Текст книги "Visions"

Автор книги: Kelley Armstrong

Соавторы: Kelley Armstrong,Kelley Armstrong
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CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Last night before bed, I’d jotted notes on my chat with Patrick. Now I wrote them out, adding questions as I went.

The first question: What is he?

It was hard to even acknowledge the need to ask that. What was Patrick? A young writer who lived in Cainsville and made the diner his office. Yet I knew that wasn’t the whole truth. I was also damned sure I couldn’t find my answers by plugging search terms into a browser.

I thought Patrick was the man Gabriel had spoken to as a child. More significantly, I thought I knew why he’d sought out Gabriel, and why that had upset Seanna. To confirm my suspicion, I’d need to confront him. Once I had ammunition.

If Patrick was the man Gabriel had spoken to twenty years ago, then he could not be human. And so the questions circled in on themselves, threatening to tangle me in impossibilities. I had to pluck out this single thread and follow it to the end.

I knew Patrick’s pen name. Patricia Rees. Yes, he used a woman’s name, not surprising considering he wrote paranormal romance. Given what I suspected about him, his chosen genre was all kinds of ironic. I’m sure he was well aware of that. Even his pseudonymous surname came with a nudge and a wink. It’s Welsh, derived from ris, meaning “ardor.”

Patrick told me he’d published six books. That was not entirely true. Patricia Rees was credited with six in paranormal romance—and another four in gothic romance before that.

Gabriel remembered Patrick being a young man when Gabriel returned to Cainsville before college. I had assumed he was misremembering. Seeing Patrick’s publication history, I knew he was at least as old as Gabriel thought. Yet that still meant he could not have been the man Gabriel remembered speaking to as a boy. It was noon before I had my answer.

Patrice Rhys. Novelist in the seventies. Author of a dozen best-selling novels of “gothic horror.” Patrick Rice. Novelist in the fifties. Author of twenty novels—noir thrillers “with a gothic touch.” The connection came through a master’s thesis written five years ago—one of the many pieces of flotsam and jetsam that wash up on the Internet. The student had been writing on the evolution of gothic romance and had compared the works of Patrick, Patrice, and Patricia. She’d found enough thematic and stylistic similarities to decide that Patrice and Patricia had been heavily influenced by Patrick, down to using a variation on his name for their pseudonyms.

Or they could be the same person.

I found a photograph of Patrick Rice from the fifties in an archived interview. Otherwise, Rice was something of a recluse, as were Patrice and Patricia, none of them touring or giving interviews. But for Patrick, there was that one photo. And I had only to look at it to know, beyond a doubt, that Patrick Rice was Patrick from Cainsville.

I was printing the photograph when Gabriel swung into the office with “Lunch?”

I handed him the picture. “Meet Patrick Rice. Noir author from the fifties.”

Gabriel’s brows lifted in a flash of surprise before his expression settled into a pensive frown.

“Yes, I know,” I said. “We could argue it’s his grandfather or some relative who looks exactly like him—and shares his first name and occupation.”

As Gabriel studied the photo, I could see that compulsion sliding in, insidious and overwhelming, manifesting in the undeniable urge to say, It’s a coincidence.

“That’s him,” he said finally. “I don’t understand how, but that is undeniably Patrick. You found it on the Internet?”

I nodded.

“Then it could have been planted or—” He stopped so abruptly his teeth clicked shut. “I’m sorry. Yes, that’s him.”

“And I have checked the source. It’s from the archives of a Chicago magazine. I found a secondary reference, too, in a biographical sketch that references the article. Patrick has become much more careful about interviews, but in the fifties no one would have guessed that one day we could locate that photo from the comfort of our homes.”

“It’s still risky, though. Living in the same place, staying the same age. We’re mistaken. We must be—” Another emphatic stop. “Why can I not stop doing that?”

“Part of it is simple logic. We’re reasonably intelligent, educated people. If we saw a man biting a woman’s neck in an alley, we’d presume kinky sex, not vampirism.”

“Please don’t tell me you think vampirism is the explanation here.”

I shuddered. “God, I hope not.”

“We do see Patrick during the day,” Gabriel said.

“Bram Stoker’s Dracula went out in the daytime.”

“You aren’t helping.”

“Sorry.” I wanted to tell him what I suspected, but I couldn’t bring myself to, not until I had more. “The specific answer isn’t as important as the general one, which is that Patrick isn’t human. That something is going on in Cainsville, and we’re caught up in it, and Macy Shaw seems to be caught up in it, too. So we need to talk to her.”

“Give me two minutes.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Macy Shaw lived in Bridgeport. In Chicago’s distant past, the Irish ruled the neighborhood. It’s a lot more diverse now, but you can still see its roots, including unmarked pubs that you’d best not enter unless you know a regular.

Bridgeport is working-class. There are signs of gentrification, but that’s common everywhere people see cheap property and think they can change the landscape to better suit their tastes. Bridgeport is a strong enough community to hold out, and I’m glad to see it. The city is for everyone.

There are, however, areas where … well, a little gentrification wouldn’t be a bad thing, if it meant architectural preservation. Pockets where the beautiful old homes and buildings are in sore need of a little support—financial and structural. Macy’s street was marked by neglect. While the residents couldn’t afford the massive renovations needed to return their homes to their former glory, you got the feeling most wouldn’t see the point anyway. The long grass and weeds in the yards hid some, but not all, of the trash littered there. People sat on dilapidated front porches, eyes narrowing as we went by, more like junk-yard dogs than proud home owners.

We passed one house with three men on the porch. All had the build of retired construction workers: wide shoulders, brawny biceps, and potbellies. None was over thirty, though. The porch was the most decrepit one on the street, so run-down that it made me nervous to see one guy leaning against the railing.

As we passed, Gabriel murmured, “Move to my other side, please.”

His gaze was fixed on the road ahead, with no sign that he’d even seen the men, but he said again, “Olivia? My other side. Please.”

By the time I figured out what he meant, the three were on their feet, coming off the porch, and I wasn’t about to scurry behind Gabriel then. He still tried to move in front of me, but I put out my arm to stop him.

He took off his shades and fixed his gaze on them, his eyes chilling further with every step they took.

“Humor me,” I whispered.

“I would prefer—”

“I know.”

“You want something here?” one of the men said.

Gabriel moved so close I could feel him against my back. The guy stopped. His gaze traveled up. He was only my height, meaning he had to look a long way up to meet Gabriel’s eyes, and when he did, he stopped walking. His two confederates flanked him, but neither moved another inch.

The lead guy looked back at me. “You want something here?” he repeated.

“Not from you.” I turned to the one with the smallest potbelly. “Tommy Shaw?”

The guy froze.

“Jane Walker,” I said. “Bail bonds—”

Tommy bolted. One of his friends lunged forward, fists up. Gabriel hit him with a right hook that knocked him off his feet. The other friend stopped mid-jump. He looked at Gabriel. He looked at his buddy on the ground. He ran.

“Take him instead,” I said to Gabriel, waving at the guy on the ground, his nose streaming blood. “I’m sure someone wants him.”

The guy scrambled up and tore off.

“Sorry about that,” I said to Gabriel. “I thought they’d all run.”

He adjusted his right sleeve. “It was a reasonable gamble with an acceptable outcome. Far better than having to take on all three. I wasn’t looking forward to removing my jacket. It’s a new shirt.” He motioned for me to resume walking. “Thank you for recognizing Ms. Shaw’s brother. That certainly made things easier.”

“It also means that we don’t need to worry about meeting up with him at the house.”

That house was three doors down. We knocked at the front door. When Macy answered, Gabriel had the screen door open and blocked the inside door. She did try to shut it on him, but halfheartedly, stopping when Gabriel held up her driver’s license.

“You dropped this the other night,” he said. “May we talk?”

She glanced around.

“Your brother took off,” I said. “But you might not want the neighbors to see you chatting to us on the front step.”

“Right. Um, come in.” She backed up. “My parents are out…”

“Excellent.” Gabriel pushed open the door. “We’ll keep this short.”

She escorted us into the living room and cleared away beer bottles and a pizza box before we sat on the sofa.

“Sorry,” she said. “My brother. He never picks up after himself.”

Judging by the condition of the room, no one did. Her cheeks reddened when I surveyed the overflowing ashtrays and clutter. I stopped looking and lowered myself to the sofa.

“I’m sorry I took off the other night,” she said as she gathered an armful of clothing.

“It was a traumatic experience,” Gabriel said.

She nodded. “I tried to look Miss, um, Jones up, but I couldn’t get any contact information. Otherwise, I’d have called you.”

“Let me properly introduce myself, then. Gabriel Walsh.” He held out his card. “For next time.”

She took it with some reluctance.

“And this, as you know, is Ms. Jones,” he said.

“Olivia. Please. I’m so sorry for what happened the other night. We’re still trying to figure out exactly what did happen. You know who my parents are. Unfortunately, the crazies seem to be coming out of the woodwork. I’m still not sure what message that man wanted to convey, but he seems to have been a, uh, fan of theirs.”

She looked appalled. “Fan? Of—”

“It happens,” Gabriel cut in. “There are some seriously disturbed individuals out there, which is why I came to assist Ms. Jones, along with her…” He seemed to struggle for the word. “Friend,” he said finally. “It’s a very difficult and dangerous time for Ms. Jones.”

“I can imagine.” Macy tried for sympathy, but it was a struggle. At least she wasn’t cowering in the corner, waiting for me to pull a knife.

Gabriel continued, “I’m glad she was able to come to your aid, despite the potential risk to her own life.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Her gaze flitted my way and was even able to make eye contact before zooming back to Gabriel.

“We’re trying to determine why this man chose you, what connection you might have to Ciara Conway, what connection Ms. Conway has to Ms. Jones, and so on.”

I smiled wryly. “A lot of questions.”

“While we’re hoping this man chose you at random, if he did not, we are concerned for your safety.”

Now we both got a genuine thank you.

Gabriel settled in. “Having had time to reflect, do you remember anything more about the man who took you? Did anyone at the party get a picture of him? Do you recall having seen him another time—before or since? Any detail you can give, however small, will help.”

To her credit, Macy tried her best. She wasn’t actively blocking us. We just made her uncomfortable—the serial killers’ daughter and her hulking lawyer.

She hadn’t seen the man since, nor could she recall having met him before. While she’d checked Facebook to see if anyone from the party had posted his photo, she hadn’t asked around to see if anyone knew him. She would do that now if we wanted. We did. Beyond that, she could only provide additional details about his appearance, but since I’d seen the man myself, that wasn’t very helpful.

While Gabriel questioned her, I kept feeling my gaze being tugged up to the bookshelf. There wasn’t much there—just Macy’s school texts, various biology and anatomy and nursing tomes. Fascinating stuff, I’m sure. Especially the one on than-atochemistry, whatever the hell that was.

As our queries wound down, Gabriel excused himself to use the washroom. Gathering DNA, actually. While he was gone, I asked about Ciara Conway. She’d looked up the name online but found nothing. When Gabriel came back in, I showed her Ciara’s photo.

“Have you ever seen this young woman?” I asked.

“Sure, that’s my—” She stopped and lifted the photo. “I was going to say it’s my sister, Jackie, when she was younger, but it’s not…” She trailed off, staring at the photo. Then her eyes widened. “Is this Ciara Conway?”

“You know her, then?”

“No. I mean, yes, only from the papers. A high school friend sent me the article, thinking it might be a relative because the girl looked so much like Jackie. But when I was searching online for the name my kidnapper said, I was using Kira with a K. I thought Ciara with a C was a soft C, like Sierra.” Her gaze dipped. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“It isn’t a common name,” Gabriel said.

She looked at the photo again. “She does look like my sister. My mom, too. Other than that?” She shrugged. “We seem to be about the same age. Maybe we were switched at birth.” She laughed, joking, but there was a note of wistfulness there.

“If it was fifty years ago, I’d be wondering myself,” I said.

“Anyone who looks like me in her family?” She said it lightly, but that note of something like hope remained. “I don’t suppose she was born at St. Joe’s?”

“Northwestern.”

That laugh again. “I was only kidding. That doesn’t happen these days. I remember when I was a kid, though, I’d see it in movies or read it in books, and I’d have dreams where it had happened to me. I’m sure every kid does that. Your family doesn’t understand you. The grass is always greener. So on and so forth.”

Anyone could see Macy didn’t belong here—the well-dressed girl sitting primly on the edge of the chair, like a relative visiting from the suburbs, waiting until she’s put in her time and can flee.

Except Macy couldn’t flee. Unless she wanted to start life with a substantial debt, she had to tough it out here until she graduated. No matter how trapped I’d felt in my old life, I could have survived in that world. Macy was suffocating. And if we were right, and she was the real Ciara Conway, then I understood what Tristan had meant. Macy had indeed been more wronged than Ciara.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

It was a bit of a hike back to the car. Gabriel always parks the Jag someplace relatively safe and walks. One could argue—and I have—that it would be easier to catch a cab, but he doesn’t take cabs. I suspect he hates the idea of putting someone else in charge. Which makes me even happier when he hands over the keys, as he did that day. True, he needed to work, which he could do better from the passenger seat, but letting me take the wheel while he immersed himself in e-mail was a vote of trust I doubt he gives to anyone else.

That afternoon, he had enough messages to keep him busy until I pulled into the lane beside his office. Even then, I was almost out of the car before I realized he was still in his seat, cell phone in hand, his gaze distant.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He started. “Yes. Of course.” He climbed from the car. “Pamela called.”

“She’s still not offering to answer my questions, I’m presuming.”

“No, but she’s becoming increasingly frantic at not seeing you. I’m wondering if we ought to take advantage of that. She’s the best place to get our answers.” He paused. “Or the second-best.”

“Second-best?”

He took the keys and headed toward the front door. “In the last message, she asked if you’ve been to see Todd yet. While she was initially eager for you to see him, it seems she’s changed her mind.”

“Because whatever she knows, he’ll know, and she suspects he’ll part with it more easily. Would she be right? I mean, I know you’ve never met him…”

“Given what I know of the case, he would be more likely to talk, particularly if the request came from you.”

He ushered me past Lydia, a raised finger saying he’d be back to speak to her. Once we were in his office, he closed the door.

“You may not wish to hear this, but I believe, in the current context, it’s important. Pamela has said, after you were lost in the adoption system, they hired private investigators to search for you. She stopped paying when it seemed apparent there was nothing to find. Todd did not. He didn’t tell her, because he didn’t wish to upset her, but I know from his lawyer that he never stopped looking for you.”

When I didn’t answer, his gaze bored into me.

“As I suspected, it’s not something you wished to know.”

“No, you’re right. It helps to understand the situation if we’re going to do an end run around Pamela. Anytime you can get me in to see him, I’ll go. I’m guessing Lydia hasn’t managed it yet?”

“No. It should be a simple matter of paperwork, but she is having inordinate trouble cutting through it. Calls aren’t returned. Paperwork goes missing…”

“Do you think that’s intentional?”

“I’m trying not to draw that conclusion, because it smacks of paranoia. I’ve asked Lydia to pursue the matter more aggressively, using the network of contacts from her CIA days. I don’t like to impose on that, but this appears to require it, and she’s happy to do so.”

“Thanks. To both of you.”

It was six thirty when Gabriel popped his head into the meeting room where I was working. Lydia was long gone and I’d lost track of time.

“Sorry,” I said, grabbing my laptop. “You want to lock up.”

“I was going to ask if you had dinner plans. There are things we could discuss.”

Things we could discuss. Not a specific case. Not even things we should discuss. In other words, he was asking if I wanted to join him for dinner. God forbid he should just say that.

“Sure,” I said. “Give me five minutes.”

Gabriel took me to the restaurant that was quickly becoming “our place.” We sat in a quiet corner and shared a good meal and wine and conversation, and when dessert ended, I had to struggle not to find some excuse for lingering. Gabriel seemed to want to, too, and when the server started eyeing us and the late-dinner line at the door, I said, “We should probably give up our table.” Gabriel shot a cold stare across the restaurant, and I’m sure he would have said, “Screw them”—in some far less vulgar language—but I insisted.

When we got outside, he said, “Would you like to come to my apartment?” He cleared his throat. “I mean for a drink. Clients give me bottles, and my building isn’t far. I’ll drive you back to your car after. Or home, if need be.”

“Depending on how much I drink?” I smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, but yes, if it’s nearby, and it’s not an inconvenience…”

“It’s not.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

I was going to Gabriel’s apartment. He’d offered so casually that I wondered if I’d been mistaken about his reluctance to have guests. Still, I played it cool, making general conversation, with no comments on the neighborhood or even the building. I certainly could have commented on both.

When Gabriel first took me to his office, I’d expected a modern skyscraper suite in a high-rent neighborhood. Wrong for his office; dead on-for his residence. He lived in the near-north district of Chicago, just over the Loop. It was an impressive building, and I craned to look up at the top floors as I imagined the amazing view. I was so engrossed in my surroundings that I didn’t notice Gabriel had gone quiet. He parked without a word, got out of the Jag, and led me to the elevator in continued silence.

He’d spent most of the trip here talking, that slightly animated chatter that came after his standard half glass of wine. And I could say that had worn off and he’d retreated into a more typical thoughtful silence. But it didn’t feel that way.

As we waited for the elevator, I could feel anxiety strumming off him as his fingers drummed his leg. My gut dropped, any lingering buzz from the wine evaporating.

Gabriel didn’t want to bring me here. He’d had an impulse, and now it had passed, and he desperately wanted to rescind the invitation.

“Is this all right?” I asked.

He glanced over. “Hmm?”

“We can grab a drink someplace else.” I forced a smile. “You look like you’re wondering if the cleaning lady came by today. I know what that’s like. You get busy, and I swear the clutter starts reproducing itself. We can go someplace else…”

I was giving him an escape route. Yes, actually, the place is a mess. Let’s go down the street instead. But he stared as if I was speaking Swahili. Finally, he seemed to process enough to understand.

“No, of course not,” he said, ushering me into the elevator. “The apartment’s fine.”

He pressed a button. As the doors closed, I leaned over to see which floor he’d selected.

“Fifty-five? Damn. That’s got to have an amazing view. North or south?”

“South.”

“So it overlooks the river, then? Sweet.”

“Yes, it’s…”

He seemed to lose his train of thought, as if the effort of making mundane conversation was too much.

“Fifty-five is a lucky number,” I said. “Multiples of eleven are always good.”

Not exactly scintillating conversation, but he didn’t even acknowledge that I’d spoken. My gut was churning now, the queasiness laced with growing anger. He’d invited me here. I hadn’t asked. I hadn’t hinted. I’d never hinted.

“You’re right,” he blurted finally, hitting the garage button. “It’s a mess. I’d forgotten that. Let’s go somewhere else.”

I hit the next-floor button. He looked over as the elevator stopped abruptly.

I stepped off and turned, holding the door. “Go on up, Gabriel. I can find my way out.”

“Of course not. We’ll—”

“Cut the crap. You don’t want me here. Maybe it’s just me; maybe it’s everyone. It doesn’t matter. I was fine with that. What I’m not fine with? Being invited over and then made to feel as welcome as Typhoid Mary.”

“That’s not—”

“It is. Good night, Gabriel.”

I released the elevator door. He stood there. Just stood there and let the doors start to close. Only then did he make a move to grab them. Too late. Intentionally too late. They shut, and I went in search of the stairwell.

Gabriel made no attempt to find me. He could have. It’d have been a simple matter of taking the elevator back down and cutting me off at the stairwell. I had eighteen flights to descend. It took a while.

When I reached the bottom and saw no sign of him, I started to text Ricky. Telling him I couldn’t stop by as we’d planned. I stopped before I sent the message. That wasn’t fair or honest. So I called. He answered on the second ring.

“You’re still up?” I asked.

A pause, then a chuckle. “It’s nine o’clock.”

“Right.” It certainly felt later. “Is it still okay if I come over? Or are you busy?”

“Even if I was busy, it would be absolutely okay if you came over. I was just getting a head start on my readings.”

“I’ll be there in about an hour. I need to grab a taxi first and get my car from the office.”

“Taxi? Can’t Gabriel drive you…?” He trailed off. “What’d he do now?”

I managed a laugh. “Not even going to suggest I might have done something?”

“Nope. But I won’t pry. Where are you?”

“Just north of the Loop. I’ll be there—”

“Give me an address and twenty minutes.”

I did.

I lay under Ricky, the night-chilled earth against my back, the heat of his bare chest against mine, both of us catching our breath. We’d gone for a ride outside the city and, as usual, ended up like this, in some quiet spot that I only vaguely remembered him pulling into.

“Damn, that never gets old,” he said.

“I hope not.”

I shifted under him, my fingers tickling down his back. Goose bumps rose in their wake as he shivered, eyes half closed, smile playing on his lips.

“Thank you for the distraction,” I said.

His eyes opened. “That wasn’t the distraction. I had something special in mind.”

“Oh, that’s plenty special.”

“Something a little more unusual, then.” He eased off me and flipped me onto him instead as he settled onto his back. “I thought I’d teach you how to ride.”

“Shit. Am I doing it wrong?”

A laugh. “No, you are absolutely not doing it wrong, and you know that’s not what I mean. My bike. I’m going to teach you how to drive it.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s got to be a rule against letting your girlfriend drive.”

“Yeah. Which is bullshit, and I’m ignoring it. At least between us.”

“So I can learn to ride it. Just not tell anyone.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You don’t agree with the philosophy, so I am fine with it. In public, I will stay on the bitch seat, keep my gaze downcast, and follow behind at five paces.”

“Right. I can’t even get you to follow behind when we’re scouting an abandoned psych hospital.”

“That’s because I had the gun. Unless you can throw your switchblade, it’s not going to stop someone coming at us.”

“So I guess you don’t want this?” He reached for his discarded jeans and tugged something from the back pocket.

“Ooh.” I took the knife. It was about three inches long, black and stainless steel.

“Want?” he said.

“Want very much.”

He pushed a button on top. An LED light turned on. “I’d get shit for adding that to mine, but I figured you could use it for those treks through moonlit alleys. Or for stabbing someone in the dark.”

“It’s perfect.” I kissed him. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, for making gift-giving very easy for me. I’m much better at choosing weapons than candy and flowers.”

I flicked the blade out. “Sex, a switchblade, and motorcycle lessons. You really are making sure my night ends on a high note.”

“I am. Now, let’s get dressed and get you riding.”