The Guardian (3 page)

He forced the memory into the darker shadows of his mind. What was love anyway but a burden to be carried through eternity?

Nothing mattered to him at this moment but getting close to Fala Rainwater. Now the dynamics had changed. If he couldn't read and control her thoughts, it would make his plan harder. Yet not impossible. He welcomed thwarting the old Guardian's attempt to save her
granddaughter. The old Whitemag was on her way out anyway. She weakened by the hour.

He'd discover the source of the magic that was blocking Fala's mind from his control, then he'd destroy Fala Rainwater.

W
hen Fala reached the entrance to Rock Creek Park, she checked her watch. Close to three in the morning. Exactly two hours from the reservation in Manquin, Virginia, to downtown D.C. She'd taken Route 17 to Route 1, a shortcut that avoided Interstate I-95.

She stopped long enough to flash her gold shield at the uniformed officer blocking the entrance.

He waved her through.

She turned onto the service road that would take her deep into the park. Moonlight reflected in the car mirrors and hit her eyes. That oppressive moon had followed her all the way into downtown D.C., riding her rear window like a gray, shifting phantom, blocking out the stars and the sky, almost blinding in its intensity. There was a menacing, almost tactile feeling to it, as if she couldn't escape it anywhere she went. Usually she loved to gaze at
the moon. Tonight was different. The pull was so strong, she felt it tugging at her insides.

She squinted at the narrow service road ahead of her. The park lights cast a sickly, yellowish glow over the pavement, spraying dim yellow diamonds over the black tarmac. Thick trees lined the road and the path that ran beside it. Their heavy boughs touched the eerie gray shadows cast by the moon. Up ahead, she spotted the lights and a long line of police cars and vans.

Nothing like an active crime scene to jumpstart her adrenaline. She grimaced as she pulled in behind a cruiser and got out, coffee in hand. The metallic scent of blood made her fingers tighten on the cardboard tray. The dry, frigid night amplified the smell, fouling the atmosphere, the odor sticking in her nose like glue. Sometimes having heightened senses wasn't all that fun.

The dead of winter usually brought a drop in outdoor homicides. Frosty air somehow cooled the cravings of the deranged. But from working homicide for two years, Fala knew that violence increased during full moons. A killer had waited in this park and stalked a victim. She glanced up at the moon, spreading across the sky like a huge dirigible, the intensity and coldness of its silver glow almost annihilating in all its alluring beauty. Had this moon drawn the killer outside, heedless of the weather?

A tiny shiver hummed through her as she strode down the jogging trail, frozen leaves and mulch crunching beneath her soft kid boots. Several dog handlers combed the woods around the trail, but the Labs refused to cooperate. They cowered and pulled at the leads as if
they wanted to get away. Far away. The handlers tried to scold the animals into control but with no success. What was wrong with them?

She stepped over the yellow tape that sagged around the scene. Joe was bent over, looking at something on the ground, running a hand through his thick, short-cropped dark hair. Wrinkled jeans rippled his thickset legs, and the shirttail of a flannel shirt poked out beneath an Army-issue parka. She'd never seen Joe without a suit, his “uniform,” as he called it. He looked as if he'd just thrown on any old thing he could find and driven there, another sleep-deprived casualty of a colicky infant. That was another reason Fala feared marrying Akando. She wasn't ready for motherhood yet.

Dr. Harris Bergman, one of the medical examiners for the District, didn't look much better than Joe. He bent over beside him, touching something on the ground. Dr. B was a frustrated M.E. Panic attacks in the O.R. during medical school had forced a change in plans and everyone knew it. He wore the failure in a permanent scowl on his face. The comb-over did nothing to discourage the negative first impression he presented, but Fala had always been attracted to underdogs, and she liked Dr. B. He wore a down vest over his white lab coat. It bulged in the middle from too many stops at Dot's French pastry shop adjacent to his office. He habitually pushed up the thick glasses on his nose while he explained something to Joe.

As Fala stepped near them, she caught the scent that was driving the dogs nuts. The odor of human blood couldn't mask it; a rare predatory smell, the feral-beast
trace of copper, sour urine, and ancient mystic woods. A paranormal smell.

The evil essence crawled along her senses like thousands of spiders. Supernatural beings left a lingering aura much like humans left a detectible scent. The stronger the being, the more powerful the aura, and this creature's energy hummed inside her like an electric current. It raised the hairs on the back of her hand and forearm. Her fight-or-flight response took over. Her heart raced and her blood vessels constricted. She almost dropped the coffee cups in her hand.

She righted them and swallowed hard, squared her shoulders, and forced her feet into motion. She had to keep this to herself for now.

Joe saw her, motioned her over. “About time,” he said, helping himself to a cup. “Thanks. You read my mind.”

“Didn't have to. It's written all over your drooping eyes. So what have I missed?” she asked with her usual at-the-scene drollness. She'd learned a long time ago that a little levity was necessary when working with death day in and day out.

“Strangest scene I've ever worked.” Joe gulped his coffee.

“Now we know why Special Agent Winter wanted us on board. Our asses will be on the line if the case isn't solved.”

Joe spoke over his cup. “
Sì,
this case has ‘scapegoat' written all over it.”

“So where is Mr. Ice Storm anyway?” She glanced around, disappointed at seeing only the dogs and their handlers. On the long drive in she'd had a lot of time to
think and she had concluded that Winter was probably middle-aged, fat and balding. Voices could be just as deceiving as appearances.

Joe stopped drinking long enough to say, “Searching the woods somewhere.”

Bergman saw the dark brew and raised one bushy brow to a hopeful slant over his glasses. “Is one for me?”

Fala nodded. “Of course, Dr. B.”

He took the coffee and held it for a moment, warming his gloved hands, sniffing the aroma. A coffee savorer like herself. Unlike Joe, who'd lap up anything—including the tar served at the station.

“So, what makes this strange?” Fala asked, guessing from her earlier vibe that she already knew part of the answer. She looked around for somewhere to set the last cup of coffee….

“Mind if I have that?” asked a familiar deep voice.

Taken off guard, she wheeled, almost spilling the coffee. She watched as a figure emerged from the surrounding darkness. Her breath caught as Winter slowly stepped into the light, legs first. A black trench coat concealed his body, and there was a lot to conceal, well over six feet of it.

Wide shoulders came into view. Then the rawboned face.

Collar-length, jet-black hair was brushed straight back, revealing a widow's peak that accentuated his sharp cheekbones. Tight lips rested above a pointed chin covered in dark stubble. The aquiline nose gave him a hawklike look. On the fat, balding, old-guy meter, he registered a flat zero.

Their gazes held. She stared into his silver eyes, stark against thick black lashes. His eyes were cold, sheenless bits of granite, the color of that strange moon tonight. She couldn't find one glimmer of human vulnerability in them. And they were too direct, too bold, hiding something behind them. Coupled with that deceptively smooth voice, he could be lethal around women.

Fala managed to nod in answer to his question.

“Thanks. I owe you.” He strode up to her, his long legs moving with oiled grace, almost as if he were floating toward her. He paused and towered over her, his wide shoulders blocking her view of the woods—actually obstructing her whole field of vision. He reached for the coffee.

Fala realized her fingers were digging into the cardboard holder. Before she could react, he steadied the holder, covering her hand. The heat of his palm seeped through her skin, the hot width of it penetrating her fingers, branding a path up the length of her arm. She wanted to jerk her hand back, but he held it tight as he reached for the cup.

His head turned into the light and she noticed a faded scar that spread small talons over his right jaw. It added to the aloofness that oozed from him.

He took the cup and finally released her hand. “Thanks.” His voice held too much warmth as he made direct eye contact.

Fala stepped back from him, putting a good three feet of personal space between them. His nearness made her feel vulnerable somehow. She wasn't one to lose her cool over a guy's touch. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at him as she found her voice. “You must be Agent Winter.”

“That's right. You can call me Stephen, or Ice Storm.” He didn't smile as he extended a long-fingered hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Detective.”

She eyed the proffered hand. She wasn't falling for that one again. She nodded uncomfortably, catching a hint of a ruthless sneer on Winter's lips. Had he sensed the reaction she'd had to his touch? Clearly, he was messing with her.

“Let's skip the niceties. Why are we on this case?” she asked, meeting his gaze now that she stood a safe distance away.

“Because Senator Osgood Kent is involved, and my superiors thought you'd help solve it quicker.”

“Before the press gets wind of it, you mean.”

Joe interrupted. “What's the senator got to do with this?”

Bergman picked up an evidence bag near his case and handed it to Joe as if answering the question. “We found this in a pocket of the jogging shorts.”

Joe looked at the contents, then handed the evidence bag to her. She examined the small card-carrying case. Then she looked at Katrina Sanecki's license, Senate ID card, and a twenty-dollar bill. No denying the girl's beauty. Blonde, blue-eyed, dimpled smile, perfect teeth, tiny nose and flawless skin. But it didn't explain anything. “Who is she?”

Winter sipped the coffee, made a face as if it were too bitter for him, then said, “The senator's aide.”

“So we're assuming the vic is Sanecki?” Joe asked.

Winter nodded.

Fala asked, “How did the feds learn of the case so soon?”

Winter angled a brow at her. “My department follows cases where the possibility of the public interest could be considerable.”

“A nice way of saying it involves a U.S. senator, a vicious murder and a wealthy victim,” Fala said.

“All of that, yes, and to keep certain aspects discreet.” He waited to speak again until Fala's eyes and attention fell squarely under his control. “You know how it is with secrets in this town.”

Fala betrayed nothing, although her pulse quickened and her mind raced to figure out his game. Was he alluding to the fact she was a shape-shifter, or merely referring to the typical D.C. trash where
truth
was a dirty word?

When she didn't speak, he added, “Who knows what else will turn up? Everyone working this case will come under intense scrutiny.”

The way he looked at her when he uttered the final three words gave her a start. What was he implying? Did he know about her powers? “So what are you, FBI, CIA?” she asked.

Winter merely nodded in a controlled and poised way, a smug expression guarding a myriad of secrets.

She picked up on his adversarial vibe. It was clear he enjoyed keeping others off balance and in the dark. Nothing felt right about this guy, now that she studied him. Usually she could see spiritual auras glowing around a person. Not with Winter. Stone-cold blank. Nothing close to the normal violet or indigo. Was he the undead? No, vamps and zombies gave off a sickly, reddish-black hue. Something was blocking his aura. But
what? And why had he called them into this case? Later, she promised herself she'd find out.

She let it drop for the moment and turned to Bergman, who was nursing his coffee. “So, Dr. B, what are we looking at?”

Bergman finished his coffee and stuck the cup in a brown satchel near his leg. He shoved up the black spectacles perched on the end of his nose, then bent and picked up a shredded sports bra. “If you enjoy M. Night Shyamalan, this is all the entertainment you'll ever want.” He held the blood-covered top by the straps. Five jagged tears scored the center of the back.

At the sight of the destroyed material, Fala felt a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. She could imagine what the body looked like.

Winter asked, “Have any theories on how the murder was committed?”

“An animal, surely,” Bergman said.

“With big claws or teeth,” Fala added.

“A zoo animal?” Winter asked.

Joe polished off his coffee and said, “We got a guy checking to see if they have an escapee.”

Fala pointed at the three-foot patch of blood that had soaked the ground. “All the vic's blood?”

Bergman shoved his slipping glasses back up on his nose with the inside of his forearm. “I've taken a sample to test against the stains on this bra. I'll test it against a hair sample Mr. Winter retrieved from Miss Sanecki's apartment, too.”

Winter eyed Bergman over the top of his coffee cup. “I'd be glad to run it through my own lab.”

“It's on top of my list.” Bergman shot Winter an
indignant glance for trying to step into his forensic domain.

“I'm sure Senator Kent will look favorably upon any priority you can give this case.” Winter worked a smile but it never quite touched his face. “Just give me a call when you get the results.”

Fala didn't like the superior expression Winter wore. She glanced over at the bagged shredded panties and shorts, or what was left of them. Beside them, she noted a pair of tennis shoes, torn and shredded as if something chewed on them then spit them out. Other than the bloodstain, that was all the evidence they had.

“How much blood is that?” Fala asked.

“Best guess, about three pints,” Bergman said. “If it's our vic's, then it's safe to assume she's dead.” He dropped the tattered bra in an evidence bag.

She glanced toward the frantic dogs. They balked, shivered, and suffered fear fits as the uniforms and crime-scene techs combed the grids they had marked off. “Nothing found in the woods yet?” she asked.