Thirst No. 5 (9 page)

I set down my cell. I’ve just called the Goodwins’ number again without any luck. “I’d agree to wait if I knew they were at home. The last thing I want to do is show our hand. But the fact they’re not answering worries me.”

“I don’t take stray calls,” Seymour says. “Not unless the person leaves a message. The Goodwins are probably no different.”

“I can’t leave a message,” I say. “Too risky.”

“No one knows where we’re heading,” Seymour says.

“Maybe,” I say.

Matt looks at me across the table. “You’re concerned about the person who gave Shanti the photograph.”

“Yes,” I say.

Brutran’s radar is alert. “Are you worried the photograph was a plant to bring you here?”

“It’s a possibility,” I say. “But whether it was a plant or we were fortunate to find the picture, it still means that whoever’s after us knows about the veil.”

“Are you sure?” Seymour says.

“Let’s assume it was a plant,” I say. “And that whoever is after us wanted to draw me to this part of the country. They would only have used the photo if they knew about my past.”

“They?” Brutran says.

“We’ve never settled on a good name for what we’re running from,” I reply, feeling no desire to bring up Tarana. Simply speaking his name aloud disturbs me in ways I can’t explain.

“I think I speak for all of us when I say our chasing this veil would make more sense if
we
knew about your past,” Seymour says.

“I’ve promised to tell you about it and I will. Later.”

“We can talk all night,” Matt says. “We have to make a decision. I think we all agree there’s a good chance the house is being watched. For that reason, I’d prefer if only Sita and I
visit it. If we’re attacked, we should be able to escape, but only if we’re alone.”

Brutran considers. “When are you planning on going?”

“Now.” Matt stands and stretches, before pointing out the window. “There’s a motel down the block. It looks like the kind of place that would be happy to take cash. Check in and we’ll catch up with you later.”

Seymour shakes his head. “I don’t think we should split up.”

“Matt’s right, the house could be a powder keg,” I say. “It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s more dangerous if we don’t have one of you nearby to protect us,” Seymour says.

Jolie pats Seymour’s arm and says sweetly, “I’ll protect you.”

Seymour smiles. “How will you protect me, Jolie?”

“I can make people die with my mind,” she says simply.

Seymour loses his smile and turns on Brutran. “You should never have shot that soldier in front of her,” he says.

Brutran shakes her head. “I should have shot him earlier.”

Seymour appeals to me and Matt. “I don’t know if I’m going to feel very safe at that motel,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But ask yourself, how safe are the Goodwins right now?”

• • •

Before knocking on the door, I know we have the right house. The scenery is identical to what can be seen in Shanti’s photograph. The residence is surrounded by maples and birch and
there’s a small lake two hundred yards from the back porch. The trees do not crowd the home, however, and there’s plenty of room to walk around the gardens. It’s a lovely property, and I’d even go so far as to say it’s peaceful, except all the lights are out and the front door lies wide open.

Plus I smell blood.

Matt gives me a look.

He doesn’t have to say it. We’re too late.

The car we’re driving comes from the motel where we deposited the others. We plan to return it well before morning, no harm done. Because it’s obvious the Goodwins have already been attacked, we don’t bother to hide our approach but park at the end of their long driveway and walk to the door. The smell of blood thickens, and it’s not a sweet smell, not even to me, a vampire. Blood spilled in violence never smells fresh. We hear the sound of labored breathing and draw our handguns.

Matt leads the way. It’s dark, but that’s no obstacle for either of us. I see the couch from the photograph, where the happy couple was sitting, the wide windows that look out on the grass and trees. Yet the place is a mess, it has been ransacked: the sofa cushions gutted with a sharp blade, all the drawers thrown open, even the backs of the wall paintings torn off.

Whoever came was looking for something.

The home is a two-story but already we know there is no one upstairs. The gasping breaths come from a hallway near the back door, the sounds of two dying men. Matt gives me a
questioning look and I nod. He turns on the living room light and we go to see what has become of Mr. Goodwin.

I recognize him from Shanti’s photograph.

But who is the other man?

Mr. Goodwin lies on his back in a pool of blood, his head propped up by the screen door. His face is battered, swollen around the eyes and mouth, and the stab wounds to his gut are deep. The one on the right side will be fatal. It goes through the liver and it is still leaking. His features would be black from the bruising if he weren’t so white from blood loss. Matt feels the man’s pulse and shakes his head.

“I don’t know if we can revive him,” he says.

“We have to try.” I pause. “I don’t hear or smell Sarah in the area.”

“She’s not here. They must have taken her.” Matt gestures to the other man, who has a single massive bruise on his left temple but no other apparent injuries. He is thirty, dark-haired, extremely handsome, and has on gray slacks and a smartly tailored black sports coat that speaks of money. Matt leans over him and checks his vitals. He even goes so far as to remove the man’s right shoe and pinch his Achilles tendon.

“He’s out cold,” Matt says, gently feeling the guy’s head. “He has a skull fracture. Any idea who he is?”

“No,” I say. “But let me concentrate on Mr. Goodwin. He’s not going to last much longer.”

Matt pulls out his cell. “Should I call for an ambulance?”

I shake my head. “It’s too late for doctors. But I might be able to reach him.”

Placing my left hand on his forehead and my right over his fading heart, I lean forward and whisper in the man’s ear, putting all the power of my voice into my words. Yet I don’t try to overwhelm his will with blunt persuasion. There’s a pleading tone in my voice and in my own heart.

“Mr. Goodwin,” I say. “My name is Sita. You don’t know me but I’m an old friend of your family. I’m here to help. I know you’re out, you can’t hear me, not consciously, but you can feel me. My hand is on your head, my fingers are next to your heart. Let my energy flow from my body into your body. Feel my heartbeat. Feel my breath.”

I lean over farther and breathe through his closed lips.

His chest rises and falls.

A sigh escapes his swollen mouth and his eyes open.

He blinks. “Sita,” he whispers.

I nod. “You’ve heard my name before.”

He coughs weakly. “Long ago. How . . .” He doesn’t finish and his eyes close. I shake him gently.

“Mr. Goodwin, tell me your first name.”

His eyes reopen. “Roger.”

“Roger. Try to stay awake. We need your help to find your wife.”

Pain fills his face. “Sarah. They took her.”

“Who took her? Describe them.”

“A man and a woman. Cruel. They beat us. They wouldn’t stop.”

“Did they question you?” He doesn’t respond. I shake him harder. “Did they come for the veil?”

Roger Goodwin’s eyes suddenly come into focus, and it’s like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Who are you?” he demands, blood spilling over his lips. He’s bleeding internally, of course, he’s been stabbed a half dozen times. Nevertheless, Matt gestures to his cell phone, silently insisting he should call for an ambulance. I shake my head.

“I told you, my name is Sita,” I say.

A note of suspicion enters his voice. “You’re blond, blue-eyed. Are you German?”

He’s really asking if I’m Aryan and in fact I am. I’m an original, a product of the race that conquered India thousands of years ago. I look like a poster child for Hitler’s perfect race—one of the reason the Nazis trusted me at the start of the war.

“I’m not German. I’m a friend. My family knew your wife’s family. They knew Harrah and Ralph Levine. They were with them in Auschwitz. That’s how I know about the veil.” I pause. “I’m a friend and this is my friend Matt. We can help save your wife.”

He gropes feebly with his hands, searching for something he’s lost. The move is reflex, nothing more. “My wife, they took my wife. Sarah.”

“You said a man and a woman took her. Did they take the veil as well?”

Again, he freezes at the mention of the veil. It’s obviously something the two kept secret. “Your family was in the camp?” he asks warily.

“Yes. My grandparents were in Poland during the war. Harrah and Ralph told them about the veil, and together they escaped from Auschwitz.”

“What were their names?”

“I’m named after my grandmother. Her name was Sita. Roger, I know you’ve heard the name before.”

He nods weakly. “From Sarah’s grandmother. Harrah.”

“Then you know you can trust me. You have to trust me and my friend. We’re the only ones who can get your wife back. You have to tell us what you know. Did the people who kidnapped Sarah take the veil?”

An unlooked-for strength enters his voice and his face hardens. “No. They tortured us, but Sarah wouldn’t tell them where it was.”

“Do you know where it is?” I ask, and it’s difficult to keep the desperation out of my voice. Of course, I’m relieved to hear it hasn’t fallen into enemy hands, at least not yet, but I fear what they will do to Sarah to get her to talk. Roger Goodwin sighs, the sound as sad as his approaching death. The man knows he’s finished.

“Sarah never told me where she kept it,” he says. “She said only women could know.”

Harrah had told me something similar.

Only women could possess the veil.

It was a rule in the Veil of Veronica tradition.

“Can you describe the man and woman who took your wife?” I ask.

“The woman, she looked like you, a little older. Blond, beautiful, but with cold eyes.”

“What did the man look like?” And I half expect him to describe the man lying only ten feet away.

But Roger Goodwin’s face twists into horror at the question. “He was the Beast. I swear it was him.” He stops and frowns. “But he was young.”

For a moment I don’t understand the reference.

Yet his choice of words sends a chill through my body.

At Auschwitz the Jews called Himmler the Beast.

Roger Goodwin’s spasm of strength is fading. His eyes fall shut as more blood leaks from his mouth. I don’t have to hold his pulse to hear his heart skip in his chest. Physically prodding him to talk will no longer work. Once more I lean over and whisper in his ear.

“Roger. There’s another man lying here. He’s unconscious, we don’t know if he’ll wake up. Who is he?”

Mr. Goodwin’s voice is faint. “A man came. He came to help us. He burst through the door. But they struck him down.”

“Do you know who this man is?”

“Never saw him before. But he fought . . . he fought for us.”

“Roger. You’re dying, but Sarah is still alive. You’ve got to tell us something we can use to save her.”

The words come out in a fading gasp. “They took her into the sky.”

“Into the sky? I don’t understand.”

“In a vim . . . A vim . . .”

“Vim.” His last word, and it means nothing to me.

His breath rattles in his chest and his heart stops.

I stretch him out so he can rest more comfortably on the floor. A useless gesture but I want to do something for him. A brave man, it’s sad he had to die brokenhearted. The way he said Sarah’s name, it was obvious he loved her very much.

Matt puts his hand on my shoulder. “Did he tell you anything we can use?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“Sarah must be strong to hold out under such torture.”

Standing, I shake my head. “A mortal can only hold out so long. She’ll break eventually.” Frustrated, I pound the wall, and my fist goes right through it. “Damn it! We should have gotten here earlier.”

Matt gestures to the dispersal of the blood on the floor, how some of it has dried. “This happened two or three hours ago. Even if we’d come straight here, we would have been too late.”

I brush the plaster from my fist, my anger still raw. “True. But we could have gotten more out of Roger.”

“What’s done is done. What do we do now? Do you want to try to wake the other man?”

“Not yet. I need a moment.” Linking my mind with Mr. Goodwin’s has drained me. The man is dead but I still feel his pain, his anguish.

“I understand,” Matt says.

We survey the mess the assailants have made of the house. The man and woman did a thorough job, and we can tell by the force they used that they might have the strength of a vampire or a Telar. However, we both agree that we should be able to see things that they missed.