Circle of Death

  “And you have no idea what attacked your friends and the two constables?”

  “No.” She hesitated, swallowing. “I told you, I heard a strange noise, then the screaming started, and I just got out of there.”

  “And you’ve been on the run ever since?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you be?”

  A hint of amusement touched his expression. “Maybe. So why go back to your house?”

  “I told you, I’d left my purse back there.”

  He regarded her steadily, his brown eyes cold. Not buying a word, she thought with a chill.

  “We spoke to your neighbors. They reported you being accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man.”

  She silently cursed the old biddy across the road. Chelsea had appointed herself the local neighborhood watch, and there wasn’t a thing that went on that she didn’t know about. Shame the old girl hadn’t been on guard duty the night the manarei had attacked, she thought bitterly. Maybe Helen would still be alive.

  “Did you ask her if she was wearing her specs at the time?”

  The detective didn’t bite, merely continued to regard her. “Were you at the house with a man?”

  “Damn it, why is this even important? Something killed my friend and your constables, and you’re sitting here questioning me about whether or not I went back to the house with a man? How much sense does that make?”

  She slammed a hand down on the table. The sound rebounded sharply, ringing through her ears. She licked her lips, wondering why she suddenly felt so light-headed. Lack of food, perhaps.

  The detective raised an eyebrow, the only sign he even noticed her outburst. “Did you know Helen Smith was insured?”

  She blinked. “Yeah? So?”

  “Did you know you were the major beneficiary of that policy?”

  His implication took several seconds to sink in. Her gut churned, and she clenched her fists around the coffee cup so hard the sides collapsed and the hot brown liquid spouted everywhere.

  She ignored it, ignored her burned hands, and stared at the detective. “You think that I …?” Her voice shook with the fury she was barely controlling. “For money? For a few lousy dollars?”

  “It’s more than a few lousy dollars.” His voice was dry. He regarded her for a second longer, then leaned across to the cabinet near the door and snagged some paper, offering it to her. “It’s close to half a million dollars.”

  “I wouldn’t care if it was a million. Or two. Or even three. I’d rather have Helen than any amount of money, believe me.” She snatched the paper from him and wiped her hands.

  “And yet you were in serious trouble financially, weren’t you?”

  Only because she still had three clients owing her for work she’d done on their houses, but there was nothing unusual about that, not in the building trade. “Last I heard, that wasn’t a crime.”

  “But a half a million dollars would set you up financially, wouldn’t it?”

  She thrust her hands under the table, hiding the heat that was beginning to dance across them. Heat she was tempted, so tempted, to let loose. “If you’re going to charge me, then charge me,” she said, her voice so low and tight with anger it was little more than a harsh whisper. “If you’re not, stop asking me stupid questions, get off your fat ass and start looking for the real killer. Because she hasn’t finished yet.”

  He raised the eyebrow again, seemingly unmoved by her hostility. “She? What makes you think the murderer is a she?”

  Kirby cursed silently, realizing then that he was goading her intentionally. She sat back in her chair. Pain twinged down her spine, but she ignored it and regarded the detective stonily. “I have a fifty percent chance of being right, don’t I?”

  “Yes, you do,” he said. “But we both know you know more than what you’re saying. And you will tell me, Miss Brown. Eventually.”

  “If you’re going to lock me up, you owe me a phone call.” Who she’d call she wasn’t entirely sure. Doyle was missing, and she had no idea how to get in contact with his friends. Or even if they’d be willing to help her.

  “I have no intention of locking you up. Not yet, anyway. I do, however, recommend police protection.”

  She snorted. “Fat lot of good it did me last time.” Besides, the last thing she needed right now was the weight of more deaths on her conscience.

  “It’s in the interest of your own safety.” He looked around as the door opened and a blue uniformed officer stepped in, handing him a sheet of paper. He read it quickly and looked up, his expression grim. “Seems you have some high-powered friends somewhere, Miss Brown. I’ve been ordered to release you immediately.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, not believing him for an instant. The only person in power she knew was the janitor at the local municipal offices.

  “You keep in contact and let us know where you’re staying, or I’ll have a warrant out for your arrest and your ass back in this station so fast your head will spin.”

  She blinked at the anger in his voice. “Then I am free to go? You’re not kidding?”

  “Not in anything I’m saying,” he said, stony-faced. “Officer Duncan will escort you to the front desk. Collect your things and leave a contact number.”

  She rose quickly, then hesitated. What if the person who arranged for her release was the killer? What if she was walking out into another trap? “How will I keep in contact with you? Should I just ring the station?”

  He handed her a business card. “I want to know where you’re staying, Miss Brown, and I want a number where I can reach you at any time.”

  She nodded and followed the younger officer from the room. Five minutes later she was outside, blinking at the bright summer sunshine. It wasn’t warm, not by a long shot, but at least the rain had finally cleared. Maybe summer would arrive back in Melbourne after all.

  “About time they released you,” a sharp voice beside her said. “This concrete gets a bit hard on old bones after a few hours, you know.”

  Kirby jumped and spun, calling to the fire as she did so. Only the voice belonged to a woman she recognized—Doyle’s friend Camille. She was perched on the planter box at the base of the steps, silver hair gleaming in the sun, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity.

  “Scared you, huh? Because that’s a pretty impressive play of energy you have dancing across your fingers.”

  Kirby clenched her fists and extinguished the lightning. “Did you arrange for my release?”

  Camille smiled. “I called in a favor or two.” She hesitated, her sharp gaze darting around. “We’d better get you out of here. Come along, dear.”

  She hopped off her perch and marched down the street. Kirby glanced briefly at the police station and saw the brown-suited officer watching her from a window. She stared at him for a second, then turned and followed the old woman. Right now, she trusted Doyle’s friends to keep her safe more than she trusted the police.

  “Where are we going?” she asked once they were in Camille’s beat-up van and driving toward the city.

  “We aren’t going anywhere,” Camille replied. “I gotta hunch I might be tagged, so I’m going to create a few illusions and drop you off at the nearest car rental.”

  “Why? I’ve got a car. I don’t need another.”

  “Yes, you do. Your car’s probably been booby-trapped, just like your handbag was. The killer certainly has had the time to do it. So you’ll rent a car and go find Doyle.”

  “He’s safe?” she said, a huge sense of relief sweeping through her.

  “Madder than hell, but yeah, he’s safe.” Camille cast her a sly grin. “You’ve got yourself a good man there, you know.”

  “He’s a thief,” she muttered. She pulled her gaze from Camille’s, heat creeping across her cheeks. “And he’s not my anything. I barely even know the man.” And yet here she was, trusting him, and trusting his friends. Why? She wasn’t entirely sure, and that scared her more than the heat that simmered between her
and Doyle.

  “What he may have been in his life isn’t what he is, remember that,” Camille said. “And sometimes you don’t have to know someone to love him. Sometimes love is just predestined.”

  Kirby rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right. Two souls fated to meet through time and the ages, and all that crap.”

  Camille’s smile was wry. “Not one ounce of crap involved, believe me. Especially in his family.”

  She looked away from the old woman’s knowing gaze. Part of her wanted to believe that such a thing as predestined love could exist, if only because it would mean that there might be someone out there for her, that she wasn’t fated to spend the rest of her life alone—a fear that had been with her for as long as she could remember. A fear that even Helen’s presence in her life hadn’t eased.

  But if she did let go, did take the chance and give in to the attraction she felt for Doyle, she was more than a little certain she’d end up getting hurt. In some ways, he reminded her of Helen. He seemed to like walking the edge, courting danger. He didn’t seem the type to want to settle down, and that was the one thing she wanted above anything else. Stability. A place to call her own. “What’s so special about his family?” she said eventually.

  Camille laughed, a short, sharp sound of amusement. “Ask him sometime about his dad and his granddad.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “There’s an address in the glove compartment, along with a satnav. Find Doyle, then hide somewhere safe for the night. Tell him to contact me when you’re settled.”

  Kirby opened the glove box and found both the satnav and address. “What about the woman we’re supposed to be looking for? Shouldn’t we be trying to find her before the murderer does?”

  “For the moment, it looks like the murderer has set her sights on you. Russell and I will continue the search tonight, and we’ll see what happens after that.”

  She tucked the two bits of paper into her pocket and noticed Camille looking in the rearview mirror again. Tension ran through her. “Are we being followed?”

  “Maybe. There’s a large white car that appears to be mighty interested in where we’re going.” The old woman’s voice was vague, her attention more on the mirror than on the road. She reached into her pocket and withdrew what looked like a string of diamond-shaped beads. “Take these.”

  Kirby did. They felt warm against her skin and pulsed slightly, as if alive. These were no ordinary beads, obviously. She frowned. “What are they?”

  “A shield, of sorts. It won’t work for more than a couple of minutes, but that’s all you’re going to need.”

  “Why do I need a shield?” She clenched her fingers around the string of beads and felt the sharp edges cut into her palm. An odd tingle of electricity ran through her.

  “Because you’re going to get out of the car and walk away as if you had all the time in the world.”

  Her frown deepened. “But isn’t that a little dangerous? If we are being followed, they’ll see me, plain as day.”

  “Not with that shield, they won’t. It’ll warp your appearance long enough to fool whoever’s following us.”

  She glanced down at the beads clenched in her hands. Odd that something so incongruous could do magic powerful enough to change a person’s appearance, if only for a few minutes. “When am I going to do this?”

  “I’m going to run the next red light and do a quick left. I remember seeing a small café on my way to the police station. Walk down there, get yourself a coffee and a seat, and don’t move for a good ten minutes. By then, I should be well clear.”

  Camille had slowed the van as she was talking, but the minute the lights ahead changed to red, she flattened the accelerator. The scream of the tires mingled with abuse from scattering pedestrians as she sped through the light and into the next street.

  “I’m not stopping long,” Camille muttered, “so grab your bag and get ready to jump.”

  Kirby undid her seat belt, the beads and her bag gripped in one hand and the other braced against the dash. The van slid to a stop. She wrenched open the door and clambered out—and barely had time to slam the door shut before the old woman was off again, burning rubber as she disappeared up the street. She had to have been a race car driver sometime in her life, Kirby thought as she headed for the café. She’d barely made it inside when a white sedan thundered past.

  “Teenagers,” a woman in the shop muttered. Kirby wondered what the woman would say if she knew one of those teenagers was at least sixty. After ordering a coffee, she sat down at a table near the back of the café and got out her phone, dialing directory assistance. Within a couple of minutes she had the number of the nearest car rental agency. She called them, got their address and made arrangements to rent a car.

  An hour later she cruised down the Calder Freeway, heading toward Gisborne. According to the address she’d entered into the satnav, Doyle was being held on a farm sitting on the outskirts of the small township, close to the Macedon Ranges foothills.

  Which didn’t exactly make sense. If the woman was powerful enough to transport someone Doyle’s size so far, why was she bothering to kill the circle? Surely her powers were greater than all of theirs combined. And why leave Doyle alive? It was odd—especially since her actions up until now suggested she had no qualms about killing. Kirby drove through Gisborne, then slowed, looking for the right road. She turned right, and the asphalt gave way to dirt and dust. If there were any guards on this farm, they’d see her coming a mile away. She bit her lip and slowed, watching the numbers on the roadside mailboxes. They slowly climbed, as did the road. The gums huddled closer, casting deep shadows through which the occasional beam of sunlight danced.

  Eventually she found number thirty-eight and pulled off the road, squeezing the small Honda behind the wattles that framed the driveway with a haze of yellow. After locking the car, she made her way toward the gate. It was chained and padlocked. She climbed over it and walked up the deeply rutted driveway. Cicadas sang around her, their noise almost piercing.

  She wiped the sweat from her forehead and glanced skyward. Trees sighed in the breeze, but despite this, it suddenly felt a hundred times hotter up here near the mountains than it had in the city. She wished she had a drink. Her throat felt so dry it was aching.

  A house appeared through the trees up ahead. It was long and ramshackle in style and looked somewhat forlorn. She slowed, wondering if anyone was home. Wondering if there were guards—or dogs. But nothing moved. The curtains were drawn across the windows, and no clothes fluttered on the washing line. She walked on carefully. No dogs barked or emerged from the shadows.

  Where was Doyle? Surely he couldn’t be in the house. It didn’t look strong enough to contain a gnat, let alone a fairly ingenious thief. But if he wasn’t in the house, where was he?

  Doyle? she queried tentatively.

  Warmth rushed through her mind, its force so strong it knocked her several steps backward.

  Kirby? What in hell are you doing here? There was both relief and anger in his mind-voice. He obviously didn’t want her here—or at least, he didn’t want her in the line of fire.

  And that annoyed the hell out of her. I’ll turn around and leave, if you prefer.

  No! He hesitated, and his sigh shimmered through her, a breeze so cool when compared to the heat of his mind’s touch. No. I’m sorry. It’s just that the rock on the top of this tank has been spelled. It might be safer to call Camille in.

  Camille’s busy, so you’re stuck with me. Now, where are you?

  In an unused water tank of some kind. One with a big rock sitting on it, if that’s any help.

  Her gaze swept the small clearing. No tanks this side of the house, or anywhere near what she could see of the big old shed behind it. He had to be on the other side, then.

  Have you heard anything moving about?

  No. The only sounds I’ve heard are noisy bugs and the occasional bird. That doesn’t mean there isn’t something here, though. Our murderous friend is not one t
o leave things to chance.

  An understatement if ever there was one. She approached the house cautiously, trying to hear beyond the high-pitched call of the cicadas. A chill crept across her skin and, for an instant, her vision blurred. The world seemed to spin briefly, and she had to thrust a hand against the side of the house to remain upright. The dizziness eased, but her throat felt as rough as sandpaper, and no amount of swallowing seemed to help. She swiped at the sweat dripping down her forehead and wondered if she was coming down with something.

  You okay? Concern shimmered down the link between them.

  She nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her. I’m just a little light-headed. Lack of food, probably. I’ll be there in a sec.

  Just be careful. The cicadas have gone quiet.

  She looked around. The sudden hush felt almost threatening. Another chill ran through her, and this time it was more fear than anything else. I’m okay. I can protect myself, you know. But she wondered who she was trying to convince—him or herself.

  She pushed away from the wall and headed past the front of the house. Three tanks came into sight, one close to the house and two others near the shed. The one farthest from the house had a large rock perched on one end. She certainly wasn’t going to be able to move that rock by herself. She’d have to draw on the energy of the day and the earth to help her.

  Just don’t do so when you’re standing close, Doyle warned. It’s been set to explode the minute anyone tries to move it.

  Warning heeded. She turned the corner. Found you.

  But the words were barely said when she came nose to stomach with the second-biggest dead guy she’d ever seen.

  HER SCREAM FROZE SOMEWHERE IN HER THROAT, AND for an instant all she could do was stand there and stare up at him. He was monstrous. Not as big as the zombie that had attacked Doyle, but damn close.

  Fear shot through her—not hers. Doyle’s. Kirby, run!

  His mental shout unlocked her limbs. But before she could react, the zombie threw a punch, his fist smashing into her jaw. It sent her flying backward. She hit the ground hard and her breath whooshed out, leaving her gasping. Blinking back tears, battling to breathe, she looked up to see the zombie launch at her.