Death Springs Eternal: The Rift Book III (40 page)

Bathgate flinched and the gun dropped ever so slightly. “Who’s he looking for?”

Tom shrugged. “Not entirely sure.
A young man, probably early- to mid-twenties.
Dark hair, above average height.
Probably thin now, but looks like he could hold a lot more weight on his bones.”

The gun slumped ever further. “You realize you just described probably one of a thousand people, right?”

“No. He would have arrived relatively recently, from the north.”

The general cringed, like a father who went to the grocery store and forgot he’d left the baby at home alone.

“How the
hell are
you sure he’s here?”

“We have our eyes in this city,” said Tom. “He was seen here on one occasion.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

The gun started to rise again. “You’re spying on us,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Tom nodded.
“Of course.
It’s what competing nations do.”

At the sound of that word, a grin crossed Bathgate’s lips and he pulled the gun away.
Such pride
, thought Tom’s conductor.
Such easy prey.
Tom winced inwardly as he felt his mental web expanding, energies that shouldn’t have been in him sprouting arms that stretched in every direction, searching for one whose dedication had broken. Finally that web ensnared a wandering soul, and the presence shot back into his body. The entire process took less than the time it took to blink.

Tom cleared his throat. “We have not only been searching for our target, however,” he said. “We also have been seeking information that might help you, information that may prove our intentions are pure.”

“Go on.”

“You have a man on your staff, a higher-up in your chain of command, who is going to betray you.” The details began drifting away, and the presence inside him upped the ante. His muscles swelled with energy, and his personality retreated deeper into the back of his mind. “His name is Pitts,” Sam said through his mouth, using his voice.
“A lieutenant.
He is planning on leaving come morning, of abandoning his post and fleeing west. I can’t be sure of his reasons, simply that he will try.”

Bathgate laughed, shook his head, meandered to his desk, and flopped in the chair once more.
“Yeah, right.
You’re insane. I think I’ll have some of the boys pull you out of here and hang you in the common.
And maybe your wife, too.”

Shelly shrieked.

“Shut that girl up.”

“Hush, Michelle.” He turned to Bathgate. “That is your right, but all I ask is that you wait until
nine o’clock
tomorrow morning. He will be leaving then, exiting through the Nine-Mile Checkpoint. If he is not, you can kill me,” he waved his arm behind him, “and my family. If he is, and you deal with it accordingly, can we expect your cooperation?”

Bathgate lifted a pen, chewed on the end for a couple minutes, then dropped it and nodded. “Yes. If the lieutenant is indeed planning on going AWOL tomorrow, I will let you interview each of the men one-by-one, if you like.”

“That would be wonderful.”

Tom grinned, stepped back, and took a seat beside Allison. He took her limp hand in his, and he wished he could feel her skin. As it was all he felt were dull sensations, like he’d been anesthetized from head to toe. Shelly shrank away from him but refused to release her mother’s hand. Allison’s arm stretched, and she almost teetered over. Tom had to pull her back to him to straighten her out.

“What’s wrong with your wife?” asked Bathgate.

“She had a stroke not too long ago,” he replied, using someone else’s memories to create a believable story. “It’s left her appearing catatonic, not in complete control of her functions, but she’s still in there. I can see it when I stare in her eyes.”

Bathgate leaned forward and squinted. “Don’t look like there’s anything there to me.”

“You’re not looking hard enough.”

Someone rapped at the door, and Bathgate glanced at his watch. “Oh shit, they’re here already,” he grumbled. His pale cheeks grew ruddy and he began breathed heavily. Tom/Sam glanced around the room, feeling more than a little confused. The general leapt from his chair and began straightening up the few knickknacks on his desk. It looked like he’d gone crazy as he quickstepped across the short space between them, aggressively grabbed Tom’s hand, and shook it.

“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Steinberg,” he said. “Now please, the guards will show you back to your residence.”

Tom/Sam shrugged and stood up, steering Allison in doing the same. Shelly hovered behind them, holding the front of her dress over her face as if she could block out the world.

“Come in,” Bathgate said, his voice cracking, and the door opened.

Two soldiers and two younger Hispanic girls entered. Between them was a very short, very attractive, very
pregnant
woman. Her long red hair, tainted with a couple streaks of gray, shimmered as if it’d just been washed, and her skin shone in the ambient light. A long satin nightgown hung from her shoulders and brushed against the floor as she walked. She kept her eyes down, her lips pursed. She appeared to be in a great amount of pain.

Tom shrugged, took Allison’s hand, and stepped out of the office. On the surface of his mind, Sam cursed that these people were outside his influence. He would’ve killed to see what that little bastard with the Napoleon complex had in mind.

Perhaps there was still time for that.

*
  
*
  
*

Kyra peered through strands of her dangling hair, watching the family of three leave the office. There was something off about them, but the pain wracking her body conflicted with her ability to make sound connections. Her focus was on her breathing and not much else.

She heard a voice telling her escorts they were excused. She wanted to turn around, to tell Maria and Saraphina how much she appreciated the care they took when bathing her, the sympathy that shown in their eyes while they slipped the damn nightgown over her head, the kind words they spoke as they walked with her down her own personal Green Mile. And that’s what she thought of this as—her death march. She couldn’t explain why she felt this way, but it was there. She chalked it up to the constant pain. Contractions were hitting her every ten minutes by that point.

Then she raised her eyes when she heard her name called and stared into the eyes of death itself.

There he was, the man who’d been haunting her dreams each night for two months. He had the same damning eyes, the same gray hair,
the
same haughty posture. Darkness seemed to flow from his every pore like liquid oil. She found herself not able to breathe.

“Oh, my dear,” the man said, quickly grinning and taking her hand. He knelt in front of her. “You must be in a great deal of pain. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Her tongue frozen in shock, she didn’t answer.

He gazed up at her, and all of a sudden he didn’t seem so frightening. His expression was almost pathetic, like a puppy that had just been slapped on the ass for shitting in the corner. His teeth chattered together. It reminded her of the walking undead, and she shivered.

“Please, talk to me,” he said.

“I could use a seat,” she replied.

The man smiled, stood up, and allowed her to sit in one of the chairs at the back of the room. She sunk into the soft cushion and took in her surroundings for the first time. She saw framed pictures on the wall, illustrations that looked very much like her. Another shudder jarred her insides, followed by a grinding contraction. She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

“I’m Alexander Bathgate,” the man said, seemingly oblivious to her pain.

She glared at him and her chest hitched.

He squinted and proceeded to pace around the room, blathering. “Do you know how much I adore you? Of course you don’t. You’ve never met me before. But
I’ve
seen
you.
I dreamed of you in my youth, visions of pure beauty I thought lost to me until they returned recently. See those paintings over there? I created them.
Me, from my memory.
It is you, Kyra. You are my destiny.”

He grinned so wide she thought his facial muscles might tear.

The contraction faded, only to be followed very closely by another. She chomped down and her vision became spotty. Then she felt hands upon her, lifting her from her seat, moving her across the hazy space before her. When that contraction diminished, Bathgate’s face came back into focus. He was close to her. Too close.

“What do you need?” he asked.
“Anything.”

“How about a doctor?” she moaned. “I think the baby’s coming.”

That got him to frown. He stepped back, looked her up and down. It appeared as if he was contemplating something, what with his head tilted to the side and his arms hanging loosely. Then he shook out of it and smiled once more.

“I think we can accommodate that request,” he said. “But it may take a little time. Tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t think it can wait that long.”

“It’s going to have to.”

Bathgate leapt forward. His lips locked onto hers, his tongue probing. One of his hands wrapped tightly around her back while the other roamed wherever it pleased, sliding across the smooth nightgown, moving from her engorged breasts to her hip to the curved underside of her swollen belly to
down there.
He was hostile and sensitive at the same time, and Kyra’s head started to spin. The hand on her nethers then came up and squeezed her left breast. He shoved her back against his desk and hoisted the bottom half of her nightgown. He tried to press forward and another contraction hit, accompanied by a blinding fit of rage. She clamped her legs shut, squeezing his sides, forcing a pained gasp from him as her knee pressed into his kidney. He retreated, sliding between her legs, and she lashed out with her foot. It connected with his chest, knocking him backward with surprising strength.

The man panted, staring at her with livid eyes. Kyra sucked in a mouthful of air as the contraction intensified, and then Bathgate swung out of her reach, raised his hand, and backhanded her across the cheek. She fell off the side of the desk and smacked her hip against the chair.

“You made me,” the man wheezed while he gazed at her, horrified.

“Fuck you.”

His stare intensified. “You will love me,” he said. “You have no choice. And if you think that little shit you came with will save you, think again. He’s long gone, burning in the Mouth of Hell as we speak. I saw to that personally.”

Kyra’s heart sank in her chest, and as the contraction died down, she allowed herself to collapse on the carpet. Then he spoke again, his tone more sympathetic than before.

“I apologize for hitting you,” he said. “It was not my intention. I’m sorry things didn’t work out tonight, but they will. I’ll send Morales’s girls in to take care of you.”

Then he was out the door.

Kyra drew her knees to her chest, shaking, while the baby kicked in her belly.
Dead.
Josh was dead. What hope did she have left with the one sworn to protect her now gone?

“I’ll fucking
kill you!
” she bellowed at the closed office door, but no one was there to hear.