Alexander Death (The Paranormals, Book 3) (19 page)

“I killed two people,” Jenny said.

“I hope you got some good shopping in first.”

“I'm serious.”

“They attacked you, didn't they?”

“And Kisa.”

“So it's good you did,” Alexander said. “God knows what they might have done to you girls.”

“I promised myself I'd never use the pox again.”

“But you had to. You shouldn't feel guilty about it, Jenny. Not for a second.”

“I do feel guilty,” Jenny said. “And not just because I did it, but because...I kind of
liked
it, Alexander. Like I was dealing out justice. Like I had a right to kill people if I wanted.”

“You do have the right to deal justice. Somebody has to, and you're capable of it.”

“Yeah, I'm definitely capable...”

“Look, Jenny, you just killed a couple of assholes. You made the world a better place.”

“It doesn't really feel like it.”

“It was just a small move, Jenny,” Alexander said. “But in the right direction. We have to accept what we are. We have to embrace it. It's the only choice.”

“But we could be different,” Jenny said. “There has to be some choice, somewhere.”

“Embrace it or fight it, that's the choice. It doesn't change who you are. It just makes your life more difficult and out of control if you fight it.”

“You said you're a builder, and Ashleigh's a vulture. Then what is Seth?”

“The healer?” Alexander frowned. “He's just a pawn of the love-charmer. Always has been.”

“But not lately,” Jenny said. “I think he's been pulling away from her, hasn't he?”

“He never could. If the healer got close to you, made you think he cared about you...just trust me, the charmer bitch is behind it.”

“Are you sure?”

“He might not even know it,” Alexander said. “It could be a multi-lifetime plot. You can forget your memories and your purpose when you're reborn in the flesh, but they will still be there, shaping your actions. The fear-giver is often her servant. My opposite, the dear little dead-speaker, is often her servant. The healer is
always
her servant, Jenny. You see why she's so dangerous? Her power can manipulate and control not only regular people, but our kind, too.”

“Except me,” Jenny said. “If she touches me, I'll kill her.”

“This makes you her most formidable enemy,” Alexander said. “The one she can never hope to control with her poisonous love. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless she takes your heart indirectly,” Alexander said. “By sending the healer to charm it from you. He can touch you, so he can get close to you. He can trick you into loving him, trusting him—especially when you're feeling so alone because you can touch no one...and then you meet one boy you can touch—”

“Okay, I get it,” Jenny said. “I don't need the whole psychoanalysis thing. So you don't think Seth really cares about me? Deep down, he's still serving Ashleigh?”

“I've seen him across a thousand lifetimes,” Alexander said. “He always serves her. He always will.”

Jenny thought about the girl Seth had hooked up with in Charleston, the one that looked so much like Ashleigh that Jenny had thought, for a moment, that the evil girl had somehow cheated death and returned. Why would Seth have picked a girl like that, out of all the girls in the city, unless some part of him really wanted to be with Ashleigh again?

It hurt to think that her entire relationship with Seth had been a trick to get her under Ashleigh's control...but if anyone was capable of a manipulation like that, it was Ashleigh. The thought frightened her deeply, and left her feeling very alone.

“You're quiet,” Alexander whispered. “Falling asleep?”

He stood up.

“You don't have to go,” Jenny whispered. She reached out and took his hand. “Stay with me. But you have to let me sleep.”

“I'll stay.” He lay down beside her. Jenny kissed him, then wrapped an arm around him. She buried her face against his solid, warm chest, listening to his heart. And then she fell asleep, trying not to think about Seth.

Seth sat in the reception area on a wide, soft couch, looking at a portrait of Nathan Hale that glowed under track lighting. The other art in the room had cold, modernist designs without any meaning, but the framed print of the Revolutionary War spy held the most prominent place. The latest issues of
Fortune
and the
Wall Street Journal
sat on the coffee table in front of him. Elevator music played over the speakers—Seth could swear it was the song “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC, minus the vocals, played at one-tenth the usual tempo on a violin and piccolo.

He sipped the coffee the receptionist had served him. Behind her massive round granite desk, the receptionist looked like a beauty queen in a black blazer, not much older than Seth himself. She made good coffee.

Behind the slender blond receptionist, the words HALE SECURITY GROUP were mounted in sleek, metallic letters on the wall. The company was headquartered in Manhattan, but Seth was visiting their Atlanta office, since it was much closer to his home and he might need to make follow-up visits.

He didn't have an appointment, partly because he was cautious about using his phone when he knew Homeland Security might be monitoring him. He'd been waiting here almost an hour. He wondered if people in a back room somewhere were checking out his identity.

The heavy double doors at the back of the reception area opened themselves without a sound. Another ridiculously beautiful young woman in a black coat and white blouse emerged, her hair cut into a bob. She gave Seth a glowing smile that could melt ice caps.

“Mr. Breisgau is free to see you now, Mr. Barrett,” she said. “We apologize for the wait.”

“No problem.” Seth stood up and straightened his coat. He'd dressed in a dark gray suit with a muted earth-tone tie. He hoped he looked professional.

The young woman led him back into a midnight blue corridor with deeply piled carpeting. More modern art hung on the walls here, between office doors. Each office had a large, black-tinted window that revealed nothing about who or what was inside, though presumably the people in the offices could look out into the hall.

She led him past an empty assistant's desk, white and plain and curved into a semicircle. The wall behind it was floor-to-ceiling black-tinted glass, with a single door. She opened it and led Seth inside.

“Mr. Breisgau,” she said. “This is Jonathan Barrett.”

“Come on in.” The man who rose behind the desk might have been in his fifties, with silver streaks in his dark hair, but the solid form beneath his tailored suit looked like it belonged to a professional boxer. His hand gripped Seth's.

“Would you like coffee? Or water?” the young woman asked.

“I already had some, thanks.”

“Thank you, Misty,” Breisgau said. She closed the door behind her as she left. Breisgau's blue eyes locked on Seth's, and he offered a salesman's smile. “Have a seat, Mr. Barrett.”

“You can call me Seth.” Seth took one of the leather-upholstered chairs in front of the man's desk.

“Then call me Jerome.” Breisgau sat across from him. “Sorry about the delay. I was in a meeting. What can Hale Global do for you, Seth?”

“I saw you offer ransom and extraction services for people who've been kidnapped. Like those two oil executives in Nigeria last year.”

“You've done your research.” Breisgau shook his head. “Kidnap and ransom is a multibillion-dollar business around the world, unfortunately. And American businesspeople are the number one targets. Do you know somebody who's been captured?”

“Maybe,” Seth said.

“Maybe?”

“It's my girlfriend, Jenny.” Seth fought to stay calm. Just saying her name made him want to cry. “She disappeared a while ago. I think someone might have kidnapped her.”

“How long ago?”

“A couple of weeks. There was a riot in Charleston.”

Breisgau nodded. “I saw that on Fox News.”

“That was the last time I saw her. She hasn't been home or called her dad, which is really strange for her.”

“You think something happened to her during the riot?”

“Right.”

“There's been no contact at all since? No ransom demands?”

“No,” Seth said. “Well, there was a postcard, from Seattle, sent to her father.”

“What did it say?”

“It claimed to be from Jenny. She said she was traveling around on her own and she was happy.”

“But you don't think it was from her?” Breisgau asked.

“It didn't really sound like her,” Seth said. “And the choice of the postcard...I don't know, it just feels wrong to me. Plus, she would have called her dad by now.”

“Wouldn't she have called you, too?”

“She was sort of mad at me last time she saw me.”

“So...maybe she's just taking a break. Going to 'find herself.'” He made finger quotes in the air. “You know. Women.”

“Maybe you're right,” Seth said. “I hope you're right. But...” Seth shrugged. He was feeling very nervous now, hoping they didn't turn down his case. “What if they took her?”

“Do you have any idea who might have kidnapped her?”

“I do,” Seth said. He almost told the man about Ashleigh, but Ashleigh was officially dead. Her spirit had inhabited Darcy's body temporarily. He had no idea what kind of body she might have now. “There's...four of them.”

Breisgau grabbed a light pen and scribbled something on his tablet PC. “Names?”

“The first one is...the only name I have for him is 'Tommy Goodling,' but that could be a fake. I can describe him for you.”

“Where's he from?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you know about him?”

“I know what he looks like.”

Breisgau shook his head. “Next name?”

“Um, he might have a Mexican girl with him. I don't know her name. I've never even seen her, just heard about her.”

“Mexican-American or Mexican Mexican?”

“I'm not sure. I don't know anything about her.”

“What do you know about the other two?”

“One will be female,” Seth said. “But I don't know her name or what she looks like. The other one is a guy, I can describe him for you.”

“I suppose it would be too much for you to give me his name.”

“Sorry,” Seth said.

Breisgau looked at his tablet. “There's very little information here. Why do you suspect these people?”

Seth didn't know how to begin explaining that. The truth would make him sound like a crazy person. “It's just what I've heard. A group like that might have taken her.”

“Heard from who?”

“People who were at the riot.”

“Four suspected kidnappers,” Breisgau said. “No names, except an alias. No pictures. No idea where they come from or where they could have gone.”

“That's why I came here,” Seth said. “You guys are supposed to be the best. Ex-CIA guys, Secret Service guys. Right?”

Breisgau nodded. “Most of our professionals have a deep background in intelligence or Special Forces. But I'm not sure that's what you need here.”

“Why not?”

“So far, we're just looking for a teenage girl who went missing not far from her home,” Breisgau said. “She might not even be a victim of any crime. Hiring us for this is like using a flamethrower to swat a housefly.”

“You don't want to do it?”

“We'll be happy to look for her. But it's going to cost you.”

“I need somebody good,” Seth said. “And discreet.”

“All our clients enjoy full confidentiality, of course,” Breisgau said. “All of our data and communications are sealed behind the most advanced encryption available.”

“Good.”

“It seems to me that our first step would be to find the girl and assess whether she's in danger. If she's traveling around by choice, we'd have to leave her alone.”

“And if she's not?”

“Then there's a step two—ransom and extraction.”

“What if the kidnappers don't want a ransom?” Seth asked.

“Then things will get expensive fast.”

“Okay.” Seth had plenty of money in his college trust fund, which had opened up when he was accepted to college. He could at least afford Hale Security Group's retainer, and maybe the whole fee, from that fund. In any case, spending from there was the best chance to avoid his dad noticing the big chunk of missing money, at least for a while.

“We'll need her full name, pictures, Social Security number—”

“Jennifer Miriam Morton,” Seth said. He slid a manila envelope across the desk. “I have everything here.”

Breisgau opened the envelope and rifled through the pages inside. “Looks like a good start. One of our associates will probably call with follow-up questions.”