Retribution

There’s a knock on the door. Williams answers it and a man hands him a slip of paper. He opens it, looks over at me and shakes his head.

Even his army of psychics has drawn a blank.

Weariness washes over me. I feel the anxiety and unhappiness of the three women standing nearby. Their empathy only heightens my own sense of futility.

I can’t think of anything else to say. I pull the charm from inside my blouse. “You may as well have this back.”

Min stays my hand with a touch of her own. “No. Keep it.” Her eyes flash with determination. “Don’t give up, A

Williams is watching, too, strangely silent.

These women don’t know me, but he does. He understands how foreign this is to me.

For the first time in a long time I don’t know what to do. No idea. No plan. No way to save Culebra.

Williams leaves me alone in the room while he escorts the witches out. Jason is gone. The file is gone. Burke is gone.

I wish once again that I had done things differently —made a copy of the test subjects’ information instead of stealing the original file.

That act set in motion all that followed, including Ortiz’ death.

I have one last hope. Maybe Gloria has a contact number for Simone Tremaine.

But that hope is dashed when the operator at the Four Seasons tells me that Gloria has checked out—on her way to Europe for Fashion Week.

Gloria wasted no time coming up with alternative photo opportunities now that the launch party for Eternal Youth has been canceled.

Either that or she wants to distance herself, literally, from the fallout of an arson investigation.

Shit. Arson will be the least of Gloria’s concerns if the cream is linked to the murder of those test subjects.

Williams comes back. His black mood matches my own, partly because of the helplessness we feel and partly because of the guilt. It puts us both on guard.

“How is Brooke doing?” I ask finally.

“Barely making it. I wish I could do more. Ortiz will be buried with full honors on Friday.”

Buried is a euphemism. We both know there is nothing left of Ortiz to bury. I feel cold, suddenly, remembering.

“It’s a good gesture. Ortiz deserves it.”

My mind drifts back to Jason. I remember the syringe. I pull it out of a jacket pocket. “I don’t know what this is. I think Jason was about to use it on the girl he had in his apartment. The girls at Rose ’s all said they’d been sedated. Maybe this stuff is the reason they’re different.”

Williams takes it from my outstretched hand. “I’ll send it to the lab.” He steps aside when I stand and start for the door. “What are you going to do now?”

The only thing left for me to do.

“I’m going to see Culebra. And Frey.”

“What will you tell them?”

I close my eyes and turn away. I don’t know what I’ll tell them. I’m afraid it might be good-bye.

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. A

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.