Sins of the Flesh (8 page)

Guilt was not good.

It was affecting his judgment about Caterina, and he couldn’t afford that.

He also couldn’t afford not knowing what was going on with her, from the weird blood and supernatural healing, to her decidedly diminished mental capacity.

“Do you think you could run some tests for me?” he said, shooting a sideways glance at his sister.

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t. Blood test. DNA analysis. Maybe even a full tox screen because something is definitely not right with your friend.”

A friend she was not, but his sister didn’t need to know that. “I’d appreciate anything you can do only—”

“It needs to be on the down low. I get it, Mick.”

He nodded, reached out, and placed his hand on Liliana’s
shoulder. Gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I need you to be extra careful, Lil. Don’t come back to the house without checking in with me first.”

Liliana gestured to Caterina. “Are you sure you can handle her?”

Mick didn’t respond.

“
S
he’ll be fine,” Mick finally reassured his sister, but worried whether he could ultimately keep that promise.

This mission was turning out to have too many unexpected variables. Never a good thing when the only contingencies you had anticipated were whether your target would end up dead or alive.

Caterina wouldn’t end up dead if he could help it.

The question was, would Mick come to regret keeping her alive?

After Liliana had left to return to the hospital, Mick gave a last tug on the makeshift restraints and, with Caterina sedated, hurried from the guest room to the smallest of the bedrooms at the end of the hall. He had converted that room into an office where he kept a desk loaded with an assortment of computers he used to monitor the perimeter of this house, his office/apartment in Philadelphia, and any location he had decided to bug. On the wall opposite the desk was a large lateral file cabinet holding a varied collection of cameras and microphones he used for surveillance, and first-aid materials.

The closet beside the file cabinet had once been roomy, but now held a built-in vault that housed a cache of
guns, weaponry, and ammunition. The vault could only be opened with his fingerprint and a complex security code.

Mick sat down at the desk, powered up the monitors, and checked out the feeds from the various locations. The infrared cameras detected nothing unusual around the perimeter of the house. The remote video from his office/apartment areas showed it was still in one piece, and the control panel on the security system didn’t indicate that the area had been breached. The only activity anywhere had been his entry into this safehouse hours earlier.

The last monitor was blank until, with a few quick keystrokes, Caterina’s image appeared as she lay on the bed, her arms and legs tied to the bedframe legs and the headboard. A light sheet covered her, hiding the thinness of her bruised body.

His sister had tried to keep the bruises from him, but he had seen them when Liliana had bathed Caterina, much as he had taken note of the purpling marks on his sister’s own forearms.

Definitely not bruises from gardening, contrary to her assertions.

He recognized the signs of someone being manhandled. And since as far as he knew Harrison was the only man in Lil’s life, he had to assume Harrison had been the one to hurt her.

His stomach tightened with anger at the thought of anyone harming his sister. That it was Harrison doing it only made him angrier.

He had never liked Harrison Edgar Williams. He had always found the supposedly brilliant surgeon to be rather pompous and slow-witted. No match for his smart and
effervescent baby sister who deserved much better, as far as Mick was concerned.

Why would Lil put up with such treatment? he thought, gazing at Caterina. Another seemingly smart and capable woman who had been overpowered. Trapped by a system in which she had once had faith.

Did Lil feel the same way? Did she consider herself imprisoned by who she was at the hospital—a newbie resident? One who couldn’t challenge an older, better-established surgeon like Harrison?

Mick was going to find out what was happening with Lil and put an end to it, much like he intended to do with Caterina.

No, not Caterina. Shaw. He should start calling her Shaw. He needed to create distance because she was rousing emotions in him that would only complicate the assignment.

Shaw was his target. Just another job.

He couldn’t let sympathy for Shaw and admiration for the strength she had shown during her illness get in the way of the mission
he had been paid to complete.

How about justice
? the voice in his head challenged. Could he let justice get in the way?

He flipped away from Shaw’s image to one of the front door. All quiet and dark in the dead of early morning. Dead as he would be if he didn’t get some rest, too. He had to stay sharp for what he needed to do tomorrow.

Mick walked out of his office, past Shaw’s room, and stopped at the door to his bedroom. The large king-sized bed called to him, but he glanced back at the room holding his captive.

With a muttered curse, he tore off the black knit Henley he had been wearing, which still bore scattered traces of Shaw’s oddball blood. He whipped the two guns from the spot where he had tucked them into the gap at the small of his back and tossed them on his comforter. His jeans soon followed, but fell from the bed and landed in a heap on the floor.

In the master bath, he washed up, removing all traces of Shaw from his hands and arms, then returned to his room to slip into comfortable sweats.

He retrieved the two guns from the surface of the bed, placed them on the nightstand beside him, and lay down on the comforter.

Just a few hours’ nap before he got back to work.

Sleep eluded him, however, as images of Shaw’s and Lil’s bruises juxtaposed themselves in his brain.

Giving up hope of sleep after about an hour, he rose, slipped the two guns beneath the waistband of his sweats, dragged the comforter off his bed and stalked to Shaw’s room.

A comfortable overstuffed chair and ottoman were tucked invitingly in a far corner of the bedroom. It was his mother’s handiwork when she had helped him decorate this house, hoping that its purchase was a sign that he intended to settle down into a more sedate life. Maybe even take up his cousin Ramon’s offer of a spot on the local police force.

His mother had been sadly mistaken, Mick thought as he dropped the comforter at the door and walked to the chair and ottoman. He dragged them to the side of the bed where he could keep an eye on Shaw, as well as on the stairs and bedroom door.

Once the chair was in place, he picked up the comforter,
settled himself into the welcoming cushions, and propped his feet up on the ottoman. For good measure, he removed the guns from his waistband and tucked them into the gap between the cushions and seat of the comfy chair. Within easy reach.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes to shut out the soft light cast by the table lamp beside the bed. Lil had replaced the linen ivory shade and turned it to a low setting. Listening to the measured cadence of Shaw’s breathing, Mick let it lull him into a light sleep.

He walked past the rooms the way a zookeeper might, checking his charges in the early morning hours to make sure they were properly locked away in their cells.

When he reached the last room, he paused and glared at the empty bed through the small glass panel at the door, angry with himself that he had underestimated his patient’s abilities and determination.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Pivoting on his heel, he stalked back toward the first room and peered within.

Santiago was beginning to stir. His head lolled from side to side as his lips twitched and twisted.

He hit the intercom by the patient’s door to listen, but the words, if there were any, were indistinct. The sounds were more like the warning grunts of an animal rather than those of a person. Maybe because in his current state Santiago was more feral than human.

Smiling, he thought about turning Santiago loose on Shaw. He pictured the way the fight between them would
ensue, pitting one set of supernatural powers against another.

Santiago had physical strength, but unlike Shaw he was slow both physically and mentally. If it hadn’t been for the death sentences imposed by both nature and New Jersey’s legal system, he wouldn’t have urged Wells to accept the career criminal into the study. But the state had offered to release Santiago into Wardwell’s care if he participated in the experiment, and the nature of Santiago’s illness—a virulent form of diabetes that modern medicine couldn’t control—had sealed the decision.

Finding a gene therapy that would help Santiago might have resulted in a cure.

A very profitable cure for Wardwell.

Unfortunately, the gene strain implanted into Santiago had produced erratic results in controlling his insulin levels. It had, however, yielded a mechanism for burning off all the excess sugar in a way that created immense energy and inhuman strength.

Such possibilities when combined with Santiago’s criminal traits and violence…

The smile broadened on his face as he remembered how Santiago had taken care of Wells.

If necessary, he would turn Santiago loose on Shaw to end the threat.

Once that happened it would be back to business as usual and no one would be the wiser about what Wardwell had done.

Caterina woke with a sharp cry that brought Mick to instant alertness.

He whipped his Glock from between the cushions, trained it on the door, but soon realized that there was no one else in the room.

She’d had another nightmare filled with images of blood and death. Fear lingered in her psyche and she tossed fretfully on the bed, yanking and twisting against the restraints. Grimacing as one strong tug brought pain through her injured shoulder, giving her one more reason to wish Mick would relent and set her free.

Instead he tucked the Glock back between the cushions and slipped onto the ottoman. Leaning forward, Mick reached out as if to comfort her, but stopped halfway. Pulling his hand back, he rubbed both hands on his sweats, clearly uncertain.

His hesitation made Caterina pause in her struggles, and with that fragile calm, Mick finally placed his hand at the top of her arm and applied slight pressure.

“Don’t hurt me,” she said softly.

Mick stroked his hand across her skin tenderly. In patient tones he said, “No one is going to hurt you.”

Caterina glanced at his hand and tried to move away, but the bindings made it impossible.

“Let me go,” she urged, wanting to be free.

He kept up his slow caress, as if trying to calm her the way one might an injured stray. His cocoa brown eyes filled with a mix of emotions that perplexed her.

She hadn’t expected kindness. Couldn’t remember the last time anyone had treated her with anything other than contempt or clinical detachment.

“Where would you go?” he asked, shifting even closer to the edge of the ottoman, his presence surprisingly comforting.

“Home. I want to go home.”

Guilt flashed across his features, warning her that home wasn’t an option he was considering at the moment.

“Maybe later. When it’s safe,” he urged and shifted his hand up her arm until he was at the binding. “I don’t want you to reinjure your arm. I’m going to loosen it a little so you don’t hurt yourself.”

Caterina warily tracked the movement of Mick’s hand as he slackened the ties. Then he surprised her by tucking his hand into hers, his touch compassionate, creating a sudden and silent understanding between them that dissipated the remaining tension in her body.

She finally relaxed down onto the mattress and Mick nodded. “That’s it. Rest and get better. Maybe then you can go home, Cat.”

Home
, Caterina thought, wondering at his actions. Baffled by the kindness he was exhibiting that was so at odds with what she had been experiencing lately. He hadn’t really reacted with fear at her strange blood and skin, which even had her scared.

He didn’t release her hand as she continued to stare at him. His palm was hard and calloused, but the touch was light. Soothing as he covered her one hand with both of his and once again said, “Rest. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Somehow she knew he was capable of protecting her from others. But as she met his gaze and saw the continued puzzlement there, she sensed that he wasn’t sure if he could protect her from himself.

“Will
you
hurt me?” she asked.

His gaze darkened and became shuttered before he pulled his hands away.

“Go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”