Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) (14 page)

By the time Annie came to her senses the room had begun to darken with the coming of night. Weary, she’d lain on the bed with no intention of napping, but the day’s events had
evidently gotten the better of her because before she knew it she was caught in the middle of a dream. In the dream Doug was falling from the sky, his arms and legs outstretched like those of a skydiver. Behind him and all around him other people fell, bent and broken people. And the sky, as far as she could see, was littered with falling debris. The dream fragmented before she could make sense of it, and she came awake with a jolt.

Clothes had been set out for her, she saw. She got up and inspected the garments: a plain but elegant midnight blue dress, shoes,
garter, stockings and underwear. All of it seemed new but decidedly retro and extremely alluring. Not exactly what she would have chosen, but considering the emergency situation that had brought them here, the garments would do.

She wondered where Doug had gone. A small smile touched her lips thinking that he might have been the bearer of these gifts. It would be just like him to play a sexy little game with retro lingerie. Their sex life, thanks to Doug, had always been full of
delightful surprises. The thought suddenly struck her as ridiculous. Earlier, when they’d parted Doug had been in no mood for games. Besides, where would he have come up with such things? No, the most likely bearer was Greta. The thought made her shudder.

In her closet she discovered a man’s suit, obviously left there for Doug—it looked to be about his size—along with shoes, socks and underwear.

It was a little unsettling to think that while she’d slept someone had been in her room, moving about, watching her sleep. Again she thought of Greta and another cold shudder worked through her.

She padded across the hall to the bathroom, undressed and stood naked before the full-length mirror, searching for telltale signs of pregnancy. She turned side
ways, her hand gliding over her belly. Satisfied, she looked away and began scanning the room. She did not want to think about what her mind involuntarily kept going to.

Your mother got up to go to the bathroom and was shot in the heart by an intruder.

A sob escaped her with the realization that this was the room where her mother had drawn her final breath. Where exactly had she been standing? What had she been thinking? What had she been feeling when the final moment of her life had arrived? Had she seen her executioner? Did she recognize the person, know his or her name? These pursuits were useless, Annie knew. She’d go crazy if she continued down this path.

She suddenly realized just how inconceivable the explanation of her mother’s death seemed now that she’d had
time to really think about it. Death could not have happened in this sterile place. Doug’s objections came to mind.
How could a gunman get through security to begin with?
Annie had been wondering the same thing, of course, although her mind still did not want to accept the implications of his objections. And if a gunman
had
gotten through security then why hadn’t her father been murdered instead of her mother? He, after all, was the guilty party, the hard-assed deal maker, the bastard businessman who never gave an inch and without remorse left his enemies to flounder in their losses. Mother was just an innocent bystander, wasn’t she? As far as Annie knew Rachael hadn’t an enemy in the world. No, there was something wrong here. She continued to scan the bathroom but found no evidence of her mother’s murder. Where were the crime scene investigators? Didn’t it take days for them to complete a murder investigation? Why wasn’t the bathroom cordoned off with crime scene tape?

Annie knew the answers to her own silent inquiries, of course. Daddy’s vast influence eclipsed that of police and politics. He had neatly and tidily taken care of everything before she and Doug had arrived. There would be no official investigation into her mother’s death. Justice would be dealt but it would come
down from the high echelons of the De Roché Empire rather than sane and normal channels. The police would do what they were told and be grateful that De Roché did not bring his enormous wrath down upon them. Yes, if police had even been called to the scene, the investigation into her mother’s death would have been perfunctory at best. Now all evidence of her was gone. It was as if Rachael Kincaid De Roché had never existed.

When Doug got back to the house at least half a dozen young men and women in white coats were efficiently transferring dozens of shiny stainless steel containers from vans into the kitchen’s rear entrance. There were several security types inspecting the containers and watching the crew’s every move.

Anger flamed in him. He couldn’t get over the fact that Rachael wasn’t yet in the ground and the old man was throwing a party. He knew De Roché wasn’t stupid. Insane perhaps but certainly not stupid. There had to be some calculated reason for this celebration. Earlier Annie had brought up the possibility that it was an attempt to flush out Rachael’s murderer from somewhere within the ranks of the old man’s inner circle. Would the murderer be fool enough to actually attend the party? Doug supposed that he or she would have to
, or risk being exposed by conspicuous absence.

The security guys eyed Doug balefully but did not approach him as he brushed past the caterers and entered the house.

He found Annie in her room sitting at the vanity applying makeup. She was dressed only in underwear. She’d obviously showered; her body had a clean shine to it. She stood and curtsied when he entered, showing off the retro undergarments that had been left for her to wear. Doug just stared.

“You like?” she said.

He licked his lips and nodded. “Where did you get those?”

“Someone left them while I slept. Must have been Greta’s idea of a joke. But I’ll admit I was hoping it was you.” She glared suspiciously at him. “You didn’t, did you?”

Doug shook his head. “Where the hell would I have come up with underwear?”

Annie gave a sigh of discontent. “Well, here,” she said, going to the closet. “I think this is for you. What do you bet it’ll fit like a glove?” It was an expensive suit, Doug could see that. He gave it just a cursory glance before throwing it on the bed.

“Wait a minute,” Doug said. “Did you say Greta? Greta from the airplane?”

Annie nodded. “She’s some sort of assistant to my father.
She takes care of things for him.”

“Annie . . . I don’t know about this. Christ, your mother was murdered less than twenty-four hours ago and the old man’s throwing a party?”

“He has something up his sleeve,” Annie said.

“No shit. The bastard does everything for effect.” He wanted to tell her what he’d just learned about Rachael from Joe Remy the dog handler, (
her death was different, brutal, some sort of sick ritual)
but decided against it. What if Remy was a trouble maker and he’d been lying?

“We have to attend, Doug.”

“You have to.”

“We
have to.”

“I can’t stop thinking about what you said this afternoon.”

“You mean about me staying until the baby’s born?”

“I just don’t understand why you would do such a thing. We haven’t been apart in almost ten years and now you want to share the most important event of our lives with him?”

“It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like then? Tell me
.”

“I can’t explain it, Doug. I don’t know. It’s like suddenly I don’t have any power o
ver him. I feel sorry for him. He needs me.”

“What about me?”

“You’re a big boy.”

“So is he. Christ, Annie, how can I talk sense to you?”

“You don’t own me. Doug.”

“You’re right, I don’t. But it’s our baby, not his.”

“You could stay, too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have a job, people who depend on me for a paycheck.”

“Seth can keep things going while you’re away.”

“Out of the question. Those men depend on
me
, not Seth. And besides I’m not staying in this house with your father a second longer than I have to.”

“You’ve always had me to yourself,” whispered Annie. “I’ve done everything you wanted me to do. I’ve stayed away, just like you asked. I stayed away because you were afraid—”

“You were afraid too.”

“Yes, but I have to stop being afraid sometime, don’t I?”

Doug knew that his arguments were futile and decided to stop right then and there. There was no doubt in his mind that De Roché was exercising some sort of  mind control over his daughter, and he knew that Annie was powerless in the face of it.

The silence was an awkward weight between them. Annie stepped up close to Doug and kissed him
tenderly on the lips. He did not kiss her back.

“Promise me something, Doug.”

“What?”

“That you’ll never stop loving me.”

Doug discovered new razors and a can of fresh shaving cream in the bathroom. He shaved at the sink, checked his stubble and shaved again. Afterward he stepped into the shower, lathered his body up with lemon scented soap and washed his hair three times. He knew what he was doing, trying to scrub this entire day from his body. But it was useless. Deep inside
, his unease began to multiply. Everything was wrong. They’d lost their house, they were on the run, old terrors were revisiting him, Rachael was dead, he’d lost Annie to some force he did not understand and the old man was throwing a party. Yes, it had been a fine day with no end in sight. He found himself praying for some sort of divine intervention, some magic that might transport them out of this nightmare and back into a world of sane normality.

Upon finishing up with his bathroom duties he found Annie dressed and waiting when he returned to her room. It made him ache to see her. She was so beautiful he could almost not look at her. He was angry. He wanted to hurt her for her betrayal; he wanted to do or say something that would make her see just how crazy this all was. In silence he went about the unpleasant business of dressing himself in the suit that had been provided for him. It felt unnatural against his flesh, like a second skin made of alien flesh.

Annie watched him, seeing his discomfort, listening to his silence.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“The rest of my life,” he replied.

De Roché Manor hummed like a well oiled engine. The place was a hive of activity, people in white coats, all business, scurried to and fro carrying silver trays and steaming dishes, arranging furniture and lighting.

Doug roamed the rooms of the estate’s ground floor feeling like an intruder. He’d left Annie in her room with promises that she’d catch up later. It was still more than an hour until dinner, the guests had not yet arrived and Doug felt restless, praying for some convenient get-out clause, a means by which he could escape what he was certain would be an unbearable evening.

The banquet room contained a long mahogany table covered in fine linens and set with antique china, crystal and sterling silver. There were at least a dozen place settings.

Doug found Theo and another man he did not recognize hauling cases of wine and liquor into the banquet room. A worker in a white coat was busy opening bottles, some with dirtied and nearly illegible labels. The room was fragrant with mingled bouquets.

“Oh, Doug, there you are,” Theo said halting his activities and raising an inquiring eyebrow. “Caught some badly needed R&R, did you?”

Doug made no reply. He felt like smashing the bastard in the face. “By the way,” Theo went on, “this is my assistant Don Savage.”

Doug’s interest piqued. Savage appeared older than Theo, built like a bulldog with close-cropped gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache. His body seemed solid and muscular beneath his dark-colored suit. Doug had no doubt the man could take care of himself in a struggle. He tried to read him, wanting very much to know if he’d truly confided in Joe Remy. But Doug realized he was no good at reading people. He stuck his hand out. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Savage replied
seeming sincere.

“Had a little walk around the estate earlier,” Theo said. It was not a question.

“Not against the rules, is it?” Doug said.

“Not at all, but if you decide to roam after dark, I would advise staying close to the house. Electronic perimeter surrounds the main compound, keeps the dogs at bay. You cross that line, well . . .” Theo’s voice trailed off.

Doug got the picture. “Thanks for the warning,” he said.

Theo grinned. “Just doing my job.”

“Sure you are,” Doug said and walked away.

Between seven and seven-thirty the cars started to arrive at the estate. In the meantime Doug had found sanctuary in the library. The room was all his, at least for the moment, and for this he was grateful. He perused the shelves stalling for time, not much interested in the volumes they contained. Finally he heard De Roché’s voice, and those of women, one of them Annie’s. He set his ear to eavesdropping; listening for any nuance that might give him a clue as to why the old man was throwing a celebration so soon after the death of his wife. What he heard were words of sympathy and outrage for the terrible crime that had been visited upon this family. No one seemed to question De Roché’s motives for throwing a celebration so soon after his wife’s death. Or at least no one spoke words that would make Doug believe they thought it odd or out of the ordinary. The same was not true of Doug, of course. He remained adamant in his belief that this was
somehow all wrong.

Eventually, when the conversation began to dwindle, Doug made his way out of the library, joining Annie in the banquet room.

“Where have you been?” she asked, turning her face up for a kiss.

“Hiding.”

Annie frowned but did not reply. Introductions were exchanged all around, but Doug’s mind, so thoroughly spent from the day’s events, retained few names. There was a small, thin troll of a man named Voglar . . . Doug did not know if it was his first or last name and didn’t care. Voglar was a small man with sagging liver colored skin and droopy eyes who spoke in guttural tones. Doug thought Vulgar would have been a more appropriate name. He was with a young slouching, unattractive woman named Dena. No last name was given. Doug vaguely wondered if Dena was Voglar’s wife, or mistress, or . . .? He guessed it didn’t matter.

The only familiar face in attendance was Greta’s, who occupied the place at the opposite end of the table that under different circumstances would have belonged to Rachael. Doug could tell by the look on Annie’s face that she did not appreciate Greta’s presence here.

Doug sat in silence through the multi-course meal which had a decided Greek feel to it; several crown roasts of lamb, heavily spiced with garlic, rosemary and mint, at least half a dozen courses of broiled and baked fish of varying varieties, rolled grape leaves stuffed with spiced meat and rice, salads accented with citrus and exotic flavorings, bowls of fresh fruit. The food was delicious and Doug ate ravenously. He did not have to be reminded that it had been more than sixteen hours of stress and drama since he’d last eaten. Those sixteen hours felt like a lifetime. 

Throughout the meal, De Roché kept a light banter going with his guests. He talked mostly to the men, and the bulk of the conversation had to do with business and financial dealings. Occasionally someone would rant on about the government and about controls and regulations hurting the free economy.
On one occasion De Roché chuckled and commented that there were places on Earth where regulations did not much matter. Doug cared little for such matters, so, for the most part he tuned it out. He was alert, however, for any nuance that might implicate one or more of the guests in Rachael’s murder. He heard nothing that would lead him to that conclusion. As far as he could tell Rachael’s name was not mentioned once.

The wine flowed freely. Doug drank his first glass down and motioned for the waiter to pour him another. It was a deep, rich red with an astonishing flavor and bouquet. The best wine he had ever drunk.

De Roché, seeing Doug’s satisfaction, commented. “I had these wines brought in especially for the occasion,” he said. “That one you’re drinking is a 1929 Chateau Margeaux.” His eyes gleamed.

Doug nodded without speaking, tipped his wine glass toward the old man in a one-sided toast and downed the second glass. From there he went back to his plate and attacked the food with renewed relish, as if De Roché hadn’t spoken. Annie, who sat on Doug’s left and just to her father’s right, gave Doug a narrow gaze.

“It is wine meant to be savored,” De Roché commented blandly. With that he snapped his fingers and a waiter glided over with a new bottle and a fresh glass. This one was a Burgundy with an ancient label yellowed by time. De Roché signaled the waiter to pour Doug a taste. Doug lifted the glass and drank it all down. De Roché smiled grimly and again snapped his fingers. This time the waiter brought him a fresh glass, and poured De Roché a taste. De Roché swirled the liquid around in the glass, took a quick whiff, swirled again, then stuck his nose in and inhaled the bouquet. He sat back, eyes half closed, appreciating the aroma. After a moment he lifted the glass to his lips, drew in a small amount, rolled it around on his tongue, then drew in some air through his lips, bubbling it through the wine before swallowing. Ritual complete, he set the glass down and looked sternly at Doug. “That’s how it’s done, my boy.”

“Let the young man drink,
Édouard,” said an overweight middle aged man who sat just to De Roché’s left. “He’s probably never had a thousand dollar bottle of wine before.” The man gave a short, condescending laugh. Doug paid neither him nor De Roché any mind. Earlier the man had been introduced to Doug and Annie simply as Mr. Du Lac. Doug knew a little French and so he had loosely translated the name as
The Lake.
For some reason the name struck Doug’s funny bone and he was having trouble keeping a straight face. That’s when he realized he’d had too much to drink. The wine had gone to his head and loosened his inhibitions. Mr. Du Lac was accompanied by a young woman half his age introduced as Lilly, who wore too much makeup and too revealing a dress. Although pretty, to Doug she looked like a call girl. She kept glancing at Doug with a look that seemed to undress him from head to foot. Her scrutiny was a little unnerving.

“What do you think?” Du Lac asked De
Roché.

“You mean
about the wine?”

“Yes.”

“Magnificent,” De Roché replied before again raising his glass. “It so happens I have something to announce.”

All faces turned to him eagerly.

“F
ill your glasses,” De Roché said.

Doug put his fork down, wiped his mouth on a linen napkin and said, “For the occasion, Ed?”

“What was that, Douglas?” said De Roché, a sour smile forming on his mouth.

“A moment ago you mentioned that you had these wines brought
in for the occasion. What occasion would that be?”

Annie kicked Doug under the table. Doug acted like he hadn’t noticed although it hurt like hell.

De Roché’s sour smile congealed. “I would think it obvious, Douglas.”

“The occasion of your wife’s murder? Is that what you’re celebrating? Oh, yes, I forgot. Rachael was murdered last night. Let’s all rejoice.” Again Doug lifted his wine glass, this time toasting the entire congregation. No one moved.

De Roché stared at Doug, his eyes livid pinpricks.

A tall, owlish woman of perhaps sixty, who sat just to Greta’s right, and whose name Doug could not recall, conspicuously cleared her throat and said, “The occasion of Rachael’s
passing,
Mr. McArthur. We are all aware of the fact that she was murdered. There’s nothing any of us can do about that. We are here to celebrate her
life.
Rachael was a dear friend of mine and I can assure you she would have been moved by this show of affection.”

Doug glanced around the table from guest to guest. There wasn’t a serious griever amon
gst these phonies. Although they had all seemed initially shocked at Doug’s impertinence, most had renewed the task of attacking food and drink with relish. Doug saw fat business types with over-fed florid faces, grease running down their chins, gorging themselves on the delicious cuisine and draining bottle after bottle of De Roché’s most expensive vintages. These men were all greed and no substance, each with a young trophy on his arm. Doug doubted that any of the women even knew Rachael. The only real woman in attendance other than Annie and Greta was Ms. Owlish I-can’t-remember-her-name and she seemed to have an honest measure of affection for Rachael. Doug wondered what her place was in the scheme of things.

“I see,” said Doug, picking his glass up and discovering it empty.

De Roché snapped his fingers. A waiter came round the table and refilled it.

“
The boy needs a little more lubricant for the tongue,” De Roché said, now seeming to relish Doug’s rapidly slipping sobriety.

“Here, here,” Voglar
said in his obnoxiously guttural voice. He was holding his glass out as if to propose a toast.

“This
wine is good,” Dena, his slouching female companion said, speaking of the wine. She giggled drunkenly before upending her glass and drinking it down like soda pop. De Roché nodded his approval. 

“No,
daddy,” Annie cried. “Stop this now!”

“Stop what, darling?”

“This . . . insanity.”

“I am merely celebrating your mother’s life, darling, and as usual your husband is making a fool of himself.”

“You haven’t spoken of my mother once during dinner,” Annie said. “Doug’s right. This is all wrong. This isn’t a celebration of mama’s life. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not that.” Annie stood up. “These people don’t care about mama. They’re here to gloat, to eat gourmet food and drink expensive wine. I don’t even know them. I want to know why you’re doing this!”

“I have my reasons,” De Roché said. “Now sit down, please.”

“I will not sit down!” Annie said.

“Think of the baby,” Greta said from her place at the opposite end of the table. Her dark stare seemed to pierce Annie’s abdomen like a knife.

“You go to hell!” Annie snapped. “I’ve had enough of you . . . of this . . . of everything!”

“Annie,” De Roché began but Annie, now in tears was already halfway to the door.

“No, daddy,” Annie sobbed. “I can’t do this.” With that, she was out the door and gone.

Annie’s sudden departure elicited whispers from around the table. Doug sat quietly, taking it all in.

“Annie will come around,” said De Roché. “She’s a good girl. She knows the rules.”

“Yes,” said Du Lac, standing. “I’m sure she will. A toast to Annie then.” He held his wine glass out before him, his ample belly swaying. “To Annie, to the heir and to the future.”

“Wait a minute,” Du Lac’s mistress, the woman named Lilly said, “my glass is empty.” Doug looked along the table and several of the guests were pouring themselves more wine. Du Lac was still standing, holding his glass out in front of his massive belly. A waiter came forward to assist in the pouring but De Roché waved him away. With a sweep of his arm he took in the entire catering staff.

“All of you out,” he said. “We would like to be left alone now. Greta will accompany you to the kitchen. She’ll give you your instructions.” He smiled at Greta. The woman rose obediently and left the room, the workers following. 

Doug had taken about all of this he could stand. His mind had latched onto something Du Lac had said a moment ago. Something about the heir and the future. “What the hell did you mean by that?” he said, looking narrowly at the man.

“
Douglas . . .” De Roché warned.

Doug stood up so quickly his knee contacted the underside of the table upending several wine glasses. The effort caused his head to spin wildly. “I want to know what that fat
son of a bitch meant.”

“I
was making a reference to the future, my boy,” Du Lac said.

“The future of the
heir
will be determined by
me
and
Annie,”
Doug said, “not by a bunch of drunken businessmen and their whores.” He turned and looked directly at De Roché. “And certainly not by you.”

De Roché’s hooded eyes were steely with hate. “That’s where you’re wrong,
Douglas.”

Doug jabbed a finger in De Roché’s direction. “I should never have brought Annie here,” he said.

“But you did bring her here,” Du Lac said. He spoke as if to an imbecile.

“You shut the fuck up!” Doug said, turning on the man. Fighting back the urge to smash him in the face, Doug leaned forward, and with one sweep of his hand he cleared half a dozen place settings and nearly as many bottles of wine
from the table. Lilly screamed as everything shattered to the floor around her and Du Lac’s feet. Doug didn’t wait to see how much damage he’d done. He backed away and stumbled to the door.

By the time he’d reached the top of the back stairway he knew he was going to be sick. He lurched down the stairs, hand outstretched against the wall for support. He reached the back door without falling, threw it open and staggered out into the night, breathing in the warm, thick air. He staggered blindly across the lawn not knowing which direction to take. He thought briefly of the silent Dobermans and the estate’s perimeter.
What the hell,
his reeling mind said.
It seems to be a night for feasts. Let there be another.
He saw the outline of the woods in the distance. He ran towards them hoping to find sanctuary in them.