Retribution (21 page)

Authors: Jeanne C. Stein

Tags: #Fantasy

BOOK: Retribution

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My head aches.

One hundred test subjects. Three dead. In all the confusion, I’d forgotten to ask Williams if he’d seen the coroner’s reports. Maybe when I get back, I’ll call him.

Maybe.

If Culebra dies, I won’t really care what killed them.

The before-and-after shots of the three dead women flash through my brain like a slide show. The transformation was incredible. Vampire blood had that effect? I wonder if they’d have been as happy with the results if they’d known the price those young girls paid for their vanity. Twelve vampires dead. Would they have cared?

I mentally sift through everything I found in Burke’s file—insurance forms, utility bills—there was something else, wasn’t there?

I slam into reverse, forcing the guy behind me to back up. He’s yelling and waving a fist at me, but I keep at him, pushing him back until I have room to make the U-turn.

When I pull out of line, I give him my sweetest smile and wave farewell.

I remember what else was in Burke’s file. There was a telephone number. No name. No address. Just a number.

I’m driving with one hand on the wheel, the other rummaging through my purse.

Where is that damned cell phone?

My fingers finally close around it. I let the number float to the surface of my consciousness and punch it in. It rings once, twice, ten times. No answer. No machine.

Shit.

The next call I make is to Williams. I catch him on his way back to Brooke’s.

“I just remembered something that was in Burke’s personal file. Can you do a reverse search on a telephone number?” I ask. “Get me a name and an address?”

He doesn’t question the request, just says, “What is it?”

I recite the number. “Will you call me as soon as you have the information?”

“Hang on.” The line goes silent as he puts me on hold for nearly a minute. I’m starting to get angry when he clicks back on.

“It’s a Denver number. Meet me at the airport.”

“The airport? Why? Is it listed to Burke?”

“Just meet me there.” Williams rings off.

A Denver number?

If it’s a Denver number, maybe I’m wrong about its significance. Maybe it doesn’t belong to Burke.

Maybe I’m wrong again.

I get back on the freeway and head west. Why would Williams want to meet me at the airport? He must have a reason. What isn’t he telling me?

I call Frey’s cell next.

The sound of his voice sends a tremor through me.

“My God, you sound terrible.”

He manages a laugh. “You should see the way I look. Anna, where are you?”

I tell him, putting as much hopefulness as I can into a new development that may prove worthless.

He listens. Then he says, “Better make it fast. I’ve got maybe twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours? Until what?”

Frey coughs once. Clears his throat. “Until I end up like Culebra. Or worse.”

CHAPTER 38

T
HE SAN DIEGO AIRPORT IS SMALL BY COMPARISON to other international airports. It does, however, have three terminals. I realize when I pull into the first that I three terminals. I realize when I pull into the first that I didn’t ask Williams where he would be.

When he picks up the call, I hear the whine of jet engines in stereo.

“Which terminal?”

“Where are you now?” he counters.

“In front of the commuter terminal.”

“You’ll have to get back to Pacific Coast Highway. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear in our last conversation. I’ll meet you at Jimsair. The private terminal. Do you know where it is?”

I tell him that I do and ring off.

The private terminal? What is he doing there?

I park the Jag in the lot off Pacific Coast Highway and head for the terminal in back. Williams is waiting for me in the lounge. Unlike commercial terminals, there are no ticket counters or security checkpoints here. Just some comfortable chairs spaced around low tables. There is one person behind an information counter. He looks up and smiles when I come in, but turns away when Williams steps up to meet me. Through big plate-glass windows, I see a dozen private planes of various sizes and descriptions parked on the tarmac.

“What are we doing here?”

Williams leads me over to the corner, glancing back to the guy behind the desk. He has a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Before I give you this, I want you to agree to something. If Belinda Burke is at this address, you are to call me immediately. Don’t go after her yourself.”

He’s whispering. Afraid of being overheard? The logical question then is,
Why are you speaking to me out loud?

“Not important. Just promise me.”

I can’t get anything out of him psychically, either. “Okay. I promise. Where is she?”

He holds out the paper. “The number was traced to this address. It’s listed to a Sophie Deveraux in Denver.”

“Deveraux?” My insides churn with the sick feeling I’m chasing another dead end. “Not Burke? What makes you think there’s any connection?”

“There might not be,” he admits. “But I checked with one of the witches at headquarters. She says Burke has a sister. One who was active in the community until she dropped out of sight a few months ago. Her first name was Sophie. I’ve been calling the number for the last hour and there’s still no answer. I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase.”

For the first time in three days, though, I feel a flutter of optimism. If this Sophie isn’t Burke’s sister, why would her number be in her personal file? It’s a place to start. Shit. It’s the only new lead I’ve got.

Impatiently, I wave a hand. “What are we doing here? I should be on the other side, arranging a flight.”

Williams raises a hand of his own. “That’s being taken care of.”

He looks toward the tarmac outside where a ground crew is bustling around one of the jets. His expression is conflicted. He’s trying to hide it, but the truth is there in the frown, the set of his jaw, the feelings he thinks he’s suppressed. He wants to come with me. Brooke is the reason he’s not.

“How is Brooke?”

He shrugs. “She’s coping. She’s very young. I think things will be better after the funeral.”

His voice drops off. He’s not looking at me but watching what’s going on outside.

I follow his gaze. The crew seems to have finished their preflight preparation. One of them signals to Williams. He nods and gestures me toward the door. “Go. I’ll have someone waiting for you when you land. He’s one of us and he’s lived in Denver for a hundred years. He’ll get you where you need to go.”

I glance out of the window. “In that? How did you arrange it?”

His answer is to walk me out onto the tarmac, toward a jet whose engines have roared into life. He acts like the noise is preventing him from answering, like we have only one mode of communication.

He’s avoiding the question.

The plane we approach is a Learjet. Not so small now that I’m standing beside it. The cabin door opens and a man at the top of a short flight of stairs beckons me on board.

Williams makes a “go along” gesture and mouths, “Safe trip.”

But just as I start to walk away, he lays a hand on my arm. Not a tight grip, just a restraining one.
Remember, I want Burke. Don’t cross me on this, Anna. I have a score to settle now, too.

His eyes are hard, threatening.

That’s the Williams I’m used to. I shrug out of his grasp and climb up the stairs. When I turn around at the door, Williams is already gone.

The guy who greeted me introduces himself as the pilot. He’s about fifty, tall, well built, gray-haired. He’s wearing a typical pilot’s uniform—but his coat and cap each carry an emblem I don’t recognize. Maybe a coat of arms. His name badge reads “Tom Lawson.” He has an air of quiet competence and he’s human. He instructs me in a few safety measures and disappears into the cockpit. The whine of engines gets louder. I settle into my seat, buckle in and look around.

I’ve never been in a private jet. Six big, oversized seats in beige leather occupy the main cabin with a bar stretching along the back. Thick carpeting underfoot. Luxurious. To the right of the bar is a closed door. Bathroom maybe?

The jet crouches on the runway, waiting for our turn to take off. After a few minutes, another guy appears in the doorway, wearing the same uniform. He looks to be midthirties, shorter than Tom, with dark hair and eyes. He holds out a hand.

“Sorry for the delay, Ms. Strong. I’m Jeff Shelby, the co-pilot. The captain sent me back to let you know we should be on our way in ten minutes.”

We shake hands and he turns to go.

“Wait a minute. I’m curious, does this plane belong to Mr. Williams?”

He turns back, a puzzled frown on his face. “I don’t understand. This used to be Dr. Avery’s plane. Mr. Williams said it belongs to you now.”

A snicker. “Of course it does.”

But Shelby is not smiling.

The jet belongs to me? Why am I surprised? Just another of Avery’s toys. No wonder Williams disappeared so quickly. He wanted to be out of meltdown range when I found out.

“Is there anything else?”

I shake my head and he withdraws into the cockpit. I settle my head back on the seat.

Since becoming vampire, Avery has been a constant intrusion in my life. Every time I think I’ve divested myself of his damned legacy, something else turns up. But the truth is, at this moment, I’m happy to have the plane. The sooner I get to Denver and track down this—I dig the paper out of my jacket and look for the name—this Sophie Deveraux—the sooner I can come back and help Culebra and Frey.

A voice crackles over the intercom. “We’re up next, Ms. Strong. We’ll be in the air in about five minutes. Flight time to Denver is estimated two hours and thirty minutes. Sit back, buckle up and enjoy the ride.”

The plane rolls into takeoff position. I watch through the window, dread churning my stomach.

Enjoy the ride?

Not with only twenty-four hours to save my friends.

CHAPTER 39

A
SMALL JET LEAPS RATHER THAN LUMBERS INTO the sky. It’s a strange feeling. I watch the earth and sea fade away through a break in the clouds as the plane banks to the east. Then we’re swallowed up once more and banks to the east. Then we’re swallowed up once more and all I see is a blanket of white. In another few minutes we’re above the clouds and the sky is flawless and brilliant.

The intercom buzzes to life. “We’re at cruising altitude, Ms. Strong. Feel free to move about the cabin. There is water and liquor in the bar. If you need anything else, press the button on your armrest and we’ll be back to assist you. We’ll let you know when we’re fifteen minutes out of Denver.”

A click and I’m left to my own devices.

May as well explore. I head for the bar. It’s fully stocked all right, with high-end liquor and several good imported beers. There’s also a wine rack. I pull out a bottle. The label bears the same coat of arms as the patch on “my” crew’s uniforms. It’s Avery’s coat of arms. Here, too, on the label of the bottles from the winery my family “inherited.”

I push the bottle back onto the rack. I’m not ready to let that genie out of its elegant cabernet decanter.

It’s interesting that the pilot mentioned water and liquor in the bar but nothing about food. And there isn’t any. Not even a bag of peanuts. I guess any pilot of Avery’s would know his boss wasn’t human. After all, his housekeeper at the mansion had been a host. Maybe the two at the control are, too. Makes me wonder if I buzz, how much assistance they’re willing to give.

I open the door at the back of the cabin. There’s a bathroom, with shower, along with a small bedroom with queen-sized bed, built-in credenza and closet. There’s even a vanity, although instead of a mirror, an oil painting hangs in a recessed alcove. Like the bar, everything is made out of a fine-grained, honey-hued wood. Teak? It reminds me of something you’d find in a luxury yacht.

Maybe I own one of those, too.

I eye the bed, thinking perhaps I should stretch out on that silk damask spread and close my eyes.

How many women did Avery have in that bed?

Does Avery’s smell still cling to the bedclothes?

The thought propels me back into the main cabin. I close the door behind me.

I’ve just settled into my seat when Shelby reappears. He points to a telephone on the console. “Mr. Williams is calling.”

He waits for me to pick up before returning to the cockpit.

“Hello?”

Williams doesn’t speak right away. Waiting for me to yell at him, I suppose.