Fireborn (22 page)

Sam had said the red plague virus was spread through either cuts or bites, which meant that if Wilson hadn't been killed, he would have been infected. So what if the virus reacted to death the same way sharing the blood of a vampire reacted in the human body? That is, on death, it put them into a coma while the body made the change from one form to the other?

Maybe he'd merely
looked
dead. Maybe he'd simply slipped into a form of suspended animation while he went through the change to becoming something more than human.

If that
was
the case, then one of the men who'd been employed by the government to find a cure for the red plague virus was now under the control of the red plague victims themselves.

And while
that
was a scary thought, an even scarier one was, if that
was
the case, then there
had
to be someone behind these things, controlling
them. The red cloaks I'd seen hadn't seemed intelligent enough to do anything more than hunt and kill; nor had they appeared to
want
to do anything more than that. So either there was more to the cloaks than first appeared, or there was something deeper going on.

Either way, with Baltimore dead and his research in the hands of god knew who, Wilson was the only one left who had any hope of finding a cure anytime soon. Sure, other people could pick up the pieces, try to replicate and move on, but the reality was, it could take them years to even get back to where Wilson and Baltimore were.

But why would the red cloaks—or whoever was behind them, if there was someone behind them—want to control any possible vaccine? Did they hope to use the cure for themselves, or was there a more nefarious plan? I very much suspected the latter, though I wasn't entirely sure why.

“Given witnesses said he used talonlike fingernails to rip Wilson up,” Amanda commented, drawing me from my thoughts, “maybe they simply took the body to prevent any possible DNA evidence from being found. That's what the cops appeared to think, anyway. They seemed pretty certain they'd find his body dumped somewhere in the sewer system.”

I wished them luck with the search, because I seriously doubted they would find anything beyond rubbish, rats, and the occasional dead
animal. “Did Wilson seem on edge before his death? Had there been any break-ins at either the research foundation or at your house?”

She shook her head. “Why?”

“Just trying to uncover any links between the two murders we're investigating.” I tapped the wheel for several seconds. “What about friends? Did he confide in anyone besides you? Was there anyone new in his life, someone perhaps he was reluctant to talk about?”

“A lover, you mean?” Her expression was amused. “No, there was no one like that. It's rather hard to keep such things secret from a telepath.”

Undoubtedly. I glanced in the mirror and noticed a white Ford following us. Nothing unusual given white Fords were a dime a dozen on the roads these days, but there
had
been one parked down from Amanda's, and after everything that had happened recently, I was a little wary of coincidences. I flicked on the blinker and went into the left lane. The Ford remained where it was.

I slowed as the lights ahead changed to red. “Did the police mention anything about Wilson's research notes?”

“No, but I know they're missing. I had a visit from Denny Rosen two days after Wilson's death.” She pursed her lips, her expression thoughtful. “Shame this has all gone down as it has. He might very well have been my next target.”

“Once Wilson was finished with, you mean?”

“Oh no.” Her expression was amused. “During.
Wilson is work. Rosen, as head of a major research foundation, would have been a delightful—and undoubtedly profitable—sideline.”

“You really don't have any morals, do you?”

She snorted. “You should check out Denny Rosen if you really want someone untroubled by morals. That man has not gotten where he is by playing nicely, let me tell you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, while Rosen Pharmaceuticals might have held a government contract for research on that damn virus, he wasn't above sharing the information in order to line his own pockets.”

I frowned. “Why would Rosen risk doing something that could destroy not only a very lucrative contract, but possibly his own company?”

“Greed,” she replied. “It's a huge motivator. Especially when you're heavily in debt.”

“And Rosen is?”

She nodded. “To the tune of nearly a million dollars. Apparently, he has a very nasty gambling problem—he's the type who would bet on two flies walking up a wall if the odds were good enough.”

“And you discovered all this in the brief time he came to see you?”

“Of course.” Her smile was fleeting but smug. “Rosen may be very adept at hiding his problems from government scrutiny, but—as I have said—I'm
very
good at what I do. And I don't always have to fuck them to do it. Rosen, unlike Wilson, is an easy read.”

Which made me wonder why the government wasn't working on some sort of device to prevent the minds of people in such important positions being read. Or maybe they were and, like the red plague virus, it just wasn't common knowledge.

I glanced in the rearview mirror again. The white Ford wasn't visible, but that niggling sense of unease refused to abate.

“Have you any idea who Rosen is indebted to?”

Amanda frowned. “That I couldn't quite catch, as he was trying not to worry about it.” She waved a hand. “But it was a long, titled name that had something to do with a rat.”

“Not Marcus Radcliffe the third?”

“That sounds about right.” She studied me for a moment. “I gather you've come across him in your investigations?”

“You might say that.” Unfortunately, Radcliffe was now in Sam's hands, and he no doubt now knew about Rosen's debt problems. Of course, that didn't preclude the possibility of us talking to him. Who knew? We might uncover some morsel Sam had missed.

And at midday tomorrow, vampires would start walking the streets.

I turned onto Spencer Street and said, “Okay, where in Southern Cross have you stashed your bags?”

“It's locker number ninety-two in the train concourse.”

I grunted and swung into the station's parking
garage. After finding a spot on an upper level, I said, “Do I need a locker key or code?”

“Code. Nine zero five seven.”

I opened the door, then hesitated. “Be here when I get back.”

“I can't go anywhere without passports or clothes,” she said, expression amused. “I'll be here.”

I studied her for a moment, not convinced, then half shrugged and got out of the car. But I didn't go all that far. Once I was out of immediate sight, I stopped the phone recording, ducked down behind an old four-wheel-drive, and waited.

Sure enough, five minutes later, Amanda walked by, my coat fully zipped up so that only the ends of the hospital gown were visible. Unless you looked really close, it simply appeared as if she were wearing a light summer dress. I waited until she'd stepped inside the elevator, watched it descend until it was obvious it was going straight to the ground floor, then ran for the stairs. I called to my spirit form as I did so, felt the fires within surge to life, but—just as quickly—splutter into nothing. Goddamn it, I was still too low in energy to become fire. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and prayed like hell the parking garage's elevator was as slow as most of them seemed to be. I was almost at the bottom of the stairwell when the door opened and a mom and two kids stepped in. Only fast footwork on
her
part saved us all. I gave her a quick apology, then dashed
out. The concourse was packed. I paused and scanned the crowd heading to and from the retail center above us.

After a second or so, I found Amanda. I tagged along after her, remaining at a distance but nevertheless keeping her in sight. Unsurprisingly, she didn't head for the lockers in the main train station, but rather the ones located at the bus interchange terminal.

I waited until she'd opened the locker; then, phone in hand and Sam's number on the screen ready to call, I walked up behind her and said, “Just as well I wasn't inclined to take the word of a thief and a whore.”

She jumped and turned around, but her expression was one of annoyance more than surprise. “Well, it was worth a shot.” She grimaced. “I guess you're not as gullible as you seemed.”

“No.” I showed her the phone. “Give me one reason not to hit this number and hand you over.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Go for it. I know for a fact that is neither Henry Morretti's number nor anyone else who provides a contactable front for the sindicati.”

“No, it's not,” I agreed. “It's actually the number of someone I think might be much worse where you're concerned.”

“And who might that be? The cops? They're hardly likely to be concerned about a widow deciding to take a holiday.”

“Maybe not, but I'm betting the police might be interested in our little conversation—which, by
the way, I recorded. However, this isn't a direct line to any cop.” I watched the amusement flee her face. The fury that took its place was an ugly thing to behold. Finally, I was glimpsing the real Amanda Wilson. “This is the number of a PIT detective.”

“And what is PIT?”

“They're the Paranormal Investigations Team, and sit somewhere between the police and the military.” I plucked the duffel bag from her hands. She resisted, but only briefly. “Basically, they have carte blanche to do whatever it takes to investigate and solve paranormal crimes. I'm afraid your husband's death falls under that umbrella.”

“And this should scare me because . . . ?”

“Because they are not bound by the same rules as the police.” I slung the bag over my shoulder, then stepped back and waved her ahead of me. “I was in their hands recently. They gave me a drug that not only forced me to answer their questions, but restrained my psychic abilities, leaving me unable to defend myself for several hours afterward.”

Her gaze shot to mine. “And what abilities might you have?”

I gave her a smile that held very little humor. “Run again without holding up your end of our bargain, and you just might find out.”

Her gaze lingered on mine for a minute, as if to assess whether I meant what I said; then she sighed. “There's a USB in the side pocket. That holds all the promised information.”

“Conveniently, I have no computer to check this fact.” Nevertheless, I found the USB and shoved it in my pocket. Then I searched the rest of the bag, found two more, and took those, too.

Her expression became even more sour, and I hadn't thought
that
was possible. “And now it's my turn to demand you uphold your end of the bargain.”

It was tempting—very tempting—to tell her to go to hell, but I'd learned over my many years that karma had a way of biting you on the ass. Breaking a deal—even if it was with someone like Amanda—was never a wise move.

“You know where the car is, so lead the way.”

She did so. Five minutes later, we were driving out of the garage and heading down Spencer Street.

A casual look in the rearview mirror revealed we were once again being followed by a white Ford. This time, that niggling sense of wrongness became a rock.

“What's wrong?”

I glanced at Amanda. “We're being followed.”

She lowered the sun visor and slid open the vanity mirror. “White Ford?”

“Yes. How did you guess?”

“I noticed it parked down the street and remembered the plates.” Her smile held very little in the way of humor. “You tend to notice details in my line of work.”

I bet you did. “Do you still want to head for the airport?”

She hesitated. “Yes. Once I'm through screening, I can acquire someone's ticket, get out of the state, then disappear overseas.”

A statement that just made me want to stop the car and toss her out. “Then let's see if we can lose them.”

I didn't immediately alter my speed, just kept cruising down Spencer Street until we hit a set of lights that were changing. I slowed, as if to stop, then, at the last possible moment, hit the accelerator and shot through the intersection. Car horns blared and I had to swerve around the pedestrian who'd already started crossing, but we got through unscathed.

A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the white Ford pulling out onto the wrong side of the road with the obvious intent of repeating our actions. If another truck or a car didn't take them out, we had—at best—a couple of minutes. And I wasn't sure that was going to be enough time given Jackson's truck was bright red and orange and rather easy to spot among the more mundanely colored vehicles.

I swung onto a side street. The tires screamed and the truck swerved dangerously. I fought for control, then hit the accelerator again. At the end of the street, I made a sharp left and belted down a narrow lane.

Up ahead, someone flung open the door of a parked car.

“Fuck!” Amanda slapped her hands against the dash to brace herself. “Watch out!”

I hit the horn and kept my foot planted. I had a brief glimpse of the driver's rear end as he dove back inside the car; then I hit the door. The force of the impact wrenched the door free and flung it up and over the truck's roof. Thankfully, it didn't appear to touch Jackson's shiny paintwork, but rather hit the road behind us and bounced into another parked car. I swung right onto another road and didn't slow as I made my way through the maze of side streets, all the time heading toward the airport.

I eased up only once we turned left onto Mount Alexandria Road. Amanda released a long breath and said, “I'm guessing we lost them?”

I studied the cars behind us. No white Ford, but—given who we were dealing with—that was no guarantee that we were safe. Especially given Jackson's truck had been parked in front of Amanda's place for quite a while.