Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

CHAPTER 37

THE LINE AT THE BORDER CROSSING IS LONG. I’M stalled behind twenty cars waiting to be waved through.

I don’t mind. I’m in no hurry.

I drum my fingertips against the steering wheel, replaying everything that’s happened since Sandra’s call Sunday night.

Every mistake. Every blunder. Every miscalculation.

Following Burke to that restaurant. Revealing myself to her.

Stupid mistake number one.

Breaking into the warehouse the first time. I could have copied every fucking file in the place. Why didn ’t I? Instead, I memorized useless information. Burke knew that I’d be looking for her. How could I have thought she’d hang around that house in Coronado waiting for me? Learning the names of her employees and those test subjects would have been far more valuable.

Stupid mistake number two.

A driver behind me honks. I restrain the urge to flip him off and roll a foot or so forward.

My head aches.

One hundred test subjects. Three dead. In all the confusion, I ’d forgotten to ask Williams if he’d seen the coroner’s reports. Maybe when I get back, I’ll call him.

Maybe.

If Culebra dies, I won’t really care what killed them.

The before-and-after shots of the three dead women flash through my brain like a slide show. The transformation was incredible.

Vampire blood had that effect? I wonder if they’d have been as happy with the results if they’d known the price those young girls paid for their vanity. Twelve vampires dead. Would they have cared?

I mentally sift through everything I found in Burke’s file—insurance forms, utility bills—there was something else, wasn’t there?

I slam into reverse, forcing the guy behind me to back up. He’s yelling and waving a fist at me, but I keep at him, pushing him back until I have room to make the U-turn.

When I pull out of line, I give him my sweetest smile and wave farewell.

I remember what else was in Burke’s file. There was a telephone number. No name. No address. Just a number.

I’m driving with one hand on the wheel, the other rummaging through my purse.

Where is that damned cell phone?

My fingers finally close around it. I let the number float to the surface of my consciousness and punch it in. It rings once, twice, ten times.

No answer. No machine.

Shit.

The next call I make is to Williams. I catch him on his way back to Brooke’s.

“I just remembered something that was in Burke’s personal file. Can you do a reverse search on a telephone number?” I ask. “Get me a name and an address?”

He doesn’t question the request, just says, “What is it?”

I recite the number. “Will you call me as soon as you have the information?”

“Hang on.” The line goes silent as he puts me on hold for nearly a minute. I’m starting to get angry when he clicks back on.

“It’s a Denver number. Meet me at the airport.”

“The airport? Why? Is it listed to Burke?”

“Just meet me there.” Williams rings off.

A Denver number?

If it’s a Denver number, maybe I’m wrong about its significance. Maybe it doesn’t belong to Burke.

Maybe I’m wrong again.

I get back on the freeway and head west. Why would Williams want to meet me at the airport? He must have a reason. What isn ’t he telling me?

I call Frey’s cell next.

The sound of his voice sends a tremor through me.

“My God, you sound terrible.”

He manages a laugh. “You should see the way I look. Anna, where are you?”

I tell him, putting as much hopefulness as I can into a new development that may prove worthless.

He listens. Then he says, “Better make it fast. I’ve got maybe twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours? Until what?”

Frey coughs once. Clears his throat. “Until I end up like Culebra. Or worse.”

CHAPTER 38

THE SAN DIEGO AIRPORT IS SMALL BY COMPARISON to other international airports. It does, however, have three terminals. I realize when I pull into the first that I three terminals. I realize when I pull into the first that I didn’t ask Williams where he would be.

When he picks up the call, I hear the whine of jet engines in stereo.

“Which terminal?”

“Where are you now?” he counters.

“In front of the commuter terminal.”

“You’ll have to get back to Pacific Coast Highway. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear in our last conversation. I’ll meet you at Jimsair. The private terminal. Do you know where it is?”

I tell him that I do and ring off.

The private terminal? What is he doing there?

I park the Jag in the lot off Pacific Coast Highway and head for the terminal in back. Williams is waiting for me in the lounge. Unlike commercial terminals, there are no ticket counters or security checkpoints here. Just some comfortable chairs spaced around low tables.

There is one person behind an information counter. He looks up and smiles when I come in, but turns away when Williams steps up to meet me. Through big plate-glass windows, I see a dozen private planes of various sizes and descriptions parked on the tarmac.

“What are we doing here?”

Williams leads me over to the corner, glancing back to the guy behind the desk. He has a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Before I give you this, I want you to agree to something. If Belinda Burke is at this address, you are to call me immediately. Don ’t go after her yourself.”

He’s whispering. Afraid of being overheard? The logical question then is, Why are you speaking to me out loud?

“Not important. Just promise me.”

I can’t get anything out of him psychically, either. “Okay. I promise. Where is she?”

He holds out the paper. “The number was traced to this address. It’s listed to a Sophie Deveraux in Denver.”

“Deveraux?” My insides churn with the sick feeling I ’m chasing another dead end. “Not Burke? What makes you think there’s any connection?”

“There might not be,” he admits. “But I checked with one of the witches at headquarters. She says Burke has a sister. One who was active in the community until she dropped out of sight a few months ago. Her first name was Sophie. I ’ve been calling the number for the last hour and there’s still no answer. I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase.”

For the first time in three days, though, I feel a flutter of optimism. If this Sophie isn ’t Burke’s sister, why would her number be in her personal file? It’s a place to start. Shit. It’s the only new lead I’ve got.

Impatiently, I wave a hand. “What are we doing here? I should be on the other side, arranging a flight.”

Williams raises a hand of his own. “That’s being taken care of.”

He looks toward the tarmac outside where a ground crew is bustling around one of the jets. His expression is conflicted. He’s trying to hide it, but the truth is there in the frown, the set of his jaw, the feelings he thinks he ’s suppressed. He wants to come with me. Brooke is the reason he’s not.

“How is Brooke?”

He shrugs. “She’s coping. She’s very young. I think things will be better after the funeral.”

His voice drops off. He’s not looking at me but watching what’s going on outside.

I follow his gaze. The crew seems to have finished their preflight preparation. One of them signals to Williams. He nods and gestures me toward the door. “Go. I’ll have someone waiting for you when you land. He’s one of us and he’s lived in Denver for a hundred years. He’ll get you where you need to go.”

I glance out of the window. “In that? How did you arrange it?”

His answer is to walk me out onto the tarmac, toward a jet whose engines have roared into life. He acts like the noise is preventing him from answering, like we have only one mode of communication.

He’s avoiding the question.

The plane we approach is a Learjet. Not so small now that I’m standing beside it. The cabin door opens and a man at the top of a short flight of stairs beckons me on board.

Williams makes a “go along” gesture and mouths, “Safe trip.”

But just as I start to walk away, he lays a hand on my arm. Not a tight grip, just a restraining one. Remember, I want Burke. Don’t cross me on this, Anna. I have a score to settle now, too.

His eyes are hard, threatening.

That’s the Williams I’m used to. I shrug out of his grasp and climb up the stairs. When I turn around at the door, Williams is already gone.

The guy who greeted me introduces himself as the pilot. He ’s about fifty, tall, well built, gray -haired. He’s wearing a typical pilot’s uniform—but his coat and cap each carry an emblem I don’t recognize. Maybe a coat of arms. His name badge reads “Tom Lawson.” He has an air of quiet competence and he’s human. He instructs me in a few safety measures and disappears into the cockpit. The whine of engines gets louder. I settle into my seat, buckle in and look around.

I’ve never been in a private jet. Six big, oversized seats in beige leather occupy the main cabin with a bar stretching along the back.

Thick carpeting underfoot. Luxurious. To the right of the bar is a closed door. Bathroom maybe?

The jet crouches on the runway, waiting for our turn to take off. After a few minutes, another guy appears in the doorway, wearing the same uniform. He looks to be midthirties, shorter than Tom, with dark hair and eyes. He holds out a hand.

“Sorry for the delay, Ms. Strong. I’m Jeff Shelby, the co-pilot. The captain sent me back to let you know we should be on our way in ten minutes.”

We shake hands and he turns to go.

“Wait a minute. I’m curious, does this plane belong to Mr. Williams?”

He turns back, a puzzled frown on his face. “I don’t understand. This used to be Dr. Avery’s plane. Mr. Williams said it belongs to you now.”

A snicker. “Of course it does.”

But Shelby is not smiling.

The jet belongs to me? Why am I surprised? Just another of Avery’s toys. No wonder Williams disappeared so quickly. He wanted to be out of meltdown range when I found out.

“Is there anything else?”

I shake my head and he withdraws into the cockpit. I settle my head back on the seat.

Since becoming vampire, Avery has been a constant intrusion in my life. Every time I think I ’ve divested myself of his damned legacy, something else turns up. But the truth is, at this moment, I’m happy to have the plane. The sooner I get to Denver and track down this—I dig the paper out of my jacket and look for the name—this Sophie Deveraux—the sooner I can come back and help Culebra and Frey.

A voice crackles over the intercom. “We’re up next, Ms. Strong. We’ll be in the air in about five minutes. Flight time to Denver is estimated two hours and thirty minutes. Sit back, buckle up and enjoy the ride.”

The plane rolls into takeoff position. I watch through the window, dread churning my stomach.

Enjoy the ride?

Not with only twenty-four hours to save my friends.

CHAPTER 39

ASMALL JET LEAPS RATHER THAN LUMBERS INTO the sky. It’s a strange feeling. I watch the earth and sea fade away through a break in the clouds as the plane banks to the east. Then we’re swallowed up once more and banks to the east. Then we’re swallowed up once more and all I see is a blanket of white. In another few minutes we’re above the clouds and the sky is flawless and brilliant.

The intercom buzzes to life. “We’re at cruising altitude, Ms. Strong. Feel free to move about the cabin. There is water and liquor in the bar. If you need anything else, press the button on your armrest and we’ll be back to assist you. We’ll let you know when we’re fifteen minutes out of Denver.”

A click and I’m left to my own devices.

May as well explore. I head for the bar. It’s fully stocked all right, with high-end liquor and several good imported beers. There’s also a wine rack. I pull out a bottle. The label bears the same coat of arms as the patch on “my” crew’s uniforms. It’s Avery’s coat of arms. Here, too, on the label of the bottles from the winery my family “inherited.”

I push the bottle back onto the rack. I’m not ready to let that genie out of its elegant cabernet decanter.

It’s interesting that the pilot mentioned water and liquor in the bar but nothing about food. And there isn ’t any. Not even a bag of peanuts. I guess any pilot of Avery’s would know his boss wasn’t human. After all, his housekeeper at the mansion had been a host.

Maybe the two at the control are, too. Makes me wonder if I buzz, how much assistance they’re willing to give.

I open the door at the back of the cabin. There’s a bathroom, with shower, along with a small bedroom with queen-sized bed, built-in credenza and closet. There’s even a vanity, although instead of a mirror, an oil painting hangs in a recessed alcove. Like the bar, everything is made out of a fine-grained, honey-hued wood. Teak? It reminds me of something you’d find in a luxury yacht.

Maybe I own one of those, too.

I eye the bed, thinking perhaps I should stretch out on that silk damask spread and close my eyes.

How many women did Avery have in that bed?

Does Avery’s smell still cling to the bedclothes?

The thought propels me back into the main cabin. I close the door behind me.

I’ve just settled into my seat when Shelby reappears. He points to a telephone on the console. “Mr. Williams is calling.”

He waits for me to pick up before returning to the cockpit.

“Hello?”

Williams doesn’t speak right away. Waiting for me to yell at him, I suppose.

Like it would do any good.

When I remain silent and don’t launch into a tirade, he jumps in. “Got some more information on the cream. Further analysis showed the blood in the cream is breaking down rapidly. It’s doubtful that the cream could remain potent long enough to achieve those remarkable results for more than a couple of weeks.”

Perfect to assure repeat customers. And to necessitate a steady stream of vampire donors.

Williams continues, “No official COD yet for Burke’s three test subjects. The wounds they sustained were critical but not necessarily fatal. It might take up to two weeks to get complete tox screens back.”

“Any other attacks reported?”

Another brief hesitation. I can imagine the relief he must be feeling that I ’m sticking to business. I glance around the plane. There’ll be time later to pursue this flying palace.

“No,” he says. “It may be that with the declining potency of the cream, the other effects wear off as well. If the two are related.”

“What are the odds that they aren’t? What about that syringe?”

“Nothing. Preliminary results ruled out most common narcotics. Identifying the compound is going to take time.”

There’s a pause, then he adds, “There will be a car waiting for you at the airport in Denver. The person meeting you will be of assistance if you come up against Burke or any of her followers. Locate Burke as soon as you can and get back to me. I have a plane of my own standing by. I can be there in two hours. We will do this together. Remember—I intend to be in on the kill.”

I mouth the right words, tell him I understand and will wait.

It gets him off the phone.

I replace the receiver and cross to the bar. I choose a thirty-year-old scotch, pour two fingers into a glass, add a couple of ice cubes.

The liquor burns my throat and hardens my resolve.

I take the little .38 I’d clipped to my belt this morning and lay it on the bar. Williams can remind me that he and I are in this together, that he has as compelling a reason to want Burke dead as I do, that Ortiz was his friend, not mine.

And he’d be right.

It doesn’t matter.

The simple truth is if I get Burke in my sights, there’s no fucking way I’m going to wait.

The drink both relaxes and settles me. Since Culebra ’s black-magic illness, I’ve had little time to think through a course of action.

Explains the blunders. This time I plan to be ready for any contingency.

Best-case scenario? I arrive at the address and spy Burke through a window. One shot through the forehead should do it.

Wonderful fantasy. Probably won’t happen. I have no reason to believe she’d go into hiding with, or running to, her sister. What would she be running from? Up to this point, I’ve proven to be nothing more than an inconvenience.

What if Burke has donned a new persona? What if she and this Sophie are the same person? My fingers touch the charm nestled between my breasts. I’m glad my witch friends insisted I keep it. This little beauty will identify the bitch no matter how she ’s cloaked herself.

I let my head rest against the back of the seat and close my eyes. How did Burke come up with the idea of using vamp blood in a cosmetic? However it happened, that such a bizarre notion would appeal to her is not surprising. She’s sadistic and cruel. Where did she find Jason? What exactly was he? He was still attempting to turn others when I found him yesterday at his apartment. Had he been in contact with Burke? Had she set up another factory from hell somewhere? Or is it in his nature to turn others, a biological imperative of his species—whatever the hell it is.

Questions I may never get answered. Questions I hopeI don’t get answered. I don’t want to have a discussion with Burke. I want to kill her.

I glance at my watch. The pilot said flying time would be two and a half hours. We’ve been in the air for forty-five minutes.

The sky outside my window is cloudless. When I glance down, I see the beginnings of a mountain range, white-capped and rugged. The Rocky Mountains? They look cold.

Give me the beach anytime.

My thoughts turn inward once more—to Burke’s test subjects. What’s going to happen to them? Williams said the effectiveness of the stuff breaks down with the blood. According to the file on the test subjects, most of the women had been using the cream for two months.

Will the women return to their former middle-aged dowdy selves when the effects wear off? Are there more sinister side effects? Could the three who developed a taste for blood be reacting to a withdrawal symptom? Maybe the craving is brought on by the cream losing its potency. Is that why they were killed? Will more bodies show up?

Christ, Burke, what have you done?

The intercom crackles on, alerting me that we are beginning our descent into Denver’s Centennial Airport. I’d been through Denver once before on a job with David. We’d landed at Denver International, not Centennial. Maybe this is closer to where I’m headed. I seem to remember DIA being forty minutes or so from the city.

If it gets me to Burke quicker, I don’t care where we land.

CHAPTER 40

THE JET CRUISES TO A STOP IN FRONT OF A LARGE hangar with the logo XJet. There’s a limo parked to the side of the hangar, and a man stands beside it watching our approach. I assume this is Williams’ friend.

When the engines have shut down, Shelby comes back to open the airstair door. “I see you have a car waiting.”

I precede him down the short set of steps. We’re being buffeted by a cold wind blowing, I presume, off the white-capped mountains to the west.

To the west. Even the mountains are in the wrong place here.

At the bottom, an XJet employee in jeans, a long-sleeved blue shirt and a Windbreaker welcomes me to Denver. He addresses me by name and with a deference I’m not used to. Avery must have paid well for that obsequiousness.

Shelby hands me a card. “Tom and I have rooms at the Clarion right down the street. Here is my cell number. When you ’re ready to leave, call. We’ll make sure the jet is ready whenever you are.”

At the same time he’s telling me this, I hear the limo engine crank up.

A private jet and a limo waiting at the airstrip—maybe I’ve been too hasty in refusing every perk of Avery’s inheritance.

The limo pulls alongside the jet. The back door opens and the guy I saw watching a moment before steps out. He ’s handsome, young and, as Williams mentioned, vampire. Which means although he looks twenty-five, he could be hundreds of years old. Lawson has joined Shelby at the foot of the stairs and the guy greets them in a way that makes it obvious he ’s met them before. It also puts me on alert that if he was a friend of Avery’s he may not be a friend of mine.

When the social niceties have been observed, he turns his attention to me. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Strong. I’m Joshua Turnbull.”

With his slight southern accent, the name fits. He is making no attempt to probe my thoughts, allowing me to be frank in my appraisal. He is just under six feet, a little thicker through the middle than most vampires I’ve met. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He’s dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a denim jacket. He’s wearing well-worn boots with a stacked heel and a leather belt with a silver belt buckle. He looks like a cowboy. All that’s missing is a pair of six-shooters on his hip.

Since I figure he’s sizing me up, too, I let a moment go by before motioning to the car. “Shall we go?”

His smile is neither overly friendly nor solicitous. Still don’t know if he’s friend or foe. Doesn’t matter. I need him for only one thing.

We get into the car. On the backseat there’s a tan Stetson. Turnbull picks it up and places it on the seat opposite us, sliding in beside me. The hat adds to the impression that he’s a cowboy, though I’ve never spent any time in Denver. Maybe everybody here wears cowboy hats.

We don’t speak until the car has left the airport. “The driver has the address?” I ask then, itchy to get on with it.

“Yes. The address is in Cherry Hills. Very upscale. We might have trouble getting past security.”

I look away, suppress a smile. Wemight have trouble getting past security? Idon’t intend to have any trouble at all.

Turnbull snatches the thought out of the air. He smiles, too. Williams said you were a bit of a hothead.

I turn back to Turnbull and frown. Good old Williams. Instead of the Williams -can-blow-himself reply I’d like to make, I say instead, I’m not a hothead. What I am is determined. You’d know that if he told you why I’m here.

He nods. I understand you have a personal stake in finding this woman.

Not as personal as my friend who is near death because of her. And she’s not a woman. She’s a witch. It’s important you don’t forget that.

He’s projecting a smug cockiness that feels a lot like male chauvinism. He’s making a big mistake if he thinks he can control the situation.

I have only one reason for being here. Find out everything I can from Sophie Deveraux. As far as I’m concerned, Turnbull’s only function is as a vampire GPS system. That’s it.

Turnbull is watching me, sifting through the thoughts I’ve purposefully left unguarded. After a moment, he looks away. He’s not happy to be here.

So why is he?

To repay a debt to Williams? Or to keep an eye on me?

TURNBULL WAS NOT EXAGGERATING WHEN HE SAID Cherry Hills was upscale. There is a ten-foot stone wall stretching as far as I can see with a guardhouse at the entrance. Over the top of the fence peek the rooflines of two huge homes.

Turnbull raises an eyebrow. I hope you have a plan B.

We pull up to the gate. Before the driver can answer the guard’s “May I help you,” I’ve launched into the story—the story about just having arrived in town with my uncle Bull here from Georgia and how we’re meeting a Realtor for a look at a property. Only we’re late and she’s going to be waiting for us at—I look at Uncle Bull—what was that address again?

Turnbull stammers Sophie Deveraux’s address.

The guard smiles and makes small talk while he jots down the driver ’s name and license number and the limo’s license plate. Then he waves us through.

“You’ve done this before,” Turnbull comments dryly when the gate swings open. His tone is more grudging than laudatory. “What would you have done if he decided to call the Deveraux house for confirmation?”

David and I have used the ruse more than once to get into high-security communities. Usually I’m the Realtor and David is the client. Left my supply of bogus realty cards at home, though, so I had to improvise.

To Turnbull, I reply, “Place like this isn’t going to post for sale signs on the lawns. Most deals are made quietly. He’d have no reason to question us.”

Turnbull is eyeing me. He thinks, Tricky bitch, then slips into silence, dropping the curtain on his thoughts.

Why do I get the impression he was hoping we would be denied admittance? Once again, I remind myself to be on the alert. He may owe Williams, but he’s no friend of mine.

The exact address turns out to be a rambling, brick mansion surrounded by an iron fence. Behind the house are paddocks and a stable.

There’s no guardhouse here but a buzzer and a security camera located to the left of the gate.

When the driver rings, there is a moment’s delay before a female voice with a Hispanic accent asks, “Yes?”

I lean forward to be able to answer. “I’m looking for Sophie Deveraux.”

“May I tell her who’s calling?”

“Anna Strong.”

“And your business with Ms. Deveraux?”

“Private.”

The intercom clicks off. I settle back in the seat. The camera rotates to get a clear view of the car. The tinted windows will prevent whoever is watching from seeing in the back.

The disembodied voice returns with the message, “I’m sorry, Ms. Deveraux is not at home. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No. I’ll try again later.”

Turnbull looks relieved. He instructs the driver to turn around. Once we’re back on the road, I tell the driver to pull over.

“Why are you telling him to stop?” Turnbull asks, voice tense with irritation.

I ignore him and instruct the driver. “Find the access road that runs behind the property.”

Turnbull raises a hand. “Wait a minute. What makes you think there’s an access road?”

“There’s a stable in back. I didn’t see anyway to get to it from the driveway so there ’s bound to be another way in. A delivery entrance.”

The driver looks to Turnbull, unsure how to proceed.

Frustration burns through me. “Look, one way or the other, I’m getting into that house. I’ll get out right here and walk if I have to.”

He glares at me a minute before waving the driver on.

“What the hell is it with you? I thought you were supposed to help me.”

Turnbull’s jaw is set, his shoulders bunched. “I have lived here since the beginning of the nineteenth century. I have roots that go deep in this community. I don’t need trouble. I wasn’t happy when Williams called, but I owed him a favor. I’m telling you now, I won’t be a party to killing.”

So Williams told him the purpose of my “visit.” I understand Turnbull’s reluctance to get involved. This is his home turf and we ’re dragging him into a fight that could easily turn nasty.

“Look, I’ll try to keep you out of it. You’ve gotten me this far. If you want to drop me off and leave, I’m sure I can find my way back to the airport.”

His shoulders relax a little, but not his apprehension. I can taste it in the air. “We’re here now,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”

Not a ringing endorsement of cooperation, but better than nothing. “This Sophie Deveraux, do you know anything about her?”

He shakes his head. “Not much. She’s the last living relative of Jonathan Deveraux—a cousin five generations removed. Sole heir to his fortune, so the story goes. Deveraux was a vampire. A nasty bastard according to the stories. He was killed at his one hundred fiftieth birthday party. By his wife. She disappeared not long after. Rumor has it this Sophie had something to do with it, but there was never any proof. I think it’s safe to assume she’s dangerous.”

“Is she a vampire?”

“Not that I know. There’s been some talk that she may be a witch. One of her cousins was.”

“A cousin?” My fingers touch the charm. “What was her name?”

“Sophie Burke. Best damned caterer in Denver. She died not too long ago.”

Shit. If Sophie Burke is dead, what connection does Belinda have to Sophie Deveraux? There must be some reason she kept that telephone number.

Turnbull is rambling on, “Sophie’s said to be a strange bird. Keeps to herself. Doesn ’t get involved in the human or supernatural community. For inheriting such vast wealth, she’s kept a remarkably low profile.” His eyes hold mine, then slide away. “Gives you and Sophie something in common.”

The usual rush to deny claiming any part of Avery’s fortune is tempered by the reality that I just arrived in Avery’s private jet. I focus on the scenery.

We’re winding through tree-lined streets, past properties that must cost tens of millions of dollars. The silence in the car is oppressive.

Makes me think of how much I have to lose if this turns out to be another wild-goose chase. I turn to Turnbull. Even small talk is better than what I’m thinking.

“What about you? Williams said you’ve lived in Denver for over a hundred years. How have you managed it?”

He looks surprised by the question, but then he smiles and shrugs. “I ‘kill’ myself off in various ways every forty or fifty years and introduce a new heir. A few makeup tricks, a change in hair color and styles, colored contacts. ” He pats his chest. “Padding to change body shape. It’s not so hard really.”

“And no one notices?”

“I have an entire gallery of ‘family portraits’ showing the remarkable Turnbull family resemblance.”

“And do you also keep a low profile?”

“I’m a philanthropist. Made my fortune in mining. I manage a foundation, attend a few charity functions, but mostly I keep to myself. I have a ranch outside of Durango. My house here in Denver is closed most of the year.”

“Sounds like you’ve made a good life for yourself.”

My voice must have a wistful ring to it, because Turnbull raises an eyebrow. No reason why you can’t do the same thing.A laugh bubbles up. Or not. Williams seems to think you have a death wish. Is that true? You really choose to live as a human?

“I think this is it, Mr. Turnbull.”

The driver’s voice saves me from either confirming or denying Williams’ charge. Death wish? Seems to me I’ve had to defend my life more since becoming vampire than I ever did as a human.

The driver has pulled to a stop at the junction to an unpaved road that skirts the back of several of the larger properties. Sophie Deveraux’s is one of them. I get out to take a look around.

The Deveraux property sits on about ten acres of rolling pastureland. I can just see the back of the stable from our vantage point. The same iron fence that surrounds the front of the house extends back this way.

Turnbull has gotten out, too, and comes to stand beside me.

“I’m going in,” I tell him. “Give me fifteen minutes. If I’m not back, call Williams and tell him there was trouble.”