Текст книги "Chosen"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“Well, we don’t have anything on the docket for the next few days. Think you can cover the office? I’m going to San Francisco to look at some property with Miranda.”

Miranda is a real estate developer who has become more than an investment advisor to David. They are lovers. The lover he sometimes cheats on with that booking clerk at the jail. Which leads me to think it’s not a serious relationship, not that he’s shared any details with me. I don’t have such a good track record with his girlfriends.

“Sure,” I respond quickly. “It will give me a chance to get to know our new partner.”

He shakes his head. His expression says he’s still suspicious, still skeptical of how easily I accepted Tracey into our fold. “You aren’t going to scare her off while I’m gone are you?”

I hope my laugh doesn’t sound as forced as it feels. “Of course not. Have fun in San Francisco.”

He looks not at all reassured by my words. But he does leave.

Which is good.

As soon as he’s gone, I put in a call to Warren Williams.

I know he said he’d be in touch with me, but I want to get the ball rolling. Show him I’m serious about our agreement.

The phone rings five times, then goes to voice mail.

Voice mail? Where is he? He’s supposed to be sitting by the phone waiting for my call.

Abruptly, I click off.

Damn it. The expression “revenge is a dish best served cold” has never been a favorite of mine. I don’t want to wait for the rage to cool. What he and Underwood did to Lance—did to me—is unforgivable, and I want to strike while my blood still boils.

CHAPTER 22

Waiting has never been easy for me.

Waiting makes me peckish.

Waiting reduces me to finding ways to distract myself, reduces me to tackling distasteful chores.

So, when I’ve caught up on email, balanced my checkbook, filed an accumulation of piled-up shit (mea culpa to David), read through the stack of law enforcement bulletins on top of the filing cabinet and drained the last bottle of beer in the fridge and Williams stillhasn’t called, I’m irritated and antsy enough to bite the head off a chicken.

Tossing the last empty bottle into the trash, I trudge on out to the deck that borders the back of our office. It’s a still, clear and quiet afternoon, the skyline mirror-imaged on the water. I watch sailboats play motor tag on the bay while they wait for the wind. When I was human, it was the kind of afternoon David and I would spend at the Green Flash, a bar down the street from my cottage, drinking beer and eating nachos and watching humanity parade past on the boardwalk.

Nostalgia sweeps over me. I took those days for granted. It’s a stupid human flaw—not appreciating the simple pleasures because they are simple and routine and will always be a part of your life.

Or so you believe.

I plop down in a deck chair and tip it back, hoisting my feet to rest on the railing. So much has happened in the last year. So much has changed. You hear the cliché “not the person she once was” all the time. In my case, it’s not an exaggeration. Last July my biggest concern was when I’d next see my DEA boyfriend, Max. I wasn’t in love with him, but the sex was great and our casual relationship suited us.

Next thing you know, I’m attacked and turned by a vampire. Even though the sex was even better, Max couldn’t get away fast enough when he learned the truth. I saved his life—hell, I’ve saved a lot of lives in the last twelve months—but to the world at large, I’m still a bloodsucker. A monster.

I can’t reveal myself to my family, to David, to any mortal outside of the few who know and safeguard the secret . . . that there are supernatural creatures living side by side with them. It’s the reason I sent my family halfway around the world. I couldn’t bear to see the horror in their eyes should they discover my secret. It’s also the reason I’m glad they have my niece, Trish, to care for. She will fill the void when circumstances force me to move on.

Perhaps subconsciously I’ve already accepted Tracey because she might be the one to fill the void for David, too.

A breeze springs up over the bay. The sailboats hoist their sails to capture it, cutting engines as they forge straight, sure paths out to sea.

I wish my path was as clear.

I hold up my right hand. The palm looks the same. The skin on the back of my hand is smooth and cold as alabaster. I let it drop back into my lap. Three days ago I was a walking charcoal briquette. Today, there isn’t a trace of damage.

I close my eyes. Listen. I can hear and feel everything going on inside my body. Blood pulsing, heart pumping. Muscles, sinew and bone flex and contract on command. Nerves vibrate with energy.

I’m dead.

Yet I’ve never felt more alive.

CHAPTER 23

I’m still in a fugue state when the office door opens.

I don’t have to turn from my perch to know who’s come in. Her perfume precedes her. If we’re going to work together on a regular basis, David better tell Tracey to go easy on the stuff.

She’s his recruit, after all.

She walks straight through the office and joins me on the deck, pointing to a second deck chair. “Mind if I join you?”

I scoot around so I’m upwind and nod my head. “Have a seat.”

I notice then that she has a brown grocery bag in her hand. She sits down, opens the bag and pulls a couple of bottles of Corona from inside. She offers me one.

I take it.

She might work out after all.

We open our beers and drink.

Tracey wipes foam off her lips with the back of her hand. A simple, unaffected gesture. For some reason, it tips the scales from finding reasons notto like her to reserving judgment. Maybe even being willing to give her a chance.

She did come bearing beer.

We drink in silence for a few minutes before she says, “Detective Harris sends his regards.”

I choke on that. “Really? He sent his regards?”

A grin. “Well, not so much regardsas a word of caution. To me. To be on my guard. He thinks you’re . . . How shall I put this?”

At the pause, I jump in. “A lunatic? Crazy?”

She laughs. Nods. “Pretty much.” She eyes me over the bottle. “He thinks you had something to do with Warren Williams being run out of the police chief’s job. Care to comment?”

“You sound like a reporter.”

“Just a curious ex-cop who thought Williams did a good job. And I don’t believe you were responsible for his troubles, by the way. As I understand it, he used you as bait to catch the hit man who shot David. You did nothing wrong.”

I look away from her. No. I did nothing wrong. Did I? A cop lost his life, David got shot, and a father and daughter were put in danger because I got into a fight with my partner. I was mad at David so I reacted like a spoiled teenager—ran away and got drunk. Set a chain of events in motion that . . .

Ancient history.

I guzzle another mouthful of beer, keep tilting the bottle until I’ve drained it.

Yeah, Williams used me. But we both knew I was in no danger. The hit man was human. I’m not. Trouble was, no one else could know. And when it was all over, Williams ended up paying the price because he couldn’t expose the truth.

Williams. Where the hell is he?

“Anna?”

Tracey is leaning toward me. “Are you all right?”

I hoist the empty bottle. “I will be if you’ve got any more of these in that bag.”

She fishes inside, pulls out two more. Hands me one, takes the other for herself. We clink the bottles together and drink.

After a long pull, I shift in the chair so I’m facing her. “Why did you come back this afternoon? You said when you left you’d be back tomorrow.”

She jabs a thumb behind her. “Left my jacket.”

I look. A black Windbreaker hangs from a coat hook near the door. “And you brought beer because?”

A shrug. “I thought maybe David might still be here and we’d . . .” She lets her voice drop.

“Ah. You’re smitten. I should warn you, he’s been seeing someone. He’s on a trip with her now. Probably won’t be back until Friday.”

She sighs and settles back in the chair. “Well, I’ve never shied away from a challenge. And in a way, I’m glad you and I had a chance to get acquainted.”

I hide the smirk by taking another pull.

Get acquainted? Oh, Tracey. You don’t have a clue.

* * *

Tracey leaves at five with an offer to take me to dinner. An offer I, of course, decline. I tell her I have a boyfriend waiting for me at home and that she doesn’t have to come in tomorrow since we have nothing on the docket and David won’t be in.

We part ways with a wave and a “see you on Friday.”

I’m relieved when she’s gone. This girl talk thing is hard. But I can report to David that I behaved myself and that our new partner and I had a chance to bond.

The other good thing was that it distracted me from pacing the floor, wondering why I haven’t yet heard from Williams.

At six, I lock up and head for the cottage. Lance calls while I’m driving home. He asks if I’m all right, if I’ve heard from Williams or Underwood, if I want him to come home tonight. I answer yes, no, no. He says he’ll call again later and that he misses me.

I miss him, too. I miss his smile and his laugh and the way our bodies fit together. I miss having him around during the day. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. I don’t think I want to sleep alone ever again. There’s a hole my life that only he can fill. I miss him so much I ache.

“Anna?” he asks when a long moment has past. “Are you there?”

I blink and rouse myself. “Yes. I miss you, too.”

* * *

It’s after midnight.

Williams still hasn’t called.

Trepidation replaces the irritation I felt most of the day. Something is wrong. There’s no way in hell Williams would let me dangle like this. He’s waited too long to have me under his thumb.

I pick up the phone and call his cell. Again.

Same result. Again.

Five rings, then voice mail.

I toss the phone on the bed.

Should I try calling him at home?

I shuffle downstairs. His home number is programmed in my landline. He’s only called here once or twice from that number and never from a cell. I scroll for the number, press send.

The call is picked up so quickly, I don’t hear it ring.

“Warren?”

A woman’s voice. One I recognize.

The knot in my gut grows tighter. “No. Sorry, Mrs. Williams. It’s Anna Strong.”

There’s a long moment of silence. I’m sure she’s processing the same emotions I am. The last time we saw each other was at Ortiz’s funeral. She made it clear how she felt about me—that I’d betrayed my own kind, left her husband near death to save a witch. She accused me of unleashing a war against innocents, something I understand less now than I did at the time.

One of the questions I’d hoped this allianceI’d forged with Williams would answer.

I wait another moment before asking, “You haven’t heard from him?”

She makes a noise, a small choking sound, as if her breath is caught in her throat. “No. If you know something—if you know where he is . . .”

There’s desperation in her voice, fear. When I don’t respond, it veers to anger. “Damn you, Anna. What did you do, change your mind?”

Again, she doesn’t give me a chance to answer.

“He told me he talked to you. He said you’d come to an understanding. He was optimistic that you were ready to cooperate. If it was a trick, if you’ve done something to hurt him, I swear I’ll come after you.”

I doubt it would make a difference if I told her Williams and I hadcome to an agreement. She has no reason to trust me. Better for her to be angry than afraid. Fear is debilitating. Let her nurse the anger. Anger gives you focus. Anger gives you strength. Anger keeps the inner demons at bay.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. Williams. I did see your husband in Palm Springs yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be home soon. Try not to worry.”

Stupid. Empty sentiment.

She makes that sound in her throat again—half gasp, half stifled hiccup. It’s only when she breaks the connection without another word that I realize what she was doing.

Crying.

CHAPTER 24

I don’t lie down, don’t try to sleep.

Instead, I spend the night pacing. Something has gone terribly wrong. What it is, I can’t say. I only know it involves Williams and Underwood.

And that is not good.

Lance thinks I’ve lost my mind. I’ve called him three times in the early morning hours. I tell him I just want to hear his voice. In reality, I’m terrified he won’t pick up. Irrational, maybe, but I don’t stop until he tells me he’s on the way out the door to the last photo shoot and that he’ll be headed for the airport by noon. He’ll call me when he lands in San Diego and I’ll pick him up.

I’m making yet another pot of coffee when the doorbell rings.

It’s seven a.m. Too early for visitors. Not that I ever get visitors. Not the drop-in kind. To get visitors you have to have friends.

I can count my friends on three fingers.

Frey will be getting ready to go to school.

David is out of town.

Lance, ditto.

My stomach twists. Not vampire senses, but human gut reaction tells me whoever is on the other side of the front door is not here to deliver flowers.

I flip the coffeemaker on, cross the room to the front door.

I realize how anxious I am when my shaking hand slips off the doorknob at my first bungling attempt to open the door. I take a firmer grip, literally and figuratively, and pull the door open.

Detective Harris nods in greeting. Behind him, a uniformed policewoman stands off to the side.

Harris and I stare at each other a moment before he says, “Sorry for the hour. I have some news. Do you mind if I come in?”

I open the door wider, the only invitation I’m capable of extending. My throat has gone tight and dry. Harris comes inside, the policewoman doesn’t. She moves to stand beside the door as I push it closed.

My first thought, Harris is human. It must be human circumstances that bring him here. “God. It’s not David, is it? Has there been an accident?”

He shakes his head. “No. Not David.” He pulls a small notebook from a pocket in his jacket, opens it, glances down at the page, then up at me. “You were in Palm Springs recently?”

Now I know how wrong I was. Whatever happened, it has nothing to do with the mortal world.

I nod. Wait.

“Did you see former police chief Warren Williams while you were there?”

“Yes.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“He was staying at the home of a mutual acquaintance.”

“And who would that be?”

“Julian Underwood.”

Harris already knows the answers to these questions. I know because he doesn’t once consult his notebook or jot anything down. I wait for the question he doesn’tknow the answer to.

“How did Williams seem to you when you saw him at Julian Underwood’s?”

I frown. “How did he seem? He seemed fine.”

“Not depressed? Anxious?”

Hardly. He’d just secured the pact we’d spent the last year battling over. Can’t bring that up. “What’s this about? Has something happened to Williams?”

Harris flips his little notebook closed, focuses on my face. “We found his car in the desert. Burned. We found a gun and a spent cartridge. His wedding ring. His watch. It looks as if he armed an incendiary device to torch the car, got back inside, set it off, and shot himself.”

There is so much wrong with that scenario that my head swims with the enormity of it. I can only stare at Harris, objections ricocheting around my brain like buckshot against metal. He, in turn, stares back at me. Watching. Waiting. Wondering. Patience personified.

Irritating as hell.

I blow out a puff of air. “Does Mrs. Williams think her husband was suicidal?”

In my head I’m screaming, of course not. He was a vampire. A two-hundred-year-old vampire. His mortal wife would know more than anyone that a vampire that old doesn’t commit suicide. He’d outlive any problem he’s likely to encounter—or do away with it.

I’m hoping my face doesn’t betray my thoughts. Hoping I’ve scrubbed away all emotion except concerned curiosity.

Harris sidesteps the question. “Mrs. Williams thinks you may have been the last person to see her husband. Which is why I’m here. When did you return to San Diego?”

“Yesterday. Around nine in the morning.”

“Did you come back alone?”

“No. I was with my boyfriend, Lance Turner, and another friend, Daniel Frey.”

“And they’ll corroborate this?”

“I can give you their phone numbers.”

“What did you do after you got home?”

“Went to the office. David was there and our new partner. You know her. Tracey Banker.”

“You were there the rest of the day?”

“Until five or so. Then I went home.” I hold up a hand. “And no, I have no one to corroborate that I stayed home last night. I was alone.”

Harris shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Forensics puts the time of death at around mid-morning yesterday. I’ll take those numbers now, if you don’t mind.”

Forensics? An immolated vampire would leave nothing but ash. A stopped watch maybe? The clock in the car?

Harris has the notebook open again and a pencil poised. He’s looking at me, waiting for me to move. I reach for my cell phone, call up the numbers for Lance and Frey, recite them.

Harris copies the numbers but I can tell from his expression, he’s only going through the motions. He doesn’t consider me a suspect in spite of what Mrs. Williams might have implied.

And I’m sure she implied a lot.

He starts toward the door, pauses, turns back around. “Warren Williams may have been relieved of his post, but he was a good chief and a good cop. Mrs. Williams doesn’t believe her husband committed suicide. I get the impression you don’t, either. I know he considered you a friend so I’ll tell you, we’re not closing the books on his death until we’re sure one way or the other. If you think of anything to help in the investigation, I hope you’ll call.”

I watch Harris stride down the walk to a waiting car, my thoughts and emotions so jumbled, I’m having trouble making sense of either. I close the door, walk zombielike to the couch and sit. Long after Harris leaves, I remain there, head back, legs outstretched, too shocked to do more than stare at the ceiling.

I can’t wrap my head around the idea that Warren Williams is gone. He’s been a constant source of irritation and I keep waiting for a sense of relief to overtake the sense of shock.

It’s not happening.

What is happening is a strong sense of doubt.

Is he gone?

Or is this a trick? It’s not entirely inconceivable that Williams concocted some elaborate ruse to disappear off the radar. Maybe he got tired of his mortal existence, his mortal wife, and set up an escape route. It’s what a vampire would do if he wanted to start over.

But the timing is wrong.

I can see Williams bailing on his career, even his wife, but not on me. As long as I’ve known him, he’s played up this destiny thing. He has made it crystal clear that he considers it not just mine, but his destiny, too, to shape and direct. Even his wife said so, at Ortiz’ funeral. Williams obviously shared with her his vision for the future—my future, our future—and there’s no fucking way he’d kill himself before he saw it through.

Unless he didn’t kill himself.

Unless he’s out there somewhere, waiting for the right time to contact me.

Unless this is part of a grand plan to isolate the two of us.

He might even have some idiotic idea that I’ll fake my own death, too, and give myself over to him. He’s egocentric enough to consider it. And it certainly sounds like a plan Underwood would agree to.

Underwood.

I should have thought about Underwood sooner.

Dread twines in my gut like a strand of thorns.

Why didn’t I think about Underwood sooner?

Williams wouldn’t have faked his own death. He’d have no need to. Just as Underwood had no need for Williams once I’d agreed to trade my family and friends’ safety in exchange for cooperation.

Jesus. It’s so clear.

Williams isdead.

Underwood killed him.

It would make perfect sense in Underwood’s twisted head.

Underwood and Williams might have been working together to get my cooperation but once they had it, what use was Williams to Underwood? He saw that there was no love lost between the two of us. Maybe he even planned to kill Williams as a show of faith.

I can hear him saying it: Here, Anna, I’ve slain the dragon that has hounded you and yours for the last year. You are free of his badgering, his interference. It’s my gift to you.

Underwood has been vampire for five hundred years. He must know more about the Chosen One than Williams ever did. Perhaps he and Williams didn’t see eye to eye on how best to indoctrinate me.

He didn’t seem pleased that Williams accepted my terms so easily—my cooperation in return for Lance’s safety and that of my family and friends. Could that have been what caused the falling out? Was Underwood so distrustful that I’d honor our agreement that he decided to renegotiate on his own?

Oh my god.

The thought makes me lunge for the telephone on the side table. The first call I make is to my family in France. My niece, Trish, picks up, her voice full of cheerful surprise. Yes, she assures me, everything is fine. My mother is in the garden picking herbs for dinner and my father is in the living room reading the paper. Do I want to talk with them?

I tell her no, that I just wanted to say hello. I ring off with the promise to call again soon for a real chat.

Next I call David. His sleepy voice reminds me that it’s only a little after seven and why am I calling so early? In the background, an equally sleepy female voice asks who it is. Except I realize it’s not sleep I’m hearing in her voice. When David asks again in a husky, slightly winded tone why I’m calling, it dawns on me that it’s not sleep I interrupted.

Mumbling an apology and a stupid excuse about needing an address I’ll track down at the office, I disconnect.

My family is fine.

David is fine.

David is more than fine, actually.

Lance will be on his way home in a few hours.

If Underwood doesn’t intend on using them for leverage against me, what does he intend to use?