Running Hot

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  But when her sister had called and begged her for a favor, she had been unable to refuse. Damaris was family, after all, the only family she had. Daddy didn’t count.

  Nevertheless, she was annoyed to find herself preparing to board a plane for Maui on such short notice. It was not as if she did not have a great deal to do between now and opening night. Furthermore, she knew that the only reason Damaris wanted her to give this particular performance was because of Daddy.

  Personally, she despised the father who had shown up out of nowhere to claim his daughters. How on earth Damaris could care for a man whose only contribution to their lives had been to ejaculate into a glass vial and deposit the result in a sperm bank was beyond her. Daddy could keel over tomorrow as far as she was concerned. In fact, she often fantasized about giving one of her private performances just for him. The problem with that little scheme, unfortunately, was that Damaris would very likely guess the cause of death and have a fit. There was another issue, as well. Daddy had his own psychic talent, and it was lethal.

  Although the Maui trip was an imposition, she was starting to look forward to it in spite of herself. Successful performances of any kind always gave her a euphoric sensation that was impossible to achieve in any other way. For hours afterward she felt gloriously powerful. But there was nothing like the absolutely dazzling rush that followed one of her special private performances. Following those engagements, she knew what it was like to be a true goddess. The sensation of immortality sometimes lasted for days.

  She had been twenty-three years old, at the very start of her career, when she first discovered the ultimate power of her talent. Her singing had always been special, of course. Mother had planned her future before she was born, having chosen the sperm donor with great care, not for his particular psychic ability but for the strength of his raw energy.

  Descended from a long line of sensitives herself, Mother had studied the complex laws of psychic inheritance with attention to detail. Everyone was endowed with some degree of talent, but at the lower end of the scale—the so-called normal end—it usually appeared in the form of a murky sense of intuition that an amazing number of people either took for granted or willfully ignored.

  But there were others, those who were gifted with a considerable degree of psychic power: too much to be overlooked or suppressed. When that talent was strong enough to register at level five or higher on the Jones Scale, it tended to differentiate into specific, more narrowly focused types of abilities. It was a given that when it came to the most powerful talents, no one got more than one. Mother had explained that it was some sort of evolutionary law, nature’s way of preventing the creation of super predators.

  Mother had also understood that certain talents, including the nearmythic Siren talent, were dominant and sometimes gender-related traits. Historically all Sirens had been female, probably because only females—musically trained females at that—could hit the so-called money notes, the glorious, almost surreal high D’s, E’s, F’s and even G’s that were the only ones capable of focusing a Siren’s particular type of psychic energy. Not all coloratura sopranos were Sirens, by any means, but all true Sirens were capable of singing the coloratura repertoire, provided they had been trained.

  Mother had also comprehended another one of the complicated laws of psychic genetics: When a strong dominant trait such as the Siren talent was enhanced by the power of almost any other type of talent, the result was an even more powerful Siren. Hence Mother’s choice of sperm donor.

  Singing and music lessons had begun before La Sirène could walk.

  “You will be more famous than Sutherland or Sills or Callas,” Mother had assured her. “You have the power to become the most brilliant soprano of your generation, perhaps of any generation. The talent is in your bloodline.”

  She had, indeed, skyrocketed to fame and stardom but not without having to overcome a few obstacles. The first serious glitch had been an ambitious young rival who had shown up at that important audition in her twenty-third year. The creature had walked off with the title role in the production of Lucia di Lammermoor even though it was obvious that she could barely pop off the E-flat in the Mad Scene, let alone embellish it with the high F the way La Sirène could. The rumor that the untalented bitch was sleeping with the wealthiest and most influential backer had spread quickly. It certainly explained a few things.

  La Sirène had known for some time that it was theoretically possible to kill with her voice. Her mother had told her that some of her female ancestors had done just that. Nevertheless, she never quite believed it, not until the night when she cornered the bitch in a practice room backstage and sang the Mad Scene the way only she could sing it.

  The autopsy had revealed the cause of death as an aneurism. Very tragic, promising young singer cut down on the brink of what could have been a spectacular career, blah, blah, blah. But the show must go on. And it did, with the hot new coloratura soprano who would soon be known as La Sirène in the role of Lucia.

  Come to think of it, maybe the Maui engagement wasn’t such an imposition, after all. She always sang her best in the days and weeks following one of her private performances. The Voice needed to be exercised to the fullest extent occasionally in order to remain flawless.

  The performance in Acacia Bay had to be perfect.

  EIGHTEEN

  By ten-fifteen that evening they had identified a total of ten rogue auras, five of whom looked like executives. The other five appeared to be bodyguards with incomplete hunter profiles.

  Grace sat with Luther in the shadows at the edge of the hotel’s open-air bar, sipping sparkling water, listening to the slack-key guitar player and watching their quarry.

  The five execs sat together, drinking and chatting in a way that Grace had witnessed a thousand times over the years. Their bodyguards hovered at a nearby table, looking tense and uncomfortable against the laid-back island atmosphere.

  “You know, if you ignore the evidence of the drug in their auras and the fact that they’re all strong talents and that they’re all traveling with bodyguards, their profiles are pretty much what you’d expect from people in senior management,” she said. “I think Mr. Jones is right. We’ve stumbled into some sort of high-level Nightshade business meeting.”

  “We still don’t have any proof that they’re Nightshade,” Luther said. “But I agree that, whoever they are, they look like corporate suits. Wonder where Eubanks ranks in the hierarchy?”

  She contemplated the auras again. “I’d say that they see themselves as roughly equal, which means they’re probably at the same level in the organization. Judging by those luggage tags you saw earlier, they’re all from the West Coast plus the one from Arizona.”

  “According to Fallon, the Nightshade organization appears to be concentrated on the West Coast and in Arizona,” Luther said. “Maybe these guys are regional managers.”

  “Everyone’s certainly being very chummy and convivial,” she said, “but there’s a lot of aggression just below the surface.”

  “Now, that I can see,” Luther said. “I’d bet any one of those five would be willing to slit the throat of any of the others if he or she thought it would be useful. Nightshade is a very Darwinian organization. Only the strong and the ruthless make it to the top.”

  She shuddered. “The level of potential violence surrounding them is very strong but the really worrisome thing is that a couple of them seem to be developing additional talents.”

  “Thought that was genetically impossible.”

  “Not quite. I can tell you from my genealogy work that it’s true that multiple talents are extremely rare. But there have been a handful of exceptions over the centuries. The thing is, the exceptions all went insane and died young. Something to do with overstimulation of the brain.”

  “So these multitalents are artificially induced by the drug.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I saw the same thing in Mr. Crocker’s aura after the dark energy appeared, although
I didn’t know what it meant at the time.”

  “We need more information on Eubanks. I want to see just how he’s connected to Nightshade.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  He put his sparkling water down on the table. “I’m going to pay a visit to his room while he’s occupied down here.”

  A shiver went through her. “I don’t like that idea.”

  “What’s the problem? We know where he is. You can keep an eye on him while I take a look around his suite.”

  “How am I supposed to warn you if he leaves the bar?”

  “You call my cell. From here it’s a five-, maybe eight-minute walk back through the lobby, up the elevators and down the hall to number six-oh-four. Plenty of time for me to get out before he sees me.”

  “Luther, I know this is going to sound wimpy, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “You’re right, that sounds wimpy.” He got leisurely to his feet. “Call me if he makes a move to head back to the room.”

  She swallowed her next argument, which wasn’t any more convincing than the first. She watched carefully but none of the executives or their bodyguards appeared to notice Luther leaving the bar.

  She settled down to wait, the cell phone cradled in one hand.

  NINETEEN

  He got the door open with the useful little J&J gadget that Fallon issued to all his agents. Automatically he heightened his senses and moved inside.

  The only warning he got that he was not the only one in the room was the hot flash of a seriously jacked-up aura. Hunter.

  He spun around to face the threat. The cane went out from under him. He went down hard on the carpet. The fall saved him.

  The hunter’s thwarted rush carried him straight into the bed. He recovered with the lightning-swift reflexes that were the hallmark of his talent, seeming to bounce off the comforter and back onto his feet.

  Luther didn’t even try to rise. No one without a similar talent could hope to defeat a hunter in hand-to-hand combat. Instead he focused quickly and slammed everything he had at the attacker’s pattern, dousing the fiery energy with a tsunami wave of crushing ennui.

  The hunter staggered and reeled back, disoriented. He sank onto the bed.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “How the hell do you do that?”

  “Who are you?” Luther kept the suppressing energy flowing at full power while he got to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

  The room was in near total darkness but that wouldn’t bother the hunter. With his talent powered, he had excellent night vision. Luther couldn’t see a thing except the other man’s aura. That was enough.

  “I think it’s a good bet that we’re both here for the same reason,” the hunter said. “To get some information on Eubanks.”

  “You sure you aren’t here to take him out?”

  “Plans have changed.”

  The hunter started to come up off the bed. He made no sound but his aura shifted a split second before he did.

  “Don’t move,” Luther said. He accompanied the warning with an extra shot of energy.

  The hunter sank back down onto the bed, literally too weary to get to his feet.

  “That really is a nifty trick,” he said. “How long can you keep it up? Must be a hell of an energy drain.”

  It was true that he was using an enormous amount of energy to immobilize the hunter. He saw no reason to admit that, however. But the casual manner in which the other man had used the term “energy drain” was interesting. Few people outside the Society, even those comfortable with their psychic natures, would have phrased it quite that way.

  “Are you Arcane?” the hunter asked.

  “You could say it’s in the blood. You?”

  “J&J.”

  “Of course you are. No wonder she had a bad feeling about this job.”

  “Who?”

  “My scheduler. Last night she informed me that she was having doubts about the client and the whole damn situation. This morning she canceled the contract and told me to go home. But I just had to have a look at Eubanks’s room. After all these years, you’d think I’d know enough to pay attention to her intuition.”

  “Who is the client?”

  “Called herself Winthrup. That’s the code name for our Number Two client. Her story checked out.”

  “She identified herself as female?”

  “No. The real Winthrup is male. Like I said, my scheduler is a strong intuitive. She had a hunch that whoever contacted us was not the real deal.”

  “Any idea why this Winthrup wanted Eubanks removed?”

  “We were informed that he had murdered two wives and a young woman but that isn’t why we were given a contract. His major offense, according to Winthrup, is that he is engaged in laundering money for a group that finances terrorists.”

  “You work for the government?”

  “Private contractor. We’ve got a very short list of clients. A certain government agency is one of them. That’s where the real Winthrup works.”

  The cell phone in Luther’s pocket vibrated urgently. He yanked it out and glanced at the code. Grace.

  “Eubanks is on his way back here,” he said. “He’s got a hunter bodyguard with him.”

  “The hunter will sense that there was some action in this suite.”

  “I don’t think so. My associate assures me that the bodyguard is not a full hunter. Seems to lack a few of the usual skills, including the ability to pick up the spoor of violence.”

  “Not much of a hunter, then. Well, this is over for me. Good thing, too. My first grandchild is due to arrive at any minute. The family is gathering to celebrate the big event. Mind letting me up?”

  “One more thing,” Luther said. “Got any proof of your version of events?”

  “How about if I say the magic words?”

  “Which are?”

  “Tell Fallon Jones that Sweetwater sends his regards.”

  “You know Fallon?”

  “We’ve only got two clients. Number One is J&J.”

  TWENTY

  “You ran into Harry Sweetwater in Eubanks’s hotel room?” Fallon sounded genuinely startled, a rare state of affairs. “Son of a gun. What are the odds?”

  “You keep saying that.” Luther reached the sliding glass doors, turned and started back across the suite. The cane thudded heavily on the carpet. “Here’s the thing, Fallon. You’re supposed to know the damn odds. That’s your job, remember? Figuring the odds? Connecting dots? Running probabilities? This is a major screwup. What the hell is going on? Did you forget to mention that you’d sent a pro after Eubanks?”

  He was very aware of Grace sitting on the sofa looking concerned. The aftereffects of using such a heavy volume of energy to keep Sweetwater planted on the bed were hitting him hard and she obviously knew it. The adrenaline and other biochemicals that had flooded his bloodstream had worn off, leaving him jittery and cold. He hated this part, hated looking exhausted in front of her. The damn cane was bad enough.

  “I didn’t send Sweetwater after Eubanks,” Fallon said.

  “Who else besides J&J would want Eubanks dead?”

  Grace raised her hand. “Someone who wants his job?”

  “I heard that,” Fallon said. “I like it. Makes sense, given what we know about Nightshade. It’s a tough outfit.”

  Luther stopped and looked across the room at Grace. “Sweetwater said his scheduler thinks that the person calling herself Winthrup was a woman. Evidently the real Winthrup is a man.”

  “Sweetwater’s scheduler is his wife,” Fallon said. “She’s probably right. High-level intuitive.”

  “I don’t believe this. His wife schedules the hits?”

  “Sweetwater is a family business,” Fallon explained. “It was founded shortly after J&J was established. There’s been a connection between the two firms ever since. Should be another generation of Sweetwaters coming along soon. Harry’s oldest son got married a while back.”

  “He did
say something about having to get home for the birth of a grandchild.”

  “It’s a very close family.”

  “The family that whacks together, stays together?”

  Over on the sofa Grace raised her brows.

  “Guess it makes for strong family bonds,” Fallon said.

  “Just out of curiosity, how often does J&J employ the Sweetwater clan?”

  “As infrequently as possible and only when there’s no other option. We always make an effort to put together a case that will hold up with regular law enforcement and the courts, you know that. You’ve helped build some of those cases. But occasionally we find ourselves dealing with a high-level sensitive gone bad who is just too damn clever or simply too powerful. Cecil Ferguson, for example.”

  “Who was Ferguson?”

  “A level-ten hypnotist who was also a serial killer. Murdered twelve people before he came to our attention. Took us that long to realize he was one of us, a sensitive. High-grade hypnos are so rare that I’ve often wondered if he was formula-enhanced.”

  “Nightshade?”

  “Maybe. But we were never able to prove it. This was back in the early days of dealing with Nightshade. We were just beginning to realize that we were facing a full-blown criminal organization, not just another renegade scientist who had decided to play alchemist. At any rate, I knew we couldn’t give Ferguson to the cops, not even with plenty of evidence. Anyone who got within a few feet of him was at risk of being put into a trance. He would simply have walked away from the arresting officers.”

  “So you sent Sweetwater.”

  “Who took him out from a safe distance. For the record, I use Sweetwater only as a last resort and then only with the full approval of the Council and the Master. And we sure as hell didn’t send him to Maui.”

  “Whoever did send him knew how to make herself look like she was Client Number Two. Sweetwater said she used all the right codes.”