Retribution (22 page)
Like it would do any good.
When I remain silent and don’t launch into a tirade, he jumps in. “Got some more information on the cream. Further analysis showed the blood in the cream is breaking down rapidly. It’s doubtful that the cream could remain potent long enough to achieve those remarkable results for more than a couple of weeks.”
Perfect to assure repeat customers. And to necessitate a steady stream of vampire donors.
Williams continues, “No official COD yet for Burke’s three test subjects. The wounds they sustained were critical but not necessarily fatal. It might take up to two weeks to get complete tox screens back.”
“Any other attacks reported?”
Another brief hesitation. I can imagine the relief he must be feeling that I’m sticking to business. I glance around the plane. There’ll be time later to pursue this flying palace.
“No,” he says. “It may be that with the declining potency of the cream, the other effects wear off as well. If the two are related.”
“What are the odds that they aren’t? What about that syringe?”
“Nothing. Preliminary results ruled out most common narcotics. Identifying the compound is going to take time.”
There’s a pause, then he adds, “There will be a car waiting for you at the airport in Denver. The person meeting you will be of assistance if you come up against Burke or any of her followers. Locate Burke as soon as you can and get back to me. I have a plane of my own standing by. I can be there in two hours. We will do this together. Remember—I intend to be in on the kill.”
I mouth the right words, tell him I understand and will wait.
It gets him off the phone.
I replace the receiver and cross to the bar. I choose a thirty-year-old scotch, pour two fingers into a glass, add a couple of ice cubes. The liquor burns my throat and hardens my resolve.
I take the little .38 I’d clipped to my belt this morning and lay it on the bar. Williams can remind me that he and I are in this together, that he has as compelling a reason to want Burke dead as I do, that Ortiz was his friend, not mine.
And he’d be right.
It doesn’t matter.
The simple truth is if I get Burke in my sights, there’s no fucking way I’m going to wait.
The drink both relaxes and settles me. Since Culebra’s black-magic illness, I’ve had little time to think through a course of action. Explains the blunders. This time I plan to be ready for any contingency.
Best-case scenario? I arrive at the address and spy Burke through a window. One shot through the forehead should do it.
Wonderful fantasy. Probably won’t happen. I have no reason to believe she’d go into hiding with, or running to, her sister. What would she be running from? Up to this point, I’ve proven to be nothing more than an inconvenience.
What if Burke has donned a new persona? What if she and this Sophie are the same person? My fingers touch the charm nestled between my breasts. I’m glad my witch friends insisted I keep it. This little beauty will identify the bitch no matter how she’s cloaked herself.
I let my head rest against the back of the seat and close my eyes. How did Burke come up with the idea of using vamp blood in a cosmetic? However it happened, that such a bizarre notion would appeal to her is not surprising. She’s sadistic and cruel. Where did she find Jason? What exactly was he? He was still attempting to turn others when I found him yesterday at his apartment. Had he been in contact with Burke? Had she set up another factory from hell somewhere? Or is it in his nature to turn others, a biological imperative of his species—whatever the hell it is.
Questions I may never get answered. Questions I
hope
I don’t get answered. I don’t want to have a discussion with Burke. I want to kill her.
hope
I don’t get answered. I don’t want to have a discussion with Burke. I want to kill her.
I glance at my watch. The pilot said flying time would be two and a half hours. We’ve been in the air for forty-five minutes.
The sky outside my window is cloudless. When I glance down, I see the beginnings of a mountain range, white-capped and rugged. The Rocky Mountains? They look cold.
Give me the beach anytime.
My thoughts turn inward once more—to Burke’s test subjects. What’s going to happen to them? Williams said the effectiveness of the stuff breaks down with the blood. According to the file on the test subjects, most of the women had been using the cream for two months. Will the women return to their former middle-aged dowdy selves when the effects wear off? Are there more sinister side effects? Could the three who developed a taste for blood be reacting to a withdrawal symptom? Maybe the craving is brought on by the cream losing its potency. Is that why they were killed? Will more bodies show up?
Christ, Burke, what have you done?
The intercom crackles on, alerting me that we are beginning our descent into Denver’s Centennial Airport. I’d been through Denver once before on a job with David. We’d landed at Denver International, not Centennial. Maybe this is closer to where I’m headed. I seem to remember DIA being forty minutes or so from the city.
If it gets me to Burke quicker, I don’t care where we land.
CHAPTER 40
T
HE JET CRUISES TO A STOP IN FRONT OF A LARGE hangar with the logo XJet. There’s a limo parked to the side of the hangar, and a man stands beside it watching our approach. I assume this is Williams’ friend.
HE JET CRUISES TO A STOP IN FRONT OF A LARGE hangar with the logo XJet. There’s a limo parked to the side of the hangar, and a man stands beside it watching our approach. I assume this is Williams’ friend.
When the engines have shut down, Shelby comes back to open the airstair door. “I see you have a car waiting.”
I precede him down the short set of steps. We’re being buffeted by a cold wind blowing, I presume, off the white-capped mountains to the west.
To the west. Even the mountains are in the wrong place here.
At the bottom, an XJet employee in jeans, a long-sleeved blue shirt and a Windbreaker welcomes me to Denver. He addresses me by name and with a deference I’m not used to. Avery must have paid well for that obsequiousness.
Shelby hands me a card. “Tom and I have rooms at the Clarion right down the street. Here is my cell number. When you’re ready to leave, call. We’ll make sure the jet is ready whenever you are.”
At the same time he’s telling me this, I hear the limo engine crank up.
A private jet and a limo waiting at the airstrip—maybe I’ve been too hasty in refusing every perk of Avery’s inheritance.
The limo pulls alongside the jet. The back door opens and the guy I saw watching a moment before steps out. He’s handsome, young and, as Williams mentioned, vampire. Which means although he looks twenty-five, he could be hundreds of years old. Lawson has joined Shelby at the foot of the stairs and the guy greets them in a way that makes it obvious he’s met them before. It also puts me on alert that if he was a friend of Avery’s he may not be a friend of mine.
When the social niceties have been observed, he turns his attention to me. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Strong. I’m Joshua Turnbull.”
With his slight southern accent, the name fits. He is making no attempt to probe my thoughts, allowing me to be frank in my appraisal. He is just under six feet, a little thicker through the middle than most vampires I’ve met. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He’s dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a denim jacket. He’s wearing well-worn boots with a stacked heel and a leather belt with a silver belt buckle. He looks like a cowboy. All that’s missing is a pair of six-shooters on his hip.
Since I figure he’s sizing me up, too, I let a moment go by before motioning to the car. “Shall we go?”
His smile is neither overly friendly nor solicitous. Still don’t know if he’s friend or foe. Doesn’t matter. I need him for only one thing.
We get into the car. On the backseat there’s a tan Stetson. Turnbull picks it up and places it on the seat opposite us, sliding in beside me. The hat adds to the impression that he’s a cowboy, though I’ve never spent any time in Denver. Maybe everybody here wears cowboy hats.
We don’t speak until the car has left the airport. “The driver has the address?” I ask then, itchy to get on with it.
“Yes. The address is in Cherry Hills. Very upscale. We might have trouble getting past security.”
I look away, suppress a smile.
We
might have trouble getting past security?
I
don’t intend to have any trouble at all.
We
might have trouble getting past security?
I
don’t intend to have any trouble at all.
Turnbull snatches the thought out of the air. He smiles, too.
Williams said you were a bit of a hothead.
Williams said you were a bit of a hothead.
I turn back to Turnbull and frown. Good old Williams. Instead of the Williams-can-blow-himself reply I’d like to make, I say instead,
I’m not a hothead. What I am is determined. You’d know that if he told you why I’m here.
I’m not a hothead. What I am is determined. You’d know that if he told you why I’m here.
He nods.
I understand you have a personal stake in finding this woman.
I understand you have a personal stake in finding this woman.
Not as personal as my friend who is near death because of her. And she’s not a woman. She’s a witch. It’s important you don’t forget that.
He’s projecting a smug cockiness that feels a lot like male chauvinism. He’s making a big mistake if he thinks he can control the situation. I have only one reason for being here. Find out everything I can from Sophie Deveraux. As far as I’m concerned, Turnbull’s only function is as a vampire GPS system. That’s it.
Turnbull is watching me, sifting through the thoughts I’ve purposefully left unguarded. After a moment, he looks away. He’s not happy to be here.
So why is he?
To repay a debt to Williams? Or to keep an eye on me?
TURNBULL WAS NOT EXAGGERATING WHEN HE SAID Cherry Hills was upscale. There is a ten-foot stone wall stretching as far as I can see with a guardhouse at the entrance. Over the top of the fence peek the rooflines of two huge homes.
Turnbull raises an eyebrow.
I hope you have a plan B.
I hope you have a plan B.
We pull up to the gate. Before the driver can answer the guard’s “May I help you,” I’ve launched into the story—the story about just having arrived in town with my uncle Bull here from Georgia and how we’re meeting a Realtor for a look at a property. Only we’re late and she’s going to be waiting for us at—I look at Uncle Bull—what was that address again?
Turnbull stammers Sophie Deveraux’s address.
The guard smiles and makes small talk while he jots down the driver’s name and license number and the limo’s license plate. Then he waves us through.
“You’ve done this before,” Turnbull comments dryly when the gate swings open. His tone is more grudging than laudatory. “What would you have done if he decided to call the Deveraux house for confirmation?”
David and I have used the ruse more than once to get into high-security communities. Usually I’m the Realtor and David is the client. Left my supply of bogus realty cards at home, though, so I had to improvise.
To Turnbull, I reply, “Place like this isn’t going to post for sale signs on the lawns. Most deals are made quietly. He’d have no reason to question us.”
Turnbull is eyeing me. He thinks,
Tricky bitch
, then slips into silence, dropping the curtain on his thoughts.
Tricky bitch
, then slips into silence, dropping the curtain on his thoughts.
Why do I get the impression he was hoping we would be denied admittance? Once again, I remind myself to be on the alert. He may owe Williams, but he’s no friend of mine.
The exact address turns out to be a rambling, brick mansion surrounded by an iron fence. Behind the house are paddocks and a stable. There’s no guardhouse here but a buzzer and a security camera located to the left of the gate.
When the driver rings, there is a moment’s delay before a female voice with a Hispanic accent asks, “Yes?”
I lean forward to be able to answer. “I’m looking for Sophie Deveraux.”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Anna Strong.”
“And your business with Ms. Deveraux?”
“Private.”
The intercom clicks off. I settle back in the seat. The camera rotates to get a clear view of the car. The tinted windows will prevent whoever is watching from seeing in the back.
The disembodied voice returns with the message, “I’m sorry, Ms. Deveraux is not at home. Would you like to leave a message?”
“No. I’ll try again later.”
Turnbull looks relieved. He instructs the driver to turn around. Once we’re back on the road, I tell the driver to pull over.
“Why are you telling him to stop?” Turnbull asks, voice tense with irritation.
I ignore him and instruct the driver. “Find the access road that runs behind the property.”
Turnbull raises a hand. “Wait a minute. What makes you think there’s an access road?”
“There’s a stable in back. I didn’t see anyway to get to it from the driveway so there’s bound to be another way in. A delivery entrance.”
The driver looks to Turnbull, unsure how to proceed.
Frustration burns through me. “Look, one way or the other, I’m getting into that house. I’ll get out right here and walk if I have to.”
He glares at me a minute before waving the driver on.
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