Mine, page 9
“Come on, Eastwind,” he spoke up. “The man’s probably dead, but that can’t be how this ends, if you know what I mean. Help us do what’s right.”
Eastwind’s slippers stopped tapping. “Something tells me you’re not talking about jail time, and I’m going to give you a little tip. If you’re considering homicide, I’m not the one you need to come to. Remember, I am an officer of the law.”
“That’s not all you are,” Lydia intoned. “Not by a long shot.”
ELEVEN
GUS WAS NOT feeling so hot.
As he resurfaced to some muddy version of consciousness, he was surprised he was still alive. For one thing, his wheezing woke him up. For another, there was a dripping sound that he had a feeling was his own blood. And God, his stomach hurt. Actually, he didn’t need his medical degree to know that everything hurt—
“You’re awake again.”
The sound of that oddly accented voice activated his adrenal system like nothing ever had. As his body began to shake uncontrollably, his heart pounded and knocked out his hearing—
But wait, he could see now.
His vision was blurry, and he couldn’t lift his slumped head to look around much—but the mask was off his face so he got an eyeful of the pool of blood that was congealing on the concrete floor beneath a wooden chair leg. Lot of blood. Pints of it.
Shit.
Shifting his eyes off to the side, he could see nothing beyond the bright beam of interrogation light that was shining down on him. Everything was darkness, and he gave up trying to penetrate the illumination shield. As his lids fluttered, bits and pieces of what had been done to him over the course of hours came back to him, and he started to choke, his throat spasming, his lungs pulling down bodily fluids instead of air—
“Now, now, let us not get agitated.”
Gus moaned as his head was gently repositioned on the pillow that was now damp. With his airway straightened out, his respiration got a little easier, but a rolling dizziness made the darkness around him spin.
“I…”
“You are what, Dr. St. Claire?”
His eyes tracked the inquiry to the right and he blinked in an attempt to get his pupils to function better. The man who had worked on him was just a dim shape on the edge of the light, looming as a promise of more pain.
“Done…” Gus coughed weakly. “I am done.”
“I would imagine you feel that way. And I must tell you that I, too, am almost finished with you. Indeed, you will find that I am a male who must complete things.”
There was a soft crackling, like a fire made with damp wood, and even though Gus’s consciousness didn’t immediately identify what it was, his body knew. His body spoke.
“No… God, no…”
“There are ways to make this easier on you, my friend.”
Gus forced his protest out through teeth that chattered. “No… just kill me…”
“It is better that you die naturally. As a physician, surely you understand the ethics of it all. And I think you’re close. I have not had the formal training you have, but experience tells me much.”
A flickering of blue entered his sightline, the charge of electricity dancing in between two contacts on a handheld device, the energy eager to be set free along different channels.
Like the water molecules inside a human being.
Tears burned in Gus’s eyes and stung the open wounds on his face as he started to weep. He was so exhausted that the agony in his body wasn’t something he felt, it was all that he was. No more skin, muscle, and bones, no blood, no marrow. Just the terrible pain.
“Now tell me about that house. How do you get in.”
It was the same question. For hours. Six words. Followed by five words. And he had answered, God save them all, he had—
“I… told… you everything.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Why… are you still doing this—”
“I like to be sure.”
No, the man liked to inflict pain. It was as if he snorted suffering as a drug. Even now, Gus could feel something transpiring between them, a draw. A sucking—
“The card… is in my… wallet—”
Every time he answered, with each instance of capitulation, he lost another part of who he was: Even though his reply was the same, the concession was an endless pit, the shame a new slice on flesh that had yet to be breached.
“Yes, the card. Tell me more.”
The Taser, or whatever the hell it was, was applied to the thick meat of his upper thigh, and Gus screamed as the biggest muscles in his body contracted, the locking-up so vicious he knew for sure his leg was going to snap in half—
“There, there, Dr. St. Claire.”
As that voice registered once again, he realized that the weapon had been removed from his quadriceps. The pain remained.
“Tell. Me. More.”
Gus prayed his flickering heart would finally stop. If his captor could just shock him on the neck, on the vagus nerve, maybe it would finally—
“Why,” he mumbled. “Why are you doing this…”
“You are a fine meal,” came the remote response. “A strong will broken is the best sustenance for what I am, so let us enjoy our time together some more. Tell me how to get into that—”
A brisk knocking dimmed the crackling sound of the Taser, and his captor pivoted around.
“Enter.”
The creaking was of the metal-on-metal variety, as if a vault door were being pushed wide. And then another voice, also male, spoke urgently, a conversation back-and-forthing. The language was not one Gus recognized. Then again, he didn’t have the energy to care about linguistics.
Shuffling now, as if objects were being gathered up quickly. Then rattling, like they were being dumped into a bag.
“I must go, Dr. St. Claire. I shall trust nature to finish this job—not a preferable conclusion as I never leave things hanging, but for reasons of my own, I must depart with alacrity. Worry not, the party who is imminently arriving is not interested in you. It is I whom he seeks, but now is not the time or place for that.” There was a pause. “This has been… exquisite for me. You are a rare find, and I wish we had met under different circumstances. And now, I will leave you with this.”
His captor leaned into the light, but Gus’s vision was blurry so all he got was the impression of dark hair that was precisely styled in a side part and pale skin. The eyes were just a pair of pupils, pits of black. The smell, though, was unforgettable.
Dark… spices. Like expensive cologne, although no brand that was immediately identifiable.
“You have been a revelation. Thank you.”
A chaste kiss was pressed to Gus’s forehead, as if they had had dirty sex that had been satisfying on a spiritual level.
As his captor straightened, Gus felt two cool points on the side of his throat, right over his jugular vein.
The Taser, he thought. Finally—
“Goodbye, Dr. St. Claire.”
The electrical volts rocked through Gus’s body, throwing him into a seizure that stiffened his limbs and threw his head back and locked his molars.
No more vision.
No more hearing.
No more copper smell.
Nothing. And unlike the other times, not even… any last thoughts.
* * *
“Come back in forty-eight hours.”
As Lydia stood over a laconic, recumbent, navy-robed Sheriff Eastwind, she shook her head. Which was better than cursing or throwing something in frustration. “Why.”
“Because I said so.”
To keep herself from losing it, she glanced around, noting the First Nations’ woven textiles on the walls, the pottery lamp that was glowing next to Eastwind’s recliner, the fireplace that was set with hardwood logs and fresh newspaper. Through an archway, the dim contours of a kitchen were visible, and there was no table or set of chairs in there. No clutter on the countertops or on the top of the old-fashioned stove, either.
“And what’s going to be different,” she demanded.
“It’s going to be forty-eight hours from now.” The man cocked an eyebrow. “That’s two days, FYI.”
“I can count.”
“Clever girl.”
Lydia glanced over at Daniel, who just shrugged. “And then what,” she snapped. “What happens.”
“That’s my offer.” Eastwind reached down the side of his chair, pulled on the lever, and was propelled into a sitting position. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed—”
“No.” She stamped her foot on the rug. “This is not good enough—”
“Plattsburgh is not my jurisdiction.” Eastwind paused in the process of getting up, his broad palms planted on the padded sides of the chair, his arms bowed out at the elbows. “I have no power there in the big city. And before you point out that Gus St. Claire works here in Walters, the crime happened at his home, not Ms. Phalen’s lab. Now I’m going to say goodnight. Goodnight.”
Finishing the job with the vertical stuff, he nodded at Daniel. “Hope you still do okay.”
Then he nodded at Lydia, and went to the stairs like he didn’t care if they camped out underneath him, or left without closing things behind themselves. As the sound of his footfalls ascended and then crossed above, all she could do was look to the farmhouse’s ceiling and track the progress in disbelief.
“Are you kidding me,” she muttered as bedsprings squeaked under a heavy weight. “And he didn’t even show us to the door.”
From above, a muffled voice: “If you can’t find it, you need more help than you asked for.”
Daniel eased his way up to his feet, catching himself on the arm of the couch as he wobbled. “Let’s go.”
Lydia looked around one more time. “I hate this.”
The state of being out of control felt like it had consumed her life, and she missed the sense that she could make decisions, take action, effect change. Lately, everything had been about adapting to situations she despised and was trapped in, iron bars everywhere.
Daniel touched her shoulder. “There’s nothing for us here.”
Even though she wanted to argue with that, she let herself be led over to the door—and as she stepped out into the night, she had the urge to slam the thing. Like a dozen times.
Instead, she drifted over to the SUV on a cloud of distraction, the cold, damp air tingling in her sinuses, her body shivering, even though she wouldn’t have said she had a chill. As she hauled herself into the vehicle, she glanced back at the house—and a strange premonition crept up her spine.
She was going to see this place again, she thought.
Then again, of course she would. She was damn well coming back in two frickin’ days.
The intention resonated all the way through her as she drew the seatbelt across her heart and clicked it into place. Starting the engine, she put her hands on the wheel, fully intending to get herself and Daniel into reverse and take them back up to the county road.
Except she just sat there, staring out over the dashboard at Eastwind’s garage.
On the other side of the Suburban, Daniel opened the passenger door and got in with the help of his cane. “You okay?”
“No, I’m not. But I just need to take us home.” She glanced back at the farmhouse. “I mean, to Phalen’s.”
She and Daniel didn’t have a home.
“I want to go to the FBI,” she heard herself say as she K-turned and then hit the gas. “The CIA. Every newspaper and TV channel. I want… all kinds of things.”
“This timing just sucks.”
She glanced over. “Is it ever good to get kidnapped?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She intended to ask him to clarify, but her mind got tangled in frustration and she let it go. Meanwhile, the trip back to the Phalen property took a hundred years, but also seemed to happen in the blink of an eye, and after she piloted them under the porte cochere, Daniel was the one who turned off the engine. He also had to come around and open her door.
“It’s bad timing because we need to go talk to Phalen,” he said.
She blinked stupidly. Then made the connection. “Oh, God. No, not after what happened to her—”
“What choice do we have? We’re running out of time. Maybe she knows about this Kurtis Joel guy.”
Lydia wanted to argue. But in the same way no-control had become her standard operating procedure, balancing two bad options was her perennial crossroads.
So she just followed him into the foyer and up the stairs to the second floor. As they reached the open area at the top, she glanced to the right. When Daniel had been injured and first diagnosed, they had been given a bedroom here on the upper level. Chemo had knocked him hard, however, and to keep him from having to deal with the steps, they’d moved into the suite they were in now.
A lifetime ago, she thought as they went over to a set of double doors that were closed. Just as Daniel curled up a fist and went to knock, the entryway opened on its own.
Across a white carpet the size of most people’s front lawns, C.P. pushed herself up higher on a king-sized bed that was draped with a monogrammed duvet. The parallels to a luxury hotel ended there. At the headboard, padded panels had dropped away to expose hospital-grade monitoring equipment, and surrounded by all the hi-tech machinery, the woman seemed tiny. And very fragile.
Her voice was steady as ever, though: “You want to tell me where you went?” she said briskly. “And Lydia, please don’t look at me like that. I appreciate the sympathy, but I can’t deal with it right now, I really can’t.”
Lydia cleared her throat and brushed a stray hair out of her eye. “Of course. I’m sorry—I mean…”
Daniel stepped forward—and had to take Lydia’s hand before she was willing to follow him. As they approached their hostess, those doors eased closed with a whisper that only Lydia’s wolven ears picked up on.
At least she assumed neither of the humans with her could hear the quiet sound.
When they reached the foot of the bed, she tried not to stare—and failed. C.P. was pale as her floor and walls, but her hair was freshly washed, and for once, she wasn’t wearing Gus’s fleece. A silk dressing robe was wrapped up tight to the base of her throat, and her hand played with the lace lapels, the nervous twining more desperate trembling than any conscious movement.
That fleece was next to her on the bed, though. Folded precisely on the monogrammed pillowcase.
“We need to ask you about something,” Daniel said. “Privately.”
C.P.’s busy hand stilled. Then she called out, “Georgina, give us a minute. Would you.”
From around a corner, a red-haired nurse Lydia recognized leaned in and gave a wave. “I’ll just be in the back. Hit the button if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
The nurse ducked away, and then a door closed sharply, like she wanted to announce her departure to all involved. After that, C.P. stared up with a professional composure, as if they were in her office or her boardroom—
“I’m so sorry,” Lydia blurted. “About the baby.”
As C.P. flinched, Lydia realized what she’d said and slapped a hand over her mouth. But before she could apologize again, and likely mess things up further, the other woman shook her head.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Miracles come… and miracles go. Don’t they.”
Abruptly, Lydia glanced over at Daniel. As he switched his cane to his other hand, he looked utterly spent.
“Yes,” she heard herself reply. “They do.”
TWELVE
Club Basque
Market Street and 27th Avenue, Caldwell, New York
AS MUSIC BUMPED, loud as bombs being dropped in sequence, and a herd of humans milled around the alcohol trough of the bar, Xhex spotted tonight’s problem through the shifting bodies. It wasn’t that the man was pushing at people or grinding on them without permission. He wasn’t drunk or twitchy from coke or meth. And in his black sweatshirt and black jeans, he might have been a little casual and covered up, but he wasn’t dressed in a particularly standout fashion.
It was the way the guy stood alone on the periphery of the other patrons, a statue by the hall to the bathrooms.
As the head of security for the club, with years of being in charge of all kinds of venues under her belt, Xhex had a radar for trouble—and that was before you threw in her symphath shit.
The fact that he didn’t move from his position was what had first gotten her attention and made her assess him. He wasn’t that tall, he wasn’t that broad, and with his brush-cut hair and stubble, he was very forgettable—in a calculated way. Like he wanted to project an image of being just another twenty-ish man in a part of the city where there were thousands of them.
Even so, she might have dismissed him—if it hadn’t been for the way he was looking around with such a pointed lack of emotion. If somebody was searching for someone specific, like if they’d lost the buddy or the date they’d come with, they got frustrated after a while. If a person was after sex, they were greedy as they focused on the objects of their desire. If they were giving up because they’d been ghosted or nobody wanted them, they were depressed.
Not this guy. He was like radar, sweeping back and forth with only his eyes moving, as if he didn’t want anyone to know who he was focusing on. Law enforcement undercover? No. They checked in with her as a courtesy—and anyway, his attention was too diffused, even in its intensity. He was searching for a type, not an individual. A vibe. Something that was inside of him sparked by someone outside of him.
He would know it when he saw it.
The way any predator can pick out the weakling in any group.
And when he found what he wanted to take, then he would move. He would start to track—
A couple who were arm-in-arm passed by her, cutting off her field of vision. As soon as they were clear, she looked back to see if the man was still—
“Of course you’re right there,” she muttered under her breath.
