Beneath the Skin (9 page)

Gillespie stood and paced the floor, his cell clenched tight against his palm.

The house was gone.

Possibilities whirled through his mind. Earthquake. Sinkhole. Some unknown disaster. But none of those possibilities accounted for the figures--the statues--surrounding the hole.

The house was gone.

What had he sent Thibodaux, Goodnight, and the Portland agents into? It was bad enough he'd been ordered to keep the truth from them. He needed to pull his agents back until the danger level at the Wells/Lyons compound had been reassessed.

He needed to call Underwood. Gillespie stopped pacing, grabbed up the unopened beer from the table, and pried off the cap. He poured a long, frosty swallow down his throat, but his heart refused to ease off the throttle.

As though preparing to take a high dive into a pool, Gillespie took several deep breaths, then tapped Underwood's button on the speed dial.

She answered on the first ring. "Good morning, Chief Gillespie," she said. "I hope you have good news for me. Are the subjects in custody?"

"No ma'am, not yet. The agents should be arriving in Oregon any moment. But I'd like permission to recall them. We have an ... unexpected ... problem."

"I'm listening."

"The house is gone."

A long pause, then, "Are you drunk?"

"Not yet, ma'am," Gillespie said. "I'm sending you the satellite scans that the surveillance tech sent me. The first one is from 4 a.m. PST, the second is five, eight minutes old." He thumbed the SEND button. A moment later he heard a sharp intake of breath thousands of miles away in D.C. and knew the second image had arrived.

"Good God," Underwood breathed.

"I've already issued a containment code, ma'am. May I recall my agents?"

"No. They can ascertain what has taken place and whether or not the subjects are still there."

Gillespie resumed pacing, his fingers white-knuckling around the beer bottle. "The subjects may be
dead,
ma'am," he grated. "I'd rather call back my agents, or at least let them know what to expect."

"Those are statues circling the ... pit. Someone had to place them there. So
someone's
alive. You may call your agents and warn them, but under no circumstances are you to recall them or tell them to wait. In fact, I want you on the next plane to Portland to join them."

Gillespie stopped pacing. "Understood, ma'am."

"Be sure to arrive sober, Sam. Call me when you've secured the scene."

The line went dead. Underwood's typical I'm-not-happy-with-you-and-you-are-on-thin-ice-asshole sign-off.

Gillespie studied the framed
Moulin Rouge
poster Lynda had hung on the wall several years ago. He tipped the Pacifico bottle against his lips and drained the rapidly warming beer. Then he tapped in Thibodaux's number and listened to it ring.

5
NOTHING IN HIS EYES

DAMASCUS, OR
March 25

GLOCK IN HAND, Merri edged up along the driver's side of the travel-grimed SUV parked on the shoulder of the road, just past the steep driveway marked PRIVATE. Washington plates. Bicycle rack on top. Condensation-fogged windows not yet warmed by the early morning light.

From inside, she heard the rapid patter of a mortal heart. One fluttering as fast as hummingbird wings, powered by fear, pain, or adrenaline, maybe all three.

Small twigs and needles crunched beneath her partner's boots, spiking the air with the sharp smell of pine and wet bark, as Emmett paralleled her path on the SUV's passenger side. Leather creaked as he pulled his Colt .45 from its shoulder holster.

From behind her, Merri heard shoes gritting against gravel, followed by a pair of quiet clicks as Holmes and Miklowitz slipped out of the Saturn and eased the doors shut.

Holmes had called in a check on the license plate and they'd learned it was a Sea-Tac rental taken out by one Brian Sheridan. No criminal record, but a quick search on Miklowitz's iPhone revealed a D.C. address and an FBI occupation.

So what was SA Brian Sheridan from D.C. doing
here
? And what had his pulse racing through his veins at light speed?

From D.C. to Seattle to Damascus.

It didn't take a Magic 8 Ball to guess why. He was tailing Wallace or Prejean.
After
the FBI had been instructed by the SB to drop all surveillance on the pair days ago.

Merri edged alongside the rain-beaded SUV to the fogged-up driver's side window. She tapped against the glass with the muzzle of her Glock. The rapid heartbeat remained steady, no sudden spike or frantic thudding.

Merri frowned. Sheridan's lack of reaction bothered her. Wondering if the fed was sleeping or drugged, she
moved,
grabbed the door handle and yanked the door open. Stale air reeking of BO, urine, and greasy old burger wrappers poured out of the SUV. She shoved her gun against the temple of the man sitting in the driver's seat.

"Don't move, Sheridan," she said. "You're in deep shit. Who assigned you?"

He remained still. Never blinked. Never even flinched.

"Whoo!" Merri resisted the urge to fan the air. It smelled like Sheridan had been doing surveillance duty for a couple of days at least. Merri wanted to take a step back from the stink, but another odor, the thick, copper-edged tang of blood, held her, drew her gaze down to the mortal's thigh.

Blood seeped through the rain-drenched trousers despite the blood-soaked tie Sheridan had knotted above the wound. Hunger twisted through Merri like a lazy curl of smoke, but her pulse remained steady. No time for hunger. Not now. And like smoke caught in a breeze, her hunger dissipated.

The passenger side door jerked open and Merri looked up. Emmett aimed his Colt at Sheridan, his whisker-shadowed face Clint Eastwood-hard in the morning light. Morning light that Merri hoped remained barricaded behind the mist-trailing rain clouds. Her ugly-ass floppy-brimmed hat, thick sunblock, and brown leather gloves would protect her if the sun burned through the clouds, but sauntering around in daylight still made her nervous.

The last time she'd walked without fear beneath the sun had been over two hundred years ago when she'd been a slave on a tobacco farm in Virginia. And guess what? She didn't miss it. Not one damn bit. The stark and unforgiving light of day burned away illusions and revealed most things, no matter how beautiful or cherished, for what they truly were--ugly and heartless.

"Ripe," Emmett commented, fanning the air in front of his nose. "Is he alive?"

"Heart's beating. But it looks like he took a bullet to the thigh." Merri nudged the gun muzzle against the mortal's temple. "Hey, Sheridan." He didn't blink. His eyelashes didn't even quiver. "Maybe he's in shock," she said.

She patted him down for weapons and found none tucked into his cold, wet, and muddy clothing. But she
did
score a damp wallet from an inside pocket of his suit jacket. She flipped it open. "ID, badge, it's definitely Sheridan."

"What's the story?" Miklowitz asked, drawing up alongside Merri.

"Damned good question. But he isn't answering." Merri dropped the wallet into a pocket of her suede jacket. She holstered her Glock. "He's been shot. Let's see if he's been doped."

Cupping the fed's chin in her gloved hand, Merri turned his face toward her. He stared past her, hazel eyes gazing at something beyond what she could see. No dilated pupils, no shock or fever glassiness. But the slackness in his face made her flesh crawl. Made her want to slap at herself as if the
nothing
in his eyes could slither in through
her
eyes. Whisper against her skin from the inside out.

"Fuck," she whispered, jerking her hand away. His head returned to its previous position, his attention once more focused straight ahead on nothing. She wiped her palms against her jeans. "Not doped, I don't smell any chemicals," she managed to say. "No dilated pupils. No obvious sign of head trauma."

Merri looked past Sheridan to the SUV's rear seats. Crumpled fast-food wrappers and white sacks, empty Gatorade bottles, foil gum wrappers, an empty urinal littered the interior. But the thing that caught her eye was a small monitor screen resting on a folded flat backseat.

"He's got a camera rigged up somewhere," she said.

Emmett glanced up at the SUV's roof. "Now the bicycle rack makes sense."

"Why don't you and your partner head on up," Miklowitz said, tipping his head toward the driveway, a lock of honey-brown hair flipping into his eyes, "while we secure Sheridan and the vehicle." He absently pushed the errant lock back from his face, then pulled a pair of flex-cuffs from his jacket pocket.

Merri nodded. "Sounds good. We can search the vehicle and call medics afterward." She stepped back from the SUV so Miklowitz could take her place.

Holmes walked around the front of the SUV and joined his partner, gun still in hand. He was shorter than Miklowitz's six feet by a couple of inches and less thick through the middle, but probably close to the same age--mid-thirties--despite his full head of neatly trimmed white, gray-threaded hair.

Wonder what spooked the color outta him?
Merri struggled to keep from smiling and managed--just.

"We'll catch up with you guys in a few," Holmes said, halting beside Miklowitz.

"Roger that," Emmett said. "We'll get the lay of the land and wait for y'all before we make any moves."

"Sounds good to me," Merri said. "I'm happy to let you deal with Zombie Boy."

"Man's probably in shock," Holmes said, his gaze locking with hers. "Have you had any experience with injured agents before? Mortal ones?" His voice was level, but his icy green eyes permafrosted his expression into one of arctic disdain.

"As a matter of fact, I have." Merri kept her voice low and level.
Keep talking if you wanna be counted among them.
"You got a problem with me?"

Holmes shook his head. "No, no problem," he muttered, then turned away to help Miklowitz cuff Sheridan.

Merri swiveled on the balls of her feet and stalked around the SUV to the driveway's tree-shadowed mouth. Her leather gloves creaked as she flexed her fingers.

No mystery behind what Holmes didn't have a problem with. Merri wondered what offended him most: Working with a woman? A black woman? A vampire? Or a black female vampire? Whichever it was, it'd made for a delightful forty-minute ride from the Portland airport.

She stopped beside the blue street sign reading PRIVATE, and studied the driveway leading up the mist-shrouded hill, lined with oak, pine, and fir trees. The mingled scents of wet, dark soil, pine, and moss, clean and thick with life, filled her lungs. Tatters of pale mist skirted the tree trunks and clung to undergrowth.

Gravel gritted beneath boot soles. She listened to the sound of her partner's approach. She caught Emmett's scent before he reached her--fresh ice and anise, cold and pure and licorice sharp.

"Time to catch some bad mofos," Emmett drawled.

"Truth, brothah." Merri pulled her Glock free of its holster. Chambered a round. "Bad and
beautiful
mofos."

An image of Dante Prejean from the file they'd studied on the flight down popped into her mind. One candid shot in particular stood out in her memory.

Sunglasses perched on top of his head, Prejean leaned against a stone wall, one leg braced behind him, thumbs in the pockets of his leather pants. He wore a long-sleeved mesh shirt underneath a black tee reading DOES IT OFFEND YOU, YEAH? and a steel-ringed collar buckled around his throat.

A Goth couple held his attention--a blond guy in an old-fashioned frock coat, white lace spilling from the throat of his shirt and over the coat's lapels, and a dark-haired beauty in a red velvet mini and thigh-high black stockings. The blond was speaking, his handsome face lit up, mouth open, hands lifted in the air.

A sexy smile tilted Prejean's lips--a warm and inviting smile--and his dark eyes gleamed with captured light and affection.

White skin, glossy black hair, Cupid's bow lips, Dante Prejean was beyond beautiful. Just the sight of him in a photo had made Merri's heart race, filled her mind with delicious and naughty thoughts. He'd also looked very young--twenty, twenty-two--and she was intrigued by the fact that nowhere in the file was his age listed or when he'd been turned or even by whom.

"Bad and beautiful," Emmett repeated. "Definitely. Prejean ..." He shook his head. "If I was still single and if he wasn't a murderer, I'd-a tapped that in a heartbeat."

Merri snorted. "Assuming he'd want your sorry ass. I'm gonna tell Mark that you've been lusting in your heart."

"Tattletale. FYI? My heart isn't exactly the part of me that's lusting." A wicked grin parted Emmett's lips. He nodded at the driveway. "Ready, partner?"

"Let's do this thing." Merri swiveled around, then stumbled as dizziness whirled through her. She grabbed ahold of Emmett's arm for balance. She felt his muscles cording beneath his windbreaker sleeve.

"You okay?" he asked.

Merri sucked in a deep breath, then nodded. "Just the goddamned pills." Emmett's blue-eyed gaze remained on her face, studying her. She released his arm. "I'm fine. Enough with the penetrating gaze already."

"Roger that." A smile flickered across Emmett's lips.

She hated the stay-awake pills and used them only when duty required it. Designed for vampire metabolism, the pills effectively countered the narcotic embrace of Sleep. But with her natural rhythm disrupted, side effects were unavoidable.

Taking opposite sides of the driveway, she and Emmett walked up the hill at a slow pace, scanning the trees and undergrowth. Even though Emmett placed each foot carefully, she still heard the whisper of grass against his trousers, the crunch of pine needles, the soft thud of each footfall.

She heard Emmett's heartbeat pick up speed as they neared the crest of the hill, knew adrenaline was pumping into his veins, just like it was into hers. She slipped both hands around her Glock's grip, listening. Bird chirps and trills, the clicks of busy insects and small mammals doing their morning thang.