Lynne Connolly

by The Chemistry Of Evil (Triskelion) (lit)

  “Much.” Mordred made an effort and turned to the paramedics. “Really, it was only for a moment. I feel much better now. I don’t know what happened, but I think they panicked. I just fell.”

  A man he hadn’t noticed before stepped forward. “Hardly. I was here when it happened. You stopped breathing. You should really go and get checked up.”

  “No.” He’d no mind to waste his time at any hospital. He knew quite well what had happened. Did Arthur? The man calling himself Evan Howell? Did he know?

  Mordred was back. And there would be hell to pay.

  *

  Evan watched the whole scene play out. Apart from calling the emergency services on his mobile, he’d been a spectator to the whole thing. Archie seemed wholly recovered now, though he was downing pints of bitter at too quick a rate to be advisable for a man who had stopped breathing for two minutes. Ah well, it was none of his business. He was here for one reason only.

  It was doubtful Sofie would want to leave Archie for a while, so he’d probably have to wait. He set himself to watching. It had kept him sane and focused for two years. Without careful observation, as well as developing a fighting technique never seen in the boxing ring, he doubted he would have survived those two years in prison.

  He stood up and went to the bar to buy a round of drinks. He was unsurprised when Gwyneth joined him, ostensibly to help carry the drinks back. He’d seen the way she looked at him, the speculative glint.

  “That was quite something,” Gwyneth commented, “but he seems to be all right now.”

  “Yes. He should have let them check him over, though.” Except that Sofie would have gone with him, and he would have lost his opportunity to speak with her until the morning.

  Gwyneth propped her elbow on the bar and leaned her cheek on her hand, looking up at him, eyes wide with interest. “Do you live in New York?”

  “Yes, in Tribeca.”

  “Oh.”

  Obviously it meant nothing to her. “Do you like it?”

  “I’ve lived there most of my life. My parents were New Yorkers. I’m used to it, I guess.” Sometimes, looking over the roofs in the reddish light of dawn, the light glinting off the glass that was so much a part of his city, he knew true beauty.

  Her eyes shone. “I’d love to go.”

  “You could always get a job there, like your friend Sofie.”

  “I might, at that. Are you staying here long?”

  He shook his head. “Not long.”

  He picked up two glasses of dark amber ale, the stuff that passed for beer over here and took it to the table. Turning, he nearly cannoned into Gwyneth, following hard on his heels with two more pints.

  He tried to ignore the obvious signs she was sending him. Normally he might consider it, but recently his interest in sex had waned. Not surprising, really. And all it could be with Gwyneth was sex. He felt no attraction to her beyond the physical.

  Sofie now – he brought more drinks across, putting one of them in front of the sylph like creature he had come to see. She reminded him of an old poem about a hind, running free and not to be caught. She appealed to him as no one had for months. A shame she was someone else’s.

  Evan answered the questions fired at him with as much humor and tolerance as he could muster. He was used to it Working for the CIA conjured up images of glamour and travel, neither of which affected his life very much. He asked a question of his own. “How did you get involved with the FBI?” he asked Sofie, quietly so as not to interrupt the conversation about dating techniques going on at the other end of the table.

  “The FBI asked me to come over and lecture at Quantico. I’m a consultant, but I’m thinking about applying to become an agent. That’s why I was working out of New York when the case came up and they needed an opinion. I was to see something of the work involved, and what I would be expected to do.”

  “With CASKU?” The prestigious serial killer unit. Usually an agent would have to do a lot of grunt work before being accepted there.

  “If I’m lucky. I have specialist knowledge they can use. But I’m not a citizen, and that limits my security status.”

  “Fascinating work they do, but gruesome.”

  Sofie shuddered theatrically. “It was a bit of a shock the first time I saw a dead body.”

  “It must have been. I don’t see too many dead bodies in my line. Unless they’re CGI, and part of a different world.”

  Gwyneth had moved from his side to talk to Archie. While he chatted with Sofie, Evan kept his antennae up, listening for clues, for guidance, as he’d been taught.

  Evan was about to tune out and give the delectable Sofie all his attention when he caught something, murmured low by Gwyneth to Archie. “Tonight?”

  Archie replied in low tones that Evan only just caught. “Maybe. I’ve something different in mind. I know you’re game. I’ll ask her.”

  What? It sounded intimate, far too intimate for the discussion of archaeological remains. Evan didn’t like it. Something prickled his skin. His instincts were rarely wrong. He’d learned to depend on them, had been trained to take notice of them during times when every sense had to be attuned for danger. There was danger here, crackling in the air.

  He looked up to find Archie watching him, and there was no doubting the enmity in the steely glare. Archie looked away quickly, masking his dislike.

  He turned back to Sofie, his smile deepening in warmth. “Are you going back to New York soon?”

  “In a couple of weeks, after the wedding.” Sofie shot a glance at Archie and bit her lip.

  So there was hope for him. Evan had learned the habit of honesty, something more difficult than many people supposed. He wanted Sofie. He’d warmed to her as he warmed to few people, and he might, just might, have found a friend. Evan didn’t do friends in the normal course of events.

  Sofie faced him, her eyes too bright, her smile too wide. She’d noticed something between Archie and Gwyneth. “You wanted to ask me something?”

  He hesitated. “Yes, but I’d rather ask you in private.” He saw her withdrawal. “It’s not a come-on, I promise.”

  She studied him, dark eyes intelligently assessing. “All right. It’s a warm night. Shall we go outside?”

  He glanced at Archie, who was busy flirting with a willing Gwyneth. Sweeping a look around the table he saw that most of the archaeologists were watching, overtly or otherwise.

  Sofie forced a smile. “You remember Evan wanted to talk to me privately? We’ll just be outside. Back in a minute.”

  Archie threw him a hard look. “See that you do.”

  Outside, they went and sat on the low stone wall at the front of the pub. Sofie’s mouth twisted up in a half smile. “I’m sorry about Archie. He’s getting a bit drunk. It’s not like him. I don’t think I’ve seen him drunk above half a dozen times in five years.”

  “He’s a big man. It would take a lot of drink, I imagine.” Evan didn’t care how often Archie got drunk.

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “What did you want to talk to me about? Is it bureau business?”

  They stared ahead, at the peaceful village street, the old houses and the dark sky above them, shining stars ahead. He sat on the wall as though he owned it, belonged here. He felt an affinity to this place, but he had never been here before. He pushed the odd thought out of him mind. “In a way. You were involved in the investigation about the death of Meghan Leroux?”

  “I did what I could to help.”

  “I’m sure you did. Meghan was my sister.” The last sentence was rushed. He hadn’t said it too often, could still hardly believe it himself.

  When she gasped he turned and looked at her. If he wanted her to help him he owed her the truth. “We were twins, but adopted. That’s why we had different names.”

  She reached out, touched his hand softly and then pulled away. Evan wanted to grip it, hold it there, but he stopped himself from reaching to draw it back. “I’m so sorry. That’s why it was so important?
”

  He nodded. “My boss gave me compassionate leave. He doesn’t know I’m here, I didn’t tell him where I’d be. I always wanted to see Tintagel, but I never thought I’d see it in these circumstances.” His voice was steady, his movements under careful control.

  “How did you find me?”

  He flashed a mirthless grin. “It’s not hard if you know how. I knew you were involved in the case and I made a few online queries.”

  She shuddered. “You used the Internet, didn’t you? It’s scary how much people can discover.”

  He shook his head slightly. “I asked your boss, Harry Bent. He told me you’d come over for your wedding, and once I knew the name of your fiancé, it was easy to find him. I know there is something odd about the case. I know there was one before this. One more and it’s a serial killer. But it’s an FBI case. The CIA can’t get a looksee.” It was like the Bureau to guard their cases.

  “You know I’d need permission before I told you anything.”

  “I’m asking as a favor” He stopped, and bit his lip, controlling all the emotions talking about the case brought up. The ensuing silence was oppressive. “She was an artist, living in New Orleans, but she came to New York for an exhibition of her work. We met, talked. Then she was murdered.” He paused, staring at the sky. He blinked rapidly twice. Then he looked at Sofie, masking the bleakness just too late to stop her seeing it. “I’d been seen leaving her apartment a couple of days before she died. I was interviewed, but I had a watertight alibi. I was at work all night, at the office for a change.”

  “Where do you work from?”

  “We have an office on Fifty-Seventh Street.”

  “Good God!”

  The smile crept over his face when he saw her shocked face. “That’s right. Cristos’ office. The one the Agency doesn’t like to admit it has.”

  Sofie stared at Evan, her expression easy to read because he’d seen it so often before on other people. Surprise and doubt. He didn’t look like a weirdo, a believer in the strange and wonderful. He’d been called worse.

  “Why hasn’t the Agency closed you down? They call you the XX Files over at the Bureau.”

  “Cristos runs a tight ship. The rumors keep the curious away and stop people asking too many questions.”

  “How did you get involved in all that?”

  He paused, studying her face to gauge her reaction. “Cristos worked with the telepathic unit in Russia, and then came over here. The Russians had one, so the USA had to match it. If anyone was going to develop telepathy into a usable weapon it would be the good old US of A. Cristos recruited me personally because I have some ability, and because he needed the computer input. It was his doing that got me out early. Sometimes I think I’d rather have done the time in jail.” In his mind he heard the clang of the prison gates. At the time the alternative to taking Cristos’ offer had been unthinkable. Now he wasn’t so sure. Some of the Department’s activities scared him, opening his mind to a world he’d only been dimly aware of before. He had psychic abilities, but only very specific ones, and if he was careful they didn’t impinge on his life. He preferred not to think about them, but working for Cristos had forced a reassessment.

  “Why have you come here? What do you want of me?” She reached up to push back a curl that had come loose. He wanted to touch that curl, wind it around his finger.

  He stared at her. “I don’t want my sister’s case all over the courts, all over our department. I don’t want to work on her case, but Cristos wants in.”

  The sympathy in her eyes nearly undid him. “Won’t he insist that you not work on a family member’s case?” It was usual procedure in the police and the FBI, not to allow an officer to work on something that was too close to them.

  “It’s because she was my sister he wants it. A twin. Cristos is very interested in twins.”

  “That’s just cruel!”

  His smile was mocking, as cruel as the attributes unhesitatingly bestowed on the boss of the Department. Officially it was known as Department Fifty-Seven, probably because of the situation of the office, but nicknames were legion. “Cristos doesn’t think that way. He knows I communicated mentally with Meghan. He turned away. “Oh don’t look like that. It didn’t concern me any more then than it does now. What concerns me is keeping Meghan’s case away from my department.”

  “But he has no reason to ask for it. The Bureau is only involved because of the unusual aspects of the case. Otherwise it would still be the NYPD. They say it has the hallmarks of a serial killer case, although that won’t be official until someone else loses their life.”

  He looked away from her, staring up the deserted, moonlit street. “I know. But there is something, he’s heard something. I thought if I contacted you, found out from you what it was, that would put me one step ahead.”

  “So you came all the way to Tintagel.”

  “The journey from London to Cornwall took almost as long as the journey from New York to London,” he said. “I didn’t realize the drive would be so long.”

  Sofie’s mind whirled with what she had learned. He researched into the paranormal? She remembered what he’d said a moment ago and turned to him impulsively.

  He had moved closer to her, whether by accident or design she didn’t know, but when she uncrossed her legs it shifted her a few more inches nearer.

  There was something. A power, a connection. She didn’t know what to call it. “You said you knew something,” she whispered.

  He was so close she felt his hot breath on her face when he replied, “I saw her die. I was with her in her mind when it happened.”

  “Oh God!”

  Even with this revelation she didn’t feel afraid, although she knew she should be. He stared at her, his gaze unreadable. She knew he was waiting for her response. She had to know more. “How did it happen?”

  He opened his mouth to reply.

  A burst of warmth and laughter flowed out from the pub when the door opened and someone lurched through. Someone big and blond, holding a girl to him as though she was the only thing holding him up.

  Archie was ruddy faced with drink, in a state Sofie had rarely seen before. Gwyneth, holding him as tightly as he held her seemed similarly inebriated, but she shot Sofie a sharp look, almost immediately blanked by a mirthful giggle. “Archie is as full as he can get,” she cried, her voice unsteady. “I thought we’d better get him back to bed before he can’t stand any more.”

  “I see.” When Archie held out his arm, she obediently went and stood within its compass. Then she looked at Evan, a dark shadow enlivened by a flash of white T-shirt. “Where are you staying?”

  “The White Horse.”

  “Oh, so are we!” She knew it wasn’t an accident. He had sought her out. The hotel held the rooms of the archaeologists and the room they hired for their finds, the computers and their records. She had vaguely thought it full, as it was a converted house, not a purpose built modern hotel, and the rooms were limited in number. “Will you come back with us?”

  Evan quietly agreed and fell into step beside them.

  “Did she tell you what you wanted?” Archie’s voice was slurred, but his question was sharply put. Sofie knew the answer meant more to Archie than he was letting on.

  “Some,” Evan said. “It’s not important. I was in the area, and I heard she was here, so I came to visit.” Sofie saw him grin, ivory teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “I always wanted to visit Tintagel, so it was more of an excuse.”

  Archie hugged Sofie to him, squeezing her ribs painfully. “Difficult to keep away from old Sofe, ain’t it?” There was something empty in the gesture, something missing. Earlier in the day Archie had demonstrated the affection for her that was always with him. It had gone, or the drink had taken it away. She knew it, she felt it, and she felt as empty as his hug had been. It would return as soon as he sobered up, she told herself.

  But did she care, did she really care? She was with Archie out of habit and affect
ion, nothing more. They had met at university, where they had both been on the postgraduate course, headed for similar careers. Their union had always been good-natured and pleasant rather than passionate and needy. Sometimes, when she saw a well acted play, or read a poignant love scene in the romance novels that were her not-so-secret vice, Sofie yearned for something else. Heaven knew enough people wanted Archie. She knew Gwyneth wanted him, but Gwyneth had never asked for more than she could have, had been content to be a friend rather than anything more intimate. Perhaps she should make the break tonight and give Gwyneth a fair shot at him.

  Although Archie had suggested it once. One night, in bed, after a particularly comfortable cuddle, he’d asked her. “Have you ever thought of a threesome?”

  Her initial reaction had been revulsion. It still was. She didn’t want to share. If that was selfish of her, so be it, but it wasn’t her, and it wasn’t what she wanted. Archie accepted it as good-naturedly as he had accepted anything else, but the fact that he had even considered such a thing made Sofie wonder if he knew her as well as he should. As well as a husband should.

  They staggered up the street, Evan following a step behind. Sofie couldn’t see him, but she felt him, felt his presence, his vigilance. If Archie fell she was sure Evan was capable of catching him. But Archie didn’t fall. He prattled of the day’s finds, of the paper he would write based on the dig, and the journal that wanted it.

  The inn was at the far end of the winding village street. The cobbles, while picturesque, didn’t help their progress, but they managed. Sofie and Gwyneth collected their keys and supported Archie on his way upstairs. Evan had tried and been rejected, Archie throwing him off with a sullen, “Leave me alone, you!” From the occasional misguided grab, touching the more intimate parts of her body, Sofie knew Archie must be doing it on the other side too, and she hoped he was making the most of it. It would be the last chance he’d get.

  Sofie dropped behind while Gwyneth helped Archie up the stairs. She didn’t need Evan’s lifted eyebrow to tell her that hands were going where they shouldn’t, and wouldn’t had both participants been sober. “Just harmless fun,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen him so drunk. He’s really let himself go tonight. Not like Archie,” she continued, almost talking to herself. “Not towards the end of a dig. Afterwards, maybe, but we’ve a few days to go before we have to stop. He’s usually too keen to study the finds at the end of every day, and make his notes.”