Rajmund (6 page)
Authors: D B Reynolds
Buffalo, New York
It was cold. So cold. Regina shivered in her thin jacket, wishing she'd worried more about staying warm when she'd dressed for Katie's bachelorette party and less about looking good.
Note to self: next time you get kidnapped, wear a decent coat.
Her desperate chuckle became a sob of terror as the heavy metal door clanged open once more, sending tremors through the concrete floor. She pushed herself back against the wall, feeling the hard chill of the metal bed frame low against her back. She'd heard someone crying again last night. A cell door had clanged open and she'd been so grateful it wasn't her they were coming for, so desperately glad she wasn't the one crying, begging.
She jumped at the sound of metal on metal, close in the darkness. Her door opened and dim light fell in from the corridor, piercingly bright to her eyes which had grown used to the near total darkness of her cell. A man filled the narrow doorway, a dark silhouette with wide shoulders and a square head, eyes gleaming in the faint light. She scrambled off the bed and into a corner, tucking her knees to her chest, her whole body shaking with the force of her pounding heart. She clamped her lips tight, refusing to make a sound.
"I know you're there, little girl. You can't hide from me."
A cry of dismay escaped her lips and she heard herself sobbing just like the others, pleading. “No, please,” she whispered, staring up at him. “Not me."
Her protests crumbled as he drew closer, as his eyes bored into hers, clouding her mind with something sticky and warm. The light from the hallway faded until there was nothing but his eyes,
his
will,
his
desire. He reached for her, and somewhere deep inside she screamed.
Sarah rolled out of bed, not even stopping to turn on the lights in a blind dash for the bathroom. She fell to her knees and threw up, her stomach heaving uncontrollably as she gripped the sides of the toilet bowl, gasping for breath.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and she begged silently,
Not again. Please, God, not again
.
She huddled on the floor next to the cold porcelain, her stomach empty, her throat burning. Repulsed by the smell, she slammed the seat down, reached up and flushed. Pushing back against the wall, she levered herself up to sit on the closed lid and turned on the water in the sink, splashing her overheated face, ignoring the water that spilled over the sides and onto the linoleum tiles. She grabbed a towel from the rack and covered her face, leaning forward until her forehead touched her knees.
It was all so familiar, the isolation, the cold, every heartbeat like a bass drum against her rib cage, every breath as loud as a bellows in the dead silence of her captivity. Theresa Bracco, the teenager from West L.A., and Julie Seaborn, a mother of two from Hollywood . . . and the others, the nameless others who'd haunted her dreams. The ones she'd tried to ignore. She remembered them all.
And she remembered what had happened when she went to her parents for help.
The institution they'd sent her to was more of a boarding school than an asylum—except for the locks on the doors. She'd been fifteen years old when she walked through those doors, and she hadn't walked out again until her eighteenth birthday when, as an adult under California law, she'd fled her parents’ tender care and reinvented herself. A new name, a new city, a new life. College, graduate school, a job. Just like everyone else. No one knew who she really was. No one. Not even her good friend Cyn knew the truth about Sarah Stratton. There was nothing to distinguish her from the millions of people who went to the office or to school, who worked hard and slept safe in their beds every night. And that was just the way Sarah wanted it.
But now the dreams were back, and with them had come the memories of all the women who'd cried in her nightmares and now lurked like ghosts, half-seen in the corners of her mind.
She stood and opened the mirrored cabinet, taking out her toothbrush and toothpaste with quick, determined movements. She couldn't do this again, she decided firmly. She
wouldn't
do it again. This wasn't some docudrama on television. This was her
life.
The years of working two jobs to put herself through college and graduate school, piecing herself together from scratch, from nothing. Helpless, frustrated tears filled her eyes. She let them come until she was nearly choking on toothpaste. She spit sloppily into the sink and rinsed her mouth, then forced herself upright. She gazed into the mirror, seeing the pink and gold reflection of sunrise just visible between the slats of her mini-blinds. And she couldn't help wondering if Regina was looking at the same sunrise, if that damp basement had a window somewhere, a taunting shred of freedom for her and the others. The ones she could hear crying in the dark.
Raj made a sharp turn down the alley without slowing, feeling the rear end of his big BMW sedan fishtailing slightly on the slippery pavement. It was that time of year in Buffalo when the weather couldn't decide if it was winter or spring, when one day could bring a last ditch snowstorm and the next a quick melt that might freeze overnight into slick ice. It was one of the reasons he hated this town. Too cold, too wet, too windy. And too goddamn dead, even for a vampire.
He punched the remote attached to the car's visor as soon as he made the turn. By the time he reached the garage, the door was fully open, and he slid the big sedan into the narrow space, closing the door behind him before he'd even turned off the engine. He was cutting it too damn close and knew it. He should have stayed put at the airport, but he hated sleeping in a public place, even a well-guarded one. He never felt really safe unless he was behind his own door, with his own security. He'd known too many vampires who had trusted others and were no longer around to bemoan their foolishness.
The garage was mostly dark inside, but that was no problem. Vampires could see as well in dark as light, maybe even better. In the dark, one saw only what was necessary. By lamplight, one could be distracted by beauty or whimsy.
Feeling poetic, tonight, Raj?
He grunted at his own idle thoughts. It was more morning than night by now. He had only moments to get inside or he'd be sleeping on the garage floor next to his car, and there was nothing poetic about that.
The interior door closed behind him with a heavy thud, locks sliding home automatically. He walked directly to the security panel, rearming it with his thumbprint and a six digit code.
His Buffalo lair was in a small warehouse, fifty feet on a side and nearly three stories high, echoing in its emptiness and lit only by the green glow of the alarm panel's LED. This was his private place, a place even Krystof didn't know about. Raj might hate this city, but he came here far more often than the vampire lord was aware. He crossed the bare concrete floor to a short stairway running down below ground level. Ten steps, a turn and five more steps and there was another heavy door, another security panel. A different six digit code and the door cracked opened with a rush of warmer air.
Raj shouldered the vault-like hatch open, letting its own weight swing it shut behind him. There was light here, a dim, golden glow that rose up automatically to touch the otherwise dark furnishings and bring out the ruby depths of a burgundy carpet. The room was spacious, covering two thirds the square footage of the warehouse above. A huge custom-made bed dominated to the left, linens neatly tucked in by Raj himself the last time he spent the night here. To each side of the bed was a table of dark mahogany, and against the wall, a suede headboard the color of old blood. A matching sofa and two black leather chairs were situated to the right, next to a fully-stocked wet bar. Contrary to legend, vampires could both eat and drink, although they gained no nutrition from it and the food had little taste. Booze, on the other hand, tasted every bit as good as it always had. It might not have the same kick, but for a man born and raised in Poland, the taste of vodka was as natural as breathing. Which was another thing the legends got wrong; Raj was as alive and breathing as any human walking the streets in daylight. With a few very useful enhancements.
He would have enjoyed a shot of ice-cold vodka right about now. Unfortunately, getting to the small airport outside Manhattan had taken longer than it should have, and despite the short flight, the sun was already bursting over the horizon. He could feel the urgency of the coming day in every cell of his body. Eventually he would succumb to its effect—the legends got that part right—but he was old enough and strong enough to resist the fall into unconsciousness for a while. He deliberately took his time, checking the security panel and entering a final code to lock down both the warehouse above and this room. He was kicking off his boots when daylight finally began to suck away his awareness. With his last threads of consciousness, he stumbled to the bed, ripped off the rest of his clothes and pulled back the covers. The last thing he felt was the slide of crisp, clean sheets against his bare skin.
Sarah nodded her thanks to the barista as she grabbed her latte and eased her way through the caffeine starved morning crowd back outside the cafe. The cold air hit her like a wall after the heat inside, and she shivered slightly, pulling her coat closed with one hand, being careful not to spill the hot drink. The weather had been nice enough recently that the cafe had resurrected the umbrella tables from winter storage, and she dropped onto one of the cold, metal chairs, thankful for the heavy wool of her coat. She pulled out her copy of the local newspaper, The Buffalo News. It wasn't the New York Times, but if one wanted local news, this was the newspaper of record. And what Sarah was looking for was very much local news.
She sipped her drink and flipped open the paper, nearly choking when she saw the front page. She snapped the newspaper closed and sat back in her chair. Deliberately lifting her cup, she took a sip, and then another, watching the cars drive by on Elmwood, watching mothers with their babies in giant strollers maneuver through the door of the cafe to congregate in a far corner inside and trade stories of dirty diapers and sleepless nights. Her eyes wandered to a park across the street, where a swing set waited forlornly, its seats hanging empty on their heavy chains, one of them a baby's seat, its safety enclosure tilting unevenly, the chain kinked somewhere above.
The cold spring air stung her lungs as she drew a deep breath and put her cup down on the table, resting her hand on the folded paper for a moment, her eyes closed in resignation. She sighed and opened both her eyes and the paper.
The story was on the front page below the fold, along with a black and white photo of a pretty girl with curly black hair, a thin face and the smile of a child who knew she was loved. Sarah stared at that smile and wondered what it looked like by now.
Patricia Beverly Cowens, called Trish, the article said, eighteen and a first year student at the university. She'd attended a party on Sunday night, two nights ago, and hadn't been seen since. Sarah frowned and thought back. Her first dream had been nearly a week ago, long before Trish disappeared. She'd never known for sure, but she'd always believed her dreams happened in real time. And now, reading about Trish Cowens, she was sure of it. In her dream last night, Regina had—Sarah didn't even know what to call it. How do you describe being in someone else's head, someone else's nightmare? Regina had
remembered
hearing her abductor bring in someone new, a new victim, on what could easily have been Sunday.
Sarah fisted her hands against the desire to pound the table. If he had taken Trish, did that mean it was already too late for Regina?
Please,
she begged any gods who might be listening.
Please don't let Regina be dead.
She closed her eyes against a nearly overwhelming despair.
I can't do this,
she thought desperately.
Not again.
But she had to, didn't she? Because there was no one else. Feeling fate laughing over her shoulder, she picked up the paper again.
The Police Commissioner himself had presided over the press conference, which struck her as odd until she read further and discovered who Trish's father was. William Cowens, self-made billionaire, friend to presidents and movie stars. In a perverted way, she thought bitterly, it was lucky Trish was the latest victim. Not for Trish, of course, but for the others because Trish's father had the influence to make things happen. Sarah continued reading. As usual, the police were very circumspect in what information they released. Sarah had hoped for some mention of Regina, some confirmation that there were other women missing. But it wasn't there. So, maybe this was an isolated case. Maybe someone had kidnapped Trish for ransom, or even that hefty reward her daddy was offering. Maybe Sarah herself was seeing serial killers where they didn't exist and Regina was just a figment of her imagination, a function of too much stress and too little sleep. It was possible, wasn't it? She sighed. What did it mean when she didn't even believe her own rationalizations anymore?
She skimmed through the rest of the article, stuttering to a halt when she saw the name of Cowens's spokesman. She stared at the words, unable to believe what she was seeing. What were the chances? she wondered. Edward Blackwood. One of the few people who could connect Sarah Stratton to a young teenager from California, and he was here in Buffalo.
Not that Blackwood's presence was surprising, given William Cowens's net worth. Blackwood was a prodigious fund-raiser for Humanity Realized, which was the institute he'd founded for the announced purpose of facilitating the “achievement of full human potential,” whatever the hell that was. He'd been interested in Sarah once upon a time, had offered her parents a full college scholarship in exchange for her cooperation. Unfortunately for him, her parents didn't want his money. What they wanted, and what no one, not even Humanity Realized, could give them, was a normal daughter, one who didn't channel traumatized women in her sleep. Sarah only knew she didn't want to be anybody's lab rat, especially not Edward Blackwood's. And now he was here, just as her dreams were starting again.