Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (13 page)

That would be nice. How’s the voice?

She tried to ignore the fact that he’d just held back from telling her the truth. Again. Why he didn’t feel he could confide in her, she didn’t know. But it set her teeth on edge. She didn’t feel like a fight now, though.

Scattered and unreliable. It’s easier to just write things down.

You have to practice. Keep doing your exercises.

I will.

Okay, sweetheart. You get a good night’s sleep then.

Good luck.

Thanks. I love you. Please, text me when you finish your session with the new doctor. I’d like to hear how it goes.

I thought you were going to be out of touch.

Maybe. But not until tomorrow night. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Sweet dreams.

When she put the phone away, she felt strangely empty. Everything was changing. And she didn’t like change.

She turned off the light and tried to sleep. After two hours, she finally drifted off, the lost children of strangers heavy on her mind.

Baldwin hated not being able to share everything that was happening with Taylor. It was better that way, safer for her. She didn’t need the details. After the debacle last year, when one of Atlantic’s premier assassins had decided to come after Baldwin through Taylor, he’d become adamant about keeping his personal life out of his professional life. He didn’t make a lot of friends when he worked with Atlantic. He was fairly certain that would be the case tonight.

One of those nonfriends was the next call he made.

He put the phone to his ear, let it ring once, twice, three times, before a heavy voice answered. Baldwin could tell the man had been drinking. He didn’t know if that would work in his favor, or against.

“She’s safe in bed. Unmolested, I might add. Surely you don’t think I’m that much of a heel,” the cultured, lackadaisical voice of Memphis Highsmythe said.

“That’s not what I was calling about. I need your help.”

“Oh. Quite. Whatever can I do for you, Baldwin?”

“Who do you know at MI-6?”

“Goodness. Planning on giving up all the state secrets? A fresh Wikileak from the FBI?”

“Seriously, Memphis. I need a favor.”

Memphis’s voice lost its jocular sarcasm. “What level of favor are we talking about?”

“One from the very top.”

Memphis sighed. “That would be Nigel then.”

Sir Nigel Ainsley was just the man he wanted to speak with. Knighted in his forties, subsequently involved in the arms-to-Iraq deal, Ainsley had been outed as an agent, then retired, so to speak, to MI-6, where he ran the men and women he’d previously been a peer of. He was an exemplary spy, well known for his genial manner and first-rate discretion.

Discretion Sir Nigel applied when arranging to use members of Atlantic’s Angelmakers. He’d been the last to engage the now-errant Julius’s services. Memphis didn’t need to know that.

“Good. That’s who I was hoping for. Can you ask if he’d be willing to speak with me?”

“I can. But why? What sort of scheming is the FBI up to? Speaking of which, I’m a bit chafed at you. Getting me pulled back to New Scotland Yard last month wasn’t necessary.”

“Wasn’t me. I swear it.” He was telling the truth, too, he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger. There had been concern about Memphis from other quarters. Granted, Baldwin had cheered silently when Memphis had been pulled off the Quantico counterterrorism detail, but it had come from within his own service, not from Baldwin’s end.

“Ah. Interesting. Why, exactly, can’t you call him yourself?”

“Classified.”

“Right.”

“I’m available by phone for the next hour if he can spare me five minutes.”

“Fine. I’ll call him. But I’m going to need a favor in return, then.”

“Anything within reason.”

“My case. I’m probably dealing with a religious zealot who is schizophrenic. I make this call, you give me some guidance on how to approach him. Deal?”

Hardly a big price to pay. “Deal.”

“Thank you. Have a pleasant evening, Baldwin.”

“Memphis, wait.”

“Yes?”

“How is she?”

There was a pause. “You were right. She’s exceptionally fragile. But stubborn. The essential spark of her is still there. She has a pure heart. She will get through this.”

Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. Please, let me know if anything changes.”

“I will. Good night.”

“You as well, Memphis.”

Keep your grubby paws off my woman,
he added silently.

Memphis hung up the phone and stared at it a few minutes. John Baldwin, profiler extraordinaire, in need of a private chat with Sir Nigel Ainsley. The call was a ruse; Baldwin could get through to Ainsley anytime he wanted. He just wanted to check on Taylor.

He couldn’t say that he blamed him.

He placed the call, had Nigel’s assistant cum bodyguard roust the man from his nightly game of dominoes. It was late, but Nigel would be up, in his library, an untouched Macallan 18 at his elbow, engrossed in his game. He sounded slightly annoyed when he answered, though years of interruptions tempered his aggravation. Especially since the disruption came from the son of one of his oldest friends.

“Sir Nigel. A pleasure.”

“Ah, Lord Dulsie. It’s been too long. How is your father?”

“Just headed to South Africa as we speak. We celebrated his birthday yesterday.”

“I hope he received the Benelli 20-bore. I had that stock hand engraved by a company called A&A, in South Dakota. The real Wild West.”

“He did. He loved it. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him soon.”

“Ah, good, good. At our age, any birthday is preferable to none, and we all need our toys.”

“I’m sure it is. Sir, I have a request. A friend has asked to speak with you. Can you make a call?”

“I’m all tucked in for the night. Tell him to call me at the office tomorrow.”

“He’s an American. FBI. I trust him. If he needs you, it’s important. I’m assuming that he must speak to you outside of your
official
capacity.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Memphis decided to sweeten the pill. “Fancy a bit of sport? I’ll let you have the run of the estate, whenever you’re next north of the border.” Sir Nigel was as rabid about hunting as he was terrorists and other threats to Queen and country.

Sir Nigel chuckled. “Not above a bribe, are you?”

“Now that’s not a nice term.”

“All right, James. For you. Tell your father hullo and I intend to help him break that Benelli in. I’d best be going if I have any hope of finishing my game.”

Memphis imparted Baldwin’s information and hung up, pleased. A shoot on the estate was a small price to pay for a favor from Ainsley. He wondered if Ainsley suspected something was up already, and that’s why he agreed to talk with the strange American so easily. Ah, well. He’d find out about that in the morning.

He had a lovely outing planned for Taylor tomorrow. He forced away the waves of sorrow that had enveloped him since their postprandial chat. Told Evan’s ghost to leave.

Thought about Taylor’s glossy blond hair, and her eyes, the two mismatched grays competing for his attention. He didn’t know if he could win her or not, but he’d damn well enjoy trying.

She walked the corridor, the familiar length of the hall leading to Memphis’s office, the warm, crackly fire beckoning her in. She was barefoot, dressed in a long, silk nightgown with a richly embroidered robe atop it, her hair pulled into a braid that spilled down her back. Her stomach was distended, full of the child they’d created.

She was worried. Would he be there? The note said to meet him before dawn, before the house awoke. But the house never truly slept. Watchers were everywhere. She knew what foolishness this was, but couldn’t help herself. Just the thought of him, his eyes, deeper blue than any loch, the sharpness of his jaw, the gentleness of his hands. She needed him.

Her hand was on the door now. He was inside. She could smell him. The scent made her careless, and her heart pulsed between her thighs. She pushed open the door.

Blood. Blood everywhere. The room was drenched. The walls dripped with the scent of sex, of lust dampened by the coppery tinge. She tasted it on her tongue, turned to vomit. Once she finished retching, she forced herself inside the room, shut the door behind her. She knew what had caused this. She was to blame. She’d pushed and cajoled.

His body, upright in the chair.

Her lover.

She went to him, careful not to drag the trails of her nightgown in the blood. Her arms skimmed the walls; so much blood. Seeping, all around her. The floor was getting deeper, the tide rushing in, covering her feet now. She moved forward until she could touch his arm. One last time.

Memphis turned, his face a compilation of holes, empty. “Leave here,” he moaned. “Leave before it’s too late.”

She began to scream, louder and louder, until he raised up a bloody hand to quiet her, a hand with a gun, and she saw the muzzle flash as she yanked herself from his grasp, backed away quickly, heedless of the mess.

The bump of her body against something jarred her.

Taylor could feel her spine against the wooden paneling, her arms raised as if she were warding off an attack. She was drenched in sweat, her T-shirt sticking to her body like she’d been swimming in it.

Red, everywhere. Blood.

Her breath came short. She was dying. She could feel her body slipping away into nothingness. Feel the pain in her head grow larger, stronger, until the red was replaced by black.

She couldn’t breathe. She had to breathe.

She forced her eyes open.

The room was empty.

She let her hands drop to her side, realized her heart was pounding against her chest wall so hard it hurt. She breathed in several times, square breaths, trying to get her heart rate to slow.

Her eyes adjusted, the darkened space coming into focus. She was in her bedroom in the castle. Against the wall across from her bed. Not Memphis’s office. And not in the attic of the Snow White’s house facing the Pretender, stepping in the blood of her best friend’s child.

It took a few minutes until she felt like she had herself back under control. She edged to the side table and turned on a lamp. The room leapt from the darkness as if it too was disturbed.

There was nothing sinister about it anymore. It was just a bedroom.

Her breath came more normally now.

Jesus. That was a whopper of a dream. She was used to having crazy nightmares, but Memphis’s wild stories must have really landed in her subconscious. She’d actually felt like the scene was real. She touched her stomach, flat and taut. Crazy. She had felt the child inside her, moving.

And sleepwalking. My God, she hadn’t done that since she was a child.

Her mind reached into the tendrils of the dream. The blood felt so familiar. Her blood. The floor of the attic rising up to meet her, the primal scream the Pretender made as he raised his arm. Stupid, stupid girl, letting him get a gun on her.

She’d gotten herself into this mess. And now look at her. Locked away from everyone, unable to cry for help. She should have never tried to take him down alone.

Taylor knew she wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night. She went into the sitting area, snapping lights on as she went.

Heineken. Second half of Ativan. Another Percocet. Stood at the window until she started feeling a bit fuzzy around the edges.

That was better.

Her legs were feeling a bit wobbly. She sat down at the desk, hard, and opened her laptop. The castle had a strong wireless signal. Memphis had mentioned that they had a T1 line running directly into the castle, lightning-quick. She assumed that the room was also wired. How else would it penetrate those thick stone walls?

Seeking something mundane, she checked her email, deleting three from the various television stations around Nashville wanting interviews—my God, they were relentless—then sent Sam a note. That made her feel better, more grounded.

She closed the computer, helped herself to another beer, and parked in front of the television. She started surfing the channels idly, wishing for her pool table. Surely the castle had a billiards room? She’d have to ask Memphis, though to be honest, she didn’t particularly want to go roaming around this place alone at night.

She settled on a crazy reality show where the contestants were made to strip down so the audience could assess their bodies in an attempt to bolster their flagging self-esteem. That would be a hit in America.

There was a soft knock on her chamber door.

“It’s me,” a low voice said. Memphis.

She was wearing a T-shirt and boxers. Not decent. She grabbed her sweater from the chair and tossed it on. Grabbed her notepad. Went to the door. Opened it.

Memphis stood in the hall, hair sticking up, a blue-and-cream-striped robe half pulled on his shoulders. She smiled.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded.

Of course. Why?

He looked at her like she was an idiot. “You were screaming.”

I was? Funny. I don’t have my voice back. Maybe you heard something else.

“No, Taylor, it was definitely you.”

She didn’t know whether to be happy that things were functional, or embarrassed.

I’m fine. Truly.

He leaned against the door frame.

“I would have come sooner… Honestly, I debated whether coming to you was the best idea.”

At least he was aware of that.

Cold air was leaking in from the hall. She could see him shiver a bit. She pulled the door open wider, gestured for him to come in. Latched it behind him. He went straight to the fire and stirred it up, then turned back to her, the glow from the flames outlining his broad shoulders.

“Bad dreams?” he asked.

No more reason to pretend. He was here now. She wondered if she’d brought him subconsciously. Summoned him.

She sat at the desk and crossed her legs, prim and proper.

You could say that. It was bizarre. You told me to leave.

He stayed statue still in front of the fire. “I’d never tell you that. It’s the last thing I want. I want you to stay. To be here.”

He paused. His face was jagged in the firelight.

“I will never lie to you, Taylor. I’ve been as open and up front about my feelings as I can. I respect that you’re with Baldwin. Hate it, but respect it. I promise, I will never do anything that you don’t want. But right now, I’m going to ask a favor. Can I stay here tonight?”

She was taken aback. It was a great speech, completely controverted by the last statement. But he looked like a very frightened child.

I don’t know if that’s such a great idea, Memphis.

He tipped his head. “Your virtue is safe with me, my lady. I’d just like the company. We can sleep, or talk. If you think about it, we’ve been talking every night for the past several weeks. I missed it tonight. And seeing as you’re having bad dreams, maybe we can help keep each other entertained for a bit. At least until you’re ready to go back to sleep.”

What if I want to go back to sleep right now?

Careful, Taylor. Careful
.

He watched her warily, trying to ascertain any hidden meaning, or openings. Apparently sensing she was sincerely interested in sleep, or at least too drunk to stand up properly, he waved a hand toward the bed.

“Then by all means, do so. I’ll watch over you in case you have any more bad dreams.”

She broke eye contact, fiddled with the TV remote. He was right. They
had
been talking every night. He’d been the one she turned to when Baldwin had shut her out. Could she blame him for treasuring that intimacy? She’d been the one letting it happen, after all. Encouraging it, if she were being honest with herself. It felt good to have a friend she could count on.

All right. But
just sleeping
, Memphis. I am tired, and I’d like to try to get some rest.

He gave her that wicked smile that made her feel funny inside. “Of course.”

She hesitated for another moment, then powered down the TV. Picked up her pen.

Turn off the lights.

He did.

The darkness felt different. Not as foreboding. Safer.

She went into the bedroom, pulled off her sweater and climbed back into the bed. Memphis lay down next to her, careful to point out that he was on top of the covers. She plumped up her pillow and stared at the ceiling.

They were quiet for a few minutes, then Memphis started to sing. It was a soft tune, quiet, and she got the sense that it was a lullaby of sorts. She let the words roll over her, her eyes shutting, all the fight gone out of her.

Maybe she could sleep again after all. With Memphis there to protect her.