Books by Maggie Shayne (82 page)

The breeze stiffened and the scrap tumbled away. She chased it a few yards, lost sight of it, then spotted it again. She picked it up, careful to touch only a corner of the material, and that with her nails. She turned it in the beam of light. It hadn't been used on an injury. There was no trace of blood anywhere. Slowly, like a stalking phantom, the odor made its way into her senses. She wrinkled her nose. Was that. . . ?

"Chloroform," she whispered, but the word was lost in the wind.

* * * * *

Eric walked up the front steps of the St. Claire's house and pressed the button to announce his arrival. He shuffled his feet as he waited, and frowned when no one answered the door. He'd told himself repeatedly that he could handle whatever hinds of surprises St. Claire might have in store. Still, his mind jangled with warnings. He pressed the button again.

"I tell you something is amiss!" Roland came from his hiding place among the shrubbery and stood beside Eric at the door.

"And I told you to stay out of sight. If he sees you, he'll be convinced we've come here to murder him."

"Have you not noticed, my astute friend, that no one answers the bell?"

Eric nodded. "Patience, Roland. I'll summon Tamara." His brows drew closer as he honed his sense to hers, but he felt no hint of her presence within the house. The wind shifted then, and the unmistakable scent of blood came heavy to them both. Eric's startled gaze met Roland's, and then both men sprinted around the house, toward the source.

They paused in the rear, near an open window with curtains billowing inward. Without hesitation Eric leapt onto the ledge and then over, dropping lightly to the floor inside. The smell was all-encompassing now, and when he glanced around the room he had to quell the jarring shock. St. Claire lay sprawled on the floor, in a virtual pool of his own blood. It still trickled from a jagged tear in his throat, but from the look, there was little left to flow.

"Decided to join my party, Marquand? You're a little late. Refreshments have already been served, as you can see."

Eric glanced up and saw Curtis Rogers standing in a darkened corner. "You," he growled. He lunged at the man, but Curtis ducked his first attack, flinging something warm and sticky into Eric's face. Blood. And he'd tossed it from a glass. Automatically Eric swiped a sleeve over his face, and an instant later he had the laughing little bastard by the throat. A sharp jab stabbed into his midsection. Not a blade, he thought. It was. . .
Oh, hell, a hypodermic.

He flinched at the pain but caught himself, withdrawing one hand from Curtis's throat, clenching it into a fist and smashing it into his face. Rogers went down, toppling a table on the way, breaking a lamp. Eric walked toward him, aware now that. Roland had come inside. He felt his friend's hand clasp his shoulder from behind.

"It's a trap, I tell you. We must go, now, before—"

"No!" Eric shook Roland's hand free and took another step toward the man on the floor, who made no move to get away. Suddenly Eric knew why. A wave of dizziness assaulted him. He fell to one knee as Rogers scurried backward like a crab. He felt his mind grow fuzzy, and his head suddenly seemed too heavy to hold upright.

Vaguely he felt Roland gripping him under the arms. He saw Rogers get to his feet and pull another hypodermic from somewhere. He tried to mutter a warning, but couldn't hear his own slurred voice. Roland let him go with only one hand when Rogers approached. He backhanded the bastard almost casually. Curtis sailed through the air, connecting with a bookshelf before slumping to the floor amid an avalanche of literature. Even drugged, Eric marveled at Roland's strength.

"He's drugged you, Eric!" Roland's voice came from far away. "Fight it, man. Get up."

He tried, but his legs seemed numb and useless. Roland lifted his upper body and half dragged him to the window. Eric knew his thoughts. He suspected Rogers would have an army of DPI agents, possibly all armed with syringes of this new drug, converging on the place at any moment. Yet in his hazy mind all Eric could think of was Tamara. Why wasn't she here? Could she bear the grief of losing St Claire this way? My God, she adored the man.

But she was here! His mind was suddenly pummeled with her aura. He tried to call out to her, but Roland was already pulling him through the window. "Nnno," he tried to say, unsure if he'd actually made a sound.

As Eric felt himself pulled to the ground he heard her steps, and the opening of a door. He lifted his head and tried to see her. He did. She appeared unfocused, a blurry silhouette, but her eyes found his and connected, just for an instant. Then they moved downward, and he heard her agonized screams.

"Have . . . to . . . go . . . to her."

He slumped into unconsciousness as Roland carried him away.

Tamara felt the shock like a physical blow. She'd glanced up automatically when she'd opened the library door. She'd felt Eric's presence like a magnetic force on her gaze. She'd seen him. He'd looked at her briefly, and his face had been smeared with something red. She'd glimpsed scarlet stains on his normally pristine-white shirt cuff, as well, before he'd moved away from the window. She let her puzzled gaze travel downward, drawn there by some inner knowledge she couldn't credit. The scream of unbridled horror rose in her throat of its own volition when she saw the spreading pool beneath Daniel's body. the gaping rent in his throat.

She threw herself to the floor, heedless of the blood, and drew his limp head into her lap, stroking his face as her vision was obscured by tears and her mind went numb, unable to face reality. She mumbled soft words of comfort, unaware of what she said. Her mind slipped slowly, steadily from her grasp.

Curt's hands on her shoulders gripped hard, and shook her. He said something in short, harsh tones, but she refused to hear or acknowledge. "Call an ambulance," she told him with the slurred speech of a drunken person. "He's hurt, he needs help. Go call an ambulance."

"He's dead, Tamara." He released his hold on her, and tried instead to move Daniel's head from her cradling arms. She clung to him more tightly, closing her eyes as her vision cleared. She didn't want to see. "He's dead," Curt repeated loudly.

She kept her eyes closed and shook her head. "He's only hurt. He needs—"

Curt's hands closed on either side of her face, tilting it downward. "Look at him. Open your eyes, dammit!"

The increased pressure made her comply and she found her gaze focused on deathly gray skin, suited, already glazing eyes and the ragged tear in Daniel's jugular. She shook her head, mute, her mind trying to go black. Her body slowly went limp and Curt jerked her to her feet the moment she relaxed her grip on Daniel. She slipped and nearly fell. When she looked down she saw that the floor was wet with blood. Her clothing soaked in it, Daniel's body drenched. Insanity crept closer, its gnarled hands gripping her mind and clenching.

"I told you this was how it would end."

She blinked and looked at him.

"You saw him yourself. Tam. It was Marquand. When I heard Daniel scream I kicked the door in. I couldn't believe what I saw. Marquand was... he was sucking the blood out of him. I jumped on him, but he'd already severed the vein—tore it right open. Daniel bled to death while I fought with Marquand."

Her face blank, she looked again toward the window, recalling her fleeting glimpse of Eric. the blood on his face. No. It wasn't true, it couldn't be. Mentally she cried out to him, closing her eyes and begging him to tell her the truth, to deny Curt's words. He didn't respond. His silence drove her beyond control, and while she felt curiously detached, she watched as a blood-soaked woman wearing her body gave way to insanity. She tore at her clothing, raking her own face with bloodied nails, tore at her own hair and screamed like a banshee. Curtis had to backhand the woman twice before she crumpled to a quivering, sobbing heap on the floor. He left the room, but returned in a moment and injected her with something. The proportions of the room became distorted, and voices echoed endlessly. She had to close her eyes or she knew she would be sick.

When she opened them, the unmistakable glint of early morning sun slanted through her window and across her bed. Her head throbbed, but she was clean and dressed in a soft white nightgown. Her face hurt, and a glimpse in the mirror showed her another deep purple bruise complementing the one on her jaw. This one rode high on her cheekbone. She shook her head, dropped the hand mirror onto the stand and slipped from the bed. The bruise came from Cult's knuckles, landing brutally across her face when she'd lost her mind last night. But none of that had been real, had it? It hadn't really happened.

Silently she moved through her doorway, over the faded carpet in the hallway and down the stairs. All the way she kept thinking it had been a nightmare, or a delusion. She stopped outside the tall double doors to Daniel's library, and paused only a moment before she pushed them open. Her eyes moved directly to the carpet in the room's center. A pungent, metallic odor reached her at the same instant she recognized the bloodstains, and saw the masking-tape outline of Daniel's body.

"Tammy?"

She turned and looked up at Curt, wondering why she was so numb. Why wasn't she wailing with grief? Daniel was dead.

"Honey, I don't want you to let yourself be consumed with guilt. You had no way of knowing he was using you all along. The bastard must have planned this for months. Even Daniel believed him."

That's right, she reminded herself. Eric had never loved her. He'd seduced her. He'd used her to get to Daniel and then he'd brutally murdered a helpless old man. She'd practically caught him in the act. Hadn't she?

No. It isn't possible. I can't believe. . . I won't believe it.

"This has to be handled delicately and quickly," Curt went on, apparently unaware of her jumbled thoughts. "DPI doesn't want any local cops poking around."

She blinked, searching her brain for rational thought. . . logic. "But he was murdered."

"It's going down as a heart attack."

She looked back to the bloodstained carpet and shook her head. "A heart attack?"

"Our own forensics team will take care of Daniel. He's being cremated this morning. . . on the premises, right after Rose Sversky has a look at him. We'll have a memorial service this afternoon."

Tamara frowned at the mention of DPI's top forensic pathologist. Dr. Sversky's patients were kept in cold storage in a sublevel lab. She closed her eyes as she thought of sweet Daniel down there.

"I hate to leave you on your own, Tam, but there's a lot to do. We want to move fast before anyone has a chance to ask any questions. Word of this leaks out, By ram will turn into a circus. Be at St. Bart's at two for the service."

The telephone shrilled as Tamara tried to digest what he was telling her. There would be no burial in a grave she could visit. Daniel would be reduced to ashes within the next few hours. He'd been ripped from her so suddenly, so violently she felt nothing now but shock. As if she'd lost a limb.

Curt turned toward the phone in the living room, ignoring the closer one in the library. "Stay out of there for now. Tam. A cleanup crew will be here this afternoon."

Oh, yeah, she thought. DPI's good old "cleanup crew." When they finished you wouldn't be able to find a blood cell with a microscope.

Cleanup would be more aptly named cover-up, but what the hell? Curt's voice cut through the dark shroud over her heart. "No, Mrs. Bryant, I'm afraid Tamara isn't up to a phone call just now, but I will pass along the—"

She bolted at the sound of "Bryant," and jerked the phone out of Curt's hand before he could finish the sentence. How, even with all that had happened, could she have forgotten about Jamey? "Kathy? I'm right here. Is there any... There isn't?" She sighed in dismay when she learned Jamey still hadn't been found. She listened as the woman poured out the frustrations of a long, sleepless night. When she finally began to run out of steam Tamara cut in. "I'm going to find him, Kathy. I promise you, I will. I'll check in later, okay?"

She closed her eyes and stood still for a long moment after she hung up. A moment ago she'd wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after her. She'd wanted to sit in a corner and cry until she died. Now she had a purpose to keep her focus. For today, she would do her utmost to find Jamey Bryant. Tonight she would go to Eric and hear what he had to say. She wouldn't believe he'd killed Daniel until she heard it from his own lips. She couldn't believe it. . . nor could she deny what she'd seen with her own eyes. So she'd give credence to none of it, for now. For now, she'd simply focus on Jamey, and hopefully remain sane long enough to sort out the rest.

Curt was behind her as she moved toward the stairs. "So to anyone who asks, it was a heart attack. Don't forget. The only people who know the truth are Hilary Gamer—she came over and helped get you into bed last night—and Milt Kromwell, Daniel's immediate superior. And, of course, Dr. Sversky. Are you sure you'll be all right?"

She nodded, wanting nothing more than to get started doing something that would absorb all her concentration. She was upstairs and in her room dressing before Curt's car left the driveway. She checked her jacket pocket when she pulled it on, and nodded when she felt the bit of gauze still there.

* * * * *

Jamey knew it was morning because he felt the sunlight gradually warming his stiff body. Thank God for the sleeping bag. He'd have frozen to death for sure if it hadn't been for that. The creep had shown up in the middle of the night with the bag, and slipped it up over him. He'd brought a ham sandwich, too, and a cup of chicken soup and some hot chocolate. He'd untied Jamey's hands so he could eat, but the blindfold had stayed put. He had ripped the tape off so roughly it had felt to Jamey as if his lips were still attached to it. Something cold and tubular had been pressed to his temple and a gruff, phony voice had rasped close to his ear, "One sound and I blow your head off. Got that, kid?"

He'd nodded hard. He fully believed Curtis Rogers would do it. Any guy who'd slug a woman the way Curds had slugged Tamara wouldn't give a second thought to blowing away a kid. And he knew it was Curtis now. He hadn't seen him, or heard him speak without the phony voice, but he knew. So he'd nodded like a good little hostage and had eaten his soup without seeing it. He had been allowed to relieve himself in a pail before he was tied again, arms behind him just like before, tape back over his mouth.

Damn, he hated that tape. After Curt had left, sometime during the long, cold night, Jamey's nose had started to clog up. He'd felt sickening panic grip him. How would he breathe if his nose clogged up and he had tape over his mouth? One thing was sure, Jamey didn't intend to spend another night here to find out. Curt had rasped that he'd be back in the morning, so Jamey would wait. He had a plan. It wasn't much of a plan, he figured, but it was better than nothing.

He didn't have to wait long. Before the sun had been shining very long, Curtis showed up with another cup of cocoa and a cheese Danish from a fast-food joint. He didn't say much this time, and Jamey didn't have the nerve to ask questions. He ate, did his business and sat calmly while he was retied and taped. But when Curt left this time, Jamey's senses were honed like razors. He listened carefully, memorizing the sounds of Curt's steps across the floor as he left. He waited then, just to be sure Curt wouldn't come back. Then he slid himself across the floor in the direction Curt had gone. He humped and slithered on his rear end. His feet pointed the way. He bent his knees and pulled himself along by digging his heels into the floor. He made good progress, too, until he hit a wall.

He sat there, confused for a moment. Then he realized there must be a doorway. Not a door, since he hadn't heard one open or close. But there must be a doorway. He wriggled around until his back was to the wall so he could run his hands along it as he humped sideways. He figured he'd worn his pants down to the thickness of tissue paper and implanted about a hundred slivers in his backside by the time his hands slipped off the flat wall and into empty space.

The doorway! He'd found it!

He was so excited he didn't even bother turning around again. He just pushed off with his feet and went backward through the opening. . . and into space.

Not a doorway, you idiot, a stairway. Oh, damn, a stairway. . . .

* * * * *

Rose Sversky was a tiny sprite of a woman with short white hair in a close-to-the-head haircut and Coke-bottle glasses. She looked as if she'd be more at home cutting cookies than corpses. Tamara sat in a hard chair amid the organized chaos of chrome and steel and sheet-draped tables, painfully aware that one of those tables had supported Daniel's body only hours earlier. Maybe only minutes earlier.

Dr. Sversky handed the bit of gauze, now safely encased in a plastic zipper bag, across the desk to Tamara. "You were correct about the chloroform. Unfortunately, gauze is a poor receptacle for fingerprints. I couldn't find a hint of who took him." Tamara sighed hard and swore, but Rose wasn't finished. "There was a small trace of blood. Most likely the boy's though I can't be certain without something to compare it to. Do you know his type?"

Tamara frowned. "No. It's probably in his records, but it'll be easier just to ask his mother. I'll get back to you. It's funny, though, I didn't see any blood."

"I don't think you could have without a microscope. It was just a trace. Probably bit his tongue when he was grabbed." She sat silent behind her huge desk for a long moment, then reached across it to cover Tamara's hand with her own. "I'm sorry you're going through so much at once, dear. Daniel was a good man. I'll miss him."

Tamara blinked. She hadn't wanted to think about Daniel now. . . here. Still, she couldn't keep her gaze from jumping to the nearest table. "You're doing the death certificate, aren't you?"

"Yes. I've fixed them before, and I imagine, as long as I stay with DPI, I'll fix them again."

"It doesn't bother you, changing a cause of death from something as violent as this to a simple heart attack?"

Rose frowned. "Actually, unless anyone's already heard the rumor, it's going down as an accident." Tamara looked up and Rose hurried on. "It's always better to stick as close to the truth as possible. When I found that blow to the back of the head, I figured we might as well use it as the cause of death."

Tamara stared at her. "I wasn't told about any blow to the head."

Sversky removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I hope it eases your mind to know this. He was hit with a blunt object hard enough to render him unconscious before the laceration to the jugular. He probably never even felt it." She shook her head. "I've never autopsied a victim of—of a vampire attack before. It's nothing like I thought. You always see two neat little puncture marks on victims in the movies. This was—" She broke off and shook her head. "But you don't need to hear about that."