Penumbra (26 page)

Mohern nodded. “I was in the apartment when she was killed.”

“So you didn't actually see her murder?”

“Didn't have to. I heard the screams, and saw what was left of her after.” He sniffed. “She was a pretty thing.”

A pretty thing who'd ignored Sethanon's warnings, and had paid the price. “So how were you able to get into a secure building, and how come you weren't caught?”

He grinned. “A mate of mine was working the night watch. He gave me the codes for a share of the profits. I only took little things, things that were valuable but weren't likely to be immediately missed. It's quite a profitable scam in a building like that.” He stopped, as if suddenly remembering he was talking to a man who was basically a cop. He cleared his throat and shrugged. “As to how I escaped detection, I think it was pure dumb luck. My mate called me when Douglass entered the building, so I had time to hide. No one expected me to be there, so no one bothered checking for intruders.”

“So how did you see the murderer moving about?”

“I was hiding in the guest bathroom. I saw him through the crack between the door and the frame.”

“Give me a description.”

Mohern did. Gabriel wasn't surprised to discover that the identity he used to gain entrance to the apartment matched the description of one General Blaine. But it was nasty to discover that the second identity was that of a scruffy man with brown hair so thick and scraggly that his face couldn't be seen, giving him the appearance of someone more bear than human. Only he was a bear who walked with military precision.

That was almost the exact description Sam had given of the man she knew as Joe. So the man she seemed to place so much trust in, the man who seemed to hold so many answers about her past, was not only a murderer, but he might very well be the man they'd been hunting for so many years. The man who had vowed to subjugate or destroy the human race.

Sethanon.

Sam crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall. The flocked wallpaper scratched at her back even through her sweater. Impossible, she knew, given the thickness of her sweater, and yet still her skin itched. Maybe it was just uneasiness, the growing sensation that something was very, very wrong.

She frowned and scanned the theater's foyer for the umpteenth time. The only ones out here were the usher, the pacing Wetherton and herself. Everyone else had gone inside to watch the opera. And the usher didn't appear threatening—he was just a gray-haired old guy wearing a crisp blue suit and a bored expression.

There wasn't even a tingle along the psychic lines—no crawling knowledge that something was here that shouldn't be here.

And yet something was.

Or rather, some
one
was.

She could smell him. His scent was sharp, almost acidic, and though she couldn't immediately put a name or a face to the scent, recognition hummed through her.

And then it hit her.

Duncan King.
The redheaded, green-eyed man who'd accompanied General Lloyd to their meeting at Han's restaurant a few months ago.

At the time, she'd thought him nothing more than a psychic drain, a leech who tried to suck all that he could from her mind via a seemingly harmless handshake.

But he was obviously a whole lot more. He could be invisible, for a start.

His scent was coming from the right—the same area where the bored usher stood, but more toward the corridor that led to the men's room.

There was no one actually standing there, of course. And even her psychic senses weren't coming to the party, which was odd.

Or maybe it wasn't.

When she and King had shaken hands in the restaurant, she'd not only felt the leeching sensation, but a power that was similar to, and yet different from, the kind of energy that she felt in storms—one that was a little more earthy in feel, and yet not the same as the energy she'd drawn from the earth during her dream. So who was to say that he hadn't been trying to use that energy to make himself invisible to all her senses? Maybe she wasn't even supposed to remember King's presence, let alone see him.

So why was he skulking around this foyer? Who was he here for?

Wetherton? Her? Or someone else altogether? Whatever his purpose, her best option seemed to be a cautious retreat. Better safe than sorry when confronted by someone more than human—someone who didn't
need
a weapon but was one. Her dreams, and her experiences with Hopeworth of late, had taught her that much, at least.

She pushed away from the wall and approached Wetherton. “Minister, I think your date has stood you up.”

He scowled and glanced at his watch. “It's a business meeting, not a date. And I have no doubt he'll be here. The matter is important.”

“He's over half an hour—” Her phone rang, stopping her mid-sentence. She grimaced and drew it from her pocket, stepping away from Wetherton but making sure she kept within viable protecting distance just in case the scent that was King moved or attacked.

“Agent Ryan speaking.”

“Sam? Gabriel.”

Like she wouldn't recognize his voice? The man obviously had no idea just how attracted she was to him, despite their little encounter in the car. “Would this be the Gabriel who was supposed to meet me at five to pick up his car?”

He paused. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Say that with a little more sincerity and I might actually believe you.” She decided it was better
not
to be a bitch—as much as she might want to—and said, “What came up?”

“Les Mohern.”

As he said the name, the memory kicked into place. “Mohern? Wasn't he one of the names in Jack's book?”

Wetherton swung around at the mention of Mohern's name, his scowl deepening. “What do you know of Mohern?”

His voice was sharp, almost angry, and yet something in the set of his shoulders and the way he stood spoke of fear. She held up a hand to silence him, which didn't go down well, if the clenching and unclenching of his fists was anything to go by.

Not that she thought he intended to hit her. Wetherton didn't have
that
much courage.

“Frank Mohern was on Jack's list,” Gabriel said. “Les is his brother. He apparently had a meeting with Wetherton tonight.”

“A meeting he's late for.”

“That's because he almost got himself killed. I saved his butt, and he's been singing his little heart out in an effort to get a deal.”

“Any particular song I need to know about?”

There was another pause, then, “Most definitely. The Moherns were involved in the original Wetherton's snatch and replacement, and Les happened to witness the murder of Kathryn Douglass.”

“So he can identify the murderer in both cases?”

“Yes.”

Something in the way he said that made her stomach clench. And she knew, without him saying a word, just who Mohern had probably seen. She forced her voice to remain light, casual, as she said, “Anyone I know?”

Again he paused. “It sounds an awful lot like the description you gave of the man you know as Joe.”

She briefly closed her eyes. Joe. The man who had saved her life. The man who answered her many questions without ever hinting at the whole picture.

The man who might well be the enemy of humankind.

Damn.

As she opened her eyes, air shimmered. She frowned, studying the area to the right of the usher. The shimmer happened again, reminding her briefly of smoke coiling away from a small breeze. Only it wasn't smoke, wasn't just air, but a signal that King was on the move.

“Gabriel, I've gotta go. Meet me later and we'll talk.”

“Sam, wait—”

She didn't, cutting him off and putting the phone back into her pocket. With King on the move, the sensation of wrongness had sharpened. And she had a bad feeling that she and Wetherton really should get the hell away from the theater and that man.

“Minister, I'm afraid your date has had a slight accident and has been taken to the hospital. If you'd like, I can take you there.”

She gripped his arm as she spoke, intending to forcibly move him, but he wrenched himself free.

“Don't be ridiculous. I have tickets for this opera and I fully intend to use them!”

“I wouldn't advise—”

Before she could get the rest of the sentence out, the shimmer that was King found form. And he had a gun pointed directly at Wetherton.

“Minister, look out!” Even as she gave the warning, she freed her weapon and whipped off two quick shots. The laser's soft hiss seemed to reverberate across the silence but it connected with nothing more than air—at least until it burned through the garish flocked wallpaper and then the wall behind it.

King reappeared several feet away from his original spot and fired. Sam threw herself sideways, hitting Wetherton and knocking him out of the way. Then she hit the carpeted floor with a grunt, the bright heat of King's laser skimming her side, burning through her jacket and scalding her hip. She swore, but rolled onto her stomach and fired another shot. Again, the bullet tore through air, not flesh.

For God's sake, how was she supposed to protect Wetherton from someone who could become as insubstantial as the wind?

She obviously couldn't. Retreat was the only option they had left. All she could hope for was that King wasn't as fast as he was invisible.

She twisted around to warn Wetherton, only to find him lying unmoving on the floor. His face was slack, his expression frozen in a mix of surprise and horror. A sharp but neat hole had been burned into the middle of his forehead. She half-imagined she could see brain matter through that hole, even though she knew logically that was impossible given the distance, the position of his body and the fact that lasers cauterized the wounds even as they created them.

This wouldn't look good on her record. First she'd killed her partner when she was in the State Police, then she'd allowed the man she was supposed to be guarding to be assassinated. If Stephan didn't haul her ass back to the broom closet, she'd be surprised. Still, it wasn't as if anyone else could have prevented this. Truth be told, no one else would have even
seen
King.

At least one of her earlier questions had been answered—King was here for Wetherton. But why would the military want him dead? Even if they knew Wetherton was a clone, he surely wouldn't have any knowledge about Hopeworth that could be dangerous to them.

And yet Blaine had visited him. Had been in Wetherton's office for hours. Testing him, reading him, perhaps? If that
was
the case, what had they discovered that now warranted his death?

The only person who might know the answer to that question was King. And he was on the move—not toward her but rather the door. She hit the alarm button on her wristcom, scrambled to her feet and caught sight of the usher cowering behind one of the ornate columns near the staircase. She grabbed her badge from her pocket to show him.

“Call the SIU. Tell them Agent Sam Ryan has a priority-one situation. Tell them I need a med team and backup straight away.” The wristcom's alarm
should
evoke an immediate response, but she wasn't going to take a chance. Not this time.

The usher nodded, and Sam ran out the door and into the chilled night. King hadn't found form, but for some reason, the shimmer of air that surrounded and hid his form was more noticeable in the darkness. “SIU, King. Stop or I'll shoot.”

Passersby glanced at her, their expressions becoming alarmed when they saw the weapon in her hand. Some hurried on and others retreated. She didn't really care either way, as long as they kept out of her line of fire. She kept her gaze on King and her finger on the trigger.

He didn't answer, didn't turn around, didn't stop.

She lowered the laser and ran after him. There were too many people out on the street to risk firing the weapon, and King was more than likely aware of that fact.

The heels of her boots hit the concrete noisily as she ran—a quick tattoo that spoke of speed and urgency, and one that at least had people scrambling to get out of her way. But however free her path was, however fast
she
was, King was faster. The farther away he got, the harder it was to see or smell him.

And then he disappeared altogether.

She swore softly as she slowed, then finally stopped. With her gun raised, she scanned the immediate area. They'd run far enough from the theater district that foot traffic was sparse. This end of Victoria Street was close to Market and Elizabeth streets, so there were still plenty of cars passing by. Their lights skimmed the sidewalks and nearby buildings, briefly illuminating the shadows. No one hid there, not even a shimmer. Sam continued to turn slowly. Movement caught her eye in nearby Leicester Street. It was nothing more than a flare of orange that died as quickly as it gained life, and yet the sight of it had her up-until-recent
ly-dead psychic senses coming to life.