Fade To Midnight (36 page)

Dorothea's eyelids flickered. She stared at Sean's face. Then she stepped back into her office, and gestured them in. “Let's talk.”

Jamal tried to come in, too, but she grabbed the kid by the scruff of the neck and scrubbed at his wild, curly mop with her knuckles. “You go find Tracee, and tell her to give you some of those brownies we got from the bakery this morning,” she said. “Soft and fudgy.”

Jamal was off like a shot. Dorothea closed the door, waved them into chairs, and studied them from across her desk, which was heaped with battered file folders and diverse rainbow tinted Post It notes, scribbled with numbers, reminders. “So?” Dorothea asked. “Ask your questions. I'll see if I can help you.”

Sean stared down at this hands, refusing to let them clench into fists. “My brother disappeared eighteen years ago,” he said. “We have reason to believe that he was abducted, and badly injured. We never found him again. A few days ago, we found this.” Liv pulled the Fade Shadowseeker book out of her purse. Sean handed it to the woman.

Dorothea flicked her eye over it. “I'm familiar with it,” she said. “Jamal has showed me. The resemblance is uncanny.”

Excitement exploded inside him. “So you've seen him?”

She stared at him. “I mean, to you,” she said stiffly.

Sean's throat tightened. “Have you seen him, or not?”

“If I had, I certainly wouldn't be doing him a service by advertising that fact, now, would I?” Dorothea replied. “A man like him, with those scars? It's clear he has enemies.”

“We're not Kev's enemies,” Liv said.” She opened her purse, fished for the envelope, and pulled out the handful of battered photographs.

Kev and Sean together, at eight, at twelve, at sixteen, and nineteen, at Sean's high school graduation. The few pictures that existed. Crazy Eamon hadn't been big on capturing the memories.

Dorothea fanned the photos out, and stared at them. A very long couple of minutes ticked by. She sighed, sharply.

“Your brother is the most generous private financial donor that Any Port has ever had, since we opened our doors in '91,” she said. “He's given us one hundred and fifty-one thousand dollars. Over the past three months alone. Manila envelopes stuffed with cash started showing up in the mail slot. I was worried that something strange was going on. Drug money, I don't know. So I had a camera installed, and I was just about to hire a private investigator to follow the man who left the envelopes when he rang the bell one morning, at five
A.M
.”

“Valerie, right?” Liv said.

Dorothea blinked. “Why, yes. He'd defended her from a customer who'd gotten violent. He wanted to make sure she got help. I recognized him, and confronted him about the money. He gave me an envelope then and there. Told me not to worry, that he'd won it at poker, but didn't need it. He wanted to spread it around.” She hesitated. “He seemed like a very decent man.”

“Huh,” Sean muttered. “I'm glad he doesn't have financial problems, at least. That's something. But poker? Jesus.”

“How was he?” Liv asked softly.

Dorothea face went cautious. “He did not seem very happy,” she said. “And he did not look…well. He looked kind of lost.”

“He is lost,” Sean said. “But he's getting found. Once and for all.”

The tone in his voice made Dorothea look alarmed, but Liv reached out across the desk, and took the older woman's hand. “We would never hurt him, in a million years. You remember his scars?”

Dorothea nodded.

“He got those scars saving my life,” Liv said quietly. “We love him, and we miss him. That's all. I want my son to know his uncle.”

Dorothea nodded. She rubbed at her eyes, and dug into her desk for a big address book. She flipped through it, grabbed a pink Post-It, scribbled. She held the note out to Liv, shooting worried looks at Sean. As if he might leap across the desk like a rabid dog.

Sean looked at it. There it was. His brother's surname. Larsen, of all things. Fucking bland. NW Lenox Street. His address. Check it out. Kev's location, in time and space. After all these years. Hot damn.

His stomach flipped, churned. His glands fired out bizarre conflicting messages, joy, terror, fury, hope. He barely made it through the chitchat, the thank-you's. He heard Liv asking Dorothea to make sure Jamal got home safely. Thank God for her presence of mind. He'd spaced that detail completely. Then Liv was towing him down the stairs, and out toward the vehicle. “Give me the keys,” she said, sternly.

He looked at her belly as he pulled them out. “But you—”

“Can drive pregnant.” She plucked them from his hand, and shoved him toward the passenger side. “Shut up. Get in.”

They sat for a moment, locked in their own thoughts, but after she put the keys in the ignition, Liv reached for him, threading her fingers through his own. Squeezing. He squeezed back, gratefully. Warmth, support, love. It flooded into him from her in comforting waves. She set the GPS, asked it to lead her to Kev's address.

He concentrated on just keeping it together. Sure, he could yank Liv off her feet, he could carry her up a few flights of stairs. But when it came to the stuff that mattered, oh, man.

She carried him. Every damn time.

“I
just can't thank you enough for making time in your busy schedule this morning, Mr. Parrish.” Ava's breathy voice hitched with emotion. “Des mentioned that it's a difficult period for your family, so I'm all the more grateful for your time.”

Charles Parrish shot a look at Des, and leafed through the thick binder that lay on his desk in the massive, luxurious office in the Helix headquarters building. “It looks like a fascinating project,” he admitted, in grudging tones. “My compliments.”

Ava murmured her thanks, clearly flustered by attention from the big man. Able to bestow or withhold his blessing. How the bastard must get off on his power over people, day after day. Prick.

“She's made amazing strides in cerebral interfaces,” Des added. “The neuroprosthesis controllers have amazing ramifications for the treatment and therapy of patients with brain and spinal cord injuries. This research will give Helix an explosion in value and in prestige.”

“Yes,” Charles Parrish said fretfully, rubbing his temples. “That's very impressive, but it could just have easily have gone through the normal channels for requesting grant funding. Frankly, I don't understand the urgency of bringing this to my attention this morning, Desmond. We have a meeting next month. We could have handled this then. Why the big fuss about meeting with me today?”

“This is special,” Des said stubbornly. “I didn't want it lost in the shuffle. It's explosive, Charles. Time sensitive, too. We need to stay ahead of the competition.”

Ava touched Parrish's hand, and yanked it back, as if overcome by her own boldness. “Maybe I'm pushing my luck,” she said. “But I would be honored to give you a private demonstration of my work. Any time. “She leaned over the desk, letting the dangling frill of her blouse brush Parrish's sleeve. Giving him a clear view of the shapely tits dangling inside. Braless, springy, dewy, soft. “Could I?”

Parrish's eyes flicked to the bounty she offered, and darted to her full, glossy parted lips, her highly accentuated lumbar arch. “Well,” he muttered. “Ah.”

“I know you're a very busy man.”
But never too busy to want a little more of this.
Ava ventured a breathless giggle. “I'm being greedy with your time, but hey. Can't blame a girl for trying, right?”

“Ah, no.” Parrish coughed. “I'll…take a look at my schedule.”

Ava lit up with delight. “I'd be so honored.”

Des shoved the paper in front of Parrish, on his desk. “And if you would just sign off on this? That way, at the next meeting, the board won't even have to deliberate, since they see that you already approved it. You know, just to speed things along.”

Parrish frowned down at the paper. His gaze flicked up to Ava, sweeping over her body, her wide, hopeful dark eyes. He signed.

“Oh, thank you!” Ava's hand whipped up, and she squirted the inhalant into Parrish's face. He went still, eyes staring.

“Quick, Des.” The breathy giggle was gone. Her voice was as hard as glass. “This will metabolize in just a couple of minutes.”

Des knelt, yanked off Parrish's Ferragamo shoe, peeled off his sock. Ava crouched down, poised on the stiletto heels, and held up the hypodermic needle, smiling into Parrish's frozen face, his horrified eyes. “I'm so glad you found time in your schedule for me,” she said sweetly. “I'm about to give you a demonstration of my current research project that will blow your mind, Mr. Parrish. And I mean that quite literally.”

With that, she jabbed the needle between his toes and pushed in the plunger. Parrish jerked, but could not scream. Ava briskly put Parrish's sock and shoe back on. She tied the laces of Parrish's shoe and leaped up, rummaging in her purse. She pulled out the mesh slave crown, and shook it in Parrish's face. “Your foundation has plowed two hundred million into this thing over the past ten years,” she told him. “It's time you gave it a whirl.” She swung her leg over his, and sat on his lap, straddling him. “Here,” she murmured tenderly. “I'll fix you up.”

“For God's sake, Ava! We don't have time for depraved games!”

“I'm just placing his crown,” she said, wounded, leaning forward so that her breasts were shoved into Parrish's face, smothering his nose between them. “Here, honey. Come to Mama.”

Des snorted. “Are you wearing underwear, at least?”

“Why, yes! A lovely red lace thong. I picked red on purpose. Don't you think it's appropriate? It's the theme of the day. Red.”

“As long as you don't lube all over his suit, you crazy bitch. God knows what the forensic techs would make of that.”

“Trust me, baby.” She placed the crown on Charles Parrish's head, and pulled out one of her hairpins, which she used to pluck locks of Parrish's thick, glossy silver hair through the mesh. The hair covered the contact points nicely. Thank goodness the man wasn't bald. Not that it made that much difference. The security cameras at the Parrish Foundation building that would catch the scene would be very far away. But even so. It was best to be careful. Attentive to every detail.

“Hurry,” Desmond fretted. “You need to adjust my crown, too.”

“All these years, and you still can't adjust a master crown by yourself,” she bitched. “Idiot. I should tattoo the contact points on your scalp.” She leaned back, admiring the effect on Parrish. “You look beautiful,” she told the man, archly. “I could just kiss you.”

“But she won't,” Des cut in. “Because she's not stupid enough to leave lipstick and saliva all over you.”

Ava pouted. “You're such a spoilsport, Des. Come here, let me fix you up. Sure you don't want me to crown him instead?”

“We've been through this,” Des said defensively. “I know you think I suck, but this is not a particularly complicated operation.”

“Fine.” Ava slapped the crown onto Des's thick mahogany hair, used the pin to pull locks of his hair through it, adjusted the sensors over his skull. Almost invisible. Then she hurried over to Parrish, adjusted him in his chair, placed his hands on his desk.

“Try him,” she directed. “He should be ready by now.”

Des closed his eyes, and concentrated. Charles Parrish stared, in stark horror, as he lifted his hands, clapped them awkwardly. He clapped again, more clearly, more loudly. He stuck his thumbs into his ears, waggled his fingers. “Peter P-p-piper p-p-picked a p-peck of pickled p-p-pepper,” he said, his voice thick and slurred.

“You have to do better than that,” Ava scolded.

Des tried again. “P-peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” Parrish repeated, more clearly. His eyes were full of stark horror.

Prick. He thought he owned the world. That everyone in it was his flunkey. And to think he'd fondly fancied that he would be bending her over a lab table today, pumping away like a beast in rut. He would suffer for having even dreamed it. Randy old boar. Ready for the slaughterhouse. His time had come.

“Close his mouth, Des,” she said. “And see if you can do something about his eyes. They look like they're about to pop out.”

Des had a hard time wrangling Parrish's facial musculature. The result was marginally better. The best she could expect of Des, anyway. She should have insisted on crowning herself, but it was too late now. Their window of opportunity was shrinking fast. A drop of blood was edging out of Parrish's nose. It broke its surface tension, flashed down the side of the man's mouth, began to drip off his chin. His eyes began to dart. He was a poor interface subject. Too old, too male, too rigid.

“Get the papers he signed. Fast.” Desmond's voice shook with strain. “He's about to pop.”

Ava grabbed the papers. Parrish was sagging over his desk, gasping and hitching. Blood plopped onto his blotter. His lungs had locked. The drug was paralyzing him. He could no longer breathe unassisted.

For the love of God, did she have to think of everything? “Make him breathe, you idiot!” she hissed. “He's suffocating!”

Big heaving breaths shook the older man, his chest jerking.

“Don't make him hyperventilate,” she warned. “You hack. This is the last time I let you crown, you hear me?”

It was time for the blessed event. Ava's heart began to pound.

“Have him light up a cigar,” she told Desmond. “Let the pompous bastard die puffing a fat cat Cuban cigar.”

Des jerked open Parrish's desk drawer, and pulled a cigar out of a box. He trimmed it, lit it. Dickhead. He could have compelled Parrish to do it himself. Would have looked better for the crime scene analysts. Then Ava saw rivulets of blood running over Parrish's mouth. Maybe that scenario was no longer feasible. Meltdown was at hand.

Des stuck the cigar into Parrish's hand, grabbed Ava's hand, and dragged her to the far wall of the room. They stood there, backs to the wall, hearts tripping. Ava opened her purse, pulled out a plastic bag, the kind used to isolate medical waste. “Have him turn around. Back to the window,” she instructed, breathless. “We want the exit wound to take out his face.”

Their fingers twined together. Des's jaw twitched. Sweat stood out on his forehead as he compelled Parrish to rise to his feet, puff on the cigar. The older man's lungs seized up, and he coughed.

“Forget the cigar. Just get him over to the fucking window!” she whispered furiously. “Quick!”

“Shut up and let me concentrate!” Des snarled back.

Parrish stumbled like a zombie. Blood was trickling out of his ear, but he did not fall. He lurched over to the panoramic window that showed the Helix complex, the Parrish Foundation building, the Portland skyline. Mount Hood towered in the distance. He turned around, back to the window, swaying.

Ava lifted her purse to shield her face. Seconds ticked by. Three. Four. Goddamnit, Ken,
hurry
. She needed air, but didn't dare breathe. A scream was forming inside her, a throat-ripping, head-splitting scream.

She struggled to keep it on a leash. Time enough for screaming later, when it would serve their cause. Eight. Nine. Ten—

Crash.
They'd been braced for the shot, for the shatter, but the hugeness of the sound still rocked them.

It took a moment, to take stock of the new, revised universe. The walls, furniture, all spattered a bright arterial red. Parrish, sprawled on his cream-colored rug, a hole where his face had been. His brains, spread out in a pinkish fan around him. The bright, cruel glitter of broken glass.

Fresh, cold air rushed into the room.

Ava and Des picked their way over to Charles's body. She fell to her knees, plucked the crown out of the corpse's blood-soaked hair. It was intact. Ken's bullet had not damaged it in the slightest. Good.

Her knees were getting lacerated by broken glass, but she forced herself to ignore it. It would look good when the emergency medical personnel got there. She dropped the slave crown into the bag, passed it to Des. Des shoved it into his coat. Her clothes were too tight to hide it.

Ava dabbed Charles Parrish's blood artfully onto her face, then over her white blouse, on the ruffly silk frill. She tasted it. So hot.

The metallic taste of blood unleashed her. She gave in, let go. Once she started screaming, she knew she wasn't going to be able to stop, not until they gave her a shot of Demerol. But that was all right. She lived for these moments. Sweet relief.

She let the screaming carry her away. Thundering through inner space to that extreme, wordless, mindless place far beyond herself.

The only place that she could rest.

 

Miles was immensely pleased with himself. He glanced at the cell phone on the passenger seat of his car. Twitching to grab it and punch the speed dial. He had to tell somebody, or he was going to pop a vein.

He stopped himself. Not yet. This was too good to waste. He was going to do a personal show-and-tell, and be right there to see Con and Davy's jaws thunk onto the floor. Sweet. When did he, geeky old Miles, ever get a chance to surprise or one-up a McCloud guy? Short answer: never. They were always ten steps ahead of everybody else. Always.

He pulled up in front of Con's house, where he was meeting Cindy and the rest of the McCloud crowd for lunch, and was gratified to see Davy's SUV outside. That meant little Jeannie would be wrapped around his head along with Kevvie, but what the hell, Unkie Miles was already toast. Their personal kickball, squeeze toy and body servant. He'd even been known to change a diaper in emergencies, though he'd become highly skilled in evasive maneuvers when it came to baby poop.

He grabbed the box from his back seat, ran into the house. Sure enough, he was ambushed and felled by a screaming three-year-old ninja warrior. As he lay twitching and gurgling in his death throes, Jeannie dove onto his head with a screech of blood-thirsty triumph, practically fracturing his skull.
Shit, that hurt.

It took a while to let the grisly, choking and writhing death drama play out to its conclusion, and even longer to gently but firmly convince Jeannie and Kevvie that he wasn't going to go outside, come back in and let them attack him again. He usually did, six or eight times. Not today. He was on fire to show Con and Davy what was in that box.

The kids were dragged off him and plunked in front of some fuzzy puppet cavorting on TV, and Miles proceeded into the dining area with his prize. He was the last to arrive, and the table was heaped. Self-satisfaction gave a guy a real appetite.

“Hey, Miles. A beer?” Con handed him one.

Miles took a swig, eyeing the platter of fresh char-grilled salmon steaks with lemon and coriander that Margot was laying on the table. But even great food and ice cold brew couldn't distract him from his presentation. It was bursting out. “Got something for you guys.”

“Yeah?” Davy popped a red potato into his mouth. “Let's have it.”

“It's a visual thing,” he said, digging out his pocket knife and tearing into the box. “A kite. Found it in a sports catalog this morning. Got online, made some calls. Found a local sports retailer in Tacoma who carried the exact design. So instead of having it overnighted, I just drove down to Tacoma and bought it.” He slapped a folder of computer printouts onto the table. “Found the outfit who designed it, too. Lost Boys, based out of Portland, run by Bruno Ranieri. Ever heard of him?”