I want to take you home?”
An impatient frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Look, we both know you plan to follow me. I let my driver go. Will you take me or not?”
“Fine. I’ll take you home. But I want to stop by the office first.”
Frey has his coat over his arm, and with his free hand, he pulls the door to his classroom closed and locks it. “I need to check messages. Let’s go.”
I pick through his thoughts, looking for some hint of duplicity but find none. I feel him doing the same to me, so I send him this message:Youare either being honest with me about your innocence or you are the most accomplished liar I’ve ever met.
He smiles, not warmly, and slips his keys into the pocket of his coat.I could say the same about you-being an accomplished liar, I mean.
I haven’t lied to you. In fact, I’ve told you a lot more than I should have, considering the circumstances.
Or maybe you felt you didn’t have a choice. He twirls a finger at his head.Because of this.
We approach the office just as the press conference is coming to a close. Frey goes to the receptionist to check for messages and I wait for Mom in her office. Williams is at her side when she comes in.
He closes the door behind him. “I got a call from the Medical Examiner’s office,” he says. “Barbara died from strangulation. A belt was used, with a metal buckle that left a clear imprint. And a distinctive one. We found marks on her body where she had been hit with it. There was skin under her fingernails. She fought back. And semen on her clothes. Multiple donors. We have DNA samples that we will run through our databases. If we don’t get a hit, we have more than enough to make a match when we catch them.”
Williams’s tone is detached, professional. I’m used to it, but I can see how it’s affecting my mother. She’s thinking of Trish and her shoulders are rigid with tension. Williams can read the signs and will if I don’t distract him. His sharp eyes are watching her.
Barbara went down fighting.
His eyes shift to me.Yes, she did. But there are other things, too. We need to meet privately.
He’s not letting any of those “other things” into his thoughts. I know what you’re doing. It won’t work. Barbara died from human hands. You want to meet about Avery, not Barbara. I can’t do it now.
Because you want to concentrate on finding Trish.
Yes.
In the instant it takes for this to pass between us, my mother presses her fingertips gently against her eyelids and draws a deep breath. “What can we do, Chief Williams?” she asks.
Without hesitation, he switches mental gears. “I’ll have detectives on campus this afternoon and tomorrow. But if you hear anything, or if a student goes to a counselor or teacher because he feels more comfortable talking to someone familiar, let us know immediately. In cases like this, what we learn in the first forty-eight hours often determines whether or not we catch the killer.”
Mom nods and extends her hand. “Thank you for your help today,” she says.
He shakes her hand, offers his to me, and leaves with no parting shots.
Several teachers and parents have gathered outside Mom’s office door. I take just a minute to let her know we won’t be meeting with Carolyn tonight but that I will call her later, after I’ve checked in at the office. I don’t add that I’ll be taking Daniel Frey home for the same reason I don’t tell her what I learned about Carolyn. Mom has enough on her plate right now without adding to her anxiety.
Frey is waiting for me at the back door to the office. We are at the edge of the parking lot when I realize David told me only that Frey lives in MissionValley. Big valley and a lot of condos.Whereare we going?
He gives me a sideways glance.So, you know I live in MissionValley. You’ve already checked up on me. I guess I shouldn’t find that surprising.
He directs me to the freeway and then to take the off-ramp at Friar’s Road. During the twenty or so minutes it takes to get there, we don’t exchange a word, orally or mentally. I can’t tell if Frey is in my head, so I keep my thoughts carefully neutral. When we pull into his condo complex, he hands me a magnetic card that I slip into a reader, allowing us to enter the gated community.
It’s a very upscale community, perched above Qualcomm Stadium, with a view that extends over the shopping complexes that make up Mission and FashionValley and to the city. He directs me with a terse, turn right, then turn left, pull in here. “Here” is a numbered space that I presume is his. Empty, of course, since he doesn’t have a driver’s license.
So, you
know that too, huh? You have been busy.
The look he gives me is a mixture of anger, contempt and disgust. The vibe he’s sending off, though, is tinged with something odd. Disappointment. Like I’ve let him down in some subtle way.
I shake my head and smile at that.You’ve been hanging around teenage girls way too long. The “I’m disappointed in you” shtick doesn’t work on me. I plan to find out everything I can about you. Now if you have nothing to hide, as you keep insisting, why not invite me in? You can answer some questions and make my job that much easier.
His fingers are wrapped around the door handle but he pauses and half-turns to face me.You have questions? Is that all? His smile is brittle.Sure. Why not? That way you can search the place, too, and you’ll know I’m not holding Trish captive in a broom closet.
Sarcasm comes through, even in telepathic communication. He realizes instantly that Trish’s disappearance doesn’t merit ridicule. He backs off with an apologetic shrug.I’m sorry. I will do everything I can to help you find Trish. She’s a good kid and I don’t want anything to happen to her.
I cut the engine and grab my purse to follow him. I believe him when he says he wants her to be safe. But that doesn’t mean I’m convinced he didn’t play a part in her disappearance.
Or that I trust him.
Chapter Eleven
Frey’s home is like his classroom-stark and monochromatic. We enter through a foyer devoid of furniture, though it’s big enough for several pieces, and pass into the living room. The walls, the furniture, and the carpet all echo the same color-gray, a shade as elusive as smoke. No art on the walls. No books with colorful jackets. Nothing in the room to break the monotony except rainbows of light that skitter into the room from a dozen small globes hung from a balustrade on the deck outside. The deck faces due west, and I imagine the colorful light show must perform its dance from morning to night.
It’s nice, isn’t it?Frey’s tone is a purr.Themoment I walked into this place, I knew it was exactly what I wanted. The sun all day long.
His face is turned to the window, uplifted, his eyes closed.
In that moment, I see the cat in his nature as clearly as if he’d completed the shapeshift he’d begun in his classroom. I wonder if he curls up in front of that window and-I clear my head of that disturbing thought before the image becomes too clear and Frey picks up on it.
What else do I know about cats? Isn’t there something about the way they see color-or more precisely, the way theydon’t see color? Explains the monochromatic themes of his home and classroom and something else.
Is that why you don’t drive? You can’t distinguish colors?
He’s followed my line of reasoning and replies with a deliberate roll of his shoulders, his face remains tilted to the sun.Partof the reason. It’s not that I can’t distinguish colors exactly, though the subtleties are lost on me. But I have no desire to drive. The highways here are always congested and the people who use them drive like maniacs. I hire someone who takes me to and from school and since I live right across from a shopping mall, I rarely need other transportation.
He rouses himself to face me.Would you like to see the rest of the place?
I nod and he beckons me to follow him. He leads me down a hall with two closed doors, one on either side, and stops in front of the door on the left. He opens it and gestures me through.
It’s a library, simply furnished with floor to ceiling bookcases on three walls, two comfortable easy chairs with goosenecked reading lamps perched behind them, and a small table in between. This room reflects the teacher in Frey. The shelves are lined with literary classics whose covers are worn and in some cases, cracked and peeling. There is a subtle odor-the kind you smell in antiquarian bookstores-dust, old paper, the perfume of aged leather.
I run a finger along the spines of the closest shelf. Expensive collection for a high school teacher.Are these all first editions?
He smiles but says nothing.
He seems to be waiting for me to make some kind of move. I shrug at his non-response and reach for one of the books. A copy ofRebecca . I open it to the first pages and read, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.” But something isn’t right. I hold the book closer to my eyes. Is it a trick of light or my imagination? The words seem to float above the paper rather than being imprinted upon it. I look up at Frey.
Again he smiles and nods toward the book in my hands.
When I look back at the page, the letters are fading like a blackout in a movie, and in their place, some kind of strange markings have emerged.
Frey, what is this?
He takes the book from my hand, laughing at my startled reaction.It’smy security system.
What do you mean?
He fans the pages gently.If you were human, you would see nothing except the Du Maurier text. Because you are not, you see what really is.
Which is?
Frey closes the book. His fingers trace the top of the binding while his eyes sweep the shelves.These are my textbooks.
Textbooks? The writing looks like ancient hieroglyphics. Are these textbooks on Egyptian history? Logical, I guess, considering how they felt about cats.
He laughs, but I suspect it’s not at the humor in what I’ve said, but the absurdity.
No. Not Egyptian history. This book,“he hefts it, ”It’s a text on locator spells.
Locator spells?I glance around the room.All these books are about magic?
And very dangerous stuff in the wrong hands.
You mean human hands?
His eyes grow dark.
I let my gaze wander over the shelves. There must be two hundred volumes, all bearing the names of modern classics.How did you come to be in possession of such a collection?
He sighs.It was a legacy. Like how you came by Avery’s property.
He says it with quiet nonchalance, as if everyone knows about Avery and me.
But I know that isn’t true. A cold knot twists the pit of my stomach.
How do you know about Avery and me? What do you know about us?
Again, the shrug that ripples his shoulders and seems to shake off my questions. But after a moment, he does reply.Thesupernatural community is close-knit. We hear things. If you took the time to learn more about us, you’d know that.
I’ve been a vampire for less than three months, but I’ve learned one important thing. Secrecy is the key to staying alive. I thought the only ones who knew of my nature were Culebra and Williams and now, Frey. And the half dozen or so members of a shadowy group known as the Revengers who seek out vampires to kill them. But Avery set the Revengers upon me and they haven’t bothered me since his death. The realization that there are others out there who know what I am scares me more than a little.
Frey picks up on all this.No one who knows of your true nature would try to hurt you. Avery was an anomaly. An aberration.
That observation provokes a bitter laugh.Frey, the truth is, anomalies and aberrations are what we are, too, you and I. The only way I can face each new day is to keep reminding myself that I have a family who loves me and of the good I can do with these powers. I suspect it’s the same with you, since you are a teacher.
His eyes warm, and his mouth curves in a wry smile.That’sthe first personal thing you’ve said to me. I think you are beginning to trust me, Anna Strong.
I’m not and it’s not at all what I intended. I hold up my hands.
Don’t kid yourself. I’m not that easily won. And we seem to be getting sidetracked from the reason I’m here.I gesture to the book in his hand.You said that book was a book on locator spells. Could we use it to find Trish?
We can try. I need something of hers to hold while I work the spell. Do you have anything with you?
Only a photograph. Her mother gave it to me last night. Will that do?
Frey shakes his head. Only if she was the last one who touched it.
I’d already reached into my purse to withdraw the picture. With a shrug, I s
lip it back inside.Okay. Maybe the picture won’t work. But I’ll get something else. What type of thing works best?
Anything personal.Frey turns to return the book to the shelf.Nail clippings. A lock of hair.
Trish’s hairbrush. Carolyn brought it over to my parent’s house last night. Did she leave it? I don’t remember. But I’ll certainly find out.
I’ll get you something. Can I come back later?
Of course. I want to find Trish, too. Come back as soon as you can. I’ll be home all evening.
He follows me as I retrace my steps to the front door. I’m searching the bottom of my purse for the car keys when my cell phone rings. I snatch the keys up with one hand, and the phone with the other.
“Hello?”
“Anna?”
I recognize David’s voice. “Hey. Sorry I’ve been gone so long. What’s up?”
There’s just the briefest of hesitations before he says. “Can you get out to the beach house?”
My heart jumps. The last time he asked me that, the place was burning to the ground. “Jesus. What’s wrong?”
He hesitates again and another spasm of alarm races up my spine. “David? What’s going on?”
He exhales loudly into the phone. “It may be nothing. I just got a call from that dentist who lives next door to you at the beach. He left a message at the office this morning, but when he hadn’t heard from you, he called my cell. He says he saw a light in the cottage last night. He went to investigate, but the door was locked. The place seemed secure so he didn’t call the police. He thought you should know because of what happened before. If you want, Max and I can meet you there. We’d go ourselves but at the moment we’ve got our hands full with Jake.”
When he mentions Jake’s name, I hear a scuffling in the background and something that sounds like “fuck you.” There’s a moment of dead air and then David is back. “Anyway, we’re on our way to SDPD to turn him in.”
Anna Strong Chronicles 02 Blood Drive Page 6
