Blood Ties

by Kay Hooper

  Diana was straining to listen, and with more than her ears, but it was difficult because she was growing colder and colder. And her strength felt as though it was draining away. As though someone had pulled a plug.

  “You have to accept it,” he said in a reasonable tone as he came toward her. “It’s the way things have to be, Diana. I know what’s best for you. You can trust me.”

  “No.” She fumbled behind her, trying desperately to find the door handle. “No, I can’t trust you.”

  “Diana—”

  “You’re not Quentin,” she said.

  * Blood Dreams

  Five

  EVEN AS SHE SAID IT, his face began to change, to distort into something she instinctively recognized as evil, and the only thing Diana knew for certain was that she did not want to see what it would ultimately become.

  Who it would become.

  She scrabbled frantically behind her for the door handle, and her mind reached as well, everything inside her reached, for the way back, a way out, for safety.

  Warm, strong fingers closed over hers.

  Diana opened her eyes with a gasp to find herself sitting up in her bed, in her room.

  She was staring at Quentin’s face. Not gray and colorless, not a façade over something unspeakably evil, but warm and alive and Quentin.

  He was sitting on the edge of the bed facing her, both his hands holding both of hers, watching her with that steady, rock-solid intentness that made her feel so safe and yet, on some deep and nameless level, so terribly uneasy.

  “What happened?” she asked, unsurprised by the drained sound of her own voice.

  “You tell us.”

  Diana looked quickly around to find that Hollis was sitting on the foot of the other bed in the room, wearing the somewhat sexy nightgown she had worn in the gray time. Except now she was also wearing one of the B&B’s thick terry-cloth courtesy robes over it. She was paler than normal, and the skin around her blue eyes bore a shadowy, bruised appearance that made her look very fragile and very tired.

  DeMarco leaned almost negligently back against the dresser a couple of feet behind her, dressed as he had been that day, in jeans and a white shirt. He looked wide awake and not in the least tired.

  It was Hollis who had spoken.

  “We were in the gray time,” she said. “You and me.”

  Quentin said, “Something we’ll talk about later.”

  Diana knew he was bothered and knew why, so she kept her gaze on Hollis. “I remember,” she said slowly.

  Hollis nodded. “We were in a… a very bad place.”

  “The hallways. All the doors. You said it had been an asylum.”

  “Yeah. What happened after I was pulled out?”

  “How were you pulled out?”

  Hollis sent a somewhat rueful glance over her shoulder at DeMarco. “Reese thought I was in trouble.”

  “I didn’t think you were, I knew you were,” he said imperturbably.

  Diana looked at him. “And so you just… pulled her out?”

  “It seemed the thing to do.”

  Diana studied that coldly handsome, impassive face, then returned her gaze to Quentin’s much warmer and more expressive one. “That’s… interesting.”

  “I thought so,” Quentin said. But he was clearly unwilling to follow that interesting tangent, since he immediately added, “But what I want to know is how you two ended up at that old asylum. Especially since it’s been razed to the ground.”

  Startled, Diana said, “It has? It doesn’t exist anymore?”

  “After what happened there, the property owners barely waited until all the evidence had been collected and it was declared no longer a viable crime scene before they sent in the bulldozers. The buildings were destroyed, and everything that could be burned was. The rest was buried, and buried deep. Last I heard, the plan was to haul tons of topsoil to the spot and plant trees for the forestry service. Nobody wants to build any other structure there. Ever.”

  She frowned. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been taken in the gray time to a place that doesn’t exist.”

  DeMarco pointed out, “You do call it the gray time—not the gray place. Must be a reason for that. It could be out of sync with our time, even be another dimension. There are plenty of theories about that sort of thing—that time isn’t as linear as we think it is, that other dimensions exist.”

  Diana gently pulled one hand from Quentin’s grasp to rub the nape of her neck. She felt stiff and very tired, and there was a fuzziness to her thoughts that made it difficult for her to think straight. ‘Okay, sure, it’s possible. Maybe even probable; it’s certainly something I’ve considered before. But why that place—in any time or dimension—if what happened there is over and done with?”

  “Maybe it was my fault,” Hollis said. “What happened there…” Her eyes slid to the side, as if she would have looked back at DeMarco, but she didn’t turn her head. “It wasn’t all that long ago, and with back-to-back cases since, I haven’t had a lot of time to … process… everything. I suppose it’s possible the place was so much on my mind that we were both pulled there. I still have nightmares about it.”

  It was Quentin’s turn to frown. “I don’t blame you. But what I know about Diana’s abilities tells me that if you two found yourselves in that place, it’s not because of old memories but because there’s some connection to what we’re doing now. This investigation. This killer.”

  Hollis kept her gaze on Diana and repeated, “What happened after I was pulled out?”

  “Nothing unusual—at first. A guide appeared. A young girl, maybe thirteen or so. Said her name was Brooke.”

  DeMarco said, very evenly, “Brooke.” His face didn’t change, but his weight shifted slightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. As if he needed to move.

  Quentin sent a quick glance back at DeMarco and then said, “Assuming it’s the same girl, Brooke was one of Samuel’s… sacrifices. Though we never found a body, there was an eyewitness to her death. From what that witness said, it was a horrible way to die.”

  The reminder jogged Diana’s memory. In addition to reading all the reports, she had talked to Quentin about the case and knew that DeMarco had spent more than two years undercover inside that “church.” She couldn’t imagine how much strength that must have taken, to pretend for so long to be someone else without losing who you really were. Even more, to be forced by the role to be unable to act to protect innocent victims. Victims you might well have known. Might have been close to.

  Like Brooke.

  “I’m sorry,” Diana said to him.

  DeMarco nodded slightly but didn’t say anything.

  “What did Brooke say—or do?” Quentin asked.

  Diana concentrated on remembering. “Typically cryptic, like most guides. I asked her why I was there, in that place, because Hollis had been so—had reacted so strongly to it. So I asked why there, if everything was over and that place was no longer important, no longer mattered. Brooke said everything was connected.”

  DeMarco said, “But didn’t say how.”

  “No. Before I could ask, she said she needed me to find the truth. I asked if she meant the truth of how she died and she said no, that it had started long before she died. ‘The truth buried underneath it all,’ she said.”

  Quentin frowned again. “Yeah, I’d call that cryptic.”

  “No kidding. I told her I didn’t understand, and she said I would. Then she walked through a door—” Diana looked at Hollis, interrupting herself to clarify, “That open door.”

  Hollis nodded. “I’m guessing you followed her through it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  She really didn’t want to answer, but finally Diana said, “And I was back here, outside in the hallway, but still in the gray time. Brooke was gone, and I was alone. I opened what I was sure was my door, the door to this room. Only when I came in, it was Quentin’s room instead.” She wished suddenly that he wa
sn’t holding her hand, and yet she couldn’t seem to draw away.

  He was looking at her intently, waiting, and Diana did her best to meet his gaze and sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “You were there, waiting for me, expecting me. Except it wasn’t you. You—it—looked like you and sounded like you. But I knew it wasn’t you.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know. It… was coming toward me, smiling, saying—” Diana broke off, wishing she wasn’t so damn tired, because if she’d had her wits about her she could probably think of a dozen reasons why the others in this room didn’t need to hear any of this. And then she could keep it to herself, as she wanted. But she was tired, her thoughts were fuzzy, and they were telling her that maybe this was important for the case, maybe it wasn’t as intensely personal as it felt.

  “Diana?” Quentin’s voice was steady. “Whatever happened in the gray time, whatever was said or done, you know that wasn’t me, know I wasn’t there. Right?”

  “Right.” She nodded. “Right.”

  “We can leave,” DeMarco offered, matter-of-fact, and Hollis nodded grave agreement.

  Diana got a grip on herself. Be a professional about this, dammit. If you’re going to be any help at all… “No, of course not. Because it has to mean something to the case. It has to be connected somehow. Brooke said it is, and the guides don’t lie. And maybe one of you can work it out, because I can’t seem to.”

  Hollis said, “Okay, then. Tell us what the fake Quentin said.”

  “He said… that we belonged together and that he’d been waiting for me to realize it. That I had to accept it because it was the way things had to be. That he knew what was best for me and I could trust him.” Avoiding everyone’s gaze, she hurried on, “Here’s the thing. The gray time is an almost-empty place, between worlds or times, whatever. That’s why there’s no substance, no color or light or shadow, no depth or dimension. It’s a place to… travel. Like a road through a cold desert. Not a place where you want to pause any longer than necessary, let alone a place to live in.”

  “Okay,” Hollis said. “I would certainly agree it isn’t a place to live in. And so?”

  Fumbling for the right words, Diana said, “It’s also a place of truth, or always has been. Absolute truth. Like everything else has been stripped away, with only the truth left. I see the guides there, and once before I felt some… thing… truly evil there. But I don’t see deception, and none of the guides has ever lied to me. As far as I know, anyway. They never tell me everything, and as I said they’re more often than not damn cryptic, but there’s never been any attempt to deceive. Not like this.”

  DeMarco said, “You’re sure you have no idea what it means? The deception?”

  “No.”

  “How many times have you had company in the gray time? From this side, I mean.”

  Trust DeMarco to home in on that. “Once before,” Diana said reluctantly. And before anyone else could comment, she looked steadily at Hollis, adding, “I’m sorry, Hollis. I should never have done that.”

  “It was my idea.”

  “I know. But it was wrong, and I should have known why.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a medium too. The last person I should have taken there. And now you’re sort of… connected to the gray time, almost like I am. At least according to Brooke.”

  Hollis blinked. “Which means?”

  “If Brooke was right, if she wasn’t trying to deceive me, it means that whenever I visit the gray time, whenever I open that door, you’ll be drawn there too.”

  “Whether she wants to be or not,” DeMarco said, and it wasn’t really a question.

  Diana nodded. “She’s a medium, and we’re hardwired to communicate with the spirit world, one way or another. Most of us open doors, the way Hollis opens doors. But those doors are almost always meant to work only one way, allowing the spirits to come here, to this plane of existence. According to Bishop, I’m the only medium he’s ever encountered who… walks with the spirits on the other side of the door, in that place or time in between. And I’ve spent my whole life—even if it was mostly subconsciously—learning how to do that, learning how to exist over there, as safely as possible. Hollis, I thought I could protect you too, but… now I’m not so sure.”

  Hollis began to chew on a thumbnail and without moving her thumb managed to say clearly, “This is the whole pillar-of-salt thing, right? The consequences?”

  “Bishop’s Second Rule,” Quentin murmured. “There are always consequences.”

  Momentarily distracted, Diana said, “What’s his First Rule?”

  “Some things have to happen just the way they happen.”

  “Oh, right. He mentioned that. You mentioned that.”

  DeMarco said, “It’s something we’ve all learned. The hard way.” He paused, adding dryly, “Though I hadn’t realized we were numbering Bishop’s rules.”

  “Quentin is,” Hollis said. “Of course Quentin is. And can we get back to my own pillar-of-salt consequences? Sorry to sound selfish, but I really would like to know what the worst outcome might be. What to be on guard against if—when—I find myself in the gray time again.”

  “You already know, Hollis. The worst outcome is that you could be trapped on that side of the door when it closes.” Diana drew a breath and let it out slowly, fighting to hold her voice steady as the reminder brought back an old but still-aching memory. “Lost, with no way of getting back to your body. And a body cut off from its spirit, deprived of its soul… can’t exist very long without medical intervention.”

  “Medical intervention? You mean—”

  “I mean machines. To keep the body breathing, the heart beating. Under those conditions, the body can last years. Decades. But you wouldn’t be there. You wouldn’t be there ever again.”

  Bobbie Silvers was proud to be a deputy. Of course, she wasn’t a real deputy, not yet; she was only partway through the training manual, and the sheriff refused to let her even begin weapons training.

  Still, she was young, energetic, and determined, so she knew it was only a matter of time until she made it to full deputy status.

  In the meantime, she worked as hard as she could to prove to Sheriff Duncan that she was deputy material. If he asked her to do something, no matter how seemingly routine or unimportant, she went above and beyond to make sure she did a thorough job of it.

  Which was why she was, in the middle of the evening and the middle of her shift, still at her computer terminal, poring through missing-persons reports—covering a radius of five hundred miles.

  “Give it up,” Dale McMurry advised. “Sheriff’s gone home for the night, and, besides, there isn’t much anybody can do ‘til morning.”

  “The only thing I can’t do until morning,” she told him without looking at him, “is talk to a first-shift deputy or other officer. Law enforcement is 24/7, Dale, or didn’t you know that?”

  He grunted. “It took you ten minutes to find the right state bureau guy and get their list, and twenty to get the one from the cops two counties over. At this rate, you’ll be at it until midnight and still not get done.”

  “The county doesn’t pay me to sit with my feet up and read magazines,” she told him. “If I’m still working on this when the next shift shows up and it’s time to clock out, so what? As long as I’m making progress—trying to make progress—then I’m doing my job.”

  “I’m doing my job,” he said, mildly defensive. “I’m waiting to answer the phone. So far, it hasn’t been ringing much.” He got out of his chair and went to change the channel of the TV resting on a nearby filing cabinet, grumbling underneath his breath at the lack of a remote.

  “Don’t turn on wrestling, please,” she said, still without looking at him.

  “What do you care? You haven’t taken your eyes off that screen since you talked to the SBI guy.”

  “I care because you get too caught up in the so-called action and end up yelling and throwing
things at the screen. Find a nice cheerleader or beauty competition instead. You drool quietly.”

  He threw a balled-up piece of paper at her.

  Bobbie ducked, sent him a smile to indicate she was only kidding, and went back to her work. Not that she had a whole lot to work with. From the remains of both victims, only the barest of preliminary descriptions could be listed with any certainty—and height, weight, eye color, and probable hair color in the case of the female left things pretty damn vague.

  The list Bobbie had painstakingly compiled from five hundred miles around Serenade now contained more than a hundred names of people reported missing and not yet found.

  With so few specifics about their victims, Bobbie wasn’t about to try to narrow that list on her own. But what she could and did do was to include a brief profile on each of the missing men and women. Most of the details were in the reports she’d gathered from other law-enforcement agencies, so it was an easy—if tedious—matter to condense the information under simple categories: Height; Age; Weight; Coloring; Missing From; Missing Since; Reported Missing By; Criminal Record (it was almost always no under that category); Financial Problems; Unexplained Financial Transactions; Beneficiaries of Death.

  That last one creeped Bobbie out, but it had to be noted, because at least half a dozen of the missing people carried hefty life-insurance policies left to spouses. Not so unusual, of course, but worth noting, in her opinion.

  So Bobbie noted it. And noted all the other bits of information she had gathered. And then she put it all on a somewhat crude spreadsheet, hoping that something would help the far-more-experienced FBI agents identify the two poor souls whose remains had been found so horribly tortured and mangled.

  And it wasn’t until just before midnight and the end of her shift, while barely aware of Dale yawning over a less-than-involving seventies-era sitcom, that Bobbie saw something unexpected. Very unexpected.

  She rechecked all the information she had, bit her lip for a moment in indecision, then reached for the phone, hoping to find another second-shift cop in another quiet law-enforcement agency with time on his or her hands and the will to stay past this shift and dig just a little deeper.