Текст книги "Visions"

Автор книги: Kelley Armstrong

Соавторы: Kelley Armstrong,Kelley Armstrong
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

On my way home, I called Rose and asked to speak to her. She was free at seven; and at 6:55 I was walking through her door.

“Okay,” I said as I pulled off my shoes. “I have a question that requires all your fortune-telling skills.”

“Excellent.” She ushered me into the parlor. “What is it?”

“Exactly how big an idiot am I if I agree to work for Gabriel?”

“I can tell you that without even checking the cards.”

“Let me guess. It will be the best decision I could possibly make, and I’ll never regret it.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure you’ll regret it. Many times. As I’m sure it’s not the best decision you’ll ever make. It will, however, rank near the top. He will make mistakes. So will you. There will be times when we’d best hope there are no firearms at hand. Ultimately, though, it is the first step on a life course that will make you happier and more satisfied than any other.”

“Uh-huh. I’d rather go with the cards.”

“Are you serious?” she said, sliding into her chair.

I slumped into mine and sighed. “As tempting as it is to ask for otherworldly reassurance, this is one mistake I need to make myself. I called him before I came over. I start work tomorrow. I may leave my gun at home. Just in case.” I straightened. “That’s settled. Now let’s head straight to the real reason I’m here. You don’t know Welsh, do you?”

“Welsh?”

“Yeah, it’s a long shot, I know.”

“Not so long. Walshes originally came from Wales—”

“—before moving to Ireland, where they got their name because it means Welshman. Well, the translation is ‘foreigner,’ but literally it means Welshman.”

“Very good.”

“About this question, though. I have a feeling it falls under the same very broad heading as omens, second sight, and fae.”

“Really?” She shifted, interest piqued. “What is it?”

“Cŵn Annwn. Don’t ask me to spell it. From what I’ve learned of Welsh, you can probably count on it having no more than one vowel.”

“I suspect you’re right. I don’t recognize the word, but I’ll take a stab at the spelling and do some research.” She waved at the floor-to-ceiling wall of old books behind her. “If it’s in there, I’ll find it. You’re sure it’s Welsh?”

“No, but it’s a solid guess.”

“Where did you hear it?”

I told her the whole story of my meeting with the man at the charity dinner. When I finished, she sat there, speechless.

“I’d drank half a glass of champagne,” I said. “And taken no drugs that I’m aware of. Plus, he gave me this.” I laid the boar’s tusk on the table. “Which seems to prove I didn’t temporarily fall down the rabbit hole, as much as it seemed like it.”

“I don’t doubt you, Olivia. I’m just … I’ve heard of such things. Meetings…” She trailed off. “You say you smelled horses?”

I nodded. “I smelled forest, too, and I heard pounding hooves and baying hounds. I asked him if that”—I pointed at the tusk—“would protect me from the hounds. He said I didn’t need protection from them. He knew what I was talking about.”

“Horses. Hounds. Cŵn Annwn.” She fell quiet, thinking.

“There was something about salt, too. I wouldn’t take the drink from him, and he said I was misapplying my folklore. That I only had to be worried if he offered me salt.”

“That’s a common motif in fae lore. Eat their food or drink their wine and you’ll never be able to leave.”

“That’s it,” I said. “He said taking a drink from him wouldn’t trap me.”

“Horses. Hounds. Forest. Salt.” She inhaled sharply. “The Hunt.”

She leapt up so fast she startled me. Moments later she had a book in her hand, flipping through it as she came back to her chair. She set it in front of me.

I looked down at an old painting of wild-haired hunters on wild-eyed steeds, accompanied by fearsome black hounds. And boars. And ravens.

The hair on my neck prickled.

The heading on the facing page? Cŵn Annwn. Literally, the hounds of the Otherworld. Better known as the Wild Hunt. They escorted the dead to the afterlife. According to the lore, if you heard the howling of the hounds, you would die.

“Um, not liking that part,” I said, pointing.

“It’s true, though. You will die. Someday. I can guarantee it.”

I gave her a look.

“Well, you heard the hounds baying last night, and you’re still alive, aren’t you? Did it sound soft or loud?”

“Soft.”

“They were close, then. That’s the lore—the louder they are, the farther they are.” She pulled out her chair and sat. “There are stories of the Wild Hunt from all across the British Isles and onto the Continent. Their appearance, their purpose, even their intentions—good, evil, indifferent—it all changes, depending on who you ask.” She closed the book. “I’ll compile what I can. I doubt we’ll determine their true purpose, but it can’t hurt.”

“Their true…? You actually think I saw…?”

“My great-grandmother told me she saw them once, around here. She was a teenager, sneaking off to meet a boy, and she heard the hounds. She ran, but it was too late. They rode right past her, men on flaming black steeds, wearing cloaks with hoods that hid their faces save for glowing red eyes. One of the riders slowed and called out in a terrible voice, telling her to stay out of the woods on the eve of St. Martin. She ran home and immediately gave all her prized possessions to family and friends, as she prepared for her death. She lived to ninety-seven.”

“Well, that part’s comforting. I’m not so sure about the flaming steeds.”

“I have a better account of her story written down here somewhere. I’d tell it to my babysitting charges when they wanted spooky tales. Seanna used to beg me for it. When Gabriel was born, everyone presumed she’d named him after the archangel. I knew better. There’s another name for the Wild Hunt: Gabriel’s Hounds.”

“Kinda thinking she’d have been better naming him after the angel.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Archangel or hound from hell … with Gabriel, it depends on the day.”

“Not sure I see the angelic part.”

She took the last cookie from the plate. “He offered you the job of your dreams, didn’t he?”

“I don’t think angels are supposed to grant wishes.”

“They should. It would make them much more interesting.” She polished off the cookie and wiped away the crumbs. “Now, to bed with you. Put this aside for now.”

I took my keys from my pocket.

“Uh-uh,” she said. “Upstairs.”

“I have a security system now.”

“Which will not help you against otherworldly beings. You’ll stay here until I’ve consulted the cards tomorrow and taken a better look at that tusk. I believe I mentioned my house is warded.” She looked at me. “You thought I was joking? I was not. You’re safe here. Now off to bed. Gabriel expects you in the morning, and he’ll be more hellhound than angel if you’re late.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

As it turned out, I didn’t need to get an early start the next morning. Gabriel called saying he had an urgent meeting and wouldn’t be in the office until ten thirty.

I decided to head into the city early and pick up a coffee for James. I garnered a few looks in the coffee shop, but I ignored them, as I’d been ignoring the whispers and glances for weeks.

I also ignored the first text message from Ricky—simple You around? check-in. Then he sent a second one: Call me. ASAP. Kinda important. As I waited for the elevator, I managed to shift the coffees to one hand and speed-dial with the other. Yes, Ricky was on speed dial already, but only because not many people were anymore and, well, yes, we did talk a few times a day.

“What’s up?” I said when he answered. I could hear the sound of a lecturer in the background. “You’re in class? How about I call back—”

“Hold on.”

A whispered “Excuse me,” then his footsteps tapping quickly down stairs, the lecturer’s voice growing louder. The whoosh of a door. The lecturer’s voice faded. Ricky’s footfalls continued, taking him past a loud group of students in the hall.

“Have you seen the Post this morning?” he asked when it was quiet again.

“These days, I don’t see the Post any morning I can avoid it.” The Trib and the Sun-Times had begun losing interest in my story weeks ago. The Post had not.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. But you might want to grab a copy.”

I swore. The elevator dinged.

“Where are you?” Ricky asked.

“James’s office. Taking him coffee before—”

“Don’t get on the elevator,” he cut in.

“Um, too late,” I said as the doors closed. “What’s up?”

He said he was going to e-mail me something. It came through almost immediately, as the packed elevator made the slow climb to James’s floor at the top. I opened the e-mail, checked the attachment, and …

My chest seized. “Shit.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. If I’d caught anyone taking that…” Ricky trailed off, threat unfinished. “I’m sorry.”

I lowered my voice. “You’re not the idiot who chose a favorite coffee haunt.”

“I don’t think that would have mattered. Eventually someone was going to … I’d say ‘catch us,’ but that implies we were sneaking around. Actually, it’s better that it was your usual spot. Clearly we weren’t hiding. That should help.”

He sounded about as convinced as I felt. “I’ll talk to my dad and explain it,” he said.

“I’ll handle James.”

“Okay. Call me later?” he said.

“I will.”

A pause. Then, “Will you?”

“Of course.”

When I hung up, we were nearly at James’s floor. Two other riders were staring at me. One looked away and whispered to her companion when I glanced over. I knew what she was talking about. A picture in the Post. With a caption, explaining that Pamela and Todd Larsen’s daughter—former debutante and fiancée of James Morgan—had been spotted having coffee with the son of biker club Satan’s Saints president Don Gallagher.

There was nothing incriminating in the photo. I was leaning back, casual and at ease, laughing. Ricky leaned forward, talking, his forearms on the table. It did not look like a romantic assignation. But it did look … intimate.

I quickly texted James to tell him I was coming and there was something we needed to talk about. The answer came back as I stepped off the elevator. All right. With those two words, I knew he’d seen the picture. I slowed, in case he was about to text back not to come to his office.

He didn’t.

So I began the long walk. Down the corridor. Through the lounge—an open area where executives could hang out, chat, hold informal meetings. The minute I stepped into that open area, with executives and support staff milling about, I felt like I’d embarked on the walk of shame, that morning-after scurry from a one-night stand, ripped pantyhose in your purse, makeup smeared, hair an unholy mess, cocktail dress and heels at 8 a.m. It didn’t matter if I was perfectly dressed and groomed. It didn’t matter if I’d only been “caught” having coffee with an attractive guy. It didn’t matter if I wasn’t engaged to James again, wasn’t even in a committed relationship again. I still felt shame.

Because I wanted more than coffee with Ricky.

I made it to the desk of James’s admin assistant, Karen. We’ve always gotten along great. Today, I had only to look at her expression to know not to ask about her kids.

James opened his door as if he’d been waiting there. He ushered me in and told Karen to hold his calls.

“You’ve seen the Post,” I said as he closed the door behind us.

“My mother sent it to me.”

He walked behind his desk. Which left me to sit in front of it, like an errant employee. That rankled, but the lingering shame kept my annoyance from crystallizing into anger.

“I’m sorry,” I said, still standing. “I just found out about it on the elevator or I wouldn’t have shown up like this. I was coming by to say hi.” I pointed at the coffee cups I’d set on his desk.

“Did he warn you?”

The way he said “he” rankled, too, harder now, anger sparking, but I pushed it down.

“It was just coffee,” I said. “If it was anything else, I’d never have gone where I could be recognized.” I finally took my seat. “These days, anywhere I go, I could be recognized. But I’m trying to forget that I’m news. Trying to live my life as if I’m not. That’s all I can do, James, or I lock myself away and hide. I can’t do that.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“This kind of thing is going to happen. Next time it will be me and Gabriel.”

“He’s the lawyer representing your birth mother.”

“Yes, but what if I have dinner with him? Or drinks? I can’t restrict my social pool to women and guys over sixty. Hell, if the woman’s cute, they’ll probably make insinuations there, too. That’s what the Post does. They’re the ones who posted the shot of you and Eva.”

“Eva is not a member of the Hells Angels.”

“It’s Satan’s Saints, actually. A small, regional…” I caught his look. “It was just coffee.”

“With a biker. When I’m preparing to run for senator. Do you have any idea how that looks?”

I hesitated. My gaze rose to his. “This is … This is about your political chances?”

“Granted, I’m not thrilled that you’re having coffee with another man. But I know you aren’t sleeping with him. You have better taste than that.”

“Better taste?”

James continued. “The point is that you need to be more circumspect.”

“Okay, next time we’ll have a beer in a dive bar twenty miles outside town. We’ll wear disguises. That will make for a much less incriminating photo.”

“Liv…”

Faint warning in his voice now, the tone that said I was being dramatic. Being childish. I’d always accepted the reprimand in that tone because I was keenly aware of our age difference. I’d led a sheltered life. I’d felt young. I no longer felt young.

I looked at him. “So me having coffee with a biker is a political issue, but me having serial killers for parents isn’t?”

“You’ve proven they were innocent—”

“Of two murders. Out of eight. What happens if the courts decide that’s not enough? Are you going to set the wedding for the week after the appeal, to be sure?”

His shoulders dropped. “Of course not, Liv. Yes, there were concerns when the news came out. They weren’t my concerns, as you’ll recall. I still wanted to get married once things cooled down. You’ve done nothing wrong. I can see beyond your background.”

“See beyond it? How very big of you. Is that a campaign strategy? A man who believes in people. Believes in second chances.”

I braced for the chiding tone again, but he shook his head.

“All right, maybe I am jealous of this biker. I read the comments online. Most have nothing to do with me or us. They’re about you and him—how attractive he is, what a striking couple you make…”

“We’re not a—”

“I know. I’ve blown this out of proportion. He’s a client of Walsh’s, and I presume you were discussing your issues with keeping Walsh on Pamela’s case. But I’m going to ask you to stop meeting him.”

I stared at him.

“Let’s have dinner tonight,” he said. “Are you working?”

I shook my head.

“Great. Dinner it is, then. We’ll talk more then. For now, the only thing I want is for you to agree not to see him again.”

I cleared my throat. “This isn’t working.”

“What?”

“This reconciliation. I wanted it to work. I really did. But it’s not.”

“Don’t start that, Liv,” he said. “Come to dinner and—”

“I can’t. I’m stringing you along, waiting for it all to come rushing back, and it’s not. It’s just not. I’m sorry.”

I walked out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Lydia was waiting for me at Gabriel’s office, on her feet as soon as I came in, offering to take the linen blazer I’d worn. She’s tall—about an inch above my five-eight—with the kind of wiry body and quick moves that suggest a lifetime of aerobics … or at least hard-core yoga.

Lydia has to be in her sixties. Her late sixties—past retirement age. Today she wore a stunning quartz Armani pantsuit that perfectly complemented her dark skin, with a price tag that suggested she worked more for excitement than income these days.

“I’m glad you’re here, Olivia,” she said. “That’s what you go by, I presume?”

I must have flinched, because she shook her head, laughing softly. “I’m sorry. I guess that can be a loaded question for you. I meant do you go by Olivia, Liv…? I’ve only ever heard Gabriel call you by your full name. I wasn’t sure if that was your preference.”

“Olivia’s fine, but it’s usually Liv. It’s a name of many diminutives. The only one I hate is Olive.”

She smiled. “That makes it easier. I’m always having to discreetly correct clients who call Gabriel Gabe.”

“Ah, I heard he doesn’t like that. So is he back?”

“Not yet. He’s running late. He asked me to give you the grand tour.”

I noticed a newspaper on Lydia’s desk.

“There was something about me in the Post today,” I said.

“The photo of you and Ricky? Yes, I know. Gabriel had me set up a Google alert so I can monitor news mentioning you. With his clientele, he needs to be on top of any whisper of trouble.”

“Did he … see that?”

“Gabriel reads the Tribune. I buy the Post for him to browse if he has a trial being covered. With Pamela’s appeal, I’ve been doing that, but he doesn’t always have time to read it. I saw no reason to buy it for him today.”

“Thanks. I know he wouldn’t want his employee dating a client. It really was just coffee. Ricky and I aren’t … involved.”

“No?” Her brows lifted. “That’s a waste.”

I laughed, and she began the grand tour.

The office wasn’t large, and I’d seen most of it before. There was the reception area, Gabriel’s office, and the room where he met clients. He didn’t bring them into his office, though there was no reason not to. His office was gorgeous, a Victorian library with gleaming wood and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The meeting room, on the other hand, was modern and sterile. Completely devoid of personality. So was Gabriel’s personality expressed in his private office, off-limits to common clients? Hell if I knew.

As Gabriel had warned, there wasn’t an office for me. For now he’d put me in his, at a table in the corner, with a chair wheeled in from the meeting room. Not what I expected. Nor what I particularly wanted.

After the tour, Lydia and I talked about Todd. She wanted to know if I’d like her to start trying to get me in to see him again. I said yes. The longer I waited, the more I wanted that visit, and if I was working for Gabriel, I could accept this as an employee benefit rather than a personal favor.

“It’s not as easy as it should be, is it?” I said. “I know it can’t be easy to walk into a maximum security prison and chat with a notorious serial killer, but…”

“You’re his daughter. It should not be difficult at all. I couldn’t even get an answer on why it was. The prison system can be a pain to work with, but this is odd. I kept hearing that a visit wasn’t currently possible, and no one I speak to knows why. Unfortunately, they don’t seem all that interested in finding out why, either.”

“Could he be refusing to see me?”

“If so, they’d tell me. That’s common enough.”

“Could he be refusing but have asked them not to tell me?”

She shook her head. “No one there is going to do Todd Larsen any favors. It’s a puzzle I haven’t quite figured out, but I will.”

“Thank you.”

My first task was to read through Pamela’s file, which Gabriel had updated after Chandler’s arrest. The police were still investigating Chandler’s case and not required to share what they’d learned yet.

“There isn’t much new there,” said a voice, echoing my thoughts as I read.

I looked up to see Gabriel filling the doorway, his shadow stretching nearly to the meeting room table. He looked exhausted. There were no bags under his eyes. No stubble on his face. His shirt and pants were as perfectly pressed. But there was a dullness to his eyes, stress lines around his mouth, a shaving nick on his jaw.

He looked around. “Why are you in here?”

“Bigger table for spreading papers. I’m profiling Chandler and the other six victims, as we’d discussed. I’ll tidy up when I’m done, and if you need the room, just kick me out.”

A faint tightening of his lips told me my excuse didn’t cut it. He’d set me up in his office and I should damn well be where he put me.

He walked away. I took that as a dismissal until he called, “Olivia?” with an edge of irritation, and I realized he’d meant for me to follow him.

In his office, he told me what he’d learned about Ciara’s disappearance. He’d spoken to the detective in charge. They’d confirmed my suspicions that she’d been a drug user. Addicted to meth for almost a year, according to her parents, which only made the police more certain she was alive, just lying low.

I’d compiled a list of people we could speak to—friends and teachers mostly. He promised we’d start those interviews next week. It wasn’t as if Ciara was going anywhere, unfortunately.

My first day of work was exactly what I expected. While our conversation felt stiff and awkward and distant, I’d expected this, too. What I hadn’t expected was how it would feel working under Gabriel. Under the guy who’d betrayed me. Twice.

I was collecting files before leaving for the day when Gabriel stopped me.

“Did I give you too much?” he asked.

“No. This is fine.”

His pale eyes bored into mine, trying to read me. I resisted the urge to look away.

“It’s been a long day,” I said.

“Because it’s almost seven. You could have left sooner.”

“I didn’t mean that. Just … If I look tired, it’s not the work. I was up late talking to Rose.” I forced a half smile. “Blame her.”

He kept studying me. “It will get easier.”

I don’t want it to get easier. I don’t want this to get comfortable, me working for you. I want things the way they were.

“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

After that, I dragged my ass home. I was almost there when I got the icing on my day’s cake. A text from Ricky. Not calling, huh? Quickly followed by Understand things might have changed. Not trying to give you grief.

I cursed and resisted the urge to text back while driving. I pulled into the parking lot behind my building and sent: Give me 5.

I hadn’t wanted to call Ricky too soon, because that seemed disrespectful to James: “Hey, I just dumped my ex. So how about dinner?” Then I got distracted by my disappointing day with Gabriel. But I should have sent a quick note that all was fine.

I walked into my apartment. The first thing I did was look for TC. Every damned time, I looked.

Then I called Ricky.

“I’m sorry,” I said when he answered.

“Nothing to be sorry for. We’re okay to talk, then?”

“Yes. It’s … sorted. With James. We’re fine.”

As I said that, I realized it could be interpreted as “James and I are fine,” not “You and I are fine.” I didn’t clarify. I wasn’t ready to tell Ricky about the breakup. He couldn’t exactly say, “Great news!” and I didn’t need more awkward today.

“You around?” he said. “I was hoping to catch you before you left the city.”

I paused, considering lying and driving back to the city. I could feel the tug of his voice, like someone trying to pull me out of deep water, and I wanted to grab hold, but I couldn’t manage it.

“No, I’m home,” I said. “What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

“All clear past eleven.”

“How about here, then? In Cainsville. That might be better for now. The town doesn’t even have a newspaper.”

He chuckled. “Bonus. What time do you get off work?”

“Three.”

“I’ll swing by and meet you at the diner.”