The sight of Jason spontaneously combusting the moment he stepped into daylight has my heart pounding.
What was he? A vampire subspecies?
I pull the paper Williams gave me yesterday with Rose ’s address on it. He’d also jotted a phone number and I punch it into my cell phone. Rose picks up on the second ring. Her “hello” resonates with worry and ratchets my own anxiety up a notch.
“Rose, this is Anna. What’s wrong?”
Her voice is shaking. “I don’t know what’s happening. They’re dying, Anna. Three this morning. I thought they were all getting stronger.”
“Which three?” I’m thinking of Rebecca and how she clutched at my hand.
“Three of the weaker. We had a steady supply of hosts for them. They were feeding. But something happened. They grew weaker instead of stronger. Then, this morning, they started dying.”
A picture of Jason bursting into flame flashes through my head. “How, Rose? How did they die?”
Rose’s breath catches. “I don’t know. They were feeding. Then they just stopped. It was as if their hearts gave out. They were alive one minute and dead the next. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Different from Jason. Because they weren’t exposed directly to sunlight? I remember the room and the large windows.
“I’ll come over. But I have to talk to Williams first. Rose, don’t let them go outside. And keep the curtains pulled. Better yet, take them all to the back room.”
“Why?”
“They’re not like us. I don’t know why, but they can’t be exposed to daylight.”
“That makes no sense.” But her tone is halting.
“Trust me. None of this makes sense. Just please, keep it dark.”
She draws a quick, sharp breath. “God, Anna. The curtains are open now. The ones who died were in the living room—closest to the windows.”
She clicks off without saying good-bye.
I don’t have to guess why.
WILLIAMS IS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY QUIET WHEN I call him next to fill him in on the events of the morning. He has no explanation for what happened to Jason or how daylight could have affected the girls who died. I tell him about the syringe I found in Jason’s apartment.
Maybe whatever Jason used to sedate the girls after he changed them is the reason for their weaknesses. Williams agrees to meet me at the park. He’s with Brooke now but says he can be there within fifteen minutes. I ask him to have the witches try another locator spell, and he says that he will. With Ortiz’ death, he never got around to asking them yesterday. His voice is heavy with guilt.
I should care that he forgot. Should rail at him for forgetting Culebra. But he had other things on his mind.
Ortiz.
A rare moment of compassion stills my tongue and I hang up without rancor.
I’ve never felt so helpless. It’s been three days since Culebra fell under Burke’s curse. I’m afraid to call Frey for an update. He’s put his life on hold and his own health at risk. If I don’t come up with something fast, I may lose two friends.
Williams is at the elevator when I step out. The bank of telephone operators that occupies the center of the supernatural command center is bustling with activity. The telephones are manned by an army of psychics, real psychics, extraordinary men and women possessing heightened sensitivity to things outside the sphere of scientific knowledge. Their clients include the power brokers of the world.
Today, however, I detect a different timbre to the buzz of conversation. What’s going on?
He steers me away from center. I have our people working to locate Burke. If the witches can’t find her, maybe someone else can.
He’s set the psychics on Burke? His guilt that another night may have brought Culebra that much closer to death is showing. No matter.
I’ll take all the help I can get.
He pushes open a door to a side room. The same three witches I met two days ago are assembled around the same pentagram. A map is laid out and one of the women, Min Liu, dangles that diamond on the end of the silken string. As I watch, the diamond jumps and skitters across the map but it fails to light on any particular location. Frustration is painted on Min ’s face. The other two watch, each holding a candle and chanting in low voices.
Susan Powers looks up when we enter. She touches the young Hispanic woman’s arm. Ariela Acosta motions us in.
“It’s not working, is it?” I ask.
Min lets the charm drop. “I’m sorry. The witch is protecting herself.”
“She’s put up a powerful blocking spell,” Susan says. “There is nothing we can do.”
I sink into a chair and cover my face with my hands.
Culebra is fighting for his life.
Ortiz is dead.
It’s my fault.
I should never have confronted the witch at the restaurant. It only alerted her to the fact that I was on to her. Now she’s gone into hiding and I’ve exhausted any lead I might have had to find her.
There’s a knock on the door. Williams answers it and a man hands him a slip of paper. He opens it, looks over at me and shakes his head.
Even his army of psychics has drawn a blank.
Weariness washes over me. I feel the anxiety and unhappiness of the three women standing nearby. Their empathy only heightens my own sense of futility.
I can’t think of anything else to say. I pull the charm from inside my blouse. “You may as well have this back.”
Min stays my hand with a touch of her own. “No. Keep it.” Her eyes flash with determination. “Don’t give up, Anna. We don’t intend to.”
Williams is watching, too, strangely silent.
These women don’t know me, but he does. He understands how foreign this is to me.
For the first time in a long time I don’t know what to do. No idea. No plan. No way to save Culebra.
Williams leaves me alone in the room while he escorts the witches out. Jason is gone. The file is gone. Burke is gone.
I wish once again that I had done things differently —made a copy of the test subjects’ information instead of stealing the original file.
That act set in motion all that followed, including Ortiz’ death.
I have one last hope. Maybe Gloria has a contact number for Simone Tremaine.
But that hope is dashed when the operator at the Four Seasons tells me that Gloria has checked out—on her way to Europe for Fashion Week.
Gloria wasted no time coming up with alternative photo opportunities now that the launch party for Eternal Youth has been canceled.
Either that or she wants to distance herself, literally, from the fallout of an arson investigation.
Shit. Arson will be the least of Gloria’s concerns if the cream is linked to the murder of those test subjects.
Williams comes back. His black mood matches my own, partly because of the helplessness we feel and partly because of the guilt. It puts us both on guard.
“How is Brooke doing?” I ask finally.
“Barely making it. I wish I could do more. Ortiz will be buried with full honors on Friday.”
Buried is a euphemism. We both know there is nothing left of Ortiz to bury. I feel cold, suddenly, remembering.
“It’s a good gesture. Ortiz deserves it.”
My mind drifts back to Jason. I remember the syringe. I pull it out of a jacket pocket. “I don’t know what this is. I think Jason was about to use it on the girl he had in his apartment. The girls at Rose ’s all said they’d been sedated. Maybe this stuff is the reason they’re different.”
Williams takes it from my outstretched hand. “I’ll send it to the lab.” He steps aside when I stand and start for the door. “What are you going to do now?”
The only thing left for me to do.
“I’m going to see Culebra. And Frey.”
“What will you tell them?”
I close my eyes and turn away. I don’t know what I’ll tell them. I’m afraid it might be good-bye
.
CHAPTER 37
THE LINE AT THE BORDER CROSSING IS LONG. I’M stalled behind twenty cars waiting to be waved through.
I don’t mind. I’m in no hurry.
I drum my fingertips against the steering wheel, replaying everything that’s happened since Sandra’s call Sunday night.
Every mistake. Every blunder. Every miscalculation.
Following Burke to that restaurant. Revealing myself to her.
Stupid mistake number one.
Breaking into the warehouse the first time. I could have copied every fucking file in the place. Why didn ’t I? Instead, I memorized useless information. Burke knew that I’d be looking for her. How could I have thought she’d hang around that house in Coronado waiting for me? Learning the names of her employees and those test subjects would have been far more valuable.
Stupid mistake number two.
A driver behind me honks. I restrain the urge to flip him off and roll a foot or so forward.
My head aches.
One hundred test subjects. Three dead. In all the confusion, I ’d forgotten to ask Williams if he’d seen the coroner’s reports. Maybe when I get back, I’ll call him.
Maybe.
If Culebra dies, I won’t really care what killed them.
The before-and-after shots of the three dead women flash through my brain like a slide show. The transformation was incredible.
Vampire blood had that effect? I wonder if they’d have been as happy with the results if they’d known the price those young girls paid for their vanity. Twelve vampires dead. Would they have cared?
I mentally sift through everything I found in Burke’s file—insurance forms, utility bills—there was something else, wasn’t there?
I slam into reverse, forcing the guy behind me to back up. He’s yelling and waving a fist at me, but I keep at him, pushing him back until I have room to make the U-turn.
When I pull out of line, I give him my sweetest smile and wave farewell.
I remember what else was in Burke’s file. There was a telephone number. No name. No address. Just a number.
I’m driving with one hand on the wheel, the other rummaging through my purse.
Where is that damned cell phone?
My fingers finally close around it. I let the number float to the surface of my consciousness and punch it in. It rings once, twice, ten times.
No answer. No machine.
Shit.
The next call I make is to Williams. I catch him on his way back to Brooke’s.
“I just remembered something that was in Burke’s personal file. Can you do a reverse search on a telephone number?” I ask. “Get me a name and an address?”
He doesn’t question the request, just says, “What is it?”
I recite the number. “Will you call me as soon as you have the information?”
“Hang on.” The line goes silent as he puts me on hold for nearly a minute. I’m starting to get angry when he clicks back on.
“It’s a Denver number. Meet me at the airport.”
“The airport? Why? Is it listed to Burke?”
“Just meet me there.” Williams rings off.
A Denver number?
If it’s a Denver number, maybe I’m wrong about its significance. Maybe it doesn’t belong to Burke.
Maybe I’m wrong again.
I get back on the freeway and head west. Why would Williams want to meet me at the airport? He must have a reason. What isn ’t he telling me?
I call Frey’s cell next.
The sound of his voice sends a tremor through me.
“My God, you sound terrible.”
He manages a laugh. “You should see the way I look. Anna, where are you?”
I tell him, putting as much hopefulness as I can into a new development that may prove worthless.
He listens. Then he says, “Better make it fast. I’ve got maybe twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four hours? Until what?”
Frey coughs once. Clears his throat. “Until I end up like Culebra. Or worse.”
CHAPTER 38
THE SAN DIEGO AIRPORT IS SMALL BY COMPARISON to other international airports. It does, however, have three terminals. I realize when I pull into the first that I three terminals. I realize when I pull into the first that I didn’t ask Williams where he would be.
When he picks up the call, I hear the whine of jet engines in stereo.
“Which terminal?”
“Where are you now?” he counters.
“In front of the commuter terminal.”
“You’ll have to get back to Pacific Coast Highway. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear in our last conversation. I’ll meet you at Jimsair. The private terminal. Do you know where it is?”
I tell him that I do and ring off.
The private terminal? What is he doing there?
I park the Jag in the lot off Pacific Coast Highway and head for the terminal in back. Williams is waiting for me in the lounge. Unlike commercial terminals, there are no ticket counters or security checkpoints here. Just some comfortable chairs spaced around low tables.
There is one person behind an information counter. He looks up and smiles when I come in, but turns away when Williams steps up to meet me. Through big plate-glass windows, I see a dozen private planes of various sizes and descriptions parked on the tarmac.
“What are we doing here?”
Williams leads me over to the corner, glancing back to the guy behind the desk. He has a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Before I give you this, I want you to agree to something. If Belinda Burke is at this address, you are to call me immediately. Don ’t go after her yourself.”
He’s whispering. Afraid of being overheard? The logical question then is, Why are you speaking to me out loud?
“Not important. Just promise me.”
I can’t get anything out of him psychically, either. “Okay. I promise. Where is she?”
He holds out the paper. “The number was traced to this address. It’s listed to a Sophie Deveraux in Denver.”
“Deveraux?” My insides churn with the sick feeling I ’m chasing another dead end. “Not Burke? What makes you think there’s any connection?”
“There might not be,” he admits. “But I checked with one of the witches at headquarters. She says Burke has a sister. One who was active in the community until she dropped out of sight a few months ago. Her first name was Sophie. I ’ve been calling the number for the last hour and there’s still no answer. I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase.”
For the first time in three days, though, I feel a flutter of optimism. If this Sophie isn ’t Burke’s sister, why would her number be in her personal file? It’s a place to start. Shit. It’s the only new lead I’ve got.
Impatiently, I wave a hand. “What are we doing here? I should be on the other side, arranging a flight.”
Williams raises a hand of his own. “That’s being taken care of.”
He looks toward the tarmac outside where a ground crew is bustling around one of the jets. His expression is conflicted. He’s trying to hide it, but the truth is there in the frown, the set of his jaw, the feelings he thinks he ’s suppressed. He wants to come with me. Brooke is the reason he’s not.
“How is Brooke?”
He shrugs. “She’s coping. She’s very young. I think things will be better after the funeral.”
His voice drops off. He’s not looking at me but watching what’s going on outside.
I follow his gaze. The crew seems to have finished their preflight preparation. One of them signals to Williams. He nods and gestures me toward the door. “Go. I’ll have someone waiting for you when you land. He’s one of us and he’s lived in Denver for a hundred years. He’ll get you where you need to go.”
I glance out of the window. “In that? How did you arrange it?”
His answer is to walk me out onto the tarmac, toward a jet whose engines have roared into life. He acts like the no
ise is preventing him from answering, like we have only one mode of communication.
He’s avoiding the question.
The plane we approach is a Learjet. Not so small now that I’m standing beside it. The cabin door opens and a man at the top of a short flight of stairs beckons me on board.
Williams makes a “go along” gesture and mouths, “Safe trip.”
But just as I start to walk away, he lays a hand on my arm. Not a tight grip, just a restraining one. Remember, I want Burke. Don’t cross me on this, Anna. I have a score to settle now, too.
His eyes are hard, threatening.
That’s the Williams I’m used to. I shrug out of his grasp and climb up the stairs. When I turn around at the door, Williams is already gone.
The guy who greeted me introduces himself as the pilot. He ’s about fifty, tall, well built, gray -haired. He’s wearing a typical pilot’s uniform—but his coat and cap each carry an emblem I don’t recognize. Maybe a coat of arms. His name badge reads “Tom Lawson.” He has an air of quiet competence and he’s human. He instructs me in a few safety measures and disappears into the cockpit. The whine of engines gets louder. I settle into my seat, buckle in and look around.
I’ve never been in a private jet. Six big, oversized seats in beige leather occupy the main cabin with a bar stretching along the back.
Thick carpeting underfoot. Luxurious. To the right of the bar is a closed door. Bathroom maybe?
The jet crouches on the runway, waiting for our turn to take off. After a few minutes, another guy appears in the doorway, wearing the same uniform. He looks to be midthirties, shorter than Tom, with dark hair and eyes. He holds out a hand.
“Sorry for the delay, Ms. Strong. I’m Jeff Shelby, the co-pilot. The captain sent me back to let you know we should be on our way in ten minutes.”
We shake hands and he turns to go.
“Wait a minute. I’m curious, does this plane belong to Mr. Williams?”
He turns back, a puzzled frown on his face. “I don’t understand. This used to be Dr. Avery’s plane. Mr. Williams said it belongs to you now.”
A snicker. “Of course it does.”
But Shelby is not smiling.
The jet belongs to me? Why am I surprised? Just another of Avery’s toys. No wonder Williams disappeared so quickly. He wanted to be out of meltdown range when I found out.
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