Books by Maggie Shayne (83 page)

No, Tamara thought. She didn't need to hear it because she'd seen it. She rose slowly, thanked Rose Sversky and left. As she rode up in the elevator her fingers touched the tiny marks on her neck. They were barely noticeable now. She frowned as the doors opened on the ground floor, and she walked out to the Cadillac as if in a daze.

She'd wasted most of the day talking to people who lived along Jamey's route home from school, and more of it waiting while Rose Sversky examined the gauze pad. Mechanically she drove home, showered and changed into a black skirt with a white silk blouse Daniel had bought her one Christmas. As she did, her head pounded and her heart ached. She wanted so badly to find some answer to Daniel's death other than the obvious one. Her mind kept offering hopeful hints as reasons to doubt Eric's guilt, but she had to wonder if she was only seeing what she wanted to see. The fact that Curt claimed to have heard Daniel scream, and kicked the door in to see Eric biting him, was in conflict with what Rose had said about Daniel being unconscious when his jugular was slashed. But Curt might be confused, or might have heard Daniel scream just before he was knocked out. The fact that Eric would not need to cause such a bloody mess could be valid, or perhaps he'd just been as cruel as possible in eliminating his tormentor.

Eric? Cruel? Never.

She did what she could to repair the ravages of emotional upheaval with a coat of makeup, then went to the church in downtown By ram and sat in the front pew for a brief, pat sermon. It was, she figured, an all-purpose sermon they kept on hand for people whose names remained on the rolls but who'd given up attending services long ago.

When it was over she sat with a plastic smile firmly in place, and accepted condolences of all in attendance. Mostly co-workers, she noted. Daniel's work had been his life. It would have been more appropriate to hold the service in his office, or his basement lab.

When it was over. Curt came to her, took her hands and drew her to her feet. She'd been aware of him sitting a few seats away and watching her pensively all through the service. "Going home?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'm exhausted. I don't think any of this has sunk in yet."

"How's the hunt for the kid progressing?"

She sighed. "It isn't. I'm going to ask Kromwell to get the FBI involved. He has friends there."

"So do I," Curt said quickly. "Why don't you let me do that for you?"

Her eyes narrowed briefly. His smile seemed false, somehow. Then again, hers probably did, too. Hers was false. "Okay. I'll take any help I can get." She swallowed as the uneasiness she felt niggled harder. "It was sweet of you to stay with me last night, Curt. But if you don't mind, I'd kind of like to be alone tonight. I need. . . to sort things out. Do you understand?"

He nodded. "Call if you need me." He leaned over, pressed a brief kiss on her lips and squeezed her shoulders. She watched him leave, and pulled on her jacket. She was headed for the door herself when a soft hand on her arm stopped her. She turned, and at the sympathetic look on Hilary's face she instantly burst into tears.

Hilary hugged her hard and they stood that way until Tamara had cried herself out. She felt cleansed, and was grateful for a friend she could cry with. Hilary dabbed at her own damp eyes. "You know if you need anything. . ."

"I know." Tamara nodded, and swiped her wet face with an impatient hand.

"Is there any word on the little boy?"

Tamara met Hilary's doe eyes and felt another good cry coming on. She sniffed, and fought the fresh tears. "No, nothing yet. I found a piece of gauze with traces of chloroform on it near the spot where he was last seen. There was a trace of blood, too, and I'll be able to confirm it was his as soon as I check with his mother about his type."

"Why would you have to do that?"

Tamara only frowned.

"You're telling me you don't know James on Bryant's blood type?"

"No, I don't. I suppose it's in his records, but—"

"I guess it's in his record. It was one of the first things put in his records. It's the same as yours, Tamara. That Belladonna thing. I can't believe you didn't know."

"Belladonna?" Tamara couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Hilary, how do you know this?"

"I was the one who got the order to enter all of his medical records into DPI computers under level one. I remember thinking that was pretty high for simple medical records, but—"

"Who gave the order?"

Hilary frowned. "I don't know, it came down through channels. Look, I probably shouldn't be discussing any of this with you, Tam. I mean, it is filed under level one, and your security clearance "

"Isn't high enough," Tamara said slowly. Tamara left then, with Hilary frowning after her. She got into the car and drove away from the church, barely paying attention to traffic. "He has the antigen," she mumbled to herself. "Does he have the lineage, too?"

"Of course he does. That's why his psychic link with me is stronger than with anyone else."

Whoever ordered those records at level one deliberately classified them beyond her security clearance, she realized slowly. They didn't want her to know.

"But they knew. They knew we were close and they knew that if Jamey was in trouble, I'd go after him." She blinked fast. "Jamey was taken to get me out of the house. . . and then Daniel was murdered."

Eric could never harm a little boy. Besides, Jamey had been taken in broad daylight. Eric hadn't killed Daniel. But someone had. . . someone with access to level one data. Someone who wanted it to look like the work of a vampire. "And someone who knew about the meeting between Daniel and Eric," she whispered. She bit her lip. "Curtis?"

She almost missed the driveway. She hit the brake and jerked the wheel. She killed the engine near the front door, got out to run inside, and locked the door behind her. "My God, is it true? Was Curt angry enough to murder Daniel?" She pressed her fingertips to her temples. "What on earth has he done with Jamey?"

She swallowed a sob and ran up the stairs to Daniel's room. She found his keys in a matter of minutes and hurried back down-with them, jangling in the silent house like alarm bells. She didn't hesitate at the basement door. If she did, she'd never go down. She inserted a key, turned it and shoved the door open.

It was still only late afternoon. Outside, the sunlight glinted off the surface of the snow so brightly it was painful to see. Here a dark chasm opened up at her feet. She couldn't even see the stairs. Yet the answers to all her questions were likely a few steps below her. She had no choice but to go down.

Jamey shook his head to clear it, but it only brought excruciating pain. He'd been out cold. he knew he had, but had no idea how long. He was on his back and his arms, still tied behind him, had gone completely numb. He tried to sit up, and the pain that knifed through his chest was like nothing he'd ever felt. He thought it would tear him in half. He stopped with his body half sitting up and half lying down. But remaining like that hurt still more so he drew a breath to brace himself, and that sent more pain through him.

Grating his teeth, he shoved himself farther up, relieved when he felt a wall to his right. He leaned against it, then sat still and let the pain slowly recede. It didn't go far. As the blood rushed into his arms, they throbbed and tingled and prickled unbearably. He'd have yelled if he could, but the tape remained over his mouth. His eyes were still covered, and his ankles still bound. His lungs felt funny, and it was more than just the stabbing pain that hurt every time he inhaled. They felt the way they feel after you go swimming and get a little bit of water in them. He kept having the urge to cough, but he was terrified to give in to it. If he coughed, with this tape over his mouth, he'd probably choke to death—especially if that weird feeling in his lungs was what he thought it was. He thought it felt as if something were sticking right into his chest. A blade, a sharp edged board he'd hit on the way down, something like that. And he thought that whatever kept trying to choke up into his throat might be blood. If it was, he knew he was in a lot of trouble.

* * * * *

She flung the file to the floor in disgust, and turned to leave the small office she'd discovered. She hadn't even made it to the lab itself, which she suspected lay beyond the padlocked door to her right. She needed no more of the revelations she'd found here. In Daniel's files she'd found what he'd termed "case studies." In truth these were detailed accounts of the capture and subsequent torture of three vampires.

Two had been taken in 1959, by Daniel and his then partner, William Reinholt. The pair were described as "young and therefore not as powerful as we'd first assumed." They were "relieved of a good deal of blood to weaken them, thus assuring the safety of my partner and myself. However, they were unable to sustain the loss, and expired during the night." Another study noted was of a woman who called herself only Rhiannon, and who was "entirely uncooperative, hurling insults and abuse constantly." Due to their last efforts, they took less blood from her, leaving her too strong to deal with.

Daniel returned to the lab after hours of "tests and study" to find his partner dead, his neck broken, the bars torn from the window and the "subject" gone.

Tamara felt like cheering for the mysterious Rhiannon. She felt like crying for the man Daniel had been. A monster, just as he'd told her. She hadn't realized just how accurate that confession had been.

She stopped herself from leaving, as appalling as she found the notes. She had to continue scouring the files if she wanted to find a clue as to where Jamey had been taken. She hoped to God there was one to find. She was beginning to think this her last chance. She had a terrible certainty in the pit of her stomach that if she didn't find Jamey soon, it would too late.

She returned to the file cabinet and pawed through more files. There was none with Jamey's name on it, but she halted, her blood going cold, when her fingers touched one with her own. Slowly she withdrew the file. It was thicker than any of the others. Something inside her warned her not to open it and look inside, but she knew she had to.

Moments later she wished she hadn't. Thumbing through the pages, she'd paused when she'd seen her parents' names on one, her eyes traversing a single passage before they became too blurred to read farther.

It has been decided that I should seek to gain custody of this child. She will act as a magnet for Marquand and possibly others of the undead species. The parents, as expected, refuse to cooperate. They are, however, expendable, and of less value than the countless lives which will be saved if this experiment bears fruit. A rare viral strain has been chosen. Their exposure will be carefully contained. Death will occur within twenty-four hours.

"No," she whispered. "Oh, God, no. . ." The file fell from her nerveless fingers and sheets spread over the floor. Tamara gripped the edge of the open file drawer, her head bowed over it. Daniel had killed her parents. For a moment she conjured their images in her mind, ashamed that they were blurred and indistinct. She barely remembered them. Her memories of them, too, had been stolen from her. Daniel's refusal to discuss them. . . to allow her to keep mementos of them. . . his constant advice that her mind didn't want her to remember, that she was better off forgetting.

She drew several short, panting breaths, and forced her eyes open. She blinked the tears away and glimpsed the polished grips of a handgun, protruding from beneath the files in the drawer. Just as she reached for it a hand closed on her shoulder and pulled her backward.

She whirled. "Curtis!"

His narrow gaze raked her, then the open drawers and scattered files. "Been doing a little exploring, Tammy?"

Why had she doubted Eric, even for a second, she wondered silently. Why hadn't she gone straight to his home when she realized it must have been Curt who killed Daniel? He'd have helped her find Jamey. But it was too late for hindsight now. There was still an hour before full dark. And she still had to know where the boy was. "What have you done with Jamey, Curt?"

His brows shot up. "You have been busy. What makes you think I took the kid?"

She shook her head. "I don't think, I know. Where is he?"

"He's safe. Don't worry, I wouldn't hurt the kid. . . right away. I'd like to study him a little. Later. When I've finished with you and Marquand. Does that reassure you?"

She shook her head so hard her hair billowed around her like a dark cloud. "If you hurt him, Curtis, I swear to God—"

"You'd be better off worrying about yourself, Tammy." He took a step nearer her and she backed up. He took another. So did she. In a moment she realized he'd backed her up to the padlocked door. She stiffened. He pulled a key from his pocket, held it out to her. "Open it."

She shook her head again. "No."

"You want to see the kid, don't you?"

"Jamey?" She glanced furtively over her shoulder at the door. "He's in there?"

"Where else would I put him?"

Relief washed over her and she snatched the key from him, stabbing it into the lock and twisting. When it sprang free she jiggled it loose and shoved the door open. If she could just get to Jamey, she thought, they would be all right. It would be dark soon, and Eric would come for them. She moved into the darkened room. "Jamey? It's Tam, I'm here. It's all right... Jamey?"

The door closed and her heart plummeted when she heard locks being slid home. A flick brought a flood of light so brilliant she had to squint to see. She scanned the room, certain now that Jamey was not here. There was a table in the room's center, with straps where a person's ankles and wrists would rest, another at the head. Beside the table a chrome tray lined with gleaming instruments. Above it, a dome-shaped surgical lamp. She swallowed hard against the panic that rose within her. Beside it was the sickening realization that this was the room where the two young vampires had died at Daniel's hand, and where Rhiannon had been tortured to the point of a murderous rage before she'd made her escape.

She turned to face Curtis when she heard his approach, and in an instant he gripped her upper arms mercilessly. He pushed her backward, oblivious to her feet kicking at his shins, or her thrashing shoulders. When her back hit the table she sucked in her breath. "My God, Curt, what are you doing?"

He brought her wrists together, held them in one hand and reached for a bottle with the other. He twisted the cap off with his teeth, then held it under her nose. She twisted her head away from the frighteningly familiar scent, but her mobility was limited and his reach was long.

When her head swam and her knees buckled he set the chloroform down and shoved her roughly onto the table. A moment later she found her ankles and wrists bound tight. She blinked away the dizziness, then averted her face fast when he held pungent smelling salts to her nose.

"That's a good girl. Don't go passing out on me, now. It would defeat the whole purpose." She tried to bring the whirling room into focus, relieved when it stopped tilting and spinning. "You can summon him mentally, am I right?"

She pursed her lips, and refused to look at him.

He gripped her chin and made her face him. "Don't answer me, Tammy. I'm betting that you can. We'll soon find out, won't we?" He read her expression correctly and smiled. "You think I'm afraid of him, Tammy? I want you to call him. When he gets here, I'll be ready and waiting."

She shook her head. "I won't do it."

Curtis smiled slowly and Tamara felt a cold chill race up her spine. "I think you will," he said, bending over her to fasten the strap over her forehead, leaving her virtually paralyzed. "I think you'll be screaming for him to come by the time I'm finished." He reached to the tray, and she tried to follow his movements with her eyes. He lifted a gleaming scalpel, looked at it for a long moment, then twisted his wrist to glance at his watch. "Another twenty minutes ought to do it, honey."

* * * * *

Eric went completely rigid in his coffin as a shock of pain shot through him. Eyes wide with sudden alacrity, he flicked the latch and flung the lid back. He was on his feet in a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. He focused on Tamara. He called to her. He waited for a response but felt none.

For a brief instant he wondered if it was possible she believed what Rogers had intended she believe—that he had murdered her beloved St Claire. He dismissed the notion out of hand. She knew him too well. She was fully aware she need only look into his mind to know the truth. She wouldn't believe his guilt without giving him a chance to explain. Which was why he'd fully expected to find her waiting upstairs when he rose this evening. Instead, he sensed only emptiness. No doubt she was beside herself with grief, but he would not allow her to shut him out. He'd help her through, whether she wanted him to or not. Again he called to her. Again he received no response.

Roland rose with his usual grace, but when Eric glanced at his friend he saw an unfamiliar tension in Roland's face. He ceased his summoning of Tamara to ask, "What is it?"

"I am not sure." Roland visibly shook himself. "Have you had word from our Tamara?"

"She doesn't heed my call."

"Go to her, then. She may be out of sorts after last night, but I have no doubt she'll see the truth when you tell it. If you—" He stopped, cocking his head to one side as if listening. "Damnation!"

Eric cocked one brow, waiting for an explanation, but Roland only shook his head. "I'm still uncertain. I shall go out for a time, see if I can puzzle it out. Will you be able to manage this on your own?"

"Of course, but—"

"Good. Give my regards to our girl."

Roland spun on his heel and left as Eric watched him go, wondering what on earth was the matter. Shrugging, he returned his concentration to Tamara. Why do you ignore me, my love?

He felt no reply, then suddenly another spasm of pain shot through him, stiffening his spine. He blinked rapidly, realizing the pain must be hers in order to make itself so completely known to him.
Tamara! If you refuse to answer, I will come to you. I must know what—

No
!

Her answer rang loudly in his head, and he frowned.
You are in pain, love. What has happened to you?

Nothing. Stay away, Eric. If you love me at all, stay away.
Again, intense, jarring pain hit, nearly sending him to his knees, and he knew someone was deliberately hurting her. Rogers?

"I should have killed the bastard the first time I set eyes on him." He fairly ripped the door from its hinges in his haste to get to her. He gained the stairs, and then the frigid night air. His preternatural strength gave him the speed of a cheetah, and beyond. He raced toward her, and would have gone right through the front door had not a quavering train of thought pierced his mind. It's a trap, Eric. Stay away. Please, stay away.

He paused, his heart thudding, not with exertion but with rage and fear for Tamara. A trap, she'd said. He used his mind to track her down, then moved slowly around the house, seeking another way in. He finally knelt beside a barred window, obscured from view by shrubbery.

Tamara lay strapped to a table beneath a blinding light. Her blouse had been sliced up the center, as had her brassiere. She still wore a dark skirt. Her feet were bare. Hot pink patches of tissue oozed blood the way a sponge oozed water, in various spots over her torso. One was on the breast from which Eric himself had tasted her blood. Another, at the same spot on her throat. Rogers had amused himself by taking tissue samples, Eric realized. He now stood aside, laying a prod like instrument down and picking up what looked like a drill.

"Even that baby didn't make you call him, huh. Tam? Well, I have other tricks in my bag. I could really use a bone marrow sample." He depressed the trigger, and the drill whirred. He release it, held it poised over her lower leg. "What do you say. Tammy? Do you call or do I drill?"

Tamara's face was deathly white. Her jaw quivered, but she looked Rogers in the eye. "Drop dead," she rasped.

Shrugging, Rogers lowered a pair of plastic goggles over his eyes and lowered the drill. With a feral growl Eric smashed the glass and ripped the first bar he gripped free of the window. In a second he was inside.

"Eric, no! Go away, hurry!" Her voice was unrecognizable. The stringy bark of an ancient cherry tree, the voice of sandpaper.

Eric lunged for Curtis, who dropped the drill and lifted something that looked like an odd sort of gun. Too fast, the dart plunged into his chest. He jerked backward, gaping like a fish out of water, and fell to his knees. He gripped the dart, pulled it from his flesh and held it up, looking first at it, and then beyond it, at Rogers's triumphant leer. The drug. He'd been expecting a syringe, not a gun. He forced himself to his feet and took an unsteady step toward Rogers. "You. . . will. . . die for this," he gasped. He took another step, then sank into a bottomless pool of black mists.