Storm of Visions (30 page)

Because she didn’t want to ruin her figure.
That was what Jacqueline had always thought.

“She almost died, and she never was able to conceive again.”

Jacqueline didn’t believe him. She couldn’t believe him. “Hungary . . .”

“At the age of seventeen, she met one of Czajkowski’s guests, a wealthy, powerful man. She put herself into his bed, she used her arts to convince him to take her to the US, and when he begged, she married him.”

“For the money.”

“Of course for the money.” Caleb understood if she didn’t. “She needed the money to create the persona of Zusane. Glamorous Zusane, elegant Zusane, wealthy Zusane. Never again—poor, abused Zusane.”

No.
No
. “How do you know this?”

He placed a four-inch throwing knife into his boot. He slipped on a sports jacket, checked to make sure no bulge betrayed the pistol and holster. “I wanted to know the truth, so I followed the trail back to Ruyshvania.”

Caleb painted a different Zusane in her mind. Self-indulgent, yes. Spoiled, yes. Shallow ... yes, but because she couldn’t bear to plumb the depths of her pain.

“You said she adopted you because she wanted a clone. In its way, it’s true. She rescued you because she saw herself and she couldn’t bear to know another child would suffer as she had suffered.” Caleb was ruthless as he recited his facts. “She wasn’t a good mother. Motherhood is suffering for your child, and she never wanted to suffer again. But she loved you.”

“I know.” Jacqueline did know. She had always known.

He should have stopped talking. But apparently, he’d been waiting to say this for a long, long time. “You were constantly angry because your mother didn’t act like a mother; she acted like a diva. By making me your bodyguard, she acted in your best interests—because she was your mother.”

He was stubborn. So stubborn. Despite Jacqueline’s wishes, despite the danger, he was leaving her. Leaving her after he’d asked her to marry him, after she’d admitted she loved him. He didn’t love her, or he wouldn’t go. “Okay,” she said. “But are you sure she didn’t act in the best interests of the Gypsy Travel Agency? Because of the mark on my hand?”

He was dressed. He was ready to go. And he put his hands on his hips with an impatience so manifest, he made her pull the covers up to hide her body. “Are you ever going to grow up?”

He had showed her a view of herself she didn’t like, and despite her pleas, he had prepared for a battle from which he might never return. In a rage of shame and fear, she lashed out. “Maybe you
are
too old for me.”

“Maybe I am.” He slipped a second throwing knife up his sleeve. “But I’m still going to find the son of a bitch who tried to kill you and take care of him.”

In as nasty a tone as she could dredge up, she said, “Because my mother told you to.”

Leaning over her, he pinched her chin. “Because your mother told me to.”

She jerked her head away and watched him walk out of the room. She waited, wanting him to return so she could take it back, so she could explain she didn’t mean it.

Then the outer door slammed behind him—and she was alone.

He was gone. To his death? She didn’t need a vision, or words in her head, to understand the possible consequences of their acrimonious parting. She might never see him again.

He was gone . . . as her mother was gone.

The memory of yesterday’s catastrophe rolled over her again. The smoke, the fear, the screams . . . her mother’s calm face and her hand shoving Jacqueline out of the plane and into nothingness. The mere memory made Jacqueline’s heart pound and her lungs hurt, and finally, the grief that had haunted her like a ghost within her consciousness slammed into her with the force of a hurricane.

Her keen of sorrow was deep, wrenching, painful. She crumpled onto the bed, pressed her face into the pillow to muffle her sounds of anguish. She cried for Caleb. She cried for her dreams that had so briefly gleamed like gold and now crumbled into dust.

But mostly she cried for her mother.

She cried because Zusane was gone, and Jacqueline would never again see her come in, dripping with diamonds, glittering with sequins, all beauty and glamour. She’d never hear that rich, accented voice nagging her about finishing school and accepting her destiny. She would never have the chance to tell her how much she loved her laughter, the way she always saw the humor in herself. She couldn’t explain how much she admired Zusane’s generosity, giving away money and jewels with abandon to anyone in need.

As wave after wave of misery swept over Jacqueline, she pulled her knees to her chest and curled into the fetal position. She rocked back and forth, seeking relief from the sobs that ripped at her throat, from the pain that tore at her heart, but nothing could help her now.

When she was a child, she had adored Zusane’s glamour, missed her when she was gone, loved those special moments when Zusane told her about her visions and assured her that someday, she’d have visions, too.

Then she became a gawky adolescent, too tall and too blond, and Zusane became an embarrassment. Worse, in her secret heart of hearts, Jacqueline hated the comparisons between them. She had known she could never be as sensational, as enchanting, as exotic as Zusane.

Jacqueline had been jealous.

So she told Zusane she was a lousy mother. She told Zusane she disapproved of her husband-hunting and her mad partying. She told her she was superficial and silly.

As if any of that mattered, because Caleb was right. Mrs. D’Angelo was right. Zusane had saved Jacqueline, she had done her best to raise her, and all Jacqueline’s resentment was just crap.

In the end, Jacqueline knew the truth—Zusane had pushed her out of that plane to save her life, to save her from the devil himself. And Jacqueline knew, for that act of maternal defense, the devil had made sure Zusane suffered horribly, and died alone.

Oh, God. The torment was more than she could bear, because there was nothing to be done. Zusane was
dead
. Jacqueline was out of chances to tell her the most important thing. She could never tell her how much she loved her. “But I did, Mama,” she whispered into the pillow. “I did.”

Her own insecurity had hurt Zusane and chased Caleb away.

So what could she do?

She wasn’t dumb enough to follow Caleb. If the Others were out there, they would take her at once.

But she couldn’t lie here crying while he walked into danger. She’d already failed at her relationship with her mother. She would not do the same with him.

Zusane would tell her to sit up and stop crying.

So she did. She scrubbed at her face with a handful of tissues. She got off the bed and stood there, naked, unsteady, still hiccupping from the tears.

She thought hard, and she knew what she had to do.

No matter what the cost, no matter how much she feared the pain, she had to invite a vision.

She had to find out who had betrayed the Gypsy Travel Agency.

N
ever before had Caleb gone to Irving’s house prepared for an ambush, but he did so now. Two days ago, the explosion had ripped the Gypsy Travel Agency from its foundations. Yesterday, Jacqueline had had a vision and been attacked. Today . . . he was going to find out what snake lurked behind a mask of friendship.

He was pretty sure he already knew who it was, and if he was right, before long, the nasty little traitor would return—and finish the job he’d started two days ago.

Caleb rang the doorbell, and when McKenna opened the door, he walked right in.

“Good to see you again, sir.” McKenna tried to take his sport coat.

Caleb shook his head. “Anything happening?”

“It’s been quiet since you left.” McKenna peered out onto the street. “Miss Vargha is not with you?”

“No.” That was all the information he would give about her. “Has Samuel Faa returned?”

“If you had come a minute earlier, you would have met him on the doorstep. He said he was going to his room and then—” McKenna found he was talking to Caleb’s back, and gave a
humph
of disgust. “Young people. No manners.”

Caleb ran lightly toward the stairs, caught a movement by the library, and changed courses.

And there he was, Samuel Faa, standing in the shadows, looking in the well-lit library as if he couldn’t quite decide where to set his bomb. At the last minute, Samuel caught a glimpse of Caleb. But it was too late.

Grabbing his collar, Caleb slammed him against the wall. “You son of a bitch. I can’t believe you had the guts to come back here. You tried to kill Jacqueline.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Samuel twisted, freed himself, and thumped Caleb against the opposite wall. “I never hurt your girlfriend.”

Caleb jumped at him and grabbed again, and this time when Samuel feinted, Caleb grabbed his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, and spoke in his ear. “You went up to the attic where she was having that vision and smashed her with the crystal ball.”

Samuel stood very, very still, but his voice was dark and pissed off. “Why the hell would I bother to do that? I control minds. If I’d wanted to hurt her, I would have had her fling herself down the stairs.”

“Likely story.” Caleb was right about this.

“It’s what I do,” Samuel said. “It’s my gift and I’m goddamned good with it. Ask Irving or Martha if you’re in doubt. Hell, ask my clients. It’s the reason I’m such a highly paid lawyer.”

“Not ethical, but highly paid.”

“I’m ethical when the occasion calls for it. When I know my client is innocent while their client is guilty as hell.” Samuel muttered as if he wanted to keep it quiet. “I’ve got a thing about not letting murderers go free.”

Was Samuel messing with Caleb’s mind right now? Because Samuel had implanted doubt, enough doubt that Caleb loosened his grip.

“Mind control is the reason I got my ass convicted of improper practice.” Bitterly, Samuel added, “That damned judge . . . I’d like to know how he knew.”

Yet Caleb had been trained by the Gypsy Travel Agency to detect the presence of someone else poking around in his thoughts, and right now, he was pretty sure he was alone in his brain. “If the Gypsy Travel Agency wanted you, they probably helped him figure it out. They weren’t immune to a few unethical practices themselves.”

“I wondered. Those
bastards
.”

All right. Samuel really wasn’t bothering to mess with Caleb. He was too caught up in his own resentment. “Why did you leave the house yesterday?”

“Because I am fucking tired of sitting around doing nothing but being cautious and talking about what we should do. I went out there and
did
something.”

“What?”

“Let go of my arm and I’ll tell you.”

“Why don’t I tighten my grip and you’ll sing every word?”

Samuel struggled and snarled like a tiger with his tail in a trap. “You really think you’re in charge here, don’t you?”

“No.” Caleb ratcheted up Samuel’s pain by a few degrees. “But I think I’m in charge of making sure Jacqueline is safe, and I hate knowing I’ve done a bad job.”

Samuel gave up, stood very still, and recited the facts. “I made contact with one of my lawyer friends who’s into investment properties in New York City. I told him I wanted to buy the site where the Gypsy Travel Agency had stood, and asked him who the heirs were.”

Good idea.
Astonished, Caleb let him go. “What was the answer?”

Samuel straightened his tie and turned to face him. “Right now they’ve got no bodies, because the bomb—which the bomb squad is saying must be a gas leak and the fire department is saying must be a new kind of explosive—vaporized everything inside and outside the building. But the list of beneficiaries goes on forever, and there are only two my buddy knows are alive. One is that guy in a coma, Gary White. The other . . . is Irving.”

“Irving? Is the heir? I don’t want to hear that.”

“Look. I don’t care about Irving one way or the other—I haven’t known him long enough—but it doesn’t make sense that he would do it. The first thing the lawyers have to do is provide death certificates for everyone who is in front of Irving on the beneficiary list, and unless the old man has discovered the Fountain of Youth—and with these people, I’m not saying that’s impossible—he’s going to be dead long before he comes into the inheritance.” Samuel had obviously considered all the angles.

Coldly, Caleb turned over the possibility in his mind. “I’ve questioned Irving’s morals”—today, in fact—“and I know sometimes guys have to have more, whether it makes sense or not.”

“I’m a lawyer. No one knows that better than me. But Irving hasn’t got any heirs, and he doesn’t seem to be banging anyone, so who would it be for?”

“Who, indeed?” Irving stepped out of the shadows at the end of the corridor. “No, gentlemen, I’m not your man. But I’m willing to bet Samuel got the list of beneficiaries out of his friend.”