The Sinister Touch (13 page)

But Adair’s apartment was as empty as it had looked from Guinevere’s window. After letting himself inside Zac spent a few minutes wandering around, trying to understand the new sense of tension he was feeling. He was near Adair’s worktable when he caught the faint trace of the same smell he had discovered in Gwen’s trash can.

Zac came to an abrupt halt, a painful sense of alertness jolting through him. For a few seconds he stood quite still. Then he went to work, looking for the source of the smell. A few minutes later he realized it was lingering around the workbench itself, as though something had been spilled on the paint-stained wood and had dried. He leaned closer and inhaled carefully.

His head swam sickeningly for a few seconds. Stepping back, Zac turned and went through the apartment with quick, long steps. Nothing. Absolutely nothing except that damned odor.

Guinevere and Mason had disappeared, and both had probably been in their own apartments as recently as late this afternoon. The lingering odor was the only link.

Zac closed his eyes briefly, trying to fight back the knowledge that he knew he couldn’t avoid. Then he reached for Adair’s phone to call Carla’s Capitol Hill apartment.

“Carla? Any word?”

“You mean from Mason? No. Zac, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Look, I’m going to call Gertie and tell her to ring your number if she gets any more messages.”

“All right, but why, Zac?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he said honestly. “But I want to do some looking around. If you don’t hear from me by midnight, I want you to contact the police. Tell them everything you know about the mess Adair’s in and have them check out the Sandwick place. Got that?”

“Yes, but, Zac, what’s
wrong
?”

“Nothing, I hope.”

But he wasn’t feeling so hopeful as he placed the call to Gertie and then loped downstairs to where he’d parked the Buick. He drove first to his own apartment in a tower of condominiums that overlooked Elliott Bay. Leaving the Buick in the loading zone, he took the elevator to the ninth floor.

He was getting accustomed to living with Guinevere’s bright color scheme, Zac realized absently as he retrieved his small Beretta from under the bathroom sink. The subdued browns and grays of his own apartment seemed dull to him now. Then, again, life in general would seem very dull without Guinevere Jones.

On the other hand, he decided grimly, going swiftly down the hall to the elevators, she didn’t have to go these lengths to liven things up for him.

The decision to check out the Sandwick house was based as much on guesses and a hunch as on anything else. But Zac had relied on such a nonscientific approach often enough in the past. He just wished to hell he’d started putting the guesses together into a hunch before now. As usual he’d been a little slow getting to the final conclusion. Now he had to make certain Guinevere didn’t pay for his slowness.

During the drive to the house on Capitol Hill, Zac was aware of two things. One was that it was almost dark now. The other was that he was calming down as his mind and body slipped into the familiar, cold, savagely alert state. He knew this condition, and he didn’t like it. It was almost painful. He’d experienced it too often in the past. He’d assumed that when he’d left his job with the international security firm and started his own business, he would never again know this kind of acute awareness. What could be so dangerous about analyzing white-collar-business security problems?

It only went to show, Zac decided, that life was full of surprises.

***

Guinevere wasn’t sure she had regained consciousness. She knew she had her eyes open, but the oppressive darkness surrounding her was as thick and menacing as that which she had known when she’d passed out.

She was aware of an uncomfortable, binding feeling on her wrists and ankles and finally decided she must have been tied hand and foot. The floor on which she lay was cold and damp.

At least there wasn’t a gag across her mouth. But that was probably because no one would hear if she chose to scream. She lay still for a moment, listening. She thought she heard someone else’s steady breathing.

“Is anyone there?” Her throat felt dry and raspy.

“Gwen? Are you awake?”

“Mason. My God, where are you?”

“A few feet away from you, I think. I can’t move. They’ve got me tied up.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I think so. What a fool I was. Zac was right. I should have let him go to the cops.”

“I’m not sure it would have done much good. Who could have predicted things would turn this nasty? We all assumed it was just a case of harassment and vandalism.” She struggled to find a slightly more comfortable position and felt something scrape against her thigh. “My head hurts.”

“Mine, too. Probably from that stuff they used to knock us out.”

“We’re talking about Valonia and Baldric, right?”

“Afraid so,” Mason agreed wearily. “I got back to my studio this afternoon and found another painting defaced. I called Zac, and when there was no answer, I called you. As soon as I hung up the phone, they jumped me. They must have been hiding in the bathroom.”

“Have they gone crazy?”

“Looks like it. I told you, they always did take that damned occult stuff too seriously. I think they’ve gone absolutely bonkers.”

“Where are we?”

“I’m not sure,” Mason admitted, “but at a guess, I’d say it’s the basement of the Sandwick house.”

“Good grief.” The object in her skirt pocket poked through the fabric, making Guinevere wince. She tugged at the skirt with her bound hands, trying to pull the pocket out of the way. When she got a grip on the fabric, she suddenly remembered that she had put something in that pocket just before she’d gone unconscious. Laboriously she inched the skirt around her waist until she could get her fingers into the pocket. She touched the heavy shard of glass. “Hmmm.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything. But I just found a piece of glass. In the movies people always seem able to cut through their bonds with handy little things such as this.”

“Maybe if I can get closer to you, I can help. It’s damn sure worth a try.”

Guinevere heard him shift about in the darkness, trying to maneuver himself toward the sound of her voice. “Over here,” she whispered.

“Keep talking. I can’t see a thing.”

Guinevere turned on her side, trying for a better angle of attack against the ropes that bound her. Her face brushed fabric, and she sucked in her breath in alarm.

“What is it?”

“Just fabric. Feels like velvet. Must be the drapes Zac told us about.” She went to work on the ropes again. It didn’t take long before she realized that in spite of what happened in the movies, cutting through tough rope with a piece of glass was neither a speedy nor a simple proposition.

“What do you think they’re going to do with us, Gwen?”

“That,” answered Guinevere with great depth of feeling, “is something I don’t want to think about. The real question is how long it’s going to take Zac to realize something’s wrong.”

“Even if he does realize it, how can he put two and two together and figure out where we are?”

“Zac is very good at putting two and two together. Eventually.”

***

Zac took his usual route through the weed-strewn, languishing backyards that were such a prominent feature on the dilapidated block of old houses. There were lights on in one or two of the structures, but for the most part everything looked as vacant at this hour of the evening as it did at three in the morning. A fat gray cat meowed questioningly at him, and he thought he recognized the animal as belonging to Abby Kettering, but he couldn’t be sure. It disappeared in search of more interesting night prey.

From the shelter of the precariously tilting garage of the house next door to the Sandwick place, Zac stood watching for a time. There were no lights on in the Sandwick house, even though it was dark, but there was activity. Occasionally he thought he caught the brief flicker of a flashlight. It never lasted long. Whoever was in the house was depending mainly on the limited light from the street. They obviously did not want to attract attention.

Of course, Zac reminded himself, down in the basement they could have all the light they wanted. No one would ever be aware of it. No one would be aware of anything that went on in that basement. Not for a long time.

As he watched, a long-haired, burly figure dressed in pants and what appeared to be a sweatshirt moved along the side of the house, heading toward the kitchen door. With that long stride it was probably a man. The kitchen door opened and closed behind him.

Zac waited a few more minutes and then eased forward, hugging what cover he could find. When he reached the Sandwick house, he stayed in the shadows near the kitchen door and paused again, listening. The faint sound of voices came from inside the darkened kitchen, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He waited until the voices stopped. The next sound was of a heavy door being opened and closed inside the kitchen. Zac knew it had to be the door to the basement. Silence reigned.

Zac was about to let himself into the kitchen and deal with whatever he found there when a faint scraping sound made him halt. The kitchen door swung open, and a man stepped out to look around. The figure was dressed in a dark robe, the cowl of which was pulled forward, almost completely concealing the face. The hem of the garment fell to his sandaled feet.

Zac didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward quickly as the hooded figure glanced in the other direction. The other man never made a sound as Zac snapped the heel of his hand against his throat. Zac caught his victim as the dazed man sank slowly toward the ground. With any luck he wasn’t unconscious, just temporarily voiceless.

The robed figure was heavy, but when Zac dragged him into the concealment provided by a tree at the back of the yard, he knew the guy wasn’t heavy enough to be the same man as the one who had surprised him in the basement. Zac twisted his arm around the dazed man’s throat and held the nose of the Beretta against his neck, making sure his victim felt the cold steel as he groaned and opened his eyes.

“What the hell . . . ? Who are you?”

Zac reached out and shoved back the hood. “Strangely enough, I was going to ask you the same question. But not now.”

“If you’re police, you got no business here. This is a private religious ceremony. We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“Sure. Unfortunately for you, I’m not from the police. Now tell me exactly what is going on in that place and tell me quickly. Start with your job. What the hell are you supposed to be doing all dressed up like something out of the Middle Ages?”

“I don’t have to tell you a damned thing!”

“True, but if you don’t, I’ll slit your throat and try someone else who might be a little more cooperative.” Zac kept the gun in place while he flicked open the pocketknife he held in his other hand. He sensed the man’s startled reaction. A knife against the throat sometimes had more impact than a gun. Zac wasn’t sure why this should be so, but he’d seen the phenomenon before this.

“You wouldn’t . . . you can’t . . . Look, I don’t know what you want, but you got no business here. We aren’t hurtin’ anything.”

Zac let the tip of the blade sink into a few layers of skin. He knew he drew a little blood. “One more time. Like I said, if you’re not feeling chatty, I’ll get rid of you and try someone else.”

Something about his voice must have gotten through to the man. Zac had seen that phenomenon before, too. Perhaps it was because the utter lack of emotion in the words told the victim very clearly that Zac would carry out the threat. Zac knew he lacked Guinevere’s empathic charm, but there were other ways to communicate.

“Look, I’m just the doorman, you know? I keep watch on the door before the ceremony starts. Make sure only members get inside. That’s all.”

“And that’s what you’re supposed to do tonight?”

“Well, yeah. This is just another meeting tonight.” The man sounded shaken. He also sounded as if he were lying. Zac had heard a lot of people lie.

“And you’re assigned to watch the door. How many people are due tonight?”

“The usual.”

Zac let the knife sink in a little deeper. “How many?” he repeated very calmly.

“Seven in all, counting me and the honcho who’s supposed to show up. I swear it. Seven.”

“And how many are already in the house?”

“Five. The special guy isn’t here yet.”

“Fine,” said Zac. “I think I’m beginning to get the picture. A few more questions and this will all be over.”

“But I don’t know anything else,” the man protested. “I keep telling you, I’m just the doorman, and this is just a private religious thing.”

“You’d be surprised at how much inside information your average doorman picks up in the course of his nightly work.”

***

Guinevere was making slow but steady progress on the ropes. Mason was huddled next to her in the darkness, unable to be of any real assistance but doing his best to provide moral support when the door above the basement stairs opened. Instantly Guinevere froze as a nameless dread went through her. From sheer instinct both she and Mason pretended to be still unconscious.

In the oblong patch of dim light above the stairs she could see the shadowed outline of a figure in a cowled robe. The man’s face was in total darkness. He paused to light the candle he held in his hand, and then he came slowly, majestically, down the steps. He was followed by a smaller figure, also dressed in a robe, and then the door closed again.

The flickering flames of the candle guided the two newcomers down the steps and over to the altar. Guinevere wondered why no one was using a flashlight. Maybe it didn’t fit the image.

The figures talked in subdued tones to each other as they moved around the altar, setting up two more candles in tall black candlesticks. They paid no attention to Guinevere or Mason, who huddled, unmoving, on the floor a few feet away. The light of the candles was barely enough to reach their feet.

A heavy metal bowl was set at the head of the long stone table. Beside it a huge knife with a curved blade was set. Guinevere shivered. She felt rather than heard Mason catch his breath.