Obsidian Butterfly (ab-9) (8 page)

IDID GO BACK into the room, and no, I didn't learn a damn thing from the last three victims. All that wasted bravery for nothing. Well, not exactly for nothing. I proved to myself that I could go back into the room without throwing up or fainting. I didn't care if it impressed Edward or Marks. It impressed me. If you can't impress yourself, then no one else really matters.

I either impressed Doctor Evans, or he needed a restorative cup of tea because he invited me back to the doctors and nurses lounge. There's no such thing as truly undrinkable coffee, but I hoped the tea was better for Evans' sake. Though I doubted it. The coffee came out of a can, and the tea was from little bags with strings on them. There's only so much you can hope for from prepackaged tea and coffee. At home I grind my own beans, but I wasn't home and I was grateful for the bitter warmth.

I added cream and sugar and noticed that the coffee was trembling in the cup, as if maybe my hands weren't quite steady. I was also cold. Nerves, just nerves.

If Edward had nerves, you couldn't tell it as he leaned against the wall, drinking his coffee black. He'd scorned sugar and cream, tough he-man that he was. He winced as he sipped, and I don't think it was the scalding liquid. His lip was swelling slightly from where I'd kicked him. It made me feel better. Childish but true.

Marks had taken a place on the room's only couch, blowing on his coffee. He'd taken cream and sugar in his. Evans settled down into the only chair that looked halfway comfortable, sighing as he stirred his tea.

Edward watched me, and I finally realized that he wouldn't sit down until I did. Screw it. I sat down in a chair that was far too straight-backed to be comfortable, but was placed so I could watch everyone in the room, including the door. There was a small, but full-size, refrigerator against the far wall. It was an older model, done in an odd shade of brown. A small L-shaped cabinet area housed a coffee maker, a second coffee maker with nothing but hot water in it, a sink, and a microwave oven.

Doctor Evans had used the hot water for his tea. There were white plastic spoons in an open packet, and a mug of those useless little coffee stirrers. There'd been a choice of sugar, Nutrasweet, and some other artificial sweetener that I'd never heard of. There was a circle of artificial creamer that had dried into a round crusty ridge where someone had sat a mug down in it. I concentrated on the minutia of the cabinet, trying not to think. For just a few moments I wanted to sip my coffee and not think. I still hadn't eaten today, and now I didn't want to.

"You said you had some questions for me, Ms. Blake." Doctor Evans spoke into the silence.

I jumped, and so did Marks. Only Edward stayed half-leaning against the wall, unmoved, blue eyes watching us all as if he were apart from the tension and the horror. Maybe he was, or maybe it was just an act. I just didn't know anymore.

I nodded, trying to focus. "How did they all survive?"

He tilted his head to one side. "Do you mean technically how did they survive? Medical detail?"

I shook my head. "No, I mean, one person surviving this much trauma, or even two, I'll buy. But most people wouldn't survive it, or am I wrong?"

Evans pushed his glasses more securely on his nose, but nodded. "No, you aren't wrong."

"Then how did all six of them survive?" I asked.

He frowned at me. "I'm not sure I understand exactly what you're trying to say here, Ms. Blake."

"I'm asking what are the chances that six people of varying sex, background, physical fitness, age, etc ... would all be able to survive the same amount of trauma. My understanding is that all the victims that were just skinned have survived, right?"

"Yes." Doctor Evans was watching me closely, pale eyes searching my face, waiting for me to go on.

"Why did they survive?"

"They're tough sons of bitches," Marks said.

I glanced at the lieutenant, then back to Evans. "Are they?"

"Are they what?" the doctor asked.

"Are they tough sons of bitches?"

He lowered his eyes as if thinking. "Two of the men worked out regularly, one of the women was a marathon runner. The other three were just ordinary. One of the men is close to sixty, and didn't have a regular exercise routine of any kind. The other woman is in her thirties but didn't ... " He looked at me. "No, they aren't particularly tough individuals, not physically anyway. But I've found that it's often the people who aren't physically strong or outwardly tough that survive the longest under torture. The he-men are usually the first to cave."

I forced myself not to glance at Edward, but it was an effort. "Let me test my understanding, Doctor. Have any people that have been skinned like the six in that room died?"

He blinked and again looked into the distance as if remembering, then he looked at me. "No, the only deaths have been those people torn apart."

"Then I ask again, why are they all alive? Why didn't at least one of them die from shock, blood loss, or a bad heart, or hell, the pure terror of it."

"People don't die from terror," Marks said.

I glanced at him. "Are you absolutely sure of that, Lieutenant?"

His handsome face looked petulant, stubborn. "Yeah, I'm sure."

I waved the comment away. I'd argue with Marks later. Right now I was chasing a point. "How did all six of them survive, Doctor? Not why this six, but why all of them?"

Evans nodded. "I see what you mean. How could all of them have survived it?"

I nodded. "Exactly. Some of them should have died, but they didn't."

"Whoever skinned them is an expert," Marks said. "He knew how to keep them alive."

"No," Edward said. "No matter how good you are at torture, you can't keep everybody alive. Even if you do exactly the same thing to each of them, some people die and some people live. You're not always sure why some make it, and some don't." His voice was very quiet, but it filled the hush of the room.

Doctor Evans looked at him, nodding. "Yes, yes, even an expert can't make people survive what was done to these six. You should lose some of them. For that matter I don't know why they're all still alive. Why hasn't one of them contracted some secondary infection? They are all remarkably healthy."

Marks stood so abruptly, he spilled coffee over his hand. He cursed, striding to the sink and throwing the cup and all in the sink. "How can you say they're healthy?" He looked over his shoulder at the doctor while he ran his hands under the water.

"They are still alive, Lieutenant, and for their condition that is very healthy indeed."

"Magic would do it," I said.

Everyone looked at me.

"There are spells that can keep a person alive during torture so that the torture can be prolonged."

Marks tore too much paper towel off the roll and turned on me, wiping his hands with small abrupt movements. "How can you say you don't do black magic?"

"I said there are spells that will do it, not that I did the spells," I said.

It took him three tries to get the paper towel in the waste basket. "Just knowing about such things is evil."

"Think what you like, Marks, but maybe one of the reasons you had to call me in is that you've kept yourself so lily white that you don't know enough to help these people. Maybe if you were more interested in solving crime than in saving your own soul you'd have wrapped this up by now."

"Saving a soul is more important than solving crime," he said. He was striding towards me now.

I stood up, coffee cup in my hand. "If you're more interested in souls than crime then become a minister, Marks. What we need right now is a cop."

He stalked towards me, and I think would have come close enough to exchange blows, but I watched him remember what I'd done out in the hall. I watched him remember caution, and he walked far around me to get to the door.

Doctor Evans glanced from one to the other of us, as if wondering what he'd missed.

Marks turned at the door, pointing a finger at me. "If I have my way, you are going to be back on a plane tonight. You can't ask the devil to help you catch the devil." With that he closed the door behind him.

Evans spoke into the silence. "There must be more in you, Ms. Blake, than mere toughness, something I haven't seen yet."

I looked at him and took a drink of the cooling coffee. "What would make you say that, doctor?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say Lieutenant Marks is afraid of you," he said.

"He's afraid of what he thinks I am, Doctor Evans. He's jumping at shadows."

Evans looked up at me, his tea forgotten in his big hands. The look was a long considering one. I had an urge to squirm under such scrutiny, but fought it down. "Perhaps you are right, Ms. Blake, or perhaps he has seen something in you that I have not."

"When you spend all your time worrying that the devil is right behind you, eventually you start seeing him whether he's there or not," I said.

Evans stood, nodding. He rinsed his coffee mug in the sink, washing it out with a fresh paper towel and soap. He spoke without turning around. "I do not know if I will ever see the devil, but I have seen true evil, and if there is no devil behind it, still it is evil." He turned and looked at me. "And we must put a stop to it."

I nodded. "Yes," I said, "we must."

He smiled then, but his eyes stayed tired. "I will work with my colleagues here that are more accustomed to working with the living instead of the dead. We will try and discover why these six survive."

"And if it's magic?" I asked.

He nodded. "Do not tell Lieutenant Marks, but my wife is a witch. She has traveled the world with me seeing such things. Sometimes what we find is more up her alley than mine, not often, mind you. People are quite able to torment one another without aid of magic. But occasionally it has been more."

"Don't take this wrong," I said, "but why haven't you called her in before this?"

He took in a long breath and let it out. "She was out of the country on another matter. Why, you may ask, didn't I call her home sooner?"

I shook my head. "I wasn't going to ask."

He smiled. "Thank you for that. I reasoned that my wife was needed elsewhere, and the FBI seemed so sure it was a person." He glanced at Edward then back to me. "The truth is, Ms. Blake, something about all this frightens me. I am not a man who is easily frightened."

"You're afraid for your wife," I said.

He stared at me as if he could look into my mind with those pale eyes. "Wouldn't you be?"

I touched his arm, gently. "Trust your instincts, doctor. If it feels wrong, send her away."

He drew away from my touch, smiling, tossing the paper towel into the trash can. "That would be terribly superstitious of me."

"You've got a bad feeling about your wife's involvement with this thing. Trust your gut. Don't try to be reasonable. If you love your wife, listen to your heart, not your head."

He nodded twice then said, "I will think about what you said. Now I really must be going."

I held out my hand. He took it. "Thanks for your time, doctor."

"My ... pleasure, Ms. Blake." He nodded to Edward. "Mr. Forrester."

Edward nodded in return, and we were left in the silence of the lounge. "Listen to your heart and not your head. Damn romantic advice, coming from you," Edward said.

"Drop it," I said. I had my hand on the door handle.

"How would your love life be if you took your own advice?" he asked.

I opened the door and walked out into the cool white hallway without answering him.

MARKS' OFFER OF ESCORTING me to the crime scene seemed to have evaporated with his temper. Edward drove me. We drove in almost complete silence. Edward never sweated small talk, and I just didn't have the energy for it. If I could have thought of something useful to say, I'd have said it. Until then, silence was fine. Edward had volunteered that we were on our way to the latest crime scene, and we'd meet his other two backups in Santa Fe. He told me nothing else about them, and I didn't press it. His lip was still swelling because he'd been too macho to put ice on it. I figured the busted lip was all the slack Edward was going to give me for one day. I'd told him in the strongest terms I could manage, short of pulling a weapon, to stop the competitive crap, and nothing would change that, least of all me.

Besides, I was still riding in a ringing bell of silence as if everything echoed and nothing was quite solid. It was shock. The survivors, if that was the word for them, had shaken me down to my toes. I'd seen awful things, but nothing quite like that. I was going to have to snap out of it before we had our first fire fight, but frankly if someone had pulled a weapon on me right that second, I'd have hesitated. Nothing seemed truly important or even real.

"I know why you're afraid of this thing," I said.

He glanced toward me with the black lenses of his eyes, then back to the road, as if he hadn't heard. Anyone else would have asked me to explain, or made some comment. Edward just drove.

"You don't fear anything that just offers death. You've accepted that you're not going to live to a ripe old age."

"We,"
he said.
"We've
accepted that
we
aren't going to live to a ripe old age."

I opened my mouth to protest, then stopped. I thought about it for a second or two. I was twenty-six, and if the next four years were anything like the last four, I'd never see thirty. I'd never really thought about it in so many words, but old age wasn't one of my biggest worries. I didn't really expect to get there. My life style was a sort of passive suicide. I didn't like that much. It made me want to squirm and deny it, but I couldn't. Wanted to, but couldn't. It made my chest squeeze tight to realize that I expected to die by violence. Didn't want it, but expected it. My voice sounded uncertain, but I said it out loud. "Fine,
we've
accepted that
we're
not going to make it to a ripe old age. Happy?"

He gave a slight nod.

"You're afraid that you'll live like those things in the hospital. You're afraid of ending up like them."

"Aren't you?" His voice was almost too soft to hear, but somehow it carried over the rush of wheels and the expensive purr of the engine.

"I'm trying not to think about it," I said.

"How can you not think about it?" he asked.

"Because if you start thinking about the bad things, worrying about them, then it makes you slow, makes you afraid. Neither of us can afford that."

"Two years ago, I'd have been giving you the pep talk," he said, and there was something in his voice, not anger, but close.

"You were a good teacher," I said.

His hands gripped the wheel. "I haven't taught you all I know, Anita. You are not a better monster than I am."

I watched the side of his face, trying to read that expressionless face. There was a tightness at the jaw, a thread of anger down the neck and into his shoulders. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself, ... Ted?" I made the name light and mocking. I didn't usually play with Edward just to get a rise out of him, but today, he was unsure, and I wasn't. Part of me was enjoying the hell out of that.

He slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop on the side of the road. I had the Browning pointed at the side of his head, close enough that pulling the trigger would paint his brains all over the windows.

He had a gun in his hand. I don't know where in the car it had come from, but the gun wasn't pointed at me. "Ease down, Edward."

He stayed motionless but didn't drop the gun. I had one of those moments when you see into another person's soul like looking into an open window. "Your fear makes you slow, Edward, because you'd rather die here, like this, than survive like those poor bastards. You're looking for a better way to die." My gun was very steady, finger on the trigger. But this wasn't for real, not yet. "If you were really serious, you'd have had the gun in your hand before you pulled over. You didn't invite me here to hunt monsters. You invited me here to kill you if it works out wrong."

He gave the smallest nod. "Neither Bernardo or Olaf are good enough." He laid the gun very, very slowly on the floorboard hump between the seats. He looked at me, hands spread on the steering wheel. "Even for you, I have to be a little slow."

I took the offered gun without taking either my eyes or my gun off of him. "Like I believe that's the only gun you've got hidden in this car. But I do appreciate the gesture."

He laughed then, and it was the most bitter sound I'd ever heard from Edward. "I don't like being afraid, Anita. I'm not good at it."

"You mean you're not used to it," I said.

"No, I'm not."

I eased my own gun down until it wasn't pointing at him, but I didn't put it up. "I promise that if you end up like the people in the hospital I'll take your head."

He looked at me then, and even with the sunglasses on I knew he was surprised. "Not just shoot me or kill me, but take my head."

"If it happens, Edward, I won't leave you alive, and taking your head we'll both be sure that the job's done."

Something flowed across his face, down his shoulders, his arms, and I realized it was relief. "I knew I could count on you for this, Anita, you and no one else."

"Should I be flattered or insulted that you've never met anyone else coldblooded enough for this?"

"Olaf's blood is plenty cold enough, but he'd just shoot me and bury me in a hole somewhere. He'd have never thought about taking my head. And what if shooting didn't kill me?" He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I'd be in some stinking hole somewhere alive because Olaf would never think to take my head." He shook his head as if chasing the image away. He slid the glasses back on, and when he turned to look at me, his face was blank, unreadable, his usual. But I'd seen beneath the mask, further than I'd ever been allowed before. The one thing I'd never expected to find was fear, and beneath that, trust. Edward trusted me with more than his life. He trusted me to make sure he died well. For a man like Edward there was no greater trust.

We would never go shopping together or eat an entire cake while we complained about men. He'd never invite me over to his home for dinner or a barbecue. We'd never be lovers. But there was a very good chance that one of us would be the last person the other saw before we died. It wasn't friendship the way most people understood it, but it was friendship. There were several people I'd trust with my life, but there is no one else I'd trust with my death. Jean-Claude and even Richard would try to hold me alive out of love or something that passed for it. Even my family and other friends would fight to keep me alive. If I wanted death, Edward would give it to me. Because we both understand that it isn't death that we fear. It's living.