“No,” she said, more firmly this time. “I’m fine. Honestly.”
Neither of the two officers looked happy, but they packed up their bags and walked back to the ambulance.
Gabriel called a cab, then held out his hand, and Sam hesitated only briefly before accepting his assistance. She was still wobbly on her feet, no matter how fit she claimed to be.
The cab came within minutes. He helped her inside, climbed in beside her and punched her address into the onboard computer. Despite his earlier thoughts to the contrary, she asked no further questions. Maybe she’d finally given up.
It took half an hour to reach her apartment. Several SIU gray Fords were parked out front, but the police vehicles had gone. No lights shone in any of the windows above or below her apartment—perhaps the neighbors were getting used to being woken by bomb blasts in the middle of the night.
They made their way up the stairs. Sam showed little emotion as she stepped through the shattered doorway to her apartment.
He watched her limp to the bedroom, and then he moved across the living room to the window. Yet again she’d escaped a bomb blast by diving out into the night. He stopped and stared at the pavement below. At the very least, she should have broken a limb in a fall like that. But her bruising had come from the car, not the fall.
It would be interesting to see what O’Hearn came up with.
He turned from the window as two SIU men, bags in hand, filed out of the bedroom.
“Anything to be found, Burton?”
The big man shook his head. “The bomb was incendiary, as you can see by the flame damage. It was meant to kill rather than cause structural damage.”
“Send me a full report as soon as you can.”
The big man nodded. Gabriel tapped his wristcom and ordered a pickup on Dr. Jane Francis. Then he walked into the bedroom. Sam stood in the middle of the room, staring at the mess of soggy boxes almost blindly.
“Sometimes I wish I could step back in time,” she said, her voice a little distant and etched with pain. “Just go back to a time when my partner was my best friend, and I was just a plain old orphan, not some kind of freak.”
Her pain ran through him, a living thing he could almost taste and touch. He ached to reach out, to hold her. Remember Andrea, he told himself sternly. Don’t get involved too deeply.
“We all wish for things that cannot be,” he said, his voice sharp. “Sometimes we just have to accept fate and get on with it.”
She snorted softly. “Like you’re getting on with it, Assistant Director?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
She didn’t answer, simply shook her head and picked her way toward the window. “What do you want me to do about Dr. Francis?”
“I’ve ordered her to be picked up. She’ll be charged with attempted murder. You’ll have to write up the report as soon as you can.” He hesitated. “Was she responsible for bombing your apartment?”
Sam nodded. “Do you want a written report on my meeting with the general as well?”
“Yes, but you can give me the basics now, if you like.” One thing was for certain—he wasn’t sending her to watch over Jeanette Harris. She’d been through enough for one night.
She crossed her arms. To anyone else she might have looked calm. Casual, even. But her anger washed through his soul and burned him with guilt.
“Nine of the seventeen children placed into Greenwood’s care have Emma listed as their birth mother. She, and more than likely her sister, was a hybrid shifter-changer. One who can take on multiple forms of either.”
“I’d already guessed we were dealing with a hybrid.” Although he certainly hadn’t guessed that the hybrid might be capable of multiple animal as well as human identities. That was unheard of. Or so he’d thought.
“Did you also know that the purpose of Generation 18 was to design psychically endowed hybrids for the military to use as weapons?”
So Hopeworth was mucking about in the genetic sandbox. Maybe the kites were one of their creations. “Anything else?”
She was silent for several heartbeats, staring out the window. “I think there’ll be trouble with the general in the future.”
Her voice was almost subdued. He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Why did the general agree to meet with us?”
“You requested information.”
“Information you found out without the general’s help. He told me nothing, really. But he thought I was one of the rejects trying to get information on where I came from.”
His confusion deepened. “Why would he think that? You’re too old, for a start.”
“He said it was my hair color. Apparently, it’s something of a signature in their projects.”
If she’d come from one of their projects, it would certainly explain the birth certificate with eight names on it. But the general seemed to know the exact location of all his rejects. Why wouldn’t he know if she was one of them?
“If you’re one their rejects, you have nothing to worry about.” Hopeworth had showed no interest in the Generation 18 rejects.
“But what if I’m not a reject? What if I’m something else entirely?”
“From what I can see, you’re either a reject or in Hopeworth. What else is there?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was so soft he barely caught it. “But I’ve a feeling I’m going to find out.”
She rubbed her arms and he clenched his fists, fighting the urge to walk across the room and comfort her.
“I’ve got to go,” he said abruptly. “I want you to do a search through our records. See if there have been any official requests for information on our Generation 18 rejects.”
“That’s something you could order your computer to do in a minute flat, Assistant Director.”
Which was true enough. But he had to find some way to keep her out of the line of fire, however temporary. “A computer can’t follow up and have an informal discussion with the requester’s captain or director.”
She looked around at him, one pale eyebrow raised. “You think the killer might be a cop or agent?”
“There’s a good chance. The only way she could have found these seventeen people so quickly is through official channels. No alarms were raised, so the records weren’t hacked into.”
“And if I find anything?”
“Contact me or Stephan. Under no circumstances are you to go after her yourself.”
“Edging me out again, huh?” She shook her head slightly. “I never took you for a coward, Gabriel. I guess I was wrong.”
His anger rose, swift and hard, and her eyes widened. Maybe she wasn’t as unaware of the link as he’d thought.
“Better me being a coward than you being dead.” He hesitated and ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, just do what you’re told. I can’t deal with this now.”
“And you won’t deal with it later,” she murmured.
He smiled grimly. She knew him too well. “My wristcom is on. Contact me if you find anything.”
“I’ve already said I would.”
He stared at her for several seconds longer, taking in her slender form, the almost defiant way she stood. Like hell she’d contact him when she found anything.
But short of tying her to a chair to keep her safe, there was nothing he could do. “Make sure you lock the door when I leave,” he said, then turned and walked from the room.
—
Sam scrubbed a hand across her eyes and wondered where the hell her brains were. Antagonizing Gabriel would only make him more determined to get rid of her. If that was even possible.
He appeared on the street below and climbed quickly into an SIU car. She wondered where he was going, as it was pretty obvious he had no intention of going back to SIU. For half a second she thought about following him, but she knew that would only get her into deeper shit. And she was in enough of that now.
She sighed softly and turned away from the window. Though her bones a
ched with exhaustion, she knew sleep would elude her. Not that she could sleep here anyway. What the fire hadn’t destroyed, the water had. The insurance company was going to love her for making another claim so soon.
She walked through to the living room and locked the front door. The bomb’s damage had been confined mainly to the bedroom. Parts of the living room had been scorched, but it was more water damage out here. The books she’d salvaged after the first bombing had borne the brunt of the second. It was doubtful she’d be able to save anything this time.
She walked into the bathroom. After taking a quick shower, she filled a large overnight bag full of clothes, collected her toiletries and the few jewelry items she had, then left.
And she had no intention of coming back, unless it was to clear out the rubbish and hand over the keys to the new owner.
Half an hour later she walked into her office.
“Computer on,” she said, dropping her bags on the floor beside her desk.
Izzy’s image flicked to life. “Morning, sweetness.”
“Iz, I want you to run a check on the seventeen Greenwood adoptees. See if anyone besides myself and AD Stern has requested information on them.”
“It might take a little while.”
“Time is something I have plenty of.” Sam leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. The first thing she’d better do was find a new place to stay. Somewhere secluded, perhaps. At least if she was bombed again, there’d be no neighbors to disturb.
“Could you also dig up an accommodation guide for the Melbourne metro area?”
“Onscreen, sweetie.”
She spent an hour scanning through the list and arranging appointments, and then she grabbed a coffee and several painkillers in an attempt to ward off the growing aches in her stomach and head. No one had ever told her having periods was so damn painful. But then, her education in that regard had come from computerized health books, not from a mom who could impart the real facts.
Izzy reappeared on the com-screen. “Search results in. There’s only been one other request for information, I’m afraid.”
One was all they needed. “Who?”
The purple boa twirled for several moments. “One Michael Sanders, State Police.”
“Michael? Not Michelle?”
“Yep.”
The killer was female; that much was certain. Still, that didn’t mean this Michael wasn’t an accomplice. He was certainly worth talking to.
Not that she’d be talking to anyone but Sanders’s boss. “Iz, make an appointment for me to talk to Sanders’s captain, then send the information to AD Stern’s wristcom, and cc it to Director Byrne. Mark it urgent.”
“Consider it done, sweetie.”
“Thanks.”
She leaned back in her chair and propped her feet on the desk. Her eyes ached beyond belief, and everything else seemed to thump. It was nearly eight in the morning. Time, perhaps, to catch a nap. Certainly she was in no danger of being caught. Gabriel was the only one who seemed to know the location of her broom closet.
“Iz, turn off the lights and lock the door, will you? And cancel any screen calls. I don’t want to be disturbed unless it’s urgent.”
The room went dark. She closed her eyes.
And dreamed.
She stood in the middle of an empty room. Whiteness surrounded her, so bright it made her eyes water. Though the room was empty, she was not alone.
He was here.
Though she couldn’t see the hirsute stranger, his presence filled the room—a powerful, unseen shadow that circled slowly around her.
“Why have you called me?” she said.
“It is you who have done the calling, Samantha. I merely answer.”
“Then show yourself.”
He smiled, a sensation that ran like fire through her mind. “When you are ready to see me, you will.”
“More riddles.”
“No. A truth you are not ready to accept.”
It made no sense. Nothing this man said made any sense.
“Tell me your problem, Samantha. Is it the kites?”
“No.” She hesitated. “Did you send the kite after the five scientists?”
His smile rippled through her like shadowed sunshine. “No. I may have helped make them, but I do not always control them. Not yet.” He paused. “You will regret saving the scientists.”
“Why?”
“Because of their past. They deserve no future for what they have done. Their death is long overdue.”
“It all ties in with the mysterious Penumbra project, doesn’t it? You’re the one who originally tried to destroy it.” She hesitated again. “It’s my duty to protect Haynes and Cooper, you know.”
He said nothing for a long moment, but his thoughts continued to circle. She could almost see them, a blaze of unhappiness as bright as the sun.
“Though I rejoice their deaths, as I said, I am not the one killing the scientists.”
“Who, then?”
“Hopeworth has realized that their reconditioning is not as strong as they thought. You are not the only one Allars has talked to.”
“If Hopeworth was behind the murders of the scientists, why, then, did they send those cars out to collect Allars and the others?”
“Because it’s far easier to make people disappear once they are behind the walls of Hopeworth.”
That, at least, made sense. “If our murderer has talked to Allars, why wouldn’t she have killed him? Especially since Haynes and his mates were on the project that Emma was involved in?”
“Sometimes it is better to leave a foe alive.” He smiled. “Of course, it could also be that he was neither creator nor spawn.”
Maybe. “Is that why you’ve left Gabriel alive? Because sometimes it is better to do so?”
“In this case, most definitely.” The fierce sunshine of his unseen smile rippled through her again. “Stern plays an important part in our future. As much as I want to destroy him, I can’t.”
Our future? She and this stranger had some sort of future together? Now, that was a scary thought.
“These questions are not the reason you called me here, Samantha. What really troubles you?”
“I’m selling my apartment.” Why she came out with that, she wasn’t entirely sure. It was a guess, maybe. This stranger seemed to know an awful lot about a past she couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d also know an awful lot about the apartment she’d inherited.
His essence stopped moving. A slither of surprise ran round her. “That is your choice, of course, but can I ask why?”
She tilted her head and contemplated the shadow that was Joe Black. “People seem to like bombing it. You gave it to me, didn’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why?”
“Because I could.”
Annoyance spun around them. Hers, not his. “Why can’t you just drop the riddles and give me a direct answer?”
“Why are you so afraid to seek the answers?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I gave you a clue, Samantha. A key that will unlock some answers and solve at least one riddle. You have not yet sought the lock.”
“The pin,” she said, remembering it.
“The pin. Seek its image and you will find your murderer. You will also find the first stepping-stone to your past.”
“If you know so damn much, why don’t you tell me?”
“Because you will never believe me. Some things we must find for ourselves.”
His presence faded, and with it went the bright room. She woke with a start, then rubbed a hand across her eyes and glanced at the clock. Eight forty-five. She hadn’t even been asleep an hour. Sighing softly, she reached into her desk drawers and searched around until she found the pin. It was an abstract man and woman, standing side by side, one dark, one light. A gift from her hirsute friend when he’d saved her life about three months earlier.
She leaned forward. “Iz, scan this for me.??
? She held the pin up to the electronic eye on the upper corner of the com-screen.
Izzy reappeared, boa whirling lightly. “Scanning, sweetness.” A blue light ran the length of the pin.
“Run a search on the image. I want the name and address of every company that uses it.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks. And can you get me the personnel file for Michael Sanders?”
The file appeared onscreen almost instantly. She raised her eyebrows. “That was fast, Iz.”
Izzy reappeared, somehow managing to look mighty pleased with herself. “I put in a request for the file when you asked for the search results to be sent to AD Stern. Just in case.”
Sometimes, the artificial intelligence they’d installed in these things was scary. “Good thinking, Iz.”
“Thanks, sweetie.”
Michael Sanders was a baby-faced man who looked to be in his early thirties, with a slender build and thinning brown hair. It was only when you looked at his eyes that you realized he was not as young as he first appeared. Those eyes, a brilliant, unfathomable green, were the eyes of a man who’d seen, and done, too much.
He had a clean slate, both as a police officer and in his private life. Good arrest record, lived alone, no wife. His parents were killed when he was a baby, but there was no mention on file about who had raised him after that. Relatives, presumably, though there was no next of kin listed.
So why didn’t something feel right?
“Iz, I don’t suppose you could dig up whatever info and photos we have on Sanders’s parents?”
“Looking for needles again, are we?”
“Could be.” She frowned and stared at his photo. Those eyes just didn’t belong in that face. “And dig up anything you can find on the accident that killed them.”
“I may have to search through insurance reports. It might take a while.”
“I’ve got the time, Izzy, believe me.” But whether the next reject did was another matter entirely.
After a pause, Izzy announced, “I found their driver’s license photos. Not the best quality, I’m afraid.”
“Enhance and display.”
“Can do.”
Two photos appeared onscreen. Michael Sanders looked nothing like his parents, nor did he have any siblings she could compare him with—he was an only child.