A Rush of Wings (18 page)

***

JOHANNA KEYED IN HER code and opened the door. Closing it, she reset the lock. The keypad beeped. UNAVAILABLE scrolled in red across its tiny window. She stared at the word, trying to make sense of it. She must’ve punched in the wrong numbers. Frowning, she carefully punched the code in again.

The keypad beeped. UNAVAILABLE.

Johanna went still.
Listened
. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Water dripped from the bathroom faucet. Outside, car tires crunched on the snow and ice-layered street.

Nothing breathed in the house but her. No heart beat but her own.

Still…delayed Sleep had stolen her edge, numbed her senses.

Johanna turned away from the door. She scanned the empty room: plush sofa, leather easy chairs, dark fireplace, photos and small treasures on the polished wood mantel; lamps on low. No footprints on the carpet.

Johanna set her purse down on the side table and withdrew her Glock 36. She kicked off her shoes and moved silently across the carpet, gun in a two-handed grip. Ghosting down the hall, she paused when she noticed footprints in the carpet. Too large to be her own.

A burglar? Expensive neighborhood. Fancy toys. Possible.

She swung into the bathroom, flicking on the light, and clearing right, then left. Empty. No shadows behind the beveled-glass shower door. The medicine cabinet was closed. No smudges. Untouched.

Not looking for drugs, then.

Leaving the light on, Johanna stepped back out into the hall and pressed her back up against the wall. The footprints trailed on down the hall.

What if E had come home? What if he’d brought S with him?

Johanna froze, heart hammering against her ribs. Blood rushed in a frenzy through her veins, yet she was cold, colder than the layers of ice outside on the concrete.

She stepped into the spare bedroom, flicking on the light. Nothing.

If E or S
were
here, bullets would help only where E was concerned. It would take more than bullets to keep her True Blood child down.

Whoever had broken into her home, violated it with their uninvited presence, was long gone. She felt nothing but her own panic.

Johanna strode out of the guest bedroom and into the hall, gun held at her side. She stepped into her office and flicked on the light. She crouched in front of the black file cabinet, pulled on the handle. The drawer slid open.

It had been locked when she’d left the house.

Rising to her feet, calmer despite the knot in her stomach, she circled around to her desk and opened the drawers. All
had
been locked—just like the file cabinet. She searched the contents of the deep bottom drawer—all files seemed to be in place, all disks and CDs accounted for. But that didn’t mean files hadn’t been photographed. Or disks copied.

Nothing jimmied. Nothing damaged. She’d been black-bagged by a pro.

Which meant FBI or CIA or DOD.

She ran a hand through her hair. Who and why? Who’d have the balls? And for what? Whirling, she walked back to the living room and fished her cell phone from her purse. She speed-dialed Gifford’s cell, her adrenaline rush already fading. He answered on the first ring, but said nothing, waiting for her to speak first.

“I’ve been black-bagged,” she said, voice thick with Sleep. “Call security. Have them check the office. Then go there yourself.”

“Consider it done.” His voice was steady, unruffled.

She thumbed the off button. The Glock slipped from her fingers and thudded onto the carpet. Sleep. She’d waited too long.

Johanna staggered from the room and into the hall. She pulled herself along the wall, her gaze locked on her bedroom doorway. It seemed she never got any closer. Her head thumped against the wall and her eyes flew open. She was on the floor.

She curled up in the hallway, lips parting, drinking in Sleep like blood. Just before conscious thought winked out, she realized what had been missing. What she’d been reviewing—for pleasure—at home. The file on S and the CD documenting his experiences as a member of Bad Seed.

***

DR. ANZALONE SLAMMED THROUGH the double doors into the autopsy theater. Heather spared her a quick glance, then pulled the sheet over Rosa Baker. The playback ended abruptly as the M.E. hit the stop button on the transcriber.

“You have
no
right to barge in here,” Anzalone said. “I don’t care if you’re FBI—”

“Who requested that the forensics be altered in this case?” Turning from the table, Heather locked gazes with the medical examiner. “Altered to match the Cross-Country Killer’s M.O.?”

Hazel eyes, curly brunette hair, a little on the heavy side—like Rosa—Anzalone’s brows knitted together, her hands jammed into her lab coat pockets. Defensive.

“How
dare
you imply—”

“My perp is left-handed,” Heather said, crossing the floor. “These stab wounds were inflicted by a right-hander.” She stopped in front of the tight-jawed medical examiner. “But the transcription I just listened to indicated that the killer was left-handed.”

Anzalone stiffened. “Before you make any accusations, you’d better check with your superiors.” She spun around and strode from the autopsy theater.

Heather stared after her as the doors swung closed.
Check with your superiors
.

Dante was still being stalked.

And she’d been lured away.

Was Stearns part of it?

Half walking, half running out of the theater, Heather yanked her cell from her purse and called Collins. “We need to get back to New Orleans right away. Stay there. I’ll pick you up.”

Shoving through the front entrance, Heather raced for the rental, punching Dante’s home number on her cell. The phone rang and rang. She unlocked the Stratus and slid inside.
C’mon
!
Answer
! She glanced at her watch. Almost four, Pensacola time, which made it almost three in New Orleans. Maybe Dante was still sleeping.

Starting the car, Heather threw it into reverse and hit the gas pedal. The tires screeched as she whipped the car out of the slot, spinning the wheel one-handed into a quick reverse-to-drive L. She wished she had her Trans Am with its get-up-and-go.

The ringing stopped. De Noir’s deep voice said, “Agent Wallace.”

“I need to speak to Dante.” Heather stepped on the gas. The Stratus arrowed out into traffic. “It’s urgent.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Dammit, De Noir! Wake him!”

“Not possible. But I will take a message for him.”

“I don’t fucking believe you.” Throat tight, lightheaded with anger, Heather pressed harder on the gas pedal.

She glanced over her shoulder as she switched lanes, smoothly merging with the heavy traffic. “He’s still in danger. The killer isn’t dead. Don’t let Dante leave the house and don’t leave him alone.”

“Dante does as he wishes,” De Noir said, voice amused. “But I will tell him your concerns. When he awakens.”

“Great,” Heather snarled. She threw the phone down onto the passenger seat.

Either De Noir didn’t get it or he didn’t believe her or he thought he could keep Dante safe. Any of those reasons would be enough to get Dante killed.

Keeping her gaze on the traffic, Heather fumbled for the cell phone, then tapped in Stearns’s number.

“Wallace,” he said, answering on the first ring.

Heather didn’t know whether to feel relief or concern. “Sir. I’m leaving Pensacola right now. We’ve been deliberately misled. The M.E. falsified—”

“The case is closed,” Stearns said. “The investigation’s over.”

Someone honked and Heather realized the light had turned green. She stepped on the gas. Her heart thudded against her chest. “Who closed the case, sir?” she finally managed to say.

“That’s not the issue, Wallace.”

Stearns’s voice was flat. Stoic. Was her mentor repeating words he had no wish to say? Or was he a willing party? Heather felt sick.

“I think it is. The CCK is
not
dead, sir. Who’d want to protect him?”

“The investigation’s over.” Stearns’s voice sounded weary, drained. “Get back to Seattle ASAP.”

“He has another victim targeted.”

“Forget Dante Prejean, Wallace. He’s not what he appears to be.”

At Dante’s name, Heather’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

“He’s no longer your concern.”

“With all due respect, sir, are you a part of the cover-up?”

“Heather, listen carefully.” Desperation weighted Stearns’s voice. “Stay out of New Orleans. Your safety depends upon it. You are not among friends.”

“Apparently that’s nothing new, is it, Craig?” She hung up.

What had happened? Was the CCK the son of a government star? The brother of a diplomat? And why was the investigation being halted
now
?

Something to do with Dante. Think. Someone wanted him dead. Why not just shoot him in his sleep? Could it be something to do with the past he didn’t remember?

A bloodred anarchy symbol caught Heather’s attention. She stared, breath caught in her throat, heart pounding. A sign in the window of a music store.

Above the anarchy symbol: Just in! The latest release from New Orleans’s INFERNO!
Deliberately Set
. And below it: Wake up and smell the fire!

WAKE UP written in blood at two different crime scenes. A past Dante doesn’t remember. Heather hung a right, then pulled to a stop in front of the precinct house. Collins waited on the steps.

Dante didn’t remember, no. But someone
wanted
him to remember.

“We’ve got trouble,” Heather said as Collins scrunched into the car. She hit the gas before he’d closed the door.

Unruffled, the detective strapped on his seat belt. He glanced at Heather. “The bastard’s not dead, is he?”

“They made you detective for a reason,” Heather murmured, goosing the Stratus through two high-speed lane changes. “It gets worse. It’s a deliberate cover-up.”

“Shit.” Collins stared straight ahead, jaw tight, face grim.

15
Whirling into Motion

«
^
»

E
CREPT DOWN THE hall to Tom-Tom’s room. He pressed himself against the closed door. Was Tommy-boy still asleep? The sun hadn’t set yet, the gray afternoon lingered, sullen sky pissing rain.

E listened. Nuthin’. Not even snoring.
Did
vampires snore? Was he even in there? What if he stood behind E? Watching? Grinning? E whirled, heart hurdling into his throat, shivs in hand.

Nuthin’.

E stood motionless, staring down the empty hall to the dirty light streaming in through the front window. His heart gradually slowed. With a flick of both wrists, he slid his shivs back into their wrist sheaths.

E swiveled around to face the closed door once again. Still no snoring. If he was in there, he’d be sound asleep. If not, then E didn’t have to worry about noise. His fingers closed around the cool brass doorknob, and turned.

Ronin lay on the bed like a dead man. Fully dressed. Not breathing. Hands at his sides. His eyes were half-open, but all that showed were the whites. E twitched. His skin felt creepy-crawly, like he’d stepped into an anthill. He fought the urge to slap and brush at himself.

He narrowed his eyes. He subtracted the not-breathing assessment. Fucker was, indeed, breathing. Just barely.

E stepped into the bedroom, his gaze locked on Ronin’s stretched-out form, and held his breath. Nuthin’. He stepped further into the room.

E circled the bed. Tilted his head.
Mourner viewing corpse
. Circled again. A knife across the throat would do it. Maybe not
kill
the bastard, but all that blood pouring out would
have
to be a major inconvenience.

Why hadn’t Ronin locked the door? Did he think so little of E’s abilities, his work, that he felt
safe
? Thought he could handle ol’ E even asleep?

Muscles knotting, belly burning, E popped his shivs into his hands. He inched closer to the bed. Ronin’s face looked almost as smooth as a kid’s, even though he was supposedly centuries old.

How long would it take to kill him? Flat-out flesh-to-skeleton-to-ashes
kill
him?

He leaned over Ronin, angling a shiv for the soft throat when he remembered the files. E hesitated, tensed, longing to slash. The files—his and Dante’s—he needed those. Needed to know where to find the Bad Seed Mama-Bitch. Needed to know her name. Needed to know why.

He needed to know more about Dante, too—Bad Seed little brother, kindred spirit—more than the shit Tom-Tom spoon-fed him. E summoned Dante’s image, but saw instead Heather’s hunger as her gaze slid along Dante’s body. E shivered, shiv extended, aching, blood boiling, wanting them both. But willing to claim only one.

E forced himself away from Ronin. Straightened and tucked away his shivs. Daylight was burning. Circling to the other side of the bed, E searched the nightstand, carefully pulling open the drawers. Nuthin’.

Crossing to the dresser, he opened one drawer after another. Folded clothes, undies—hmmm, silk—rolled pairs of socks, but no files. Blowing air between his teeth, E leaned against the dresser. He’d seen the files briefly in New York, thick with reports, photos, and CDs. Tommy-boy’d also had a case full of special things—special things for Dante—in case he needed to be restrained.

E headed for the closet, but catching a glimpse of gold out of the corner of his eye, he halted. Crouching, he looked under the bed. Dante’s pretty Goth boy was curled up on the hardwood floor, tucked in with the shadows and the dust bunnies, eyes closed, face white. Wrists handcuffed. One ankle cuffed to a leg of the bed.

E grinned. Tommy’d raided the cupboard and grabbed himself a toy. A snack
and
a toy. Did Tom-Tom intend to dangle Goth-boy like a bag of blood in front of Dante’s nose? Or was he going to send E out to collect another?

E crawled to the closet, dazzled by Goth-boy’s golden hair, imagining it spun like golden thread, a glimmering coil seeking the warmth of his hands.