Running Hot (21 page)

“Yes. I fought back with my talent. When he realized he couldn’t murder me with his psychic-blast trick, he became enraged and tried to throttle me. I was running hot at the time, jacked to the max trying to defend myself. Something happened when he touched me. It was as if the energy that he was projecting at me rebounded back on him. The next thing I knew he was dead.”

Luther was silent for a moment. She waited for what she knew would come next.

“You said he hit you with some kind of psychic energy?”

“Yes. He could focus it somehow. It was incredibly painful. I could feel it killing me.”

“Fallon told me that one of his agents encountered a Nightshade operative who could make a person unconscious with a blast of energy. It happened a while back on a case in Stone Canyon, Arizona. The talent was drug-induced. The operative was injecting the formula at the time.”

“The man who tried to murder me was also on the drug,” she said, letting the rest of the truth spill out. “He told me it gave him the power to kill without a trace.”

Luther whistled softly. “Well, I’ll be damned. You killed Martin Crocker, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me take a wild guess here. You were not the company librarian.”

“I was his butler.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That was my official title,” she explained. “No one pays any attention to the hired help, you see. Afterward, the newspapers barely even mentioned the fact that I had died in the same boating accident. It was as if I had never existed, which was fine by me.”

“I seem to recall that the search-and-rescue team found Crocker’s boat drifting aimlessly in the water. How did you escape?”

She shuddered, remembering the horror and the grim determination to survive that had ridden her hard that night.

“What the searchers didn’t know, what no one except Martin and I knew, was that Martin kept a small inflatable boat on the island to use in case of an emergency. I waited until after dark. Then I got Martin’s body into the cruiser and took it partway back to the main island. I released the body into the water and left the cruiser to drift. Then I got into the inflatable.”

Luther said nothing but he reached over and gripped her hand very tightly for a few seconds, letting her know that he understood both the horror and the will to live.

She took strength from his touch. “The inflatable was unmarked. There was nothing to link it to Martin or to me. I dumped it offshore. The next day I took a commercial flight back to Miami using a fake ID.”

“You already had the new ID in place?”

“Along with a small suitcase full of bare necessities. I’d carried both with me everywhere for days.” She swallowed hard. “I knew Martin better than he knew himself. It was a matter of when, not if, I’d need the ID and a change of clothes.”

“You weren’t just Crocker’s butler, were you? What else did you do for him?”

“I was his personal profiler,” she said. “I read the people with whom he did business, his mistresses and everyone else who came in contact with him.”

“The ultimate bodyguard.”

“I identified his opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. I told him who he could trust and warned him when someone was plotting against him.”

“How long were the two of you a team?”

“Twelve years.”

“Were you lovers?” Luther asked tonelessly.

“No. Neither of us was attracted to the other in that way. I wasn’t his type. In the end he told me he had always found my talent a little scary. For my part, I knew from the start that Martin wasn’t capable of anything remotely close to real love or commitment. But we were partners and friends of a sort. I trusted him because I knew he needed me and I knew he understood that.”

“What happened?”

“Everything changed after he started taking the drug.”

“Why did he try to kill you?”

“He decided that he didn’t need me any longer. But I knew all his secrets. As he explained, that made me a serious liability.” She shook her head, still amazed. “He actually believed all the lies that the Nightshade people told him, including the myth that the drug would lengthen his life span.”

“Why did you create the corporate librarian history for yourself when you went into hiding? Why not fire up a whole new identity, one with no connection to Crocker World?”

“I went with the old theory that the best lies contain a measure of truth. Also, I knew everything about Crocker World, including how to access the computerized personnel files and create an employment record that would stand up to close scrutiny. It worked, too. I made it through a J&J background check.”

Luther smiled slightly. “If Fallon ever discovers that, he’ll have an attack of the vapors.”

She turned her head quickly. “Are you going to tell him?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Thank you.” She drank some more coffee.

“What really happened that day that Martin Crocker and his butler disappeared?” Luther asked.

She told him everything. When she was finished he was silent for a long time.

“Do you believe me?” she asked when she could stand the suspense no longer.

“Yes.”

She peeked at his aura and knew that he was telling the truth.

“One more question,” he said. “If you were worried that someone might someday find out that you killed Crocker, why in hell did you apply for a job within the Society? You had to know that you’d be surrounded by people endowed with various kinds of psychic talents. Your secret would be at risk every day.”

“I wasn’t sure if the people who recruited Martin would get suspicious about his death and come looking for me. I also knew from what Martin told me that the organization you call Nightshade is a group of renegade psychics. I figured the one bunch they might want to steer clear of is the Arcane community.”

“So you decided to hide in the heart of the Society.” Luther’s mouth curved faintly. “I like it. Talk about a gutsy move.”

“There was another reason why I applied for the post in the Bureau of Genealogy,” she said quietly. “I’ve always heard that when you’re in real trouble, you run home.”

“So?”

“The Society is the closest thing I have to a family.”

TWENTY-FIVE

It was intolerable.

La Sirène paced the hotel suite, seething. The Queen of the Night’s desire for revenge against Sarastro was nothing, a mere whimper of protest, compared to this clawing need for vengeance against the bitch who had somehow managed to resist her singing. The stupid creature should have died the way all the others had died. Why hadn’t she?

Time, she decided. There just hadn’t been enough time to finish the job. Another minute and it would have been over. If only the damned elevator hadn’t arrived when it did.

She squeezed her hands into fists, still unable to believe that things had gone wrong. The silly housekeeper had been completely under control. The superbly powerful, violent notes of Chiang Ch’ing’s “I am the wife of Mao Tse-tung,” a coloratura credo from John Adams’s
Nixon in China,
had been working perfectly, drawing the woman to her doom. The Voice had been flawless. She had woven the energy into it until it became a lethal force. The maid had been unable to resist.
No one
should have been able to resist.

A tendril of panic slithered through her. There was nothing wrong with the Voice.
Nothing.
The dreadful incident at La Scala two years ago had been no more than a fluke. Yes, she had been booed but sooner or later everyone who was anyone in the world of opera got booed by the damned claques at La Scala. It was practically a rite of passage for a singer. But what if they really had heard the lack of power on the high F?

There was no getting around the fact that things had not gone well the following season. There had been that horrible night in Seattle when she’d had to fake some of the money notes in her Lucia. That critic at
The Seattle Times
had caught it. But she had been coming down with a cold at the time. So what? Every singer had the occasional off night.

Yes, and more than one famous soprano had awakened one morning to discover that her voice had simply vanished. Another chill lanced through her.

The doctors had assured her that there was nothing wrong with her vocal cords but they weren’t aware of her psychic side, let alone how it was inextricably entwined with her singing voice. What if the problem lay with her senses? What if her worst nightmare was coming true? What if she was losing her Siren talent?

Impossible. She was too young, only thirty-five. She was in her prime. But there was no denying that her career was in trouble. It was her former agent’s fault, of course. The idiot had cost her important engagements. He had actually believed the rumors about her. She’d had no choice but to fire him permanently in a very private performance. The last note he would have heard was the stunningly perfect high G in Mozart’s “Popoli di Tessaglia.” She hoped he’d had a chance to admire her brilliant passagework.

No, there was nothing wrong with her except a little bad luck and worse management. But that would all change after she sang the Queen for the opening of
The Magic Flute
in Acacia Bay. It was certainly not the Met but Guthrie Hall was an exquisite little jewel of a theater and it was situated close to L.A. As dear Newlin had pointed out, there was an excellent chance that some of the important critics could be enticed to the performance. There they would see for themselves that La Sirène was back, and more brilliant than ever.

Once again the most exclusive designers would be standing in line to beg her to wear their clothes and their jewelry. She would soon be signing autographs just as she had in the old days. She would be booked three years in advance for performances at the most important opera houses in the world. . . .

Her phone warbled, interrupting the glowing vision of her spectacular future. She glanced at the code and winced. The last person she wanted to talk to right now was her sister. With a sigh she opened the phone.

“Hello, Damaris.”

“What’s going on? I’ve been waiting for your call. Is everything all right?”

“Calm down, everything’s fine. There was a small glitch this afternoon when I went to Eubanks’s hotel room, but it was nothing—”

“What happened?” Damaris sounded panicky.

“Take it easy. I used the gadget that
Daddy
provided to get into the suite, as we planned. I was going to wait for Eubanks and his bodyguard. I was preparing for my performance, doing a little warm-up, when one of the hotel housekeepers interrupted me. You know how I hate having my practice sessions interrupted.”

“What did you do?” Damaris yelped. “Please don’t tell me you killed her.”

“Well, no. Unfortunately that performance was also interrupted by an utterly impossible woman. Tell Daddy that I want him to find her for me. He owes me that much.”

“You want him to find the maid?”

“No, the horrid bitch who ruined everything. The one who was actually able to resist me for a short time. Can you believe it? She managed to save the housekeeper.”

“What are you saying?” Damaris cried. “You were seen by someone besides the maid?”

“Yes. I was forced to leave the stage before I could correct the situation. Some people were getting off the elevator, you see. You know how my talent works. I can handle at most two people in a private performance but no more.”

“We’re doomed,” Damaris whispered. “It’s all gone wrong.”

“That’s ridiculous. Pull yourself together. I’ve rescheduled my private performance with Eubanks for tonight. I’ve got a much more appropriate venue in mind. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be on a plane back to San Francisco.”

“But what about the other woman?” Damaris wailed. “If she was able to resist you, she must be a sensitive. Any possibility she was Nightshade?”

“How should I know? Daddy’s the great secret agent in the family. It’s his job to find out things like that.”

“Is there any possibility that she could identify you?”

“Only if she is a true fan, which I doubt. She gave no indication that she recognized my voice. I was in full costume, as we arranged, so she could not possibly describe me.”

“But if she was Nightshade, she’ll warn Eubanks,” Damaris said.

“Eubanks is still at the hotel if that makes you feel any better. I watched him go into the spa a short time ago.”

“She wasn’t Nightshade then.”

“Probably not.”

“Who was she?”

“I have no idea. Ask
Daddy.
When he finds out who she is, I intend to give her one of my private performances. I will not tolerate the sort of interruption I was forced to endure today.”

“Vivien, you sound like you’re starting to obsess here,” Damaris said anxiously. “Are you absolutely certain the woman was able to resist your singing?”

“Only for a short period of time. I’m sure I could have destroyed her, given another minute or two. I’m going to hang up now. It has been a very unsettling day. I need to prepare myself for my next performance. Good-bye, Damaris.”

“Wait—”

“Tell Daddy to find the bitch.”

La Sirène closed the phone and tossed it aside. Really, it was such a responsibility being an older sister. Poor Damaris was so easily upset these days. It was Daddy’s fault, of course.

“SHE WAS J&J,” Daddy said.

“What?”

“Relax. I just pulled up the file. Turns out Fallon Jones has Eubanks under surveillance. But not because he thinks Eubanks is Nightshade.”

“Are you sure?” Damaris propped her elbows on the desk, rested her aching head in her hand and clutched the phone to her ear. The hot and cold chills were getting worse. She wondered if she was allergic to the drug. “Maybe J&J turned up a link.”

“No.” Daddy sounded very certain. “Trust me, if the agency had any suspicions in that regard, the Council would have been notified. Nightshade is its highest priority these days. This is a routine J&J operation.”

“How can you call it routine?”

“Eubanks is a registered sensitive who has killed three people,” Daddy said patiently. “The parents of the third victim were members of the Society. They asked J&J to investigate. That’s the only reason Jones is looking at him. These things happen.”