Thin Air (16 page)

“I need to go back,” I said. “She'll kill everybody back there.”

“No,” Venna said. “She killed the ones who saw you together. Now she's convincing the rest that she is you.”

“She—wait,
what
?”

“She's given herself up. She will tell them that she has recovered her memories—and that will be true, because the Demon already had them. She will tell them that she's you, and…” Venna shrugged. “They will believe her.”

“But—that can't happen.
That can't happen!
” She just looked at me. Obviously, it could. “They'll know. Lewis will know.”

She was already shaking her head. “Any doubts can be explained away. She's been through a great trauma. Any of them can tell that, and they won't disbelieve her story.”

I grasped at my last straw. “David! David will figure it out. Hello, mother of his child! Surely he knows me better than—”

“He would know if she could be perceived as a Demon. She's different now. He also has no reason not to accept her.” Venna's eyes seemed to get deeper, darker, and scarier. She looked twelve, and twelve hundred. Twelve
thousand
. “You can't win this by going against her. It will only destroy you, and everyone who believes you.”

I found I was able to get up, and staggered across the carpet to a king-sized bed, where I collapsed in an untidy sprawl. “So what am I supposed to do? What if she follows me?”

Venna cocked her head at me, interested as a robin with a worm. “Do as I say,” she said. “You will be safe here, so long as you don't go out or talk to anyone. She can only find you when she's close—the same way you can sense her. As long as you avoid attracting attention, you'll be fine. I am going to retrieve someone who can help you.”

I had just enough spark left to ask, “Who?”

“Ashan,” she said.

“David was looking for him.”

“I know.” Venna smiled slowly. Not a comforting kind of smile. “I've been keeping him safe; David would have killed him. And now we need him, so it's good that I got him, don't you think?”

I had no idea what to say to that. Venna smoothed down her dress, nodded to me gravely, and walked off into…thin air. Just…gone.

She came back, silent as a ghost, for a few seconds, to say, “You understand…don't go out? Don't talk to anyone? I've put clothing in the closet for you.
Don't go out.
”

I nodded. I might not understand much of this, but that part, I got. And hey, not a bad place, as hideouts went. I was in a big, well-appointed hotel room, immaculately clean, with a big plasma TV on the wall, a comfy bed, and—visible through the open door—a gigantic whirlpool tub.

Venna gave me one last doubtful look, then vanished. I waited, but she didn't come back to check. So I got up, went to the window, and pulled the brocade curtains.

Below, a whole city stretched out, a dizzying array of architectural marvels, fountains, people, lights, cars, dazzling sunlight. There was a gigantic Sphinx's rear end pointed toward my room, about seven stories down. The window sloped, and when I craned out for a look, I saw the building itself was sloped, like the side of a pyramid.

A hospitality book on the desk identified the hotel as the MGM Grand, Las Vegas.

That seemed weirdly familiar to me, but staring out at the landscape didn't seem helpful.

I went to try out the tub instead.

I was up to my neck in suds and blessedly warm water, experimenting with the various controls for the water jets, when I heard the door to the room open and close. I'd shut the bathroom door, so I couldn't hear or see anything else. I waited, but Venna didn't knock, and the last thing I wanted was to face her naked and dripping, anyway. I scrambled up, toweled off, and put on the underwear, blue jeans, black shirt and plain flat shoes that had been Venna's idea of appropriate costume.

I walked out, prepared to find out what kind of trouble I was in
now
, but it wasn't Venna.

And the two people I walked in on didn't even know I was there, at least not at first. I had to give them credit, they were very fast off the blocks—the clothing trail started at the door, with his tie, and finished in a heap at the foot of the bed. They were definitely
not
paying attention to me, quite, um, vigorously.

I tried tiptoeing to the door, and didn't quite get halfway there before the woman—leggy, redheaded, with a model's perfect ass, which had been on major display—caught sight of me and shrieked, falling off of her boyfriend, who thrashed around like a wounded seal in a shark tank. I held up my hands and backed toward the door.

“What the hell are you doing in our room?” he yelled, and came off the bed at me, still stark naked. I backed away, faster.

“Um…sorry, room inspector, I was just…making sure you had toilet paper, and…so, you like the bed? Brand-new bed. Very bouncy.” I was babbling, shaking, and I kept fierce eye contact with him because the temptation for my gaze to wander was…overwhelming. I felt the handle of the door dig into my back, reached behind me, and twisted it open. “Sorry, sir, ma'am. Please, enjoy your stay….”

I barely made it into the hall before he slammed the door on me. I leaned there, puffing for breath, trembling with reaction, and had to put both hands over my mouth to keep from screaming with laughter.

Don't go out. Yeah, thanks, Venna. Thanks a lot.

And you know, it would all have been just fine, if Romeo hadn't gotten on the house phone and reported me, but by the time I'd gotten in the elevators the security machine was already in motion.

When the elevator dinged to a halt at the ground floor, I was wondering where the hell I ought to go, and how I was going to get word to Venna.

I didn't have to wonder about that first part, not anymore. Facing me, blocking my path, were two guys in matching sports jackets, with logos on the pockets. They were the size of minivans, and they didn't look happy.

“Come with us,” one of them said. Not that I had a choice, because before the third word of the phrase was out, there were hands around my upper arms, and I was being marched off to the side, away from the busy foot traffic and ringing slot machines, to a discreet unmarked door with a key card entrance.

They sat me down at a table and stared at me in silence.

“So,” I said. “Guys, this is all just a…mistake. Okay? I was looking for my…my niece, she's about twelve, cute kid, blond hair, blue eyes, looks like Alice in Wonderland….”

They kept on staring at me. One of them finally demanded my name. I lied. They kept staring.

After about two eternities, a woman came in and bent over to whisper in one of the guards' ears. He nodded. She left.

I waited for someone to explain to me what was going on. That was about as successful as you'd expect; these were
not
chatty fellows. I kept offering conversational olive branches, and they kept snapping them off.

Thirty minutes later, give or take, two uniformed police officers entered the room, escorted by the woman I'd seen earlier. I felt a real, serious chill spread over me.

“Joanne Baldwin?”

I didn't nod. It didn't matter.

“Joanne Baldwin, I need you to stand up and put your hands behind your back,” the older of the two cops said. “Are you armed?”

“Armed? No! What's going on?” I stood up, mainly because there wasn't any point in not complying. More than enough muscle in the room to enforce the request.

“There's a warrant out for your arrest,” he said, and spun me around as he grabbed my right wrist. I felt the cold metal pinch of handcuffs on that side, then the other hand, and it was done before I could even react. “I'm going to need you to stay calm, ma'am. I'm sure if there's a mistake you can work it out, but we have to take you in now.”

“But—what kind of warrant?” I asked. Because this seemed pretty excessive for accidental Peeping Tom-age. Or even accidental breaking and entering.

“You're under arrest for the murder of a police officer,” he said. “You have the right to remain silent….”

I didn't remember the words of the Miranda warning. It's possible I'd never even heard them before, at least not directed at me.
Murder of a police officer?

Man, you'd think that
somebody
would have mentioned it to me if I was a cop killer.

 

I didn't remember the guy I was supposed to have killed, although they showed me pictures. I suppose that didn't exactly come as a shock, but what disturbed me was more the fact that I had no idea—none at all—whether or not I'd actually committed the crime. Nothing seemed clear-cut anymore, since I'd done whatever it was I'd done to Marion.

The dead guy's name was Detective Thomas Quinn, and they had surveillance footage of me with him—or someone who looked exactly like me, who used my name. Like, say, a Demon. How long had she been impersonating me? Could she have been responsible? It didn't really matter, because as far as the police were concerned it wasn't exactly a viable defense.

So I went with the truth as I knew it. I didn't remember. No, I couldn't recall being in Las Vegas before. No, I didn't know Detective Quinn. No, I had no idea what had happened to him.

They showed me photos of a blown-up truck in a deserted area to prove that I'd killed him, but all I came up with was a feeling…a bad one. If I
had
killed the guy, it would have been in some sense necessary, right? Justified? God, I hoped so.

The two detectives interrogating me seemed interchangeable—not physically, but in every other way. No personality to speak of, and all they wanted from me was a confession, which I couldn't properly give. I asked for an attorney, because at least that would give me time, and the questioning ended for a while.

Which left me stranded in a hot, airless interrogation room that smelled of sweat and desperation, old coffee and vomit. Charming. I fidgeted with the coffee cup they'd given me—it was paper, of course; accused murderers didn't rate the good china—and tried not to think about the consequences of what was going on.

Look on the bright side
, I thought.
You don't have to worry about not having any cash. Free food and lodging.

The door rattled, and a new man came in. I didn't know him, either. He moved slowly, like he might be in pain. He had a badge showing, so he was another detective, maybe their secret weapon pinch hitter who was known for extracting confessions. Was he going to beat me? I didn't think so; he didn't look like he was in any physical shape for hand-to-hand, even though I was handcuffed to the table. I looked at him silently and sipped my coffee as he sank into the chair across the table from me.

And then he waited. I took the opportunity to study him. He was in his mid-to late forties, Hispanic, with graying hair and large, dark eyes as hard as obsidian. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, and my feeling of stunned, low-level fear that had been with me for the past few hours, since they'd dragged me in here, was gradually ratcheting up to full-fledged panic.

He finally said, “I'm fine; thanks for asking.”

Great.
Another person I was supposed to recognize.
Wonderful.
“Glad to hear it,” I said. I sounded tired. I felt exhausted, wrung dry by all the uncertainty.

“Your friend left me by the side of the road,” he said. “I was lucky someone found me in time. Twenty-two stitches. Nearly lost my spleen.”

Okay, I was definitely in over my head now. “Do I know you?” I asked slowly. And he actually blinked. His eyes revealed something at last, but nothing that was very comforting to me.

“Hard to believe you'd forget a thing like that,” he said. Not a question. His lips curled, but there was nothing remotely smile-like about the expression other than the muscles controlling it.

“Sir, I'm sorry, but like I told the other detectives, I can't remember—”

“Amnesia. Yeah, they told me.” He sat back, studying me, arms folded across his chest. “You know how many we get in here a year who claim to have amnesia? Dozens. You know how many actually have it? I've never met one. Not even one.”

“Well,” I said, “I'm busting your streak, because I really don't know you. I don't know
anyone.
If you tell me I killed this detective, this Quinn, then maybe…I don't know. But I
don't remember
!” I heard the hard, cutting edge in my voice, and closed my eyes and fisted my hands and fought for internal calm. “Sorry,” I said. The chains fastening me to the table clanked softly when I shifted position. “It's been a tough day.”

He leaned forward, staring. “Let me get this straight. You're telling me that you don't remember me.”

“No, sir.”

“And you don't remember Thomas Quinn.”

I bent over and rested my forehead against my fists. “I have no idea,” I said. “Did I know him?”

He didn't tell me, not directly. He said, “My name is Detective Armando Rodriguez. I met you in Florida. I followed you. You remember any of that?”

I didn't bother to do more than shake my head this time.

“You told me things. Showed me…” He gave a quick glance toward the corner, where I was sure audio and video were being recorded. “Showed me things that I didn't know were possible. And you convinced me that maybe Thomas Quinn wasn't the guy I'd believed he was.”

The frustration boiled inside me, hot as lava, and I had no place to let it loose. Why couldn't I remember? I had no idea how to play this, what to say, whether or not he was trying to trap me or even help me. There was simply no way to tell.

So I made it a direct question, looking him straight in the eye. “When I talked to you about Quinn, did I tell you that I killed him?”

Detective Rodriguez was quiet for a few seconds, and then he shook his head. “No. You said you didn't.”

“Did you believe me?”

“I didn't drag you back here in handcuffs.” His lips stretched in a thin, hard smile. “But then, I was on vacation. And out of my jurisdiction.”

“Did you believe me?”
My fingernails were digging painfully into the palms of my hands, and I leaned forward across the table, willing him to tell me the truth. Or at least the truth as he saw it.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I believed you.”

I let out a slow, careful breath and felt tears sting my eyes. “Then can you help me?” I sounded pathetic. I felt pretty pathetic, too. He seemed genuinely saddened by that.

“No. I can't.” He stared at me for another dark second before he said, “This isn't my case, Baldwin. They don't let detectives who have personal connections work murder cases, so whether I believe you or not, it really doesn't matter.”

“But you could tell them—”

“I already did,” he interrupted. “I'm sorry. It probably won't do any good, whatever I say about you. So I'd advise you to start thinking about confessing, if you want a lighter sentence. Make this easy on yourself.”

“I'm not going to confess to a murder I didn't even commit!”

“I thought you said you didn't know,” he said. “Didn't remember.”

“I don't,” I said. “If I had a clue, I'd tell you. All I know is that I woke up a couple of days ago freezing to death in the forest, and things went downhill from there. Believe me, as bad as this is, I don't think going to prison is exactly the worst of my problems.”

He gave me a strange smile. “I see. Then it's more or less the usual for you.”

“Is it? Great. My life
sucks
.”

He chuckled. I drank coffee. He silently joined me, sipping from his own ceramic mug embossed with
PROPERTY OF LVPD
. “So what are you doing here?” I asked him. “Minding the store while they decide how to crack me?”

“Somebody's got to. Watch you, I mean.”

“And they picked you.”

“I volunteered. Look, don't you want to call anyone? Your friends? What about your sister?”

I'd love to have called Lewis, but I had zero idea how to go about it. I had no idea where my sister was, or if I wanted to have anything to do with her. Though jail was certainly making me feel a lot more familial. “I'd call my sister if I had a number for her.” I left it open-ended, hoping that maybe he'd have more resources than I could think of. Well, of course he did; he was a detective. Finding people was more or less his job description.

He shrugged. “I'll see what I can do. The way your sister lived, she shouldn't be hard to track down.” Someone knocked at the one-way glass, and he nodded toward it. “Looks like our time is up. Nice to see you, Joanne.”

“Same here,” I said faintly. He got up slowly, favoring his side, and I saw the lines of pain groove deeper into his face as he took a shallow, careful breath. “Detective? You going to be all right?”

“Yeah. Better every day. You hang in there.”

I watched him head for the door. As he opened it, I said, “You believed me awful fast about the amnesia.” Not that it was going to help me one way or another, but I found that curious. Cops weren't the most credulous of people, and he had reasons to distrust me, obviously. “Why?”