Vengeance (7 page)

My, my. Aren't we in a pissy mood?

I reined in my temper. I wasn't about to admit that it had been years since I was with a woman. Hell, it had been years since I even considered it. "Why do you think Lucinda and I will--" I rejoined him in the living room. "You know."

It's a natural consequence of love, isn't it?

Love.

The word shimmered in the air between us, like those Easter decorations I saw earlier. "No one said anything about love." I settled in my chair and sipped my wine.

He scratched an ear, his eyes distant.
I thought you loved Persa. My mistake.

"She's not Persa."

Of course she is. Why do you think she adopts every stray animal that comes along? She knows how we feel. She was one, once.

"She's just kind-hearted."

And you're in denial
.

I decided not to address that comment. "Stereo," I said into my microphone. A custom-mixed CD started to play. Eric Clapton's 'River of Tears' rolled through the room.

That's a bit depressing, don't you think?

"It fits my mood." I sipped my wine, staring into darkness. "How do I know you're not lying about this? How do I know you're really with the History Patrol?" The more I considered it, the better it sounded. "Maybe this is all a delusion on my part. Maybe I've finally gone crazy after two hundred years of living."

Sorry, but I left my ID in my other fur
. He snorted moistly.
What is it about your species that makes you deny the evidence of your own eyes?

I started to protest this description but the words died in my mouth as I thought of the history I'd witnessed.

Upper management screwed up
, the dog said.
And they sent me to make it right. You know what government agencies are like. They don't admit culpability until someone higher on the food chain makes them responsible. Well, someone higher on the food chain had a little chat with the folks who run the History Patrol.

"And who would that be? Who's higher on the food chain?" The security headset thrummed against my head. "Scan now."

The computer voice in my ear said, "Three mammals, twenty feet from the stream, moving north. Presumed deer. Camera scan?"

"Scan." I glanced down at the panel built into my chair arm. The infrared cameras showed me a buck and two does, picking their way through the snowy woods. "Continue scan."

"Continuing," the soft voice said.

I looked back at the dog. "You were saying? Who controls the History Patrol? I'm curious."

Done with security? Are we safe from the attack of the killer Bambi?

"A man in my business can't be too careful."

He looked over his shoulder to the tall windows.
You're a bit exposed, aren't you?
He sneezed.
Oh, I forgot. You're immortal. What are you worried about?

"Bullet proof glass, weight-sensitive perimeter and cameras on the house and in the woods. I can be killed. At least, I think I can." I sipped my wine as the computer updated me on the movement of the deer.

Really. Who told you that?

"I've earned several college degrees in internal medicine, clinical research and geriatrics. I've been analyzing myself for half a century, once the science evolved." The computer gave an "all clear" and I turned my complete attention back to the conversation. "If I suffer severe blood loss, I can die. Something like decapitation or the loss of a limb. Anything less than that and my tissue and cells regenerate."

Hmm. Sounds like a hokey TV show that was popular a few years ago. Do you carry around a big sword hidden in your overcoat and fight others of your kind?

I laughed at this succinct description. "No, I don't fight anyone unless I'm instructed to. I always wondered if Meyer had something to do with that television show." I sipped my wine. "I wouldn't put it past him to play a joke like that."

You're lucky you weren't decapitated during the Spanish-American war. Or lose your leg during the Korean War. That land mine was a near thing.

My head snapped around so fast I heard it creak. "How did you know that?"

We have our ways
.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

For heaven's sake, I'm with the History Patrol. We can go to any point in time, any time we want to. Give us credit for some intelligence.

"You're the ones who stranded me here, with a damn recall chip that didn't work. Remember? I'm not inclined to give you any credit at all."

At least you acknowledge that I'm with the Patrol. That's a good beginning
.

"I'm not admitting anything." Pink Floyd's 'Comfortably Numb' started playing on the Bose stereo, filling the room with sound. I was feeling like the rock star described in the song. "So why are you here? What do you hope to accomplish?"

Well, for starters, I'm going to stop you from killing Lucinda. Her death could have terrible consequences
.

"How so?" Once again that nagging doubt tugged at me. Who wanted her dead and why? Why would a government agency want someone as innocuous as Lucinda Delacroix dead? What possible terrorist connection could she have--besides Meyer, of course?

Good questions
, the hound said.
Very good questions
. His tongue lolled out when I shot him an annoyed look.
If you don't want me to hear you, use some blocking techniques. Anyway, I was sent here not only to help with your love life--or lack thereof--but to make sure you didn't kill her. Oh, and to help you get Meyer, of course. That's a bit of unfinished business that the Patrol wants resolved.

It was hard to see his eyes in the dancing firelight, but I could have sworn I saw them glitter with intelligent curiosity. "You're going to help me find Meyer? I've been searching for him for two centuries. Every time I get close, he vanishes. Why would this time be any different?" I touched a button on the control panel and the random light program began, turning on lamps in different rooms. Behind me a wall sconce lit, blending its light with the glow from the fire.

That's interesting, isn't it? It's almost like he knows you're coming.
Before I could comment, he continued.
Well, this time you have help. Me. It sounded to me like Lucinda was close to him. But it also sounded like she wasn't certain about her feelings.

"You're reading a lot into a brief conversation." I thought the same thing, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing it. "She might be besotted with the man."

Cerberus snorted again.
I doubt it. Lucinda's more intelligent than that. No, I think the more pressing question right now is--why does someone want her dead?
His eyes seemed to take on the glow from the fire.
And
why were you chosen to do it?

"What? It's all coincidence." His words soaked in. Why, indeed, had I been chosen? I wasn't sure how many people we had in the Agency, but I knew at least two others who were based in the Midwest. To my knowledge I was the only one with a home in the Minneapolis area, though. Perhaps that was why I was chosen.

I started to point this out when he said,
You more than anyone should know that there's no such thing as coincidence in the world. Someone wanted you to kill Lucinda. Someone wanted you to meet Lucinda, here and now, in this place. Somebody wanted you to get close to Meyer
.

He peered at me through the shadows of the room.
Why?

His words set off a chain reaction in my mind.

I'd been with the Tactical Anti-Terrorist Agency for ten years. The main core of the group was based in Chicago, the better to hide our existence from whistle-blowers who delighted in shining spotlights on Washington funding. Parker Madison, my boss, had recruited me and handed out the assignments. We usually worked alone and most jobs were done overseas. The last time I did a domestic hit was three years earlier, when I caused the 'heart attack' of a corrupt prison warden in California.

The file I was given about Lucinda Delacroix was small, but that was expected. Each agent was supposed to do his or her own research. It was unusual to have only a few days to prepare for a hit, but it wasn't unheard of.

Who would want you here, in place? Think. Isn't it obvious?

I shook my head. "No."

Someone in your agency is a traitor. Or someone in the History Patrol is a traitor. Either way, someone higher than you wants Lucinda's death and probably Meyer's death. They're using you to accomplish it.

"There's a third possibility," I whispered, data falling into place.

And that is?

"Someone at Lucinda's company. I've been asking questions in the financial community. Rumor has it they're considering an IPO, but Lucinda is opposing going public with the company."

This could be an interesting intersection of villains. Hmm
. Cerberus settled his head on his paws.
From what I hear, Lucinda's sister is quite a piece of work. It might be her. I wouldn't put it past her. Since their father died--oh, that reminds me. You know that Meyer was in partnership with her father? Roger Masterson and Robert Meyer are one and the same.

My wineglass dropped out of my hand and shattered on the wood floor.

Hey! In case you've forgotten, I just had a bath. I don't want your booze all over me
. He padded over to the puddle on the floor.
Hmm. Nice. The '86?

"What do you mean, Meyer was in business with Delacroix? Masterson died in..." My voice trailed away. I too had supposedly 'died' several times only to reappear years later. "Wouldn't Delacroix's children recognize...?"

Robert Meyer is now working as Robert Masterson at Delacroix Labs,
Cerberus said.
He's Roger Masterson's so-called son. Add a beard or a mustache, color the hair, do some tanning, work out at the gym, wear different clothes--sound familiar?
He loped into the kitchen.
I could use some more kibble. Better yet, how about opening one of those cans of food?

I got to my feet, my mind awhirl. "How do you know I bought canned food?"

I told you. The nose--

"Yeah, yeah. The nose knows." I was more disoriented than I could remember for decades. In the matter of four hours, this canine had taken over my house and turned my somewhat well-ordered life upside down.

So what's it like to be immortal?
Cerberus asked, watching as I pulled one of the cans of dog food from the cupboard.

"What do you mean?" If Cerberus was right, Meyer had bought into a medical research company decades ago. Had David Delacroix, his partner, known Meyer's secret? I struggled to remember what I read about Delacroix.

What's the main difference you notice? Besides the not dying, of course?

I opened the can and wrinkled my nose at the odor. "You like this crap?"

It's not as good as steak, but it'll do. So what's it like, the immortality thing?

I dumped the can contents into the heavy ceramic bowl I bought and put it on the floor next to the kibble dish. I frowned when I saw the small kibble pieces scattered on the floor. "I guess the main thing is time."

He glanced up at me then reapplied himself to his food.

"When you're human, you don't realize how it preys on your mind." I looked out the window, remembering how long it had taken me to adjust to the idea that I had all the time in the world. "How often did I prioritize on learning, shopping, fun--all based on time? I used to think, 'oh, I won't have time to learn skiing' or 'that would take too long'."

And now?
he asked, looking up from his feast.

"Now I have time to learn woodworking, or sculpture, or painting or sky-diving. I don't have to worry about time. It's..." I voiced what I'd been thinking for so long. "It's boring."

And lonely?
He lifted his head to regard me.
It must be lonely to not share with anyone.