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This time, Leah's sigh was huge. And irritated. "If you already know what's going on, why did you bother to ask?"

"Forgive me, dear. I'm not as quick as I used to be. But why are you calling me? You know what you have to do."

"Well, I know I have to help him, but I'm not sure how. I don't really have a handle on this whole teleportation thing. Not sure I can make it

work a second time, since I wasn't trying the first time."

"You know, Leah, if you'd ever taken even a little time to develop

your gift, or study the underpinnings of some of the more basic mystical concepts, you might not have this problem. For example, did you know

that accounts of teleportation occur in several major religious traditions, including Islam, Judaism, Buddhism and Christianity? It's really quite—"

"Gram, please." Leah sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. She looked down and saw where her knees were dusty from

kneeling on the Madre's cement floor. When she licked her bottom lip, it felt swollen and tender against her tongue. "Can we save the lecture? I 190

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need actual solutions. Should I try the teleportation once more? Maybe

take a weapon with me this time?"

There was silence at the other end of the line for several moments.

When her grandmother spoke again, her voice was as somber as Leah

had ever heard it. "You can't count on it working, Leah. Not with your lack of experience. You could end up anywhere—or nowhere. You could

lie down for what turns out to be nothing more than a refreshing nap, and leave that poor man to suffer and die an agonizing, bloody death."

"Thanks for the imagery."

"Watch your mouth. I could be napping myself, instead of talking to you. I'm eighty-seven damn years old."

"Sorry." Leah scrubbed a hand over her face and caught the scent of male sweat and musk. It made her dizzy for a second. "I guess I could try the Chief again. Maybe if I'm lucky, he won't have me arrested."

Her grandmother made a skeptical noise. "We've never had much

luck with the authorities."

Understatement. Eight years ago, Leah had been struck with a

vision of a home invasion somewhere in one of the more upscale sections

of San Francisco. When she'd reported what she'd seen to the police,

they'd refused to take her seriously. Then, when the crime actually came to pass, she was hauled in for questioning and held on suspicion of being an accomplice to what had turned out to be a double-murder. She'd spent

forty-eight hours in a holding cell before they released her for lack of evidence.

To say the experience left her profoundly mistrustful of anyone with

a badge...yeah. Serious understatement.

"Isn't there anyone you can ask for help, Leah? Anyone you trust?

Have you made no friends in that place?" Her grandmother sounded

distressed. Sad. Disappointed in her. What else was new?

"I'll think of something, Gram. It'll be okay." She tried to sound confident. "Listen, I have to go. I'll call you later."

"See that you do." Her grandmother hung up in her ear, leaving an echo of an unspoken "
I love you and I'm worried about you and for
Heaven's sake, be careful
" hanging between them
.

Leah placed the phone in its cradle and pressed her hands to her

face, trying to ignore what the trace fragrance of Marcus's skin did to her equilibrium. All right. If she couldn't teleport back into the Madre's

playroom, and calling the police wasn't an option, then...what? Going

there in person, so to speak? Walking right up to the front door, and...

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Crap. She was back to the part where she didn't know where Marcus

was being held. How the hell would she find him? She didn't have the

first clue...except... She grabbed the phone book from the bedside table and started leafing through the Yellow Pages, under "nightclubs."

Yahtzee. Hotel California, downtown Santa Rosa. The ad said it

opened at noon. Good. She'd need the time to prepare herself.

She sat and thought for a few minutes longer, then reached for the

phone and dialed again. It rang four times, and then a sleepy, masculine voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jeff? Jeff Crandel? It's Leah Benjamin. I know it's early, but I need to ask a favor."

"Leah?" He sounded a lot more alert all of a sudden. "What can I do for you?"

"This is going to sound crazy, Jeff, and I can't really explain it. I just need you to do it and not ask questions, okay?"

Jeff stuttered and stammered a bit before finally replying, "I'll do what I can, but...is it going to get me into trouble with the Dean, like last time? Because you know, that petition you passed around really stirred

things up, and not in a good way. I'm not tenured, you know, and with

my wife pregnant and all—"

"Jeff, listen to me. You're not going to get into any trouble. I just need you to go to a payphone at three-forty-five this afternoon and make a phone call for me. No one will ever know it was you, I promise."

There was silence at the other end of the line. Leah held her breath.

This was it—there was no one else. If he turned her down...

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't really need your help, Jeff."

He sighed. "Who do I need to call?"

The muscles in Leah's neck and shoulders and back relaxed, and she

exhaled as she let herself fall sideways on the bed. "Anybody ever tell you what a nice guy you are?"

* * * *

The blonde bitch, Shannon, snaked her hand through his hair and

yanked his head back. "Answer the Madre."

If he'd been able, he'd have spit in the barmaid's eye. But he had

neither the strength nor the moisture left in his mouth to manage it. He settled for glaring at them both.

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The Madre grinned at him, and it was ghastly. Her eyes, like two

blank, pearly moons, seemed to stare right through his skin. "
Bene
, Detective, you are too nice and too honorable to tell us which of these

wicked girls ruined my plans for you." She gestured in the general

direction of the two women who'd disposed of Clarice's body—a thin

brunette and another chick with short, wispy hair. They lay facedown on

the cement, naked, their backs torn and bloody after an hour-long

application of Shannon's whip. Their screams and cries for mercy echoed

in his ears. Their protestations of innocence had gotten them nowhere,

and left him feeling sick with guilt.

"But," the Madre continued, "as you can see, it makes no difference.

Your nice, honorable ways have not saved them from punishment. Nor

have they saved you."

True enough. His chest sported ten new marks, and these were no

mere welts. They were deep, open and bleeding. The pain overwhelmed

him, but he reveled in it. Because it was pain, and he hated it. No craving for more. No desire to beg for further abuse. The woman...the quite

possibly imaginary woman...

...Leah, her name is Leah...

...had been right about that much.

And still the Madre went on, her voice like the drone of a poisonous

insect. "And now you will see how we deal with disobedience, Detective.

Watch and learn."

No. They couldn't make him watch. He closed his eyes and wished

he could do the same with his ears, praying for unconsciousness as

Shannon did whatever she did to make the women lying on the floor

gibber and shriek like banshees. Their palpable agony, and the wet,

sloppy sounds of blood splattering this way and that, made his stomach

clench and roll. He let his eyes drift open in time to see the pair of them drag themselves along the floor toward the door, with Shannon behind

them, urging them on. At least they were still alive. More than he could hope for himself.

Then the world grayed out, not disappearing entirely, but receding

enough that he could feel some relief. Some brief cessation of pain and

guilt.It ended with a hard, loud slap to his jaw. "Wake up. Time for another drink. Gotta stay hydrated so you don't get sick."

Shannon laughed and shoved the mouth of a water bottle between

his lips. He didn't bother to struggle, having learned through trial and 193

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error that the barmaid could force the issue if she wanted. At least she didn't seem interested in drugging him again.

He drank without opening his eyes. As he swallowed, she spoke to

him, her voice low and angry. "This is all your fault, you know. What I had to do to Belinda and Kathie? They were my friends, and it's all your fault." She yanked the water away and slapped him again, landing the blow directly on his ear and making it ring. "I can't wait to see you really suffer. It won't be long now."

She left him. He opened his eyes and saw the long, crimson

smudges on the floor in the center of the room. They complemented the

stain left by Clarice's body. Highlighted it. Idly, he wondered how his

blood would look mingled with theirs.

His thoughts drifted to the woman...imaginary? Real? Did it matter?

It had been hours. If she was real, she hadn't called Chief Sanchez.

Or Sanchez hadn't listened to her—which was just as likely, because

Sanchez was an asshole who'd never liked him anyway, and had never

believed that his partner's death had been anything other than a random

mugging gone bad. Only Marcus's stubborn determination—what

Sanchez called his "bitching and moaning" about "bogeymen"—had kept the investigation open.

This reality of it was this—if some random chick really did phone

Chief Sanchez at the ass-crack of dawn to tell him Marcus was chained

in the basement of a sex club? He'd probably threatened her with arrest

for making prank calls. And Sanchez was the only one in the department

who knew Marcus was going undercover, and where, and why.

But none of that made any difference anyway, because the

woman...Leah...wasn't real. No way. He didn't believe in magic, or

psychic phenomena, or any of that New Age-y crap. Though she sure

was nice to think about, with her watercolor veils, all see-through and

soft.

Wait...no...that was the story she'd told him. The story had helped

him. He couldn't deny it, any more than he could deny the evidence of it, where it had dried across his thighs and on the floor before Shannon had dragged those women into the room and...

No, not thinking about that. Thinking about Leah, who'd been there

and gone away. Real? Not real? Didn't matter. He was screwed either

way. The best thing he could hope for was a quick death, and it seemed

like that wasn't in the cards. So he'd play the hand he was dealt. He was good at that—always had been. He'd go down fighting, one way or

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another.

The gray was creeping up on him again. He couldn't feel his arms or

his legs, and he was cold. So cold. But the gray was his friend, and he

fell into it, face-first. Leah was there waiting for him. She wore the

watercolor veils, running all together, like they'd been left out in the rain.

And she was smiling.

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Leah stood on the sidewalk and watched as a tall blonde in a black

Latex cat-suit rolled out the green striped awning over the façade of the club. Then the blonde went inside, letting the front door slam behind her with a bang that traveled loud and clear over the sounds of noon-hour

traffic. A few seconds later, the scrolled neon lettering decorating the big front window sputtered to life. Hotel California was open for business.

Leah adjusted her skirt—tight red leather—and rubbed her palms

together, grimacing at their clammy feel. Then she made her way down

the block, watching her step in stilettos she hadn't worn in nearly a

decade. At least she didn't wobble. An hour's practice in the hall outside her apartment had made sure of that.

She paused in front of the door and reached into her handbag,

feeling for the small, hard lump secreted within the faux-silk lining. Her ace in the hole, so to speak. Then she gathered her courage and pulled

open the door.

The inside of the club was gloomy compared to the sunlit street, but

her eyes adjusted quickly. She caught sight of the blonde wiping down

the bar. The woman glanced up and looked her over, plainly unimpressed

with what she saw. Leah took a deep breath and started across the room,

keeping a fake smile stretched across her face and her gaze aimed low.

Submissive. As she'd been trained, lo these many years ago.

"Good afternoon. I wonder if it would be possible for me to see..."

The sudden quaver in her voice betrayed her. She cleared her throat and

began again. "I'm here to see the Madre Donnatella DeTagliera."

The blonde's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

"My name is Leah Benjamin. The Madre and I are acquainted. I

used to work for her."

The blonde made a gruff sound of disbelief. "You don't look the

type."

So much for the tight red leather and heels. "Just the same, I'd

appreciate it if you'd let the Madre know I'm here. I believe she'd be

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interested in meeting with me."

"Oh you do, huh?"

Leah lifted her eyes and looked straight into the blonde's face for the

first time. "Yes, I do. In fact, if she discovered I'd been turned away, I think the Madre might be very displeased."