Anna Strong - Retribution Part 15

His anger hits me like a punch to the stomach. I take a step away from him. "What are you talking about?" He flings his hand in the direction of the warehouse. "Flames can't hurt you. Nothing can hurt you. You are immortal. Truly immortal.

You are the one."

The words lash at me. His face is contorted, twisted in anger. He comes closer. "You are a terrible disappointment to me, Anna Strong."

A whisper, deadly, intense. "It's the last time you will fail me. I swear by Ortiz, I will make you pay."

His eyes burn with hatred. I can't move, can't look away, don't know how to respond. I don't understand. Questions flood my mind, but Williams has shut me out. His last words hang in the air between us. He blames me for Ortiz' death. I have no idea why.

"We have to leave."

A female voice. I turn to see who is speaking, but even the effort of this simple physical movement engulfs me in tides of weariness and despair. I feel drained. Hollow. Lifeless.

When I look up, I see Williams watching. Smiling.

I realize he is doing it-somehow he is not only in my head, but controlling my physical responses. I feel weighted down, sluggish, incapable of forming a coherent thought or breaking the bond that holds me.

Why is he doing this?

Because I can.

Simple. Without pretense. Because he can.

The other voice comes again. "The fire trucks. We have to leave before they get here."

I focus on that voice, center my thoughts on it, muster all my strength. I could not break Burke 's hold on me, I'll be d.a.m.ned if I let Williams have that same kind of power.

Williams feels my resolve. He tries to fight it, but I won't let him. I turn his anger back on him. The channel between us breaks with an almost physical release of energy. When it does, my head clears, my body is free.

Williams jerks back. He tries to reestablish his hold.

This time, I'm in control. I grab hold of his mind in a grip as tight as the one he used on me. I twist the psychic connection until I feel him surrender to my will. I understand your grief. You were close to Ortiz.

Close? You have no idea. His fury blazes forth. But you will understand. I will make you understand.

My arm is throbbing, the wounds on my hands burn from being clutched into fists. Too much has happened today and in the past. I don't want to be a part of this anymore. I lean toward Williams.

You have manipulated me for the last time. We will see this through. I need your resources to help Culebra. But then, you will answer my questions and it will be done between us.

He looks at me with dispa.s.sionate indifference. You've said the same thing a dozen times. It will be done when I say it is done.

I don't fight. I release him. I have said it before. This time is different. I 'm sick of the game. Culebra comes first. When he's safe, when Burke is dead, when I get from Williams what I need to understand what I am, then it will be done.

In the distance, sirens blare. The vans are pulling out of the parking lot. Only one remains. The woman takes Williams' arm and pulls him over to it.

I'm left alone. I run up the hill to my car. The sirens are louder, and when I look back, I see the flashing lights approach. The last van pulls away seconds before screaming fire trucks make the turn into the warehouse parking lot. Smoke and flame pour out of ruined windows and doors. The roof collapses with a tremendous roar. Flames leap to the sky like a bird from a cage.

What will the firemen find in the ruined building? Ortiz' badge? His gun? Will anything survive?

I hope so. He deserves to be remembered as a cop.

More cars appear on the frontage road. Curiosity seekers, I imagine, attracted by the smoke and sirens. For the first time, I give a thought to what I must look like. Wearily, I glance down at torn jeans, b.l.o.o.d.y hands and smoke -stained skin. I'd better get out of here before someone notices.

CHAPTER 30 I'M BONE WEARY.

Scalding hot water cascades over me, soap and shampoo wash away the smell and soot of the fire. But the image remains.

Ortiz.

His face before he was consumed. His face as we spoke in my kitchen last night.

Barely twelve hours ago. Now he's gone.

I get out of the shower and slip into clean clothes. The cuts on my hands have already closed, the pain in my left arm has receded to a dull ache. My body hums with healing energy.

I wish my mind were so easily healed. Could I have saved Ortiz?

I refuse to believe it. Williams is playing games with me. If I had the abilities he says I do, I'd know it.

Wouldn't I?

Everything I had on this morning I bag for the trash. Even if I could get rid of the bloodstains the smell would remain. And the memories.

In the bedroom, my glance falls on the bed. It's still stripped, I haven't had a chance to remake it after the cops took the bedclothes. I want nothing more than to lie down on the bare mattress, close my eyes. It's been two days since I've had any sleep.

Another image chases the thought of sleep out of my head.

Culebra-near death.

When I call Frey, he picks up. Nothing has changed. Culebra's spirit is being kept alive by Frey's efforts, his body by an intravenous feeding tube. He has not regained consciousness.

What has changed is the sound of Frey's voice. It betrays the burden of working such potent magic. He sounds like a palsied old man, his voice slow in cadence, tremulous.

He asks only that I find Burke, finish it.

I ring off with a promise. I hope I've succeeded at hiding what I'm feeling-a sense of futility.

So far, nothing I've done to save Culebra has worked.

Before I do anything else, though, I need to see Brooke-give her Ortiz' last message. Maybe if I'd told Williams' that his last thoughts had been with him, it would have eased the situation at the warehouse.

It's too late now for what-if.

Besides, what happened between Williams and me was a long time coming.

WILLIAMS' CAR IS PARKED IN FRONT OF ORTIZ' HOUSE when I pull up.

I should have known he'd be here.

Still, it doesn't shake my resolve to see Brooke. I have a message for her and it needs to be delivered in person.

When I ring the doorbell, Williams answers it.

I prepare myself for a psychic attack. He does nothing but hold open the door and stand aside, an invitation to come in. No challenge.

No threat. When I probe, he is not questioning my presence. His mind reflects only sadness.

Brooke looks up when I enter the dining room. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed. If Williams told her it was my fault Ortiz was dead, her expression doesn't suggest it. All I see on her young face is regret.

"I'm sorry," I say.

Her lower lip quivers. "I was mad at him," she says. "I let him leave without telling him that I loved him. Now, he won't know."

"He knew. He gave me a message for you."

She looks up. Tears well again, but there's also a spark of antic.i.p.ation and hope. "A message?"

I touch her arm, wishing I had more to offer. "He said to tell you that he loved you. He wanted you to know. He wanted you to be all right." Brooke starts to cry. A woman comes out of the kitchen, a gla.s.s of water in her hand. She looks like Brooke, same general build, same brunette coloring, same heart-shaped face.

Williams takes the gla.s.s from her hand and takes it to Brooke. "This is Catherine," he says to me. "Brooke's sister."

Catherine acknowledges the introduction with a nod. "Were you a friend of Mario's?"

"Yes."

"I heard what you told Brooke. Were you there when-"

For the first time since I came in, I feel antagonism stir in Williams ' thoughts. "Yes," I reply simply. I look over her head to Williams.

How much do they know?

He answers with an arm around Brooke's shoulders. He speaks aloud for their benefit. "They know Mario was there at that warehouse because he received a call about a fire. He went in to make sure the building was empty. He died a hero."

It's a good story. "Has anyone from the department been in touch yet?" I ask.

He nods. "The acting chief has already called. He's on his way over."

I can't think of any reason to stay. Catherine has taken a seat beside her sister, slipping her arms under Williams ' so she's holding her sister as she cries.

Williams defers to Catherine, stands back and away. He does it reluctantly as if sharing in her sorrow lessens his own.

"I should go."

Williams walks me to the door. He hands me a piece of paper. "The address of the safe house," he says.

It's where I'll go next. The girls are my last link.

Williams is carefully guarded, his thoughts impenetrable. I'm on my way down the sidewalk to my car when he sends a message.

I want Burke. Let me know what you find out.

I pause and turn around. He's still in the doorway. There's a shift in what I see reflected in his eyes. Grief is eclipsed by a more powerful emotion. Here, with no one but me to see, his eyes shine with purpose. He grieves for Ortiz but that grief fuels a greater need.

It's clear now, the change in his att.i.tude toward me. It may be temporary but he'll work with me. He wants Burke as much as I do. And for the same reason.

He wants revenge.

CHAPTER 31.

WILLIAMS SAID WHEN HE FIRST ARRIVED AT the fire that the safe house was close. It is. The address is less than a mile from the warehouse. Smoke and ash still cast an early twilight to the neighborhood and an eerie orange glow.

There are two of the white vans from the warehouse parked outside the rambling, shabby clapboard house. It's set back from the road by a wide expanse of withered gra.s.s and surrounded by a three-foot-tall wooden split-rail fence. Wild roses spill over the length of the fence. Bushes so dense, they have grown into the fence, becoming part of it. Bloodred roses saturate the air with the reek of their perfume.

My knock at the front door is answered by the same woman who pulled me out of the fire. She smiles. "Glad to see you looking so well," she says.

She holds out her hand and I take it. "Anna Strong."

"Oh, I know who you are." She turns and heads into the interior of the house, beckoning me to follow and adding over her shoulder, "My name's Rose Beechum."

Rose? With the flowers outside, it seems appropriate.

She reads my thought. Yes, it is, isn't it? I've lived in this house all my life. My parents planted those bushes sixty years ago.

When we enter a back room, small talk ceases. Five of the vampires from the warehouse are seated on cushions on the floor. Curtains are drawn across small, high windows, plunging the room further into an eerie red-hued dusk. There is a peculiar stillness to the room, too, that is unnatural and disturbing. The sight and the feel of it sinks my spirits lower. Rose is watching for my reaction. You feel it, don't you?

I'm not sure if she means the stillness these vamps are throwing off or my reaction to it. I let my gaze sweep the room without replying.

Each young woman is now covered by a blanket. Each is feeding, eyes closed, faces burrowed into the neck of a human host. Each is still wearing that terrible collar. The spike cuts into the jugular, making it difficult to drink. Blood seeps from the wound with each swallow.

None are experiencing the exquisite joy of feeding. This is a slow, painful act of necessity and survival. It sickens me to see it.

There's something else. The young vampires aren't projecting any emotion or response. No thoughts reach out to me, no greetings are returned. Is this what Rose meant?

Maybe it's trauma. Maybe when the collars are removed . . .

Rose looks doubtful. We can't attempt to remove the collars until they are stronger. If we do, they will bleed out the same way a human would with a similar wound.