Blood Trouble

by Connie Suttle

  "How is Breanne involved in that?" Bill asked.

  "A victim. In the worst way you can imagine. It's a book that will go public in less than two weeks—the author came across evidence and wrote a book, releasing all the information he found. The major players are deceased, but we're looking into others who might have been involved. We'll make arrests if that turns out to be the case. I wanted to give you a heads-up—I get the idea that Ms. Hayworth may not be aware of the scope of this material, and you may want to give her a leave of absence to deal with this."

  "What? How quickly can you send this to me?" Bill asked. As concerned as he was, his worry just ramped up dramatically.

  "Drop by the local office in Austin—I'll have the book and the photographs transmitted electronically. Be prepared, Bill. It's not pretty."

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  "Have you seen either of these men?" Opal handed the two photographs to a twenty-four-year-old grad student. We'd caught Dana Yarbrough as she was getting ready to go to her temporary job at a local department store.

  "This one looks familiar, but I can't remember where," Dana tapped the photograph of Keir Arthur. He was the better looking of the two vampires, with dark-blond hair and deep-blue eyes. Most women would look his way, actually, so I wasn't surprised that Dana might remember him if she'd seen him before. Compulsion notwithstanding, of course.

  "Do you ever go to The Beer Barrel?" Opal asked.

  "Once or twice a week," Dana shrugged.

  "Do you think you might have seen him there?"

  "Hmmm, maybe. He sure would have stood out, but every time I've been in there lately, I've been pretty focused on my paper. I usually sit in a corner and study or work on my laptop."

  "Is there any other place you may have seen him? Maybe at your job or something?" I asked. Dana turned to me, then, as I asked my question.

  "Oh, my gosh—I think that's it. Yeah—I saw him trying on jackets in menswear," she said. "Leather jackets. One in black and one in brown. I just see so many people in there, that it didn't come to me until you said that."

  "Do you remember when you saw him?" Opal asked.

  "It had to be last week—it was late at night, and I haven't closed since last Thursday."

  "You think that's when you saw him, then?"

  "Yeah. I think it was. Usually I get off around eight, and this was just before ten."

  That's when I decided to lower my shield and read her. Dana was pretty, with thick, dark hair that swept her shoulders in a blunt cut and large, lovely brown eyes. Certainly pretty enough to capture a vampire's eye, and I was shocked by what I read in her—Keir had drunk from her. He'd waited for her in the parking lot when she got off work, placed compulsion and lured her to his car.

  He used her as a donor, I sent mindspeech to Opal. I think we should have her watched.

  "Dana, can you tell us anything else about him?" Opal took the photograph back.

  "That's all I remember. Is this Amy's killer?"

  "We don't think so, but he may have information," Opal hedged.

  "Oh. If I see him again, I'll let you know," Dana offered.

  "Good. Call immediately, no matter where or when," Opal said.

  "Thanks for talking with us," I said.

  * * *

  "Breanne, I wish I knew how you come by some of your information," Opal started the rental car and put it in gear.

  "It's weird," I said. "I can see it in their faces, at times."

  "That is weird. And very helpful." Opal backed out of the narrow driveway and headed toward our hotel. We needed to meet with Bill and have agents watching Dana by nightfall.

  Bill wasn't at the hotel when we arrived; he said he was doing something at the local FBI office when Opal called. He did say he'd get some agents there to tail Dana and watch for Keir, in case he showed up again. Opal and I decided to stake out The Beer Barrel as soon as night fell. I had a feeling we'd be hearing from Radomir, too, but that wouldn't be until dark as well.

  * * *

  "Mr. Rome, hold for Bill Jennings, Director of the Joint NSA and Homeland Security Department," Jayson's assistant informed him.

  "What?" Jayson sputtered. He didn't have time to protest; Bill was already on the phone.

  "I hear you managed to convince Breanne Hayworth to sign a release for photographs and other information," Bill began immediately.

  "What's this about?" Jayson snapped. "We're doing a magazine article on Mercy Crossings."

  "That's not all that's going on," Bill accused. "I just saw a copy of a book your father asked Ross Gideon to write on Joyce Christian. When I contacted your legal department in Los Angeles, they informed me that you convinced Breanne to sign the release."

  "What book?" Jayson demanded, before going completely still. "What book?" he asked again, worry creasing his forehead.

  "A book on Joyce Christian, and how she was buying children from a church-run orphanage to help with her young twins, only she ended up torturing them. She killed two out of three she adopted, that's what book," Bill's voice became aggressive. "Now you're telling me that you lured Breanne into signing that release on the promise of an article on Mercy Crossings? If I learn you've misled her, I'll have you investigated."

  "Oh, my God," Jayson's hand scrubbed his face. "That's what the old man's been up to. Look, all I knew about was the article on Mercy Crossings. That's it. Dad wouldn't say what he's been working on lately, but I did get a call from the legal department, saying they were sending a copy of a book that I needed to look at."

  "Somehow, that hack procured photographs of Breanne when she was young—maybe fourteen, handcuffed in a dark closet, naked and unconscious. Experts tell me her wrists are broken, her face is battered and the rest of her body is either black with bruises or scarred from previous abuse. The journal entry I saw from the one taking the photograph says a golf club was used to inflict the damage done in that photograph. Other beatings are also described, with whatever Joyce Christian had available. Frankly, I don't know how Breanne is sane or able to walk nowadays."

  Jayson rose from his desk and cursed. "Look, I didn't fucking know about that," he said. "I didn't. I was only asked to do the Mercy Crossings article. I had a photographer and a staff writer take pictures and do an interview—only about Mercy Crossings. I had no other agenda than that. Investigate my father if you want, Director Jennings, but I had nothing to do with that."

  "You still got her to sign the release. How about I investigate Rome Enterprises as a whole? I can assure you I'll have it gone over with a fine-toothed comb."

  "I'll call my father, but I can't say it'll do much good," Jayson muttered, sitting again. He knew his division was clean, but he didn't work with the other publishing branches. "You say she was tortured?"

  "Yes. Extensively. As I said, two others—a fifteen-year-old girl and a sixteen-year-old boy, died from the same treatment before Breanne was adopted at the age of ten. Joyce put her to watching her twins, who have Down Syndrome. Whenever something happened in Joyce's life that she didn't like, she had a ready scapegoat—she tortured children who weren't her biological offspring. The whole thing is completely horrible."

  "Were the two deaths reported?" Jayson asked.

  "No. We have some evidence that the bodies were buried on the Christian Ranch in Western Texas, but they haven't been located, yet. There are photographs of the bodies before burial, however—the one taking the photographs wanted to protect himself in case Joyce ever turned on him."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Dead. Self-inflicted gunshot wound, but he was dying anyway. Left a journal and the photographs behind—sold them to Ross Gideon's private investigator, Bob Sullivan."

  "Sullivan." Jayson shut his eyes and leaned back wearily in his chair. "The old man was with Bob."

  "I'll be asking your father questions, just as soon as he responds to my multiple phone messages," Bill growled. "I'll have my department contact you from now on."

&n
bsp; * * *

  "Hank, come to my office." Jayson called Hank the moment Bill Jennings hung up.

  "What's going on?" Hank asked over Jayson's cellphone.

  "I'm about to have the legal department fax copies of photographs to me. I think we both need to see them," Jayson muttered.

  "Photographs? Of?"

  "Breanne. Hank, please hurry. I'm not sure I want to see them without you here."

  "On my way."

  * * *

  "I can assure you she doesn't know," Bill covered copies of photographs with his hand—he couldn't bear to look at them any longer. "I just spoke with the person who convinced her to sign a release—he swore it was for a magazine article on Mercy Crossings, not for this."

  "The housekeeper has moved to Ecuador, and the veterinarian is in Venezuela," Dan Kelsey replied. "I hate that the girl will be broadsided by this. Any number of people could have reported this and gotten immunity from the department."

  "Politics," Bill huffed. "And money. I'm assuming you read the part where she was siphoning money from her campaigns to pay her personal expenses?"

  "Yeah. I'm having her records subpoenaed from her former attorney's office—he managed the funding for the care of Joyce's twins, only that went dry two years ago. He made sure he got paid, though, and was ready to send Joyce's twins to a state-run facility. Ms. Hayworth has her own attorney paying the private facility where they're staying now."

  "I see. Do I understand correctly that the name Hayworth is from Joyce Christian's grandparents?"

  "That's correct. She didn't want them to have her last name, so all three adoptees were given the name Hayworth."

  "What happens to the estate?"

  "In the hands of the attorney and a realtor who's trying to sell it, but taxes are owed on the property. We'll go in to look for those two bodies, so the sale will be held up for a while."

  "I don't know how to tell her about this—and I have to tell her. She can't see the headlines in the papers and on the news—it'll destroy her," Bill sighed.

  "What's happened to her already should have done that. I don't understand how she's survived. The photograph at the back of the book—in the Mercy Crossings uniform—looks really good."

  "She looks better in person. Dan, I need to call you back. I have to plan how to present this to her and make it easier for her, somehow."

  "Understood. If you need any help, or if she has information to share on possible collaborators, let me know."

  "I will. Thanks for the warning, Dan."

  "No trouble."

  * * *

  "This is awful. I've never seen anything like this." Jayson turned the copied photograph over, he couldn't bear to look at it anymore. "They tell me this is the book cover."

  "Rome, this will kill her. That bitch failed, but your father might succeed." Hank was furious, his eyes going completely dark.

  "Look, I didn't know. Mom didn't know, either. What do you think this will do to her? She just got over a heart attack. Fuck. No wonder Breanne ran like the devil was after her when she saw my handcuffs. She kept saying she'd met the devil. Here's the evidence." Jayson slammed a fist on the photographs lying on his desk.

  "Rome, do you have a number for Director Jennings? I want to talk to him. Somebody needs to approach Breanne carefully with this. I have no idea what she'll do when this is shoved in her face."

  "I'll ask my assistant."

  * * *

  "Director Jennings, this is Hank Bell."

  "You're the one Breanne listed as the person to call in an emergency," Bill replied immediately.

  "She did?"

  "Yes, when she filled out her paperwork," Bill said. "I'm assuming you spoke with Jayson Rome after I called him earlier."

  "You've had her checked out." Hank's voice was flat.

  "Completely. It's standard protocol."

  "Understood. Look, you can't just shove that in her face—we'll lose her."

  "You think I haven't already considered that? The thing is, the longer we hold this back from her, the worse it'll be."

  "Agreed. When do you plan to tell her?"

  "In an hour or so, when I get back to the hotel."

  "Try to hold onto her," Hank sighed. "I just don't see this turning out well, no matter what."

  * * *

  "Wait here. The shapeshifter should return to this room shortly," the lieutenant informed his assassins. "Take her head and you will be rewarded."

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  Bill found us in the hotel coffee shop, and I could tell something was wrong the moment he sat.

  "Breanne," he began, "I want to speak with you again—in private. I have news, and I'm afraid it isn't good."

  "What?" I stared at Bill in alarm. Yes, I probably should have waited to let him break the news as gently as he could, but I was frightened and fear seldom produces rational thought. My shields dropped immediately, and I saw it all. Rome Enterprises, Ross Gideon, the horrible, horrible book and the photographs. In my wildest dreams, I had no idea that Gus Fulton had taken photographs following my last attempt to run away.

  I hadn't seen him after that, so there wasn't any way to read that fact in his face. I'd been too crippled to attempt to flee again, and I'd been stuck with the monster who'd bought me from an orphanage for two thousand dollars and no questions asked.

  My hand over my mouth, I stood and stared at Bill for a few seconds—I read the pain in him at the knowledge of what he'd seen and read. Yes, he'd skimmed the book, but all those things I knew already. I just thought they'd never come to light—Joyce Christian had hidden her secrets well.

  The realization of what this would cost me also invaded my mind—everybody would see the photograph of my tortured body on the cover of a book. Remembered horror made me tremble, and shame and humiliation made me want to weep. I folded space before thinking.

  * * *

  My cellphone rang the moment I landed on a south Texas beach. It was Hank. Well, there was no facing him or anyone else. Likely, Jayson had shown Hank those photographs—I knew from Bill's reading that he'd spoken with Jayson, and Jayson had denied knowing about the book beforehand. I had no idea whether that was actually true or not. Brushing tears away as I stared at the cellphone in my hand, I crumpled the phone in my fingers and flung it as far into the waters of the Gulf as I could.

  * * *

  "The location of her phone is in deep water," Bill barked. "I have no idea if she's with it. Send a helicopter. Immediately."

  * * *

  "She knows." Hank slapped his cellphone on Jayson's desk.

  "Fuck," Jayson laced fingers in his hair and tugged in frustration.

  * * *

  "Opal, I don't know what to do." Bill punched the elevator button for his floor. "What if we don't find her? What if she's gone for good?"

  "I don't know what to do, and without her, those two rogues are still loose." Opal blinked dark eyes at Bill. "I really like her, and I really like working with her."

  "I know. I like her, too."

  "Bill, you love her and you know it."

  "Yeah. I know it."

  * * *

  Removing her keycard from a pocket, Opal inserted it into her hotel room door and turned the handle.

  * * *

  Lissa's Journal

  "I feel cold." I did—I was shivering, and I had no idea why. It was warm enough inside my suite, and Drake and Drew were with me—more than enough to chase away any chill.

  "Come to bed, baby," Drew coaxed, reaching for my hand. Drake was already sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for me.

  "Something's happening," I whispered, suddenly terrified.

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  I could have done nothing. I could have continued to walk a Gulf Coast beach, feeling horribly sorry for myself and leaving Opal dead in her hotel room. I couldn't do that. My past ensured that I had no desire to tolerate injustice.

  The moment the kno
wledge of her death hit me, I was mentally screaming and folding back to Austin. Her two assassins, still quite pleased with themselves, stood over Opal's bloody, headless body. I destroyed them first, then gathered power around me.

  Yes, I was still angry—about Opal's death. About my past. About Rome Enterprises blindsiding me, cutting into my life and allowing it to bleed out for a sensationalism-hungry public. There weren't enough tears to heal my past. I had no idea if anything might do that. Holding my hands over Opal's body, I Changed What Was.

  Chapter 17

  Breanne's Journal

  Graegar tried to warn me, and perhaps I should have listened. Perhaps. Opal woke and moaned in the floor at my feet when prescience kicked in. Yes, they were waiting. The rogue godlings who'd managed to create sandstorms across universes, killing innocents and destroying everything in their path, had been waiting. Waiting on me to Change What Was. Waiting for me to expend that energy. It was a beacon to them, telling them exactly where I was. I had to move quickly or Opal, Bill and everybody else in Austin was in trouble. They wouldn't live over it, either.

  "Bree!" Bill's voice sounded as I misted away—he'd burst into Opal's room, his sidearm drawn. I had to think fast or he'd be dead—likely in a matter of minutes from a sandstorm headed toward Texas.

  As swiftly as I could, I turned to mist while Bill shouted at me to stay. Then, struggling to form a coherent plan, I folded space to the Moon and sent out a blast of power, just as I could do when Changing What Was.

  Did I feel them change course, veering away from Austin and heading toward Earth's only satellite? Yes. There was a gathering storm behind me; that was easy enough to tell. I folded to Pluto, the dwarf planet Hank and I had discussed during our first meeting, and sent out another blast of power. I was laying breadcrumbs for them to follow, and I felt their anger swell as their desire for my death increased. They strove to catch up with me.

  Desperate, I considered what to do. I wasn't strong enough to take on all of them—I knew that. I blew out another blast of energy, just so they'd know where I was and keep following me. If they knew how badly they might hurt me, and that I'd turn back and take my final stand there with him, they'd have gone straight to San Francisco and attempted to destroy Hank Bell. They didn't know that, though, and I was more than thankful.