Touch of Madness (33 page)

“Thanks Celeste, I appreciate that.”

I heard Ramon pick up the other extension. “Kate, sweetheart! It’s so good to hear from you. No doubt Celeste has told you how happy we are about Bryan.”

“Yes, she has, thank you.”

“To what do we owe this honor?”

I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I’ve always hated cold calls, and I wasn’t positive that Ramon wasn’t going to be pissed at me for what I’d charged him for serving papers on Celeste. I’d been ticked off at him, and charged him ten grand for a ten minute job. I felt like a heel spending the money, and couldn’t afford to repay him the difference. But whether or not I was back in his good graces was another thing entirely.

“Well, I’m fit to go back to work, so I thought I’d give you a call and see if you had anything for me.” The words came out a little rushed, but at least I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.

“I hope you don’t intend to charge me as much as you did last time.” Ramon’s tone made it a joke—sort of. I could tell he was definitely not over being angry with me.

“Ramon!” Celeste scolded her husband.

“Kate knows I’m teasing, darling.” He tried to placate her. I knew no such thing.

“It’s Kate that saved me from those…things, Ramon.”

“And for that I am forever in her debt.” Ramon said suavely, and I had no doubt he bowed to her over the railing. They kept offices on different floors of their shop, even after they reunited, for reasons unknown to me. “And while we have been using someone else lately, I haven’t really been that happy with their level of service.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Darling, what about the Anderson statue?” Celeste was pushing him.

There was a long pause as Ramon considered his options. I had no idea what the Anderson statue was, but I wanted the job.

“Fine.” He agreed, but he didn’t sound entirely happy about it. “We have acquired a statue through the Anderson estate. Quite beautiful, really. We’re having it auctioned at Christie’s in London. Will Friday work for you? I assume you’ll want to make your own flight arrangements.”

I let out a breath that sounded just a bit like a squeak of delight. “Friday will be fine.”

“We’ll give you your usual fee. The man we’ve been using is a bit cheaper—” he let the phrase dangle for a few seconds, no doubt hoping that I would offer to reduce my rate. When I didn’t bite he sighed and continued. “But, as I say, we haven’t been entirely happy with him.”

We chatted for a few more minutes before ending the conversation. I took a break to eat, then came back to the phone and the next number on my call list.

I wanted to call Gerry Friedman, but it was too late because of the time difference. So I skipped his name and moved further down the list.

It took longer than I expected, but the results were gratifying. People had actually missed me. There was work to be had. Hallelujah!

At four thirty I stopped calling. I stood, stretching to relieve my stiff muscles. After a quick dinner of frozen pizza I sat down at Tom’s computer and went to work designing a business flyer.

I was completely immersed in the project, to the point where I was startled to look up at the clock and find it was already 10:00 P.M. I decided to finish the project in the morning and went upstairs for a hot bath before bed. The sheets still smelled of Tom’s cologne and I snuggled against his pillow as I drifted off to sleep, warm and cozy. The small wood-frame house was painted pale yellow. It had green shutters and bright white trim. A white picket fence enclosed the backyard. There was a flower bed along the fence. The bare stalks of rose bushes climbed upward, stark and black against the white of the pickets, made darker by the long shadows cast in the moonlight.

The moon rode high in a sky scattered with wispy clouds. There were stars, but only the brightest of them shone down. Every window in the neighborhood was dark. Only the occasional front porch light had been left on. Behind the picket fence a dog started barking. I could tell it was a big dog. It had one of those deep, resonant, no-nonsense barks that makes you pause and worry about the amount of damage a dog that size can do. It was angry, frightened at the scent of something I could sense but couldn’t see. The barks grew more frantic.

A light came on in one corner of the house. I could hear a man grumbling about “checking on the damned dog.” He stumbled toward the back door. The back porch light came on. Through the screen door I heard him call “What is it, Brutus? What’s the matter boy?”

I knew that voice! Knew the face behind the screen door. It was Brooks standing there in a white tee-shirt and boxers. I scanned the area, looking for the source of the dog’s barking. She was here, somewhere. I knew it, and I knew who it was.

“What’s wrong, John?” A woman’s voice called from the house.

“Doesn’t look like anything’s wrong.”

“Well he doesn’t just bark over nothing. You’d better let him in before he wakes the neighbors.”

Brooks grumbled, but opened the screen door. As he bent down to unhook the dog’s chain there was a blur of movement, too fast for the eye to follow. A dark shape slammed into Brooks, driving him to the sidewalk with an impact that drove the breath from his lungs and smashed his head against the concrete.

Brutus the Rottweiler attacked, his full bulk lunging at the person riding his master’s body, fangs bared to tear out the intruder’s throat. The swing of a gloved fist sent the dog flying. His impact against the garage was loud enough that lights began coming on all over the neighborhood.

The dog rose painfully to its feet. Growling, it struggled to drag itself forward, using only its front legs. A woman came to the doorway. She wore a flimsy red silk robe with nothing under it. She was beautiful, fierce, and proud. She held her husband’s gun in a teacup grip the way he had taught her and took aim…

I woke with a jerk, sending Blank leaping from the bed with a startled meow. Rolling onto my side, I checked the clock on the nightstand. It was only 1:00 A.M. I groaned and tried to focus. What had I just dreamed about that had my heart racing so fast? Was it another nightmare? It seemed desperately important…like there was something I needed to do right away, but the details were just…gone. Damn it, I needed to sleep. These nightmares had to stop before I was too exhausted to handle another day.

I climbed from beneath the covers and padded over to the bathroom. If Tom found out what I was about to do he’d raise holy hell with me. But I was desperate and not stupid enough to tell him. I opened the medicine chest and pulled out the bottle of muscle relaxants that had been prescribed for my shoulder. I didn’t need them for the pain any more, but I recalled that I’d slept like a dead thing every time I’d taken one. I poured a single pill into my palm and popped it into my mouth. I washed it down with water from the sink held in my cupped palm. I dried my hands on the hand towel, crossed back to the bed, and curled up beneath the covers next to where the cat had snuggled into the warm spot I’d vacated. Within minutes I fell into a deep, sound, sleep. I woke at 9:00 A.M. feeling utterly refreshed. I bounded downstairs to feed the cat and call Gerry Friedman. I knew their offices in Tel Aviv were closed, so I left a message, telling him I was back in business and asking him to call. That done, I sat down to finish work on the flyer and mailing list. When I finally had them printing I climbed back upstairs and pulled out a set of sweats and sports bra. I wanted coffee. Not coffeemaker coffee, either: the good stuff. I brushed my teeth, pulled my hair into a tight pony-tail, wrapped my knee, and pulled on the exercise gear. In just less than ten minutes I was jogging up Seventeenth Street, my breath fogging in the chill morning air, my shoes beating a steady rhythm on the concrete sidewalk.

There’s a Starbucks on the first floor of one of the office towers on Seventeenth. It does a booming business pretty much all day long. I waited in line behind a bunch of executive types and one or two bicycle couriers. When I finally got to the front of the line I ordered the biggest cup of heaven I could get my hands on, along with a double-fudge brownie with walnuts baked in.

I took a seat on a stool next to the long counter that ran along the far wall. I stared out the window, entertaining myself by people-watching as I sipped my coffee and ate breakfast. A familiar green Hummer pulled to the curb across the street and Lewis Carlton unfolded from the driver’s side.

He was wearing glossy black warm-up pants with a pair of red stripes down the side and a dark red fishnet tank that showed off an upper body that was finely chiseled and covered with expensive body art. A gold ring glittered in his left nipple, clearly visible through the sheer fabric of his shirt. Gold-rimmed sunglasses with dark lenses hid his eyes. If he was cold, I couldn’t tell it. He jaywalked across Seventeenth, ignoring the honking horns and accompanying hand gestures from drivers who’d been trying to run the yellow light.

He strolled into the store, taking his place in line. Everyone stared. It was almost impossible not to. Whatever else you might say about him, the man had style. He chatted amiably with the people in line, accepting the adoration of the sports fans, signing his autograph on cups, napkins, even on one woman’s abdomen. He nodded a greeting at me. I nodded back, not really even tempted to leave.

Eventually he managed to get his coffee and break away from his fans to join me. “Mornin’, Buffy. How’s tricks?”

He lowered himself onto the stool next to me, facing in so that he could stretch his ridiculously long legs out into the aisle.

I smiled in spite of myself. “Fine, Carlton. You?”

“Not bad. Gotta give you props for offing Amanda Shea. I didn’t think you’d be able to do it.” He lifted his coffee cup in salute before taking a sip.

“Tom did most of it.” I didn’t say more because, while it appeared that there wouldn’t be charges pressed against either of us, I didn’t want to risk it. Besides, people were listening. They were trying to pretend they weren’t, but the guy with the newspaper was holding the silly thing upside-down, and the woman with the book hadn’t turned a page since Carlton walked in.

Carlton nodded as he sipped his coffee. “Fido’s all right. He’s good for you.” He grinned, flashing fangs. “Mind you, I’d be better. But he’s all right.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

He laughed. “You’d do it, too.” He took off his sunglasses and hooked them into the neck of his shirt. When he set the cup on the counter, his face was utterly serious. “You can’t do any more healings, Buffy. I don’t care how guilty they make you feel or how much money they offer.”

“Funny, my doctor says the same thing.” With everything that had been going on, I’d forgotten all about the MRI scheduled this week. Oh, and then there was the interview. My stomach tied itself in a knot just thinking about that.

“It’ll kill you.” Carlton’s words brought me back to the present with a start. “Hell, it was supposed to kill you to heal your brother. That, or leave you a mindless shell. That was sort of the plan—hook you in with the promise of it and then let you do yourself in. Without a symbiont, the human brain isn’t wired to handle that much psychic energy.” He shook his head in amazement. “You are one stubborn bitch. You just won’t die. Do you have any idea how much that pisses them off?”

“Them? Not you? They’re not listening in right now?”

He put his cup to his lips. Taking a long pull he looked at me over the rim of his cup before he spoke. “You hear any buzzing in here? Nah. You’re all right. From what I can see, when we leave you alone, you leave us alone. Only time you ever went out lookin’ for trouble was when they took that boyfriend of yours…what’s-his-name.”

“Dylan Shea,” I prompted him. I watched him react to the name, just a flicker of…something that passed through his eyes and was gone before I could guess what it was. It puzzled me. But what puzzled me more was why he’d be helping me. “Why are you telling me this?” I really wanted to know. If the rules still applied, he couldn’t lie to me. But if he was telling the truth, it was bound to piss off the queens and the hive. I’d seen the queens fell members who defied them with the psychic powers they could command. Why would Carlton risk that? It didn’t make sense. Then again, almost nothing about the big black man made sense to me. He was a very big, very tough enigma.

“You helped me save those kids. You could’ve said no. They were working with Amanda Shea to kill you. But you helped us save them. They’re my hive now. My peeps. So I figure I owe you one.”

“Bet the rest of the queens don’t see it the same way.”

He flashed his fangs again. “No bet. I’m not letting you take my money on a sure thing.”

Setting his cup on the counter he rose and extended his hand for me to shake. “Take care of yourself, Reilly. They want you out of the way. Truth. They’d do pretty much anything to manage it. I’ve been sent off to Pueblo with the kiddies. Can’t have two queens in the same city. Besides, for some reason they don’t like me running into you.” He winked and then covered his eyes with the so-dark shades. “They seem to think I talk too much. Go figure.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

“Anyway, I saw you sitting here and figured I’d stop by and tell you good-bye and good luck.” I took the hand he held out for me and shook it, feeling the strength of those fingers as his hand gripped mine, his playoff rings digging ever-so-slightly into my flesh.

“You too.”

He left the way he came, loping across the street to the accompaniment of car horns and hand gestures. I doubted I’d ever see him again, and I wasn’t positive that I wasn’t sorry. Carlton might be a Thrall, but he was an amazing individual. God help me, I actually liked him. That wasn’t a good trend.

I finished my coffee, dumped the trash into the container, and, left for my run home. It was clouding up. It might blow over. Then again, it could snow sometime this afternoon. If it did, I didn’t think it would amount to much. It was probably just one of those here-today-gone-in-the-morning snows that happen so often in Denver.

I made good time getting back to the apartment. When I got home there was a message on the machine from Gerry telling me how happy he was to hear from me. It was good to hear his thickly accented English. He promised to make a couple of calls. That was a relief. Business might not be booming yet, but it was a start. Gerry had a lot of connections in the jewelry industry. The people he worked with had been some of my best customers in the past. Morris Goldstein might be dead, but I didn’t doubt that someone had taken his place. Commerce, like nature, abhors a vacuum. There was another message from the television network, confirming the time for the interview. I’d hoped that when the word got out about Amanda’s death they’d cancel. Not a chance. I was not only famous, I was infamous. The ratings would be huge. They’d do it here, in Denver, in my apartment. Could I please call and confirm that next Tuesday would be good for me? My mouth went dry with absolute terror. Why in the hell had I agreed to this? But Tuesday would probably work. I could be back from London by then. Oh, crap. I took deep, steadying breaths and reminded myself that a good charity would be getting a lot of money in exchange for my doing this. So, afraid or not, I picked up the phone and called them back. I don’t run from my fears—most of them, anyway. I also called the hospital to check on the date for the MRI. I was wrong. It was next week, not this one. At least I hadn’t missed it. Whew. I asked to be transferred to ICU, but there was no change in Mike’s condition. Still no visitors. Still no information other than he was in serious condition.