by Rebecca York
In Search of the Dove
Rebecca York
To Linda, for sharing our year of adventure
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Jessica Duval—Her psychic vibrations led her into the heart of the Crescent City and into the arms of a devastatingly handsome stranger.
Michael Rome—He changed identities the way some people changed clothes.
Aubrey Bollin—Jessica’s brother had gotten into something dangerous in the chemistry department at Chartres University.
Moonshadow—The voodoo priestess knew the secrets of Dove.
Dr. Jackson Talifero—The director of Blackstone Clinic had some unusual methods of behavior modification.
Simone Villard—The Royal Street boutique owner wanted nothing to do with the police.
Lt. Hugh Devine—He suspected Jessica knew more than she was telling.
Gilbert Xavier—Had the chemist created a monster in his lab?
Filikis Gorlov—The Russian had a financial interest in Talifero’s plans.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
We were delighted when Harlequin Intrigue told us they would be republishing our Peregrine Connection trilogy. They are some of our favorite stories, and we had a wonderful time creating daring women and dangerous heroes and catapulting them into plots swirling with high-stakes intrigue and jeopardy.
With the fall of the Berlin Wall, the collapse of the Soviet Union and the restructuring of Eastern Europe, the world has changed at warp speed over the past eight years since the Peregrine novels were written. Yet, with spy scandals at the upper echelons of the CIA and even a terrorist attack at the World Trade Center, themes of preserving peace and the balance of world power are just as relevant today as they were in the eighties when the Peregrine Connection was written.
When we considered a setting for In Search of the Dove, we thought of New Orleans, with its aura of intrigue and romance. Over the past twenty-five years we’ve had numerous occasions to visit the Crescent City. Eileen and husband Howard honeymooned there. And Ruth and husband Norm have made several trips to the area where they explored the bayou, the French Quarter and the Garden District. One of her most memorable impressions was of the spooky above-ground cemeteries, which became the setting of a major scene in the novel.
And what better place than New Orleans to tell a story featuring voodoo and ESP? Paranormal elements have always appealed to us, and this was the first time we had an opportunity to use them. At first, we had a hard time researching voodoo because all the library books on the subject had mysteriously disappeared from the shelves. But we kept on digging, learning about secret ceremonies and potions for binding a lover or warding off bad luck. When you read the novel, you’ll see how strong a part both the rich setting and spooky themes play in our story of Peregrine agent Michael Rome and Jessica Duval and their quest to find the source of the mysterious drug called Dove.
After reading In Search of the Dove—and all the Peregrine Connection books—we were pleased with how well the books stood the test of time. We hope you think so, too.
Rebecca York (Ruth Glick and Eileen Buckholtz)
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
She thought he was fumbling in the kitchen drawer for a can opener, but when he turned to her, she saw his fingers were wrapped around the handle of a stainless-steel knife.
She stared at him in stunned silence, almost hypnotized by the ragged, shallow wheezing of air in and out of his lungs and the wild desperation in his dilated eyes. They might have been symptoms of a physical illness. His grip on the knife was not. He was holding it like a weapon, not a tool.
“Aubrey, no,” she whispered, astounded that she had misread him so badly.
“Why did you have to come here and interfere?” he hissed.
“I care about you. I want to help you.”
“I don’t need your damn help.” The words were flung like a slap across her face.
Though Jessica’s heart was slamming against the inside of her chest, she kept her voice calm and turned her hand palm upward. “Give me the knife.”
“I’ll give it to you all right.” As he spoke he lunged across the dirty tile floor, the weapon flashing in an arc. She screamed and dodged, slamming her ribs against the edge of the counter. She didn’t feel the injury, didn’t know that the knife had plunged into the cabinet above her, splintering the wood.
All she knew was that Aubrey’s hands were empty and that they were reaching for her throat. He was only a few inches taller than she, but his lanky build concealed a wiry strength. There was no doubt he could choke her to death.
Her own arms came up, gold bracelets jangling as she tried to find leverage against his chest, or shoulders, or face—anything. He laughed, a maniacal sound from the depths of Bedlam that froze the breath in her lungs. She might have wondered at his transformation if she hadn’t been fighting for her life.
Her nails raked scratches down his cheek, yet his angry assault didn’t slacken. Wildly she kicked at his leg, knocking it out from under him as her leather sandal flew across the room.
When Aubrey tumbled backward to the floor, he dragged her with him, tangling them both in the flowing fabric of her skirt. But she could feel him weakening. With all the strength she had left, she slammed her arm against his nose. There was a trickle and then a stream of dark blood.
He went slack, and she stared down at him, amazed that he was still breathing—and that she was too. Then she leapt toward the telephone, her fingers frantically jamming against the buttons as she punched 911.
“It’s my brother,” she said, gasping, to the night dispatcher. “He’s unconscious.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Some kind of drug...I don’t know. He tried to kill me.”
“Give me your location.”
She supplied the address on a side street off Jefferson Boulevard.
“Your name?”
“Jessica Duval.”
“Sit tight. A unit is on the way.”
The trembling didn’t start until she hung up. Then her whole body began to shake uncontrollably as the realization of what had almost happened sank into her. Her legs were putty, and she slipped to the floor, pressing her back against a kitchen cabinet. Across the room, the figure on the floor moaned, and she cringed away.
She ran clammy fingers through her short auburn hair. God, how had Aubrey’s life deteriorated in only a few short months? Why hadn’t she, of all people, sensed something was wrong?
Things hadn’t been easy for him since Aunt Edna had died, but over the past few semesters, she’d thought he was finally getting it all together. He’d been excited about his graduate assistantship in the chemistry department at Chartres University here in New Orleans, and he was close to finishing his thesis.
But then his letters had stopped. At first she’d assumed he was just busy, but the silence had continued. When she’d finally called last month, the experience had been unsettling. If Aubrey had been sullen or uncommunicative, she might have dismissed it as one of his moods. Instead, his thoughts had spewed out of the phone like popcorn from an air popper, scattering in a thousand different directions, impossible to follow. When she’d asked if an
ything was bothering him, he’d instantly switched from giddy amiability to cold rage.
The next call a week later had been the same. By then the bad vibrations were too strong to shut out. Leaving her jewelry boutique in her assistant’s competent care, she’d caught the next plane for New Orleans.
A distant wailing noise somewhere in the darkened city grew in intensity until it seemed to fill the inside of her head. Sirens. A memory of grim-faced, disapproving policemen made her fists clench.
Pushing herself up, she half staggered to the door just in time to admit two men in white uniforms carrying a stretcher. One made sure she was all right before joining his companion who had crouched over the limp figure on the floor.
Fingers probed, instruments flashed.
“Respiratory depression. Start the oxygen.”
“I don’t like his pupillary reflex.”
“Brain damage?”
“Maybe he’s just toxic.”
“PCP?” The drug was associated with unpredictable violence.
“No. Something different. Your guess is as good as mine.”
Whitefaced, Jessica hovered over their shoulders, afraid to hear what they were saying, afraid not to hear.
“Do you know what ripped him?” one of the paramedics asked.
“Pardon?”
“What he’s on.”
“I don’t know.”
“Too bad. He needs detox right away. How long has he been on the stuff?”
“Six weeks? A month?” she guessed.
The paramedic whistled through his teeth. “He’s pretty charged up. It must be something more than brain ticklers.”
The street talk sent a chill down Jessica’s spine. She watched numbly as the men lifted the stretcher and carried Aubrey’s unconscious form out to the waiting ambulance. A wave of despair threatened to drown her, but she fought it back. They might not have been close over the past few years but he was her brother, her only living relative, and he needed her now more than ever. Slipping into her sandals and grabbing her purse, she hurried outside after the departing men. She was going with Aubrey to the hospital to do what she could, even though it probably meant making a police report. And, God knew, for her that was the ultimate sacrifice.
* * *
WHILE HE WAITED for the light to change, Michael Rome studied the Bryant Hotel. With its pink plaster façde, louvered shutters, and iron grillwork, it was typical of the French Quarter, he thought. When the signal turned green, he ambled across the street, his rattlesnake boots clicking softly on the macadam. A moment later he turned into the passageway that led to the hotel’s courtyard entrance—another New Orleans hallmark. There the bright September sun was filtered through the leaves of banana and avocado trees that grew in massive planters. The tropical foliage sheltered a small bubbling Spanish tile fountain.
He stood in the cool shade, thumbs hooked over the pockets of his stone-washed jeans, as if he were a well-heeled visiting Texan debating whether or not to drop some money. The relaxed posture was a deliberately calculated effect, as was the expensive western garb, which included a plaid pearl-buttoned shirt and a wide-brimmed Stetson tilted down on his forehead. From the shadow of his hat, alert gray eyes sized up the hotel, which he knew to be a first-class establishment for discreet rendezvous. However, he wasn’t here to make himself comfortable. He was more concerned about possible escape routes if he had to leave its charming confines in a hurry.
A lithe blond dressed in a jungle-print sundress drifted to the open doorway and smiled.
“What can I do for you, sugar?” she asked, not bothering to hide her frank appraisal of the tall, whipcord-lean man who stood in the courtyard. Although his face was too blunt-edged to be called handsome, there was a certain rightness in the way his high cheekbones, square jaw, and uncompromising nose complemented each other. Somehow he didn’t look like the type who had to pay for sex.
He acknowledged her smile with a slight dip of his head. “I was looking for Daniella,” he drawled. The voice was deep, the accent Dallas. It went with the healthy tan—and probably the roll of crisp green bills in his pocket.
“She’s not here right now. My name’s Cheryl. Maybe I could help you out.” She swayed toward him, bending at just the right angle to provide a view of her creamy white cleavage.
An amused smile flickered at the corners of his firm lips. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry. I was real set on Miss Daniella.”
“I’m afraid she’s gone.”
“Gone?” He tipped back the Stetson and gave her a direct look.
“Last night she was packing like the devil himself was after her. This morning you wouldn’t know that she’d ever been here.”
He didn’t have to fake the surge of disappointment that coursed through him. He considered asking to see the empty room. But that would arouse suspicion. He didn’t want anyone to know that someone other than an eager customer was making inquiries about a high-class prostitute named Daniella La Reine.
As if undecided how to broach a slightly embarrassing subject, he hesitated for a moment, dragging the pointed toe of his boot across the flagstones. “I understand she had something special, an—ah, voodoo love potion she uses. Something that, uh—”
“Sugar, you don’t want to go fooling with a voodoo potion. I can make you feel real good, without drugs.”
“Are you sure you don’t have any of that stuff? I’m willing to pay.”
Cheryl shook her head. “No. If I was you I’d forget about it, unless you want to go back to Big D missing half your marbles.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for the warning, darlin’.” He stood and chatted for a few minutes more, the conversation light and flirty as if he were considering changing his mind about her offer. In the course of telling him why she was more desirable than Daniella, Cheryl added considerably to the knowledge he had gained from three days of painstaking legwork.
He had a description of Ms. La Reine now. He was pretty sure her “voodoo potion” was really a brand-new street drug called Dove. And he knew she had been a student at Chartres University before deciding that she wanted a shortcut to big money. Perhaps someone there remembered her.
His loquacious informant also had quite a bit to say about the short, nervous man with thinning hair and wire-frame glasses who’d been a regular customer of Daniella’s over the past few weeks. Cheryl noted that when he’d left her colleague’s room, he hadn’t had a particularly satisfied look on his face. At Daniella’s prices, she didn’t know why he kept coming back.
Michael tipped his hat, keeping his exit as much in character as his entrance. Like most of the people he’d talked to recently, Cheryl would remember the urban cowboy trappings and mannerisms better than his face. But that was exactly the idea.
He was a master at assuming a carefully cultivated persona, and that ability had saved his life on more than one occasion. So had the large hands wedged casually into his pockets. They were like the rest of his body beneath the expensive western finery—firm, tough, and well trained. In fact, they could slice through a five-inch wood block or put a hole in a brick wall.
When he reached Bourbon Street, he stopped at the first open-air bar he came to and ordered a mint julep. For an agent on assignment, liquor was against the rules, but he wasn’t going to tell if the bartender didn’t.
What a city, he thought, turning to drape himself against the bar as if he were simply interested in watching the passing scene while he sipped his drink. If ever there was a place that seethed with wicked excitement, it was New Orleans. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there to enjoy wicked excitement.
Nominally, he was on assignment for the Drug Enforcement Administration. But the top-priority request for his services had really originated in Berryville, Virginia, at a country inn called the Aviary. The inn was a front for a secret intelligence organization known as the Peregrine Connection. While Michael Rome officially worked for DEA, he was also a Pe
regrine operative reporting to its director, Amherst Gordon, code-named the Falcon.
Only a few highly placed government officials knew of Gordon’s existence. He was an old espionage mastermind who had staged his own death in order to go underground. The operations the Falcon now ran, many of which were funded by his own personal fortune, could never be officially approved by the attorney general. Because Gordon didn’t have to answer to Congress, Peregrine could do things in days that would take the FBI or CIA weeks to set up.
One of the Falcon’s most reliable underworld sources had warned that a new and frighteningly destructive drug called Dove was being test-marketed in the Crescent City. If it made it big there, the sky was the limit. Michael’s job was to throw a monkey wrench in the distribution network and make sure that didn’t happen. And he didn’t have a hell of a lot of time to do it.
* * *
THE VOODOO PRIESTESS put a beautifully manicured hand on Gilbert Xavier’s arm. Her tawny fingers were graceful and tapered, the nails a deep crimson, the color of blood. A flowing white caftan covered her body from neck to toe, and her thick hair was wrapped in a jade turban secured in the center of her forehead with an ornate silver pin depicting two entwined serpents.
Her dark eyes probed Xavier’s countenance. He tried to hold his gaze steady under her scrutiny, knowing that after three weeks on the run he looked more like a hobo than a college professor.
Was he a fool to trust this woman with his life? He wasn’t sure, yet something had brought him to her door.
“Things have not gone well with you, Gilbert,” she observed as she drew him into her little house. The clapboard dwelling was in one of the city’s less prosperous districts. Like its neighbors, it needed a coat of paint and new louvered shutters. But inside, the air of poverty vanished. The small living room was elegantly furnished with Oriental rugs and Victorian antiques from some of the most exclusive shops on Royal Street.
Gilbert turned the woman’s statement aside. “But you seem to be doing very well.”
His hostess shrugged delicately. “People ask me to help solve their problems. An impotent husband with a young wife. A pregnant girl whose lover is hesitant about marrying her. They are always satisfied with my services, so they come back again.”
