“It’s good you’re all here. They’re going to need all the support they can get.” Taking a deep breath, Jane added, “I wondered if anyone has anything they’d like to say about Jennifer, about the kind of person she was. As a tribute to her.” She took her notebook out of her purse by way of making clear anything they said would be for the paper.
A silence fell while the little group digested the question. They’d either throw her out now or talk to her.
“She loved her kids and she loved her husband,” somebody said.
In the next fifteen minutes a picture emerged of a bright, pretty young woman who did pastel sketches of her friends’ children and homeschooled her own. She’d taught Sunday school and told corny jokes and had evidently never met a single human being she didn’t try to make friends with.
Her husband thought she’d hung the moon. He was somewhere inside, sitting in dazed shock. Yesterday had been their tenth wedding anniversary; they’d planned a romantic dinner that evening. Instead one of the neighbors had called him at the textile plant where he worked third shift to tell him his house was surrounded by police. He’d raced home in a panic only to find his wife dead and himself a suspect.
While Jane was gently extracting her quotes, the woman emerged from the house with Jennifer’s photo and handed it to her. “I couldn’t find one of her by herself,” she said. “All I had was the group shot they took at Christmas.”
“That’s okay,” Jane said. “We can crop it.” She looked down and felt her heart clutch.
Jennifer and her husband sat side by side in the professional studio shot, two cherubic blondes standing in front of them. The two little girls had their mother’s warm, broad smile and their father’s hazel eyes.
Druas had destroyed that idyllic picture, butchered that pretty woman simply because he could. But Jennifer wasn’t his only victim. He’d shattered the lives of her children and her husband, too. Her little ones would grow up with the scars of trauma and loss, and her husband would feel the ache until the day he died. To make matters worse, there would always be whispers, questions, rumors that he’d murdered the woman he’d loved.
“Pretty family,” Jane said to Baran, a knot in her throat.
“Yes,” he said, looking down at the photo from over her shoulder.
She looked up at him. He wore the carefully blank expression she’d come to realize meant he’d locked down his emotions. Somewhere behind those dark glasses, she knew, hell was banked in his eyes.
Without another word the Warlord pivoted and walked out the screen door. It banged shut behind him.
Jane stared at his retreating back, then shot a wide-eyed look at the bewildered group on the porch. “Thank you for your time.”
Tucking the photo in her purse, she hurried out after him.
“He’s stolen so much from them,” Baran said as they got back in the truck.
Jane thought of the photo, of Jennifer Moore’s shattered family. All her life, she’d lived with the gnawing suspicion her father had killed her mother. Yet she’d never been sure. Maybe that’s why she’d been so driven to become a reporter—so that others would never have to wonder what lay behind a shield of lies.
For the first time, she wondered if the truth was such a blessing. Jennifer’s little girls would never even have the dim, faint hope their mother might be alive. They’d know exactly how she died; every detail of her murder would be laid out in newspaper and television stories. Hell, if the Tayanita killings did gain the notoriety of the Ripper murders, they’d find themselves sought out for anniversary interviews from now on. Endlessly tormented.
They didn’t deserve that.
Yet not knowing…
Had William Colby killed her mother? If he had, how? Did he use that .38 that even now waited back home in Jane’s attic, or had he simply used his fists on her one last time? Had she suffered?
Or was Jeanine Colby alive and well somewhere, daughter and abusive husband forgotten?
Damn, Jane would like to believe that. Unfortunately, everyone who’d ever known her mother couldn’t believe Jeannine would simply abandon Jane.
Was it better not to know? Who was luckier—Jane or Jennifer’s little girls?
She…
The cell phone rang in its pocket in her purse.
One hand on the wheel, Jane reached into her purse with the other and fished the phone out. “Jane Colby,” she said, as she always did when she was working.
“She’s got the most lovely legs,” a male voice said. “Not as long as yours, of course, but not bad.”
Jane frowned, distracted and puzzled. “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Tell me—have you been enjoying your handsome visitor from the future? Or should I say—has he been enjoying you?”
A wave of ice seemed to roll up the back of her neck. “Druas.”
“Very good.”
Baran reached for the cell. “Give me that.”
“Do it and I’ll kill her now,” Druas snapped. “I want to talk to you, Jane.”
She licked her lips. Shit. She had to stall him. Waving Baran off, she demanded, “Where are you?”
“Ohh, some Tayanita landmark. Laughing children, dancing water—and a pretty girl, running as if her life doesn’t depend on it. But it does.”
Laughing children? Oh, hell. Jane fought panic as she tried to figure out what he was referring to. “Leave her alone, Druas.”
“I can’t do that, Jane. Wouldn’t want to cause a paradox, now would we?” His laugh was low and taunting. “When you think about it, I’m not committing murder, I’m saving the universe.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re a big hero,” Jane growled, fighting to think where he could be. Dancing water, laughing children…
Her eyes widened. There were bronze statues of laughing children around a fountain in Cherokee Park—along with jogging trails.
The son of a bitch was about to murder a jogger.
Jane stomped on the gas and shot toward town. Luckily the park was close by. If they could just make it in time…“Why are you doing this, Druas?” she demanded, hoping to stall him long enough for them to arrive. “You’re a mercenary, a warrior. Those women can’t be a challenge for you.”
“No, but your handsome fuck buddy is. Now, there’s a killer. You do know his body count is higher than mine?”
Baran had whipped off his sunglasses to stare at her, listening hard with his Warlord hearing. His eyes shone as red as a couple of coals. Jane ignored him. “I’m a lot more interested in you at the moment.”
“You should be. I’m going to kill you, Jane.”
She almost lost control of the SUV. “No. You’re not. Baran—”
“…Is going to be too late, just like he was too late to save that bitch in the car this afternoon. My face is going to be the last thing you ever see. And my dick is going to be the last thing you ever feel—after my knife, of course.”
“You’re the one who’s going to die, Druas,” Baran snarled, lifting his voice so the phone would pick it up.
“If I do, it won’t be in time to save you, bitch. You’re going to squeal for me, just like all the others. Just like Baran squealed for my comrades back on Vardon. He was such a pretty boy. I’ll bet he hasn’t told you about that.”
“Yes, he did.” Her skin felt curiously numb, cold. She fought to concentrate on her driving, on getting them there in time. “He told me all about what you sick Xeran bastards did.”
Druas laughed. Something in the sound made her skin crawl. “Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much. Some things a man just doesn’t tell the woman he’s screwing.”
“What are you talking about?” Ice slid over her. He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant.
Not Baran.
“Sorry, Jane, you’re just not going to be able to stall me that long. I’ve got to go kill her now.”
The phone went dead.
“Shit,” Jane spat, slamming the gas pe
dal all the way to the floor as she dialed 911. “Shit shit shit shit.”
“What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher said.
“A woman’s about to be murdered in Cherokee Park. Send everybody you can dispatch. Now.”
“Wait a minute, who is this? How do you know that?”
“Jane Colby with the Trib. The killer just called me on my cell.”
“Ma’am, we’ll send somebody to check it out, but it was probably a prank.”
“It wasn’t a prank, damn it! It was a fucking serial killer, and if you just send one deputy, that girl is not going to be the only one bleeding out on the ground. Your cop is going to end up dead!”
“It’s not necessary to use that kind of language, ma’am.”
“Do you want to be on the front page in fifty point type, lady? ‘Dispatcher refuses to send adequate help: woman murdered.’ How does that sound, huh? ’Cause I can do it!” She hit the End button and slung the phone back in her purse. “Stupid bitch.” Zipping around a minivan, she screeched up to the curb in front of the park.
Near the entrance, a fountain sprayed a plume of water skyward from the center of a ring of dancing children.
Baran threw his door open and jumped out without bothering to close it behind him. He took off at a run. “Freika, stay with Jane! I’ve got Xeran sensor readings!”
“I’m going with…” She blinked, watching his retreating back as he raced toward the trees. She’d never seen a human being move so fast in her entire life; he was almost a blur. She started after him.
“No!” Freika’s teeth closed on the hem of her pants, dragging her to a stumbling halt. “He’s right. If Druas gets you out in those woods away from Baran, you’re dead.”
She looked down at him helplessly. “But…”
In the distance a woman screamed, her voice ringing with terror.
Then there was nothing but the sound of the fountain’s spray pattering on brick.
Thirteen
Baran went to riatt as he ran, neurochemicals roaring through his body in a molten flood, power pumping in after them. This time he would be in time. This time he was going to kill the bastard and end it.
He could see them in his mind, his computer generating the image from sensor data since they were out of direct view. The girl ran easily, not realizing she was in danger as Druas closed in from behind in a leisurely jog. As if he had all the time in the world.
Baran poured on the speed, dodging around the trees that blocked his path.
As if sensing him, the Xeran glanced back over his shoulder. He began to run. The girl turned, evidently hearing him. Her scream rang high and shrill over the trees.
The Jumpkiller didn’t bother with the slow strangulation that might have given Baran time to reach them. The computer image painted the flash of steel as he drew the knife, the arch of his arm swinging, the spray of hot blood. The girl crumpled; Baran was close enough now to glimpse the movement through the trees with his own eyes.
Close, so close, but not close enough. Not close enough to be in time.
Druas stepped back. With his sensors engaged, Baran could see the temporal field building around the murderer’s T-suit in waves of warping time.
BOOM!
And the killer was gone, leaving only the girl dying in the leaves as Baran skidded up.
Her eyes met his, wide with horror over her ruined throat, begging him silently for help. Druas might not have taken the time to strangle her, but he hadn’t cut deep enough to render her unconscious, either. He’d meant for her to suffer, to know she was dying without being able to do anything to save herself.
Death in 2.3 minutes, Baran’s comp told him.
How can I save her? he demanded as he fell to his knees beside her crumpled body. Apply pressure?
Ineffective. She’ll die before medical assistance can arrive.
He had to try anyway. Jerking the T-shirt off over his head, Baran wadded it up and pressed it against the wound, trying to avoid cutting off her breathing as he did so. She lifted a shaking hand and wrapped it around his, fighting feebly to help.
“Hang on,” he ordered roughly, watching the white shirt turn red as she bled out into it. “Stay with me.”
As if in answer, she made an awful, strangling sound. The bewildered pain in her glazing eyes choked him. It was all so vicious, so pointless. Savagery for its own mindless sake.
“I’m going to kill him,” he gritted as he smoothed her blond hair back from her face with his free hand.
She blinked up at him once. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged. He struggled to read her lips. Something about “husband” and “love.”
Then the life bled away from her eyes, and her hand fell limply to the leaves.
And Baran, who’d killed more men than he even cared to think about, felt his shoulders began to shake.
Jane heard the temporal boom roll out over the trees over the wail of sirens. “Son of a bitch.” She started toward the sound, but Freika grabbed her again.
“We don’t know where Druas transported,” the wolf said. “In those trees he could Jump right in behind you before I could do a damn thing.”
“Fuck.” She was tempted to run in after Baran anyway, but she knew if she didn’t wait to tell the police he’d gone to help, they might shoot him by mistake.
The first car roared up with shrieking sirens and squealing brakes. The door flew open and an officer scrambled out, gun already drawn. She knew him from a previous crime scene: Tony Garrison. He’d been a deputy barely a year.
“That way!” Jane yelled, pointing in the direction Baran had gone. “They’re in the woods. My photographer went after them.”
“Gonna get himself killed,” the cop grunted, holstering his weapon as he grabbed his shoulder mike to radio it in before running toward the tree line.
“Now we can go,” Jane told Frieka, and sprinted after the officer.
“Jane—”
“Find Baran,” she snapped, cutting off his protest. “One of these cops could shoot him if I’m not there to defuse the situation.”
The wolf hesitated, then growled something and shot ahead of both of them. Jane brought up the rear, pouring everything she had into every stride she took.
“Stay back!” the cop yelled at her.
“The wo…dog belongs to my photographer!” Jane yelled back. “Freika’ll track Baran. Since he went in after the girl, if we find him, we’ll find her.”
Garrison muttered something that was probably obscene, but didn’t protest again as the two of them crashed on through the woods.
They found Baran cradling a limp figure in his arms, his broad, bare shoulders hunched, head bowed. His braids trailed in the blood that covered her chest. He’d pulled off his shirt; it lay forgotten in a gory bundle in the dead leaves beside him.
“Put her down and back away,” Garrison ordered, drawing his weapon.
“It’s my photographer!” Jane protested, her stomach twisting as she stepped between Baran and the cop. She’d been afraid of this. “I told you, he came in to help her!”
“I’ve only got your word on that,” the deputy gritted. “And I’m not taking chances. Get out of the way, lady, or your ass is going to jail!”
She knew he was just pissed off enough to do it, but she had to make him listen. “Baran was only trying to save her!”
“But I didn’t.” She looked back over her shoulder and caught her breath. The Warlord’s lethal gaze was fixed on the deputy’s gun. “Get that weapon out of my face.” He still had his sunglasses on, thank God, but he’d been in riatt. She remembered how he’d taken her in the woods and realized just how shaky his control over his emotions really was. If the cop got too aggressive, Baran just might slam him through a tree.
Hell. That was all they needed.
“Put the girl down, sir!” Garrison set his feet apart and steadied his aim.
“If you don’t shift your aim, I’m going to make you eat that gun.” His voice w
as utterly toneless, matter-of-fact, but something in his face made the cop back up a pace.
Then Garrison stopped himself and steadied his aim. “Sir, I will shoot you.”
And he would, Jane knew. Especially since he’d only gotten out of the Academy a few months before—and this might be the first time he’d ever faced a man over the body of a murdered woman.
Or seen anything like the killing rage in the Warlord’s eyes.
“Put her down, Baran!” she said, raising her voice just short of a yell, trying to penetrate the Warlord’s riatt frenzy. “He’ll do it. And you’re not thinking clearly.”
He stared at her for a long moment before he gently lowered his limp burden to the ground. “She’s already gone. I didn’t get here in time.”
“Down on the ground!” the deputy snarled. “Hands behind your head.”
“Deputy Garrison, he didn’t hurt her!” Jane raised her empty hands to show she wasn’t armed. “The man who did this called us on my cell phone and told us he was about to attack her, and Baran ran in here trying to help.”
“So where is this killer, huh?”
“Getting away while you wave a gun in our faces!”
“My job is to secure the scene,” Garrison snapped. “I’m securing it. Get! Down!”
“Tony, I’m a reporter. You know me!”
“And you should know better than to interfere with a police officer! Down on the ground! Both of you!”
“Do it, Jane.” Baran said heavily, and stretched out beside the body of the woman he’d fought—and failed—to save.
She looked from Garrison’s furious eyes to the bore of his gun, sighed, and obeyed. As the deputy began to pat Baran down, she pressed her face into the crinkling leaves and tried not to wonder who Druas was planning to kill next.
It might just be her.
“Lose the shades,” Tom Reynolds said to Baran as they sat in the detective’s car. “It’s like talking to the Terminator.”
He had no idea who the Terminator was, but Baran obeyed the detective anyway. For lack of anywhere else to put them, he held them in his lap. It was a good thing enough time had passed to give his body time to recover from riatt, or his eyes would have given him away. Unfortunately, he still felt raw, and he knew his control over his simmering rage wasn’t the best. Law enforcement agents on his own world would have understood, but these deputies obviously found his reaction to the aftereffects suspicious.
Warlord Page 17
