Dark Hunger (26 page)

The enormous ballroom was packed, decorated with flags that boasted of Mardi Gras and honored patrons of the renowned city. Other displays included statues and photographs of contributors as well as legendary figures in the town; a separate wall had been dedicated to musical artists, folklore and legends, and artists who kept the culture alive.

But even with the hundreds of people surrounding her, Annabelle had never felt more alone in her life.

As soon as the phone call from the FBI had come in the hotel room, Quinton had distanced himself from her as if he’d clicked a button and ended any connection they’d shared.

She forced herself to make polite conversation, to make contacts and accept business cards for future stories, while he met Detective DeLang in a neighboring room to question the veterans who’d shown.

But she’d seen Quinton’s expression as he’d touched each one of them. He’d shaken his head at her each time, indicating he didn’t think any one of them was their man.

So where was the bomber? Was he here now?

The scent of danger and desperation floated through the air as if the devil had truly made his entrance into town. The hurricanes had brought enough devastation to the people, the economy, the psyche, but the sight of the vultures had heightened panic and a sense of doom, hinting that the city of death was indeed steeped with ghosts.

And that more deaths would come.

Quinton finally joined her just as the speeches began. The governor took the stage, complimenting the joint efforts of the volunteers and donors as well as the social workers. She searched the crowd for Dr. Gryphon, and finally spotted him in the back corner talking to another man.

The governor announced the awards, giving several to local charities for donations, one to a private sponsor, and one to Dr. Gryphon for his help in offering free medical services to the needy.

“Thank you,” Dr. Gryphon said as he stepped in front of the microphone onstage. “It is up to the people of every city to take care of their own, to embrace the soldiers who have fought for us, to honor the heroes of the natural disasters our nation has faced, and to care for our aging.”

Applause broke out as everyone cheered.

Quinton remained silent, his gaze tracking the room, monitoring the doorways as people entered and left. So far, no one suspicious had arrived.

Was the person behind the bombings here watching in anticipation? Preparing to gloat over more deaths?

Or was he at one of the other possible target locations?

The governor called Reverend Narius up to the stage. The hair on the back of Annabelle’s neck rose, and she suddenly spotted a waiter toward the front who looked familiar. The tilt of his head, his slight limp, his wiry graying hair, his profile…

Dear God. It was her father.

She staggered and reached for Quinton’s arm to steady herself. She had to be seeing things. Had to be wrong. “Quinton…”

“What?”

“That waiter. He’s my dad.” Hope suffused her as she hurried toward the front. She couldn’t believe he was here, especially working as a waiter. He was a scientist.

Tears blurred her eyes, but she blinked them back as she shoved through the people. But her father kept moving toward the stage, his movements rigid and awkward.

Something was wrong.

Frustration and anger coursed through her. She was so close. Why was he ignoring her?

Quinton caught up with her, his expression tight. “Wait, Annabelle. Something’s not right.”

She ignored him and pulled away. “Daddy, stop, it’s me, Annabelle!” She ran forward and grabbed his arm, but he felt stiff and cold to the touch.

And when he turned around, he stared at her with an empty look as if he didn’t recognize her.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “It’s me, Annabelle. What’s wrong?”

He shook off her arm with a strength that belied the seeming frailness of his body. Her stomach clenched. Her father had never been violent or physical before. But he’d been gone for months. Had he really changed that much?

He certainly looked different. His pallor was a chalky gray, and an odd odor radiated off him as if his flesh had been charred. Then his jacket fell open and Annabelle froze.

Inside the jacket, a bomb was strapped to his chest.

Quinton gritted his teeth. Good God almighty. Her father was wearing a bomb.

Dammit to hell and back, he had to get Annabelle away from him. Had to stop him from triggering the explosive device.

He spoke into the miniature mike attached to his lapel, alerting security to evacuate the room and call the bomb squad.

Then someone screamed. “Bomb! He’s got a bomb!”

Pandemonium erupted. “Run!”

“Help!”

People began to stampede the room while Annabelle tried to pull her father away to talk to him. But he shoved her backward with one hand, and she fell against the wall. Then he mounted the steps to the stage and grabbed Reverend Narius.

Even from the middle of the ballroom, Quinton smelled the stench of death and fried flesh radiating from the man.

Chaos reigned as guests screamed and raced from the room. Security guards hustled the governor off the stage, while others rushed to clear doorways and evacuate, bumping food trays and tables in their haste. Dishes and glassware rattled and fell to the floor, shattering.

Quinton wrapped his hands around Annabelle and pushed her behind him as he reached for his gun. Then he channeled his energy toward Annabelle’s father.

“Stop, Mr. Armstrong,” he said in a low voice.

Annabelle tried to jerk from his grasp, but he held her behind him with a firm grip. “Let me handle it, Annabelle,” he murmured.

“Daddy, don’t do this!” Annabelle cried. “Please, you don’t want to hurt these people.”

He ignored her and reached for the triggering mechanism to the bomb.

The reverend’s eyes widened in terror. “Mister, think of the Lord. Remember the Ten Commandments…”

“Mr. Armstrong, stop.” Quinton again channeled his thoughts toward the older man in an attempt to freeze his movements. “Please, release the reverend. No one needs to get hurt.”

Instead of reacting, the old man looked at him with vacant eyes, and Quinton realized his mind had been possessed.

He clenched his hands and focused all his energy on entering the old man’s head. On erasing the orders the demon had issued.

Fight the demon
, he telepathed mentally.
Release the reverend, and you can be with your daughter.

Several tense seconds passed, then Armstrong turned and stared straight into his eyes.

Fight the demon
, Quinton said again silently.
He’s telling you to do this, but you don’t want to kill this man.

A flicker of awareness brightened the old man’s bloodshot, glazed eyes. Quinton felt him wavering, literally felt the brain waves churn in his mind as if life were seeping back into a dead corpse.

Annabelle trembled next to him, her fear palpable. Behind Armstrong, two officers approached with weapons drawn, and a SWAT team moved into position. Inching closer and closer, they relied on Quinton as a distraction.

“Please, don’t let them kill him,” Annabelle whispered. “Please…”

Quinton signaled for them to hold off the gunfire.

Then Armstrong lifted a hand to his chest—to pull the triggering mechanism or submit, Quinton wasn’t sure.

The SWAT team inched forward, but Quinton exerted his mental force to physically hold the team in place.

Then he walked toward Armstrong, mentally connecting once again.

As if the demon’s spirit had left Armstrong’s body, the man collapsed onto the floor, limp and unconscious.

Quinton released his mental hold on the police, then waved the bomb squad over to remove the bomb from the room. As usual when he used his power, his head was starting to throb, his energy waning.

Narius knelt to pray beside Armstrong. “Father, forgive this man, for he knows not what he does.”

Annabelle raced over and dropped to her knees, then pulled her father’s hand into hers. “Daddy, it’s me. I’m here now. It’s going to be all right.”

“Get an ambulance,” Quinton shouted.

“I’m on it,” an officer yelled.

Annabelle’s teary gaze met his, and his gut squeezed. Was Armstrong too depleted from the demon’s possession to survive?

Then a movement caught his eyes. A black shadow with a cape billowing around it raced from behind the stage, a black shadow that morphed into a vulture in front of his eyes and flew toward the ceiling.

Quinton raised his gun and fired a round, aiming for the vulture.

The SWAT team pivoted to fire, but the vulture was too fast. It flapped its wings, swept across the room with a shrill cry, then dove out the door.

Annabelle clutched her father’s hand, pleading with him not to die. But he lay stiff and cold, a shell of the man she’d once known, his eyes listless as he stared into empty space.

Rescue workers raced onto the scene, and a team of firefighters stormed in to check the premises. A paramedic hurried to her, knelt, and began to take her father’s vitals.

“What happened?” the medic asked.

“He had a bomb,” Quinton said, “but we disarmed it, and he collapsed.”

The medic checked her father’s pupils. “Was he taking drugs of any kind?”

“I don’t know,” Annabelle said. “I haven’t seen him in months.” Panic tore at her. “Is he going to be all right?”

“His pulse is weak and thready; he’s nonresponsive, but he is breathing,” the medic said into his radio mike.

“Please save him,” Annabelle whispered.

“We’ll do everything we can, miss.” The medic waved for his partner to bring the stretcher.

Agent Horton and a man from the SWAT team approached Quinton, and he stepped aside to consult with them, while other officers canvassed the outside, questioning attendees.

Annabelle heaved a breath. All she could do was watch the scene in horror. She’d finally found her father, but he had turned out to be one of the suicide bombers. Was this some kind of pact the men had made? Had they known one another online?

Were they depressed, or had someone put them up to it, as she’d suspected?

“What happened?” Detective DeLang asked.

“I talked him down,” Quinton said.

“They why did you open fire?” Agent Horton asked.

“I saw another man I thought might be behind the attack. He was fleeing toward the door.”

Detective DeLang frowned. “What made you think that he was involved, not just a guest running away in fear?”

“All the guests had been cleared,” Quinton said.

Agent Horton glanced at Annabelle with raised brows. “Miss Armstrong, do you know this man?”

She nodded. “He’s my father.”

The paramedics loaded Armstrong onto the stretcher, and Detective DeLang gestured toward the ambulance. “Well, he’s under arrest now.”

“He needs medical care,” Annabelle said in a pained voice. “Something is terribly wrong with him. I called to him, but he didn’t even recognize me.”

“He’ll receive medical care,” DeLang said in a clipped tone. “But there will be a guard posted at his door at all times.”

She nodded helplessly. “I have to go with him.”

“I’ll drive her,” Quinton said.

Agent Horton caught Annabelle’s arm. “You can’t leave. We need to question you.”

Quinton shoved the man’s hand away. “You can talk to us both at the hospital. In fact, I intend to question Armstrong the moment he becomes coherent.”

The agent reluctantly nodded, and Annabelle hurried behind the paramedic. “Sorry, ma’am,” the medic said. “We can’t let you ride with us.” Instead an armed policeman climbed inside the ambulance.

People hovered outside watching, stunned and afraid, whispering and asking questions. Cameras flashed and a reporter raced toward her.

She shuddered and tried to shield her face, desperate to escape and get to the hospital. She usually got the story.