Secret Worlds (512 page)

“I can see their fear, can smell it and taste it, and that excites me. They’re so weak and slow, it’s so easy to catch them, but I enjoy the chase so I let them think they have a chance of getting away. It makes the meat so much sweeter,” I said, choking on the words, horrified by the hunger in my voice. “It’s disgusting, but this other part of me, this dark part of me…it’s thrilled by the hunt and their fear.”

“Isn’t that how it is to be a were?”

“A little,” I admitted. “But this is different somehow. It doesn’t feel the same. It doesn’t feel like
my
wolf. This feels so much more dangerous.”

“Maybe it’s the stress of knowing Samson is out there,” he tried to reason, the crease between his brows hinting at his doubt.

“I had the first dream before you and Johnson showed up at my house.”

An incredulous look flowed across his face as he rose from the bed and started to pace back and forth in front of the window.

“There’s more...” I murmured, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

Stopping mid-step, Holbrook turned to face me. “What?”

“The pictures I saw—the ones from the file on your desk—I think I’ve seen them before.”

“That’s impossible.”

“And yet here we are,” I offered with a sigh.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“I thought they were just bad dreams,” I shrugged. “Now I’m not so sure. It’s all a bit hazy. The details get hazier the longer it’s been since I had the dream, but the victims that they’re showing on the news? I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen them before. All of them. How can that even be possible?”

Holbrook stopped pacing and turned to face me, silhouetted by the wan light filtering through the nearly transparent curtains. Rubbing a hand along the stubble covered edge of his jaw he let out a heavy sigh.

“Well, this changes things.”

HOLBROOK’S STEPS WERE swift as we approached the Medical Examiner’s office, the morning sunshine doing little to erase the chill from the wind skittering down the street. It had taken some finagling, and a lot of phone calls, but eventually he had gotten the all-clear to let me visit the morgue once we had agreed to take a contingent of agents with us.

No doubt we looked like some kind of strange parade with Collins and Hill trailing behind us in their matching black suits, but I was just glad to finally be doing something. The long, squat, red brick building took up a full block, appearing like some slumbering beast surrounded by winter bare trees. A weather-beaten green awning covered the steps leading up to the door. Stopping so fast that I almost walked into him, Holbrook spun on his heel to glance down at me.

“Is there any way I can make you change your mind?” he asked for what must have been the hundredth time since we had left the hotel.

“Not a chance in hell,” I replied, smiling wide.

“Come on then,” he said with a sigh, opening the door and ushering me through.

A wall of hot air blasted me in the face as soon as I stepped inside, almost knocking me back on my heels. Sweat instantly broke out on my forehead beneath my woolen hat. Snatching it off my head, I stuffed it into my jacket pocket and fell into step behind Holbrook as he strode through the lobby towards the reception desk with an authoritative air.

Consisting of little more than a wide curved desk and a couple of uncomfortable looking bright orange chairs, the reception area was sparsely decorated with a potted plant that looked like it had seen better days, and a bulletin board behind a dusty pane of glass. The overall atmosphere was one of neglect and apathy. It was, quite frankly, more than a little depressing.

You’d think they’d want to brighten the place up a little.

The woman behind the desk fit right in with the decor. Dull, steel-colored hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and teal cats-eye glasses perched on the end of a long hawkish nose. A brass plaque proclaiming her name was Mildred Smythe, completed the caricature of a shrewd and disapproving librarian. A shudder ran through me as I was reminded of my high school librarian who had skulked through the shelves with a perpetual scowl as if the students were intruding upon the sanctity of her domain.

“Can I help you?” Mildred asked, her nasal voice making the muscles in my shoulders bunch. Catching the glint of a wedding band, I hoped for her husband’s sake that he was deaf as a post.

Presenting his badge, Holbrook replied, “We’re here to see Dr. Cole.”

Leaning forward, peering over the rim of her glasses, she plucked the credentials from his hand, while clucking her tongue against her teeth. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but the Doctor is expecting us.”

“I’m afraid Dr. Cole is very busy today,” she said, inspecting Holbrook’s badge as if the mere weight of it in her hand would verify its validity.

“I’m sure she would be happy to fit us in,” Holbrook replied with his usual unflappable charm.

For a moment I thought she would continue to corpse-block us. Pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with one gnarled finger, she looked at Holbrook and then me, her face puckering as her eyes swept over me.

Guess I don’t measure up

Answering her disapproving gaze, I bared my teeth in a mirthless smile and felt the wolf chuff in laughter as Mildred paled and scrambled for the phone, almost dropping it in her haste. With a single tangerine colored nail she dialed and waited as the line rang, purposely avoiding looking in my direction.

Serves you right, you old bat.

With my enhanced hearing it was easy to pick up the even-toned feminine voice that answered. “Dr. Cole here.”

“Dr. Cole, its Mildred. There’s a Special Agent Holbrook and his…
associate
…here to see you. They don’t have an appointment,” Mildred said, feeling brave enough to throw a sour look my way. The sigh that crackled through the phone receiver was one of beleaguered patience.

“Please tell Special Agent Holbrook I will be up in a moment.”

“But—” Mildred started to protest even as the click of Dr. Cole ending the call echoed in the receiver.

***

Dr. Lillian Cole was nothing like what had I envisioned for the Chief Medical Examiner of Denver County. Like many people, I’d always assumed that anyone who preferred the company of the dead had to be a social misfit, awkward, and more than a little creepy. The statuesque woman that strode through the lobby in bright red heels to greet us was the polar opposite of what I expected.

She was a striking woman with high, rounded cheekbones that tapered down to a full mouth, and possessed the agelessness of many African Americans I had met. A few small creases around her eyes and a sparse smattering of grey in her closely cropped hair the only indication that she might be closer to fifty than thirty.

She smiled, extending a long fingered hand towards Holbrook, her nails painted the same daring shade as her shoes.

“Agent Holbrook?” she asked, her voice like warm velvet against my ears. “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she added, glancing at Mildred who hunched over behind her desk and refused to look in our direction.

“Yes,” Holbrook answered, stepping forward to shake her hand. “And this is—”

“Ms. Cray,” she cut in, shifting her inscrutable attention to me. “Yes, I know who you are.”

“How?” I asked, letting my in-drawn breath roll across my tongue, scenting the air. All I could detect was the subtle fragrance of her expensive perfume and a hint of disinfectant. She was wholly human, which was almost a relief, but didn’t explain how she knew who I was.

“You can’t watch the news for more than five minutes without seeing your face.” I didn’t like the boldness of her statement, but I couldn’t exactly argue with it.

“That’s true I guess,” I agreed with a shrug as I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, fighting to keep the bite out of my voice.

That bitch, Chrismer. One of these days she’s going to pay for making me a damn household name.

“Oh! I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m not known for my people skills,” she said. “I suppose that’s why I chose to keep company with the dead rather than the living. It’s a bit harder to offend
them
.”

“Its fine,” I lied, offering up a strained smile and forcing some of the tension out of my shoulders.

It wasn’t fair to be pissed off at Dr. Cole for simply stating the truth, and yet it galled me to be reminded of that ugly truth. I resented the fact that Samson’s fugitive status had brought the media spotlight pointing back in my direction, and yet again I longed for the simple, quiet life I had once known. The irony of it all was a bitter pill to swallow.

“I can have someone fetch you some coffee, Ms. Cray. Or you’re welcome to wait in my office if that would be more comfortable,” she said, managing to regain some of her previous calm, though her cheeks remained high with color.

“Oh no, Doctor, she’s coming with us.” Holbrook said, his smile friendly enough while the tone of his voice left no doubt that his mind was made up.

“That’s highly unorthodox, Agent. I’m afraid that only law enforcement and next of kin are permitted to view the deceased.”

And here I thought his disarming smile was kryptonite to the elastic in women’s underwear the world over.

“I’m law enforcement, and she’s with me.”

“I really don’t think—” she continued to protest.

“I’ll take the rap for this if it comes down to that, Doctor,” Holbrook assured her, sealing the deal with one of his trademark 10,000 kilowatt smiles. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Very well,” Dr. Cole agreed, though the furrow in her brow said she wasn’t entirely sure why she was capitulating. “Right this way.”

Aw, nice try Doc, but no one is immune to that smile. Better luck next time.

“You guys can wait here,” Holbrook said to the other agents, who nodded and settled themselves into the hideous orange chairs, their expressions as emotionless as ever.

Holbrook and I fell into step behind Dr. Cole, following the sharp clack of her blood red heels through a maze of hallways and short stairways that led down into the bowels of the building. The air grew cold and musty the further down we went, sending a shudder down my spine. There were some places—such as morgues and cemeteries—that reminded us there were things that dwell in the dark and damp places. Even though I was one of the monsters now, I was not immune to that instinctual fear of the dark.

The astringent smell of disinfectant assaulted my nose before we reached the exam room, making my stomach roil. Hesitation rang in my slowing steps, buzzing in the stiffness growing in my spine. I wasn’t sure that I was ready to see the evidence of Samson’s handiwork in person, but then again, when would anyone ever be ready for something like that?

“You okay?” Holbrook asked, the tender brush of his fingers along the back of my arm sending a wave of reassurance through me.

“Would you believe me if I said yes?” I asked with a wry curve of my lips.

“No,” he replied, mirroring my smile. Pausing, he caught my wrist, making me stop and face him. “You don’t have to do this. No one is asking you to.”

“Yes, I do. I have to know what’s happening. I need to know if these dreams, visions, whatever the hell they are, are somehow a link to Samson, or if I’m just going insane. If there’s even some small chance that this could help you catch that crazy bastard, it’s reason enough.”

For a moment Holbrook looked like he was going to argue the matter, perhaps even walk me back out to the SUV himself and lock me inside, but then his shoulders slumped just a little and his lips spread in a thin smile. It was an expression I was all too familiar with, my grandfather had worn it often whenever he inevitably gave in to my grandmother’s wishes, no matter how much he was against them.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?”

“As a mule,” I replied, grinning.

Looking ahead, I saw Dr. Cole waiting at the end of the hallway in front of a large set of doors, the garish fluorescent lighting overhead gleaming on the brushed metal, distorting her reflection.

“Everything all right?” she asked as we approached, my steps still echoing with hesitancy.

“Fine,” Holbrook and I chimed in tandem, though neither one of us sounded very sure of our answer.

Quirking an eyebrow at our response, Dr. Cole moved to push open the door, and then paused. Turning to look at me she asked, “You’re not a fainter are you?”

“Umm…no?” I replied. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Good. The last civilian I had in here was a fainter. Cracked his head on the floor. Blood everywhere. It was a damn mess.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

The scent of disinfectant was almost overpowering in the exam room. The smell seemed to crawl up my nose and camp somewhere in the back of my throat, coating my tongue with an oily film that made me want to take a scrub brush to it. And maybe a gallon of mouthwash.

The body laid out on the slab was a portrait of brutality painted in shades of deathly grey and brilliant slashes of red where someone had torn his skin to ribbons. I’d seen enough episodes of
CSI
to know that the dark red and purple bruises marking the underside of his body were from the blood pooling during rigor mortis. Savage lacerations had turned his face into a bloody ruin, exposing the stark gleam of bone and muscle beneath. Dread settled, cold and heavy, in my stomach at the sight of him. Even through the bloody mess of his face I could recognize him from my dream. Dreams, visions, whatever they were: I had some kind of link with Samson.

Bile rose up the back of my throat, bitter and acidic on my tongue, before I could force it back down with an audible gag.

“If you’re going to vomit, please try to get it in the trash can,” Dr. Cole said, gesturing across the room.

Shaking my head, I swallowed again and said, “Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”

I’d witnessed the inevitable end for us all more times than I cared to count. I’d even seen images of Samson’s savagery before, but bearing witness to it in person was different. The young man who lay cold and broken before me was a stranger, and yet I felt a kind of twisted kinship to him. That could have been my body on the slab eight years ago; it could have been my grandmother standing in my place, looking down at the atrocity Samson had wrought.