Vengeance (6 page)

Lucinda Persephone Delacroix. She's the reincarnation of the Companion you time-traveled with in the 22nd century. The reincarnation of the creature who died defending you in 1790.

It couldn't be possible. Persa? Come back to me? His words echoed in my brain. The woman I had to murder was the reincarnation of the soul I'd come to love so dearly? She was the reincarnation of my beloved Companion, murdered in front of me two hundred years ago?

Quite a dilemma
, Cerberus said softly.

I drove like a zombie through unfamiliar streets, joining other traffic on the wide, tree-lined boulevard. Glitzy Easter decorations--illuminated eggs dangling from streetlights, displays of chocolate confections, baskets of faux flowers, giant pastel Easter bunnies in windows--mocked me with their cheer. At an intersection I took a left, pulling into a parking lot in a shopping district. I vaguely recognized my surroundings. We were in Edina, a wealthy inner suburb whose name was jokingly known as an acronym for "Every Day I Need Attention." Looking at the well-dressed shoppers hurrying past the high-end stores, I believed it. My Jaguar fit perfectly with the Porsches and Land Rovers next to me in the lot.

I turned off the car and sat, staring out the window at a display of chocolates in a Godiva store window. "It can't be Persa. I'd know."

I twisted to look at Cerberus. His long black muzzle, flecked with white, was near the headrest on the passenger seat. It twitched as he inhaled deeply. He stared at me with sympathetic eyes.
You wouldn't necessarily know. God works in mysterious ways.

"Don't talk to me about God." I was so angry I longed to strangle him. Had God been in the car with me, I might have strangled Him. Or Her. Or whatever God was. "God abandoned me, left me here to rot."

Actually, the History Patrol abandoned you
, Cerberus pointed out.

"The Patrol works in service to God," I spat. "It's the same thing."

Not quite, but we won't quibble about it now. Our main concern now is Lucinda
.

"She doesn't know?"

No
. He hesitated and I could tell he was trying to decide how to phrase what he had to say.
Not all who are reincarnated know about their past. And your case--yours and Persa's--is unique. Upper management wasn't quite sure how to proceed
.

I looked around. Shoppers strolled past, swinging bags emblazoned with store logos, presumably filled with Easter candies and gifts. The air was hazy with blowing snow in the streetlamps, swirling around the old-fashioned storefronts. It was a scene from a Hallmark card.

We should go home
, Cerberus said.
And talk
.

I awoke from my trance. "Why did they send you?" Of all the possible outcomes to my fate, I never thought I'd find Persa again. I thought I had lost her irrevocably on a Good Friday in 1790. My vengeance against Meyer had filled the empty place where my love once lived.

The dog looked at the charming scene in front of us, his eyes flickering from one image to another.
I was sent to right a terrible wrong
. His voice was low. I heard the pain in it.

There was no answer to that. We were silent on the twenty-minute drive to my house. I bought the four-bedroom farm in Ramsey, north of the metro area, fifty years ago when it was still a tiny, independent town. As suburbia encroached, I sold land parcels to myself through false IDs, building small, uniquely designed homes on large lots that I rented to elderly couples at a ridiculously low price, which guaranteed a steady stream of tenants and plenty of privacy.

I discovered that I could live a life in twenty-year increments. That's how long I could go without arousing suspicion. Periodically I "died," then retreated to my cabin or one of my other homes around the world for months or years. A provision of my will was that the residents in my subdivision were allowed to keep their homes after my death, but they couldn't will it to any survivor. My assets went into a trust fund. If I didn't claim the trust within six months, the assets were split, anonymously, between the Veterans Association and a gerontology center I founded at the Mayo Clinic.

After a suitable period, I always collected my money and returned to my old haunts, most often to this house in Minnesota. Because I rented to the elderly, there was never anyone to remember what I looked like and I was always careful to grow or shave a beard, wear contacts or do something rudimentary to change my appearance. It was surprisingly easy. America was, after all, the Land of the Rootless, Home of the Anonymous.

It was eight at night when Cerberus and I pulled into the attached two-car garage at my house in the far corner of my subdivision. I hauled my purchases out of the trunk then he preceded me to the side door where I deactivated the security perimeter with the hand scan. I put the ID pad on the ground. "Step here."

He looked at me quizzically.

"It's like a fingerprint. You'll be allowed to come and go from the house once I add you to the database." As he stepped on the touchpad, I pressed the right combination of letters and numbers on the touchpad to store the information.

Clever
. He looked up at me.
Does that mean I'm staying?

"Don't push your luck. Just make sure you always use this entrance. Otherwise the consequences are unpleasant."

Mind if I visit the facilities?

I hadn't considered that. I wondered where he'd go.

I'll be tidy
, he promised.
Just give me a couple of minutes then let me in when I bark
.

He vanished out the open garage door before I could comment on his plan. I saw him bound across the street to the woods that separated my property from the neighbors. I slipped the headphone bud into my right ear and made sure the microphone was clipped securely on my sweater. The apparatus, which I designed myself, allowed me to control the house defenses with a few discretely spoken commands.

I passed through the laundry room into the kitchen I had updated years earlier. It was now an airy space with skylights and large windows in the open dining area overlooking the woods and stream meandering through my subdivision. I put away the things I bought, leaving the cat items in a bag near the door to take to Lucinda on the morrow.

Lucinda. Persa. My brain reeled with the implications. I was committed to killing Lucinda Delacroix. If I didn't, I'd be in trouble. It didn't bother me that I'd piss off my so-called superiors in the Agency. I didn't care what they thought. But failure would bring me to the attention of other government functionaries and that might cause problems. It might also interrupt my plans to murder Meyer. Those plans hadn't changed.

I heard woofing in the garage. I touched the remote to open the door. Cerberus came in, bringing with him a draft of cold air. "Wipe your feet." I indicated the nubby mat near the entrance then I closed the garage door and activated the evening defense system.

He shook himself then swiped his feet.
That's good. I had ice in my pads
. He trotted past me into the kitchen.
Nice place.
He walked through the room to peer into the dining room then the big living room beyond.
Not as fancy as I thought you'd have, given your money.

I shrugged. "After a while, it's all the same. Care for dinner?"

Don't mind if I do
.

I filled his newly purchased bowls and poured a glass of wine for myself since it wasn't time for my weekly nourishment. By unspoken consent we didn't speak about the subject that was consuming my attention. I sat in the breakfast nook as he munched at the kibble chunks I set on the floor nearby. I stared out the dark windows at the lights of my nearest neighbor, a quarter-mile away and across the stream.

Persa. Could it be true? I closed my eyes and allowed memory to wash over me. Her mind voice was always quiet and hesitant, as though she feared intruding. She never did, of course. I welcomed her mental touch.

I tried to find Persa in Lucinda, but it was hard. For years I formed a mental image of how Persa would look as a human and it didn't match Lucinda Delacroix. I always imagined Persa as tall and slender, with warm brown hair to match her gentle temperament and large blue eyes, the color of innocence. Lucinda, with her small but voluptuous build, her unruly hair and her large gray eyes, was nothing like the Persa of my dreams.

Their voices, though...their voices were similar. Lucinda's was low and husky. I had spent decades in musical study, only abandoning it when I conceded I had little talent. I considered waiting for a musical career until the 1970s, when talent wouldn't matter, but other interests distracted me. Lucinda's voice reminded me of a symphony I composed once--complex and soothing but with a hint of passion. Yes, I decided. Their voices...

On our trip to Egypt in the early 1900s, Persa had been a small black and white cat, petite but strong with long, silky hair. We spent a week in Victorian England once. She was lapdog to my dandy, going everywhere with me. Images raced past--a month in South Africa, Persa as a lioness. Two weeks in China with her as a sleek greyhound. Ten days in Gold Rush California. I was a gambler and Persa was a falcon who watched over me.

Persa.

It was on our eighth trip, while we were in Spain during the 1940s, that she told me about her past. "I thought I had to betray him," she said. We were in the mountains. She was in hawk-form, sitting on a branch nearby as I camped out with patriots near a cave. "I thought he was a danger to my family and my country. I was told he'd betray us."

I remembered the tears in her voice as she told me how she held her lover as he died. He stared into her eyes and asked, 'Why?' And she had no answer except that she had to choose between him and her family, between him and duty. In a matter of hours she was dead too, killed by a traitor and wracked with grief at the knowledge that she betrayed the man she loved. "I was glad to die," she told me in a trembling voice. "I deserved it."

I had no answer for her except to say, "And now you have penance and a chance to right the wrong."

Her hawk eyes had stared at me through the dusk. "But what if he doesn't forgive me?"

You don't eat?
Cerberus asked.

I jerked, startled out of my thoughts. "Not often. My metabolism was altered. I have little need for food."

He slurped some water, slopping it on the floor next to the bowl.
Interesting
. He padded out of the room.
Does this fireplace work?
he called out.

I sighed. "Yes." I came into the living room to find him with his paws up on the sill at one of the tall windows that flanked the stone fireplace, peering out at the woods. I set my wineglass on the mantel and busied myself with the logs. I soon had a blaze going.

Cerberus looked at the flannel-covered stuffed pad I tossed on the floor.
Could you move that, please? A bit closer to the flames.

"Just make yourself at home," I grumbled, but did as he asked.

Thanks. I will
. He circled several times then flopped down and yawned.
So do you ever have sex?

I almost knocked over my wineglass as I picked it up. "What?"

Did the virus affect that too?

His shrewd pale eyes watched me as I sat in my favorite armchair overlooking the side of the house and the large pond that separated me from my neighbors on that side. "No, it didn't."

So why are you alone? You're a good-looking guy. I'm surprised you don't have a few girlfriends hanging around
. He nipped at one black paw, his long teeth making a snapping noise.

I looked into the fire, not sure how to explain. Then I gave myself a mental shake. I didn't owe the damn dog an explanation. He owed me one. "It's complicated."

Hmm. Not interested, eh? I suppose it gets boring after a while. Unless...the virus didn't affect your equipment, did it?

"No." I got up to refill my glass. "And even if it did, it's none of your business." I crossed the dining area and reached for the wine bottle I left on the counter that separated dining from kitchen. He'd touched a sensitive subject.

Hmm. If you say so
.

"I do." I looked back at him. He was watching me with a speculative look. "What?"

Nothing. It's just that, well, Lucinda may wonder if you're attracted to her and if not, why.

"Listen, I'm fine in that department." I splashed wine on the counter. With a muttered curse I cleaned up my spill then his on the floor. "Could you be a bit more careful with your food? I don't have a cleaning lady, you know."