Nothing jimmied. Nothing damaged. She’d been black-bagged by a pro.
Which meant FBI or CIA or DOD.
She ran a hand through her hair. Who and why? Who’d have the balls? And for what? Whirling, she walked back to the living room and fished her cell phone from her purse. She speed-dialed Gifford’s cell, her adrenaline rush already fading. He answered on the first ring, but said nothing, waiting for her to speak first.
“I’ve been black-bagged,” she said, voice thick with Sleep. “Call security. Have them check the office. Then go there yourself.”
“Consider it done.” His voice was steady, unruffled.
She thumbed the off button. The Glock slipped from her fingers and thudded onto the carpet. Sleep. She’d waited too long.
Johanna staggered from the room and into the hall. She pulled herself along the wall, her gaze locked on her bedroom doorway. It seemed she never got any closer. Her head thumped against the wall and her eyes flew open. She was on the floor.
She curled up in the hallway, lips parting, drinking in Sleep like blood. Just before conscious thought winked out, she realized what had been missing. What she’d been reviewing—for pleasure—at home. The file on S and the CD documenting his experiences as a member of Bad Seed.
***
DR. ANZALONE SLAMMED THROUGH the double doors into the autopsy theater. Heather spared her a quick glance, then pulled the sheet over Rosa Baker. The playback ended abruptly as the M.E. hit the stop button on the transcriber.
“You have no right to barge in here,” Anzalone said. “I don’t care if you’re FBI—”
“Who requested that the forensics be altered in this case?” Turning from the table, Heather locked gazes with the medical examiner. “Altered to match the Cross-Country Killer’s M.O.?”
Hazel eyes, curly brunette hair, a little on the heavy side—like Rosa—Anzalone’s brows knitted together, her hands jammed into her lab coat pockets. Defensive.
“How dare you imply—”
“My perp is left-handed,” Heather said, crossing the floor. “These stab wounds were inflicted by a right-hander.” She stopped in front of the tight-jawed medical examiner. “But the transcription I just listened to indicated that the killer was left-handed.”
Anzalone stiffened. “Before you make any accusations, you’d better check with your superiors.” She spun around and strode from the autopsy theater.
Heather stared after her as the doors swung closed. Check with your superiors.
Dante was still being stalked.
And she’d been lured away.
Was Stearns part of it?
Half walking, half running out of the theater, Heather yanked her cell from her purse and called Collins. “We need to get back to New Orleans right away. Stay there. I’ll pick you up.”
Shoving through the front entrance, Heather raced for the rental, punching Dante’s home number on her cell. The phone rang and rang. She unlocked the Stratus and slid inside. C’mon! Answer! She glanced at her watch. Almost four, Pensacola time, which made it almost three in New Orleans. Maybe Dante was still sleeping.
Starting the car, Heather threw it into reverse and hit the gas pedal. The tires screeched as she whipped the car out of the slot, spinning the wheel one-handed into a quick reverse-to-drive L. She wished she had her Trans Am with its get-up-and-go.
The ringing stopped. De Noir’s deep voice said, “Agent Wallace.”
“I need to speak to Dante.” Heather stepped on the gas. The Stratus arrowed out into traffic. “It’s urgent.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“Dammit, De Noir! Wake him!”
“Not possible. But I will take a message for him.”
“I don’t fucking believe you.” Throat tight, lightheaded with anger, Heather pressed harder on the gas pedal.
She glanced over her shoulder as she switched lanes, smoothly merging with the heavy traffic. “He’s still in danger. The killer isn’t dead. Don’t let Dante leave the house and don’t leave him alone.”
“Dante does as he wishes,” De Noir said, voice amused. “But I will tell him your concerns. When he awakens.”
“Great,” Heather snarled. She threw the phone down onto the passenger seat.
Either De Noir didn’t get it or he didn’t believe her or he thought he could keep Dante safe. Any of those reasons would be enough to get Dante killed.
Keeping her gaze on the traffic, Heather fumbled for the cell phone, then tapped in Stearns’s number.
“Wallace,” he said, answering on the first ring.
Heather didn’t know whether to feel relief or concern. “Sir. I’m leaving Pensacola right now. We’ve been deliberately misled. The M.E. falsified—”
“The case is closed,” Stearns said. “The investigation’s over.”
Someone honked and Heather realized the light had turned green. She stepped on the gas. Her heart thudded against her chest. “Who closed the case, sir?” she finally managed to say.
“That’s not the issue, Wallace.”
Stearns’s voice was flat. Stoic. Was her mentor repeating words he had no wish to say? Or was he a willing party? Heather felt sick.
“I think it is. The CCK is not dead, sir. Who’d want to protect him?”
“The investigation’s over.” Stearns’s voice sounded weary, drained. “Get back to Seattle ASAP.”
“He has another victim targeted.”
“Forget Dante Prejean, Wallace. He’s not what he appears to be.”
At Dante’s name, Heather’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”
“He’s no longer your concern.”
“With all due respect, sir, are you a part of the cover-up?”
“Heather, listen carefully.” Desperation weighted Stearns’s voice. “Stay out of New Orleans. Your safety depends upon it. You are not among friends.”
“Apparently that’s nothing new, is it, Craig?” She hung up.
What had happened? Was the CCK the son of a government star? The brother of a diplomat? And why was the investigation being halted now?
Something to do with Dante. Think. Someone wanted him dead. Why not just shoot him in his sleep? Could it be something to do with the past he didn’t remember?
A bloodred anarchy symbol caught Heather’s attention. She stared, breath caught in her throat, heart pounding. A sign in the window of a music store.
Above the anarchy symbol: Just in! The latest release from New Orleans’s INFERNO! Deliberately Set. And below it: Wake up and smell the fire!
WAKE UP written in blood at two different crime scenes. A past Dante doesn’t remember. Heather hung a right, then pulled to a stop in front of the precinct house. Collins waited on the steps.
Dante didn’t remember, no. But someone wanted him to remember.
“We’ve got trouble,” Heather said as Collins scrunched into the car. She hit the gas before he’d closed the door.
Unruffled, the detective strapped on his seat belt. He glanced at Heather. “The bastard’s not dead, is he?”
“They made you detective for a reason,” Heather murmured, goosing the Stratus through two high-speed lane changes. “It gets worse. It’s a deliberate cover-up.”
“Shit.” Collins stared straight ahead, jaw tight, face grim.
* * *
15
Whirling into Motion
« ^ »
E CREPT DOWN THE hall to Tom-Tom’s room. He pressed himself against the closed door. Was Tommy-boy still asleep? The sun hadn’t set yet, the gray afternoon lingered, sullen sky pissing rain.
E listened. Nuthin’. Not even snoring. Did vampires snore? Was he even in there? What if he stood behind E? Watching? Grinning? E whirled, heart hurdling into his throat, shivs in hand.
Nuthin’.
E stood motionless, staring down the empty hall to the dirty light streaming in through the front window. His heart gradually slowed. With a flick of both wrists, he slid his shivs back into their wrist sheaths.
E swiveled around to face the closed door once again. Still no snoring. If he was in there, he’d be sound asleep. If not, then E didn’t have to worry about noise. His fingers closed around the cool brass doorknob, and turned.
Ronin lay on the bed like a dead man. Fully dressed. Not breathing. Hands at his sides. His eyes were half-open, but all that showed were the whites. E twitched. His skin felt creepy-crawly, like he’d stepped into an anthill. He fought the urge to slap and brush at himself.
He narrowed his eyes. He subtracted the not-breathing assessment. Fucker was, indeed, breathing. Just barely.
E stepped into the bedroom, his gaze locked on Ronin’s stretched-out form, and held his breath. Nuthin’. He stepped further into the room.
E circled the bed. Tilted his head. Mourner viewing corpse. Circled again. A knife across the throat would do it. Maybe not kill the bastard, but all that blood pouring out would have to be a major inconvenience.
Why hadn’t Ronin locked the door? Did he think so little of E’s abilities, his work, that he felt safe? Thought he could handle ol’ E even asleep?
Muscles knotting, belly burning, E popped his shivs into his hands. He inched closer to the bed. Ronin’s face looked almost as smooth as a kid’s, even though he was supposedly centuries old.
How long would it take to kill him? Flat-out flesh-to-skeleton-to-ashes kill him?
He leaned over Ronin, angling a shiv for the soft throat when he remembered the files. E hesitated, tensed, longing to slash. The files—his and Dante’s—he needed those. Needed to know where to find the Bad Seed Mama-Bitch. Needed to know her name. Needed to know why.
He needed to know more about Dante, too—Bad Seed little brother, kindred spirit—more than the shit Tom-Tom spoon-fed him. E summoned Dante’s image, but saw instead Heather’s hunger as her gaze slid along Dante’s body. E shivered, shiv extended, aching, blood boiling, wanting them both. But willing to claim only one.
E forced himself away from Ronin. Straightened and tucked away his shivs. Daylight was burning. Circling to the other side of the bed, E searched the nightstand, carefully pulling open the drawers. Nuthin’.
Crossing to the dresser, he opened one drawer after another. Folded clothes, undies—hmmm, silk—rolled pairs of socks, but no files. Blowing air between his teeth, E leaned against the dresser. He’d seen the files briefly in New York, thick with reports, photos, and CDs. Tommy-boy’d also had a case full of special things—special things for Dante—in case he needed to be restrained.
E headed for the closet, but catching a glimpse of gold out of the corner of his eye, he halted. Crouching, he looked under the bed. Dante’s pretty Goth boy was curled up on the hardwood floor, tucked in with the shadows and the dust bunnies, eyes closed, face white. Wrists handcuffed. One ankle cuffed to a leg of the bed.
E grinned. Tommy’d raided the cupboard and grabbed himself a toy. A snack and a toy. Did Tom-Tom intend to dangle Goth-boy like a bag of blood in front of Dante’s nose? Or was he going to send E out to collect another?
E crawled to the closet, dazzled by Goth-boy’s golden hair, imagining it spun like golden thread, a glimmering coil seeking the warmth of his hands.
E opened the closet. Worn-edged cardboard boxes nestled on the floor among Tom-Tom’s boots and expensive loafers. A zippered black bag sat next to the boxes.
E dug through the boxes, hands trembling, mouth dry, until he found the file marked E and the one marked S. Tucking them under his arm, he scooped up the black bag, then closed the closet door. He swiveled on his knees, expecting to see gold, but all he saw was a lank strand of blond hair.
Let Tom-Tom have him, he thought, elevatoring to his feet. Less likely to notice anything’s missing if he’s busy playing.
E walked from the room and oh-so-carefully closed the door. He strode down the hall and out through the front door into the dying afternoon.
He had a lot of research to do.
***
WASPS CRAWLED OVER DANTE’S body, heavy abdomens curving as stingers needled venom into his flesh. Paralyzed by Sleep, caught in a nightmare-woven net, he couldn’t move, couldn’t leap to his feet, brushing and slapping at the thousands of busy wasps. Poison snaked beneath his skin, wormed into his veins, burrowed into his heart.
Behind the high-pitched wasp drone, a voice called, Dante-angel? You okay?
He burned.
A wasp wriggled into his nostril. Another jimmied open his lips, scraped down his throat. Stingers pricked his eyelids, but he kept quiet. Screaming equaled straitjacket and restraints. Screaming equaled sunlight slanting across a wooden floor.
His eyelids puffed and swelled. His heart thudded hard against his chest. His throat closed. Air thinned to a trickle. His lungs burned.
He kept silent.
Windows surrounded him. Some he could barely make out, their shape distorted, the glass warped. He looked away, heart pounding—don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook. A few of the windows rippled like water beneath the wind and he looked, even though he knew it’d be bad.
A burning house.
A laughing little girl with red hair, holding a stuffed orca.
A metal examination table loaded down with restraints.
A smiling woman, fangs revealed, reaching for him.
Dante tried to move, but venom and Sleep kept him motionless. Sweat trickled down his temples.
Dante-angel?
The voice, childish and low and familiar, lingered, the words squeezing his heart. Pain blazed through his mind, torched his thoughts. If he kept quiet, she’d live. Then kicking the ass of that thought was another: If he didn’t move, she’d die.
The fresh scent of rain and sage glided across his consciousness and, for a moment, he forgot the pain, forgot his impending, irreversible loss.
For a moment, she’d never died.
For a moment, he’d never killed her.
Then truth doused him in gasoline and tossed a match.
He screamed.
***
RONIN WALKED DOWN THE hall to the front room. Starry night gleamed beyond the window. He picked up his cell phone and tapped in the number for his New Orleans police contact.
“LaRousse.”
“Thomas Ronin. I watched an interesting exchange of words last night between a vampire named Étienne and Dante Prejean. I believe Étienne has a grudge or two against Dante.”
“You could say that,” LaRousse said. “His home was torched one morning. Burned down to the ground. A handful of Étienne’s nearest and dearest died in the fire and he believes Prejean’s the one who set it.”
“Ah. Why does he believe that?”
“Couldn’t say and don’t care.”
“Can you get in touch with Étienne?”
“I can. What’s this about?”
“Let’s just say an opportunity for payback. Give him my number, Detective. I appreciate your help in this matter.”
Ronin touched the end button. Shaking a slim, black cigarette from the pack on the coffee table, he slipped it between his lips and lit it with a match. He inhaled the sweet-smelling smoke, savoring the rich tobacco taste on his tongue.
Cell in hand, he walked back down the hall to E’s room and pushed open the door. An empty, rumpled bed, but that was no surprise. Although E’s woodworm-bitter scent lingered in the air, Ronin had known upon awakening he was gone. No prickly aura. No wary tension.
Streetlight slanted in through the partially opened blinds, crosshatching the bedroom with lines of light. The room’s darkness felt thick and close and stale, shut off from the untamed night outside.
The instant E had climbed out of his Jeep and walked across the street to Dante’s house, he’d become a liability. Dante’s phone call had made Ronin realize the truth. Peeping Tom and his assistant, Elroy the Perv. A smile flickered across Ronin’s lips. Boy had a way with words—quick-witted and sardonic.
We’ll see how quick-witted he is tonight.
Ronin drew on his c
igarette. The gray smoke curled up and away, hazing the room’s still air. E had fucked up, no two ways about it. Ronin wasn’t sure how much longer he could control him and wondered if he ever really had.
A sociopath. A serial killer. A sexual sadist. How pleased Johanna must be. All her hard work coming to bloody and clever fruition. But what was she saving Dante for? Why had he been allowed to slumber? How had he survived all that she’d done to him?
Then again, he was True Blood. Johanna would have centuries to guide him, twist him, trigger him with programming subliminals and implants. Dante was a mere twenty-three years old. He was a child. His gifts, the full extent of his abilities, probably wouldn’t be revealed for decades, perhaps centuries.
What would it take to awaken him? To spring Dante like a hidden trap on his fille de sang, the woman who’d dared to corrupt and twist a True Blood.
The medical and psychological procedures Johanna and the mortal Doctor Wells had performed on Dante’s mind and brain had been conspicuously missing from the Bad Seed files an anonymous donor had sent him. So, in truth, he was experimenting. Ronin had expected Dante’s subconscious to react to the messages, but so far—zip. Maybe a more direct approach—using Dante’s unexpected sentimentality for mortals—would work like a crowbar upside his lovely head.
Ronin stepped inside the room. Sheets and blankets lumped the unmade bed. A book, an ashtray, and an empty glass rested on the nightstand.
Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, Ronin sat on the edge of the bed. Glanced at the book—Inside the Monster’s Heart and Other Poems. The faint scent of whiskey drifted up from the glass. From the bed, he caught a whiff of dark cherries. He followed the faint scent down to the pillow. Reaching inside the pillowcase, he pulled out a black length of nylon. Gina’s stocking, a dream catcher for her killer, tucked close to the monster’s heart. Ronin dropped the pillow back onto the bed.