Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution

by Jeanne C. Stein

  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 noise 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.

  “Is there anything else?”

  I shake my head and he withdraws into the cockpit. I settle my head back on the seat.

  Since becoming vampire, Avery has been a constant intrusion in my life. Every time I think I’ve divested myself of his damned legacy, something else turns up. But the truth is, at this moment, I’m happy to have the plane. The sooner I get to Denver and track down this—I dig the paper out of my jacket and look for the name—this Sophie Deveraux—the sooner I can come back and help Culebra and Frey.

  A voice crackles over the intercom. “We’re up next, Ms. Strong. We’ll be in the air in about five minutes. Flight time to Denver is estimated two hours and thirty minutes. Sit back, buckle up and enjoy the ride.”

  The plane rolls into takeoff position. I watch through the window, dread churning my stomach.

  Enjoy the ride?

  Not with only twenty-four hours to save my friends.

  CHAPTER 39

  A SMALL JET LEAPS RATHER THAN LUMBERS INTO the sky. It’s a strange feeling. I watch the earth and sea fade away through a break in the clouds as the plane banks to the east. Then we’re swallowed up once more and banks to the east. Then we’re swallowed up once more an
d all I see is a blanket of white. In another few minutes we’re above the clouds and the sky is flawless and brilliant.

  The intercom buzzes to life. “We’re at cruising altitude, Ms. Strong. Feel free to move about the cabin. There is water and liquor in the bar. If you need anything else, press the button on your armrest and we’ll be back to assist you. We’ll let you know when we’re fifteen minutes out of Denver.”

  A click and I’m left to my own devices.

  May as well explore. I head for the bar. It’s fully stocked all right, with high-end liquor and several good imported beers. There’s also a wine rack. I pull out a bottle. The label bears the same coat of arms as the patch on “my” crew’s uniforms. It’s Avery’s coat of arms. Here, too, on the label of the bottles from the winery my family “inherited.”

  I push the bottle back onto the rack. I’m not ready to let that genie out of its elegant cabernet decanter.

  It’s interesting that the pilot mentioned water and liquor in the bar but nothing about food. And there isn’t any. Not even a bag of peanuts. I guess any pilot of Avery’s would know his boss wasn’t human. After all, his housekeeper at the mansion had been a host. Maybe the two at the control are, too. Makes me wonder if I buzz, how much assistance they’re willing to give.

  I open the door at the back of the cabin. There’s a bathroom, with shower, along with a small bedroom with queen-sized bed, built-in credenza and closet. There’s even a vanity, although instead of a mirror, an oil painting hangs in a recessed alcove. Like the bar, everything is made out of a fine-grained, honey-hued wood. Teak? It reminds me of something you’d find in a luxury yacht.

  Maybe I own one of those, too.

  I eye the bed, thinking perhaps I should stretch out on that silk damask spread and close my eyes.

  How many women did Avery have in that bed?

  Does Avery’s smell still cling to the bedclothes?

  The thought propels me back into the main cabin. I close the door behind me.

  I’ve just settled into my seat when Shelby reappears. He points to a telephone on the console. “Mr. Williams is calling.”

  He waits for me to pick up before returning to the cockpit.

  “Hello?”

  Williams doesn’t speak right away. Waiting for me to yell at him, I suppose.

  Like it would do any good.

  When I remain silent and don’t launch into a tirade, he jumps in. “Got some more information on the cream. Further analysis showed the blood in the cream is breaking down rapidly. It’s doubtful that the cream could remain potent long enough to achieve those remarkable results for more than a couple of weeks.”

  Perfect to assure repeat customers. And to necessitate a steady stream of vampire donors.

  Williams continues, “No official COD yet for Burke’s three test subjects. The wounds they sustained were critical but not necessarily fatal. It might take up to two weeks to get complete tox screens back.”

  “Any other attacks reported?”

  Another brief hesitation. I can imagine the relief he must be feeling that I’m sticking to business. I glance around the plane. There’ll be time later to pursue this flying palace.

  “No,” he says. “It may be that with the declining potency of the cream, the other effects wear off as well. If the two are related.”

  “What are the odds that they aren’t? What about that syringe?”

  “Nothing. Preliminary results ruled out most common narcotics. Identifying the compound is going to take time.”

  There’s a pause, then he adds, “There will be a car waiting for you at the airport in Denver. The person meeting you will be of assistance if you come up against Burke or any of her followers. Locate Burke as soon as you can and get back to me. I have a plane of my own standing by. I can be there in two hours. We will do this together. Remember—I intend to be in on the kill.”

  I mouth the right words, tell him I understand and will wait.

  It gets him off the phone.

  I replace the receiver and cross to the bar. I choose a thirty-year-old scotch, pour two fingers into a glass, add a couple of ice cubes. The liquor burns my throat and hardens my resolve.

  I take the little .38 I’d clipped to my belt this morning and lay it on the bar. Williams can remind me that he and I are in this together, that he has as compelling a reason to want Burke dead as I do, that Ortiz was his friend, not mine.

  And he’d be right.

  It doesn’t matter.

  The simple truth is if I get Burke in my sights, there’s no fucking way I’m going to wait.

  The drink both relaxes and settles me. Since Culebra’s black-magic illness, I’ve had little time to think through a course of action. Explains the blunders. This time I plan to be ready for any contingency.

  Best-case scenario? I arrive at the address and spy Burke through a window. One shot through the forehead should do it.

  Wonderful fantasy. Probably won’t happen. I have no reason to believe she’d go into hiding with, or running to, her sister. What would she be running from? Up to this point, I’ve proven to be nothing more than an inconvenience.

  What if Burke has donned a new persona? What if she and this Sophie are the same person? My fingers touch the charm nestled between my breasts. I’m glad my witch friends insisted I keep it. This little beauty will identify the bitch no matter how she’s cloaked herself.

  I let my head rest against the back of the seat and close my eyes. How did Burke come up with the idea of using vamp blood in a cosmetic? However it happened, that such a bizarre notion would appeal to her is not surprising. She’s sadistic and cruel. Where did she find Jason? What exactly was he? He was still attempting to turn others when I found him yesterday at his apartment. Had he been in contact with Burke? Had she set up another factory from hell somewhere? Or is it in his nature to turn others, a biological imperative of his species—whatever the hell it is.

  Questions I may never get answered. Questions I hope I don’t get answered. I don’t want to have a discussion with Burke. I want to kill her.

  I glance at my watch. The pilot said flying time would be two and a half hours. We’ve been in the air for forty-five minutes.

  The sky outside my window is cloudless. When I glance down, I see the beginnings of a mountain range, white-capped and rugged. The Rocky Mountains? They look cold.

  Give me the beach anytime.

  My thoughts turn inward once more—to Burke’s test subjects. What’s going to happen to them? Williams said the effectiveness of the stuff breaks down with the blood. According to the file on the test subjects, most of the women had been using the cream for two months. Will the women return to their former middle-aged dowdy selves when the effects wear off? Are there more sinister side effects? Could the three who developed a taste for blood be reacting to a withdrawal symptom? Maybe the craving is brought on by the cream losing its potency. Is that why they were killed? Will more bodies show up?

  Christ, Burke, what have you done?

  The intercom crackles on, alerting me that we are beginning our descent into Denver’s Centennial Airport. I’d been through Denver once before on a job with David. We’d landed at Denver International, not Centennial. Maybe this is closer to where I’m headed. I seem to remember DIA being forty minutes or so from the city.

  If it gets me to Burke quicker, I don’t care where we land.

  CHAPTER 40

  THE JET CRUISES TO A STOP IN FRONT OF A LARGE hangar with the logo XJet. There’s a limo parked to the side of the hangar, and a man stands beside it watching our approach. I assume this is Williams’ friend.

  When the engines have shut down, Shelby comes back to open the airstair door. “I see you have a car waiting.”

  I precede him down the short set of steps. We’re being buffeted by a cold wind blowing, I presume, off the white-capped mountains to the west.

  To the west. Even the mountains are in the wrong place here.

  At the bottom, an XJet
employee in jeans, a long-sleeved blue shirt and a Windbreaker welcomes me to Denver. He addresses me by name and with a deference I’m not used to. Avery must have paid well for that obsequiousness.

  Shelby hands me a card. “Tom and I have rooms at the Clarion right down the street. Here is my cell number. When you’re ready to leave, call. We’ll make sure the jet is ready whenever you are.”

  At the same time he’s telling me this, I hear the limo engine crank up.

  A private jet and a limo waiting at the airstrip—maybe I’ve been too hasty in refusing every perk of Avery’s inheritance.

  The limo pulls alongside the jet. The back door opens and the guy I saw watching a moment before steps out. He’s handsome, young and, as Williams mentioned, vampire. Which means although he looks twenty-five, he could be hundreds of years old. Lawson has joined Shelby at the foot of the stairs and the guy greets them in a way that makes it obvious he’s met them before. It also puts me on alert that if he was a friend of Avery’s he may not be a friend of mine.

  When the social niceties have been observed, he turns his attention to me. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Strong. I’m Joshua Turnbull.”

  With his slight southern accent, the name fits. He is making no attempt to probe my thoughts, allowing me to be frank in my appraisal. He is just under six feet, a little thicker through the middle than most vampires I’ve met. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He’s dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a denim jacket. He’s wearing well-worn boots with a stacked heel and a leather belt with a silver belt buckle. He looks like a cowboy. All that’s missing is a pair of six-shooters on his hip.

  Since I figure he’s sizing me up, too, I let a moment go by before motioning to the car. “Shall we go?”

  His smile is neither overly friendly nor solicitous. Still don’t know if he’s friend or foe. Doesn’t matter. I need him for only one thing.

  We get into the car. On the backseat there’s a tan Stetson. Turnbull picks it up and places it on the seat opposite us, sliding in beside me. The hat adds to the impression that he’s a cowboy, though I’ve never spent any time in Denver. Maybe everybody here wears cowboy hats.