Touching Darkness (7 page)

T
hat evening, Nicholas set a cheese sandwich in a butter-coated pan. He didn't like eating in the cavernous kitchen, and the dining room was even less welcoming. Most of the time, he ate in his room. His gaze went to the small table where he and Olivia had shared the cake she'd made for his birthday. Damn, that had been sweet. Her proposition had been something else—and infinitely hard to refuse. He could almost forgive her for keeping him from that folder. She was following the rules.
She
had integrity.

As though he'd summoned her, he heard her voice at the entrance. “Mm, something smells—” Her expression darkened when she saw him. Though he had never personally betrayed a woman, he so clearly saw the pain of betrayal on her face. She continued to walk over, her mouth in a tight line. He liked that mouth much better when it was soft, pliant.

“I can't believe you were snooping through his files!” she said in a harsh whisper.

Her personal investment in what he'd done told him she was way too emotionally involved with him. He'd made the right decision. Though perhaps that involvement had kept her from telling Darkwell.

“Darkwell invited me to ask questions the other day, then didn't answer them. The folder I had in my hand
had my father's name on it. He worked with Darkwell twenty-four years ago on a program that sounds a lot like this one. Darkwell never mentioned that they'd worked together. In fact, he lied about how he'd come to know him. Why?”

She shrugged. “I know there was a program he had some success with, but that's about it.”

He believed her. “My father was killed while he was in that program. Someone came in and shot up the place.”

Her hand touched his arm. “I'm so sorry.”

He had the strange urge to console the grief she felt for him. “I don't really remember him.”

“That doesn't make it any less painful.”

He nodded in agreement, seeing a deeper knowledge of that on her face and remembering she'd lost her mother. Lost. The need rose up in him, but he squelched it.

She let her hand drop. “Your father's death…I'm sure it was just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He leaned against the counter. “Maybe. Maybe not. I have a right to know what my father did with Darkwell because it affects me in ways I can't explain to you. But aside from that, this is about my father, a man I never got to know. Wouldn't you want to know everything you could about your mother? What traits you'd inherited?”

“That's cruel, comparing my situation with yours.
Using
what I told you against me! My mother's records aren't classified.”

He leaned closer. “But wouldn't you do whatever you could to find out? Wouldn't you, in fact, try even harder if they were classified?”

Despite the situation, he found her reddened cheeks charming. She turned away and snatched a prepackaged sandwich from the enormous fridge.

He plucked it from her hand, eyeing the wilted lettuce. “This thing's past due, and it probably wasn't good when it was fresh. Sit.” He tilted the pan and turned the sandwich onto the plate. “Have a grilled cheese sandwich.” So much
for distancing himself from her. Now he was feeding her! He started another sandwich.

“You betray my trust, and now you want to make me dinner? I don't think so.”

But she was eyeing the sandwich, perfectly golden on top, three different cheeses oozing out between the slices of bread.

He lowered his voice. “You know you want it.” Her gaze flicked to him, obviously picking up the sexual connotation. Which was really not a good idea. “You can hate me, but eat. You look hungry.”

She leaned against the counter. “I did forget to have lunch.”

He fired up the gas stove and took the pan he'd just used. “Eat. It doesn't mean anything.”

She took the sandwich and tore a big bite out of it, rolling her eyes. After swallowing, she said, “I haven't had one of these in years. Sometimes I'd bribe the nanny into making me one.”

Nanny?
Well, of course, now that he knew she came from Darkwell money.

“This doesn't mean I've forgiven you,” she said, nodding toward the sandwich she was devouring.

“It's probably better if you don't.” After starting to grill another sandwich, he pulled out the blender and dumped in the ingredients he'd set aside earlier: pistachio pudding mix, peppermint extract, milk, an egg, and a scoop of spirulina, which turned everything green when he blended it.

“What are you making?” she asked.

“A protein shake. I have one every day.”

She wrinkled her nose as he poured the green mixture into a glass.

He held up the blender container. “Want some?”

“No, I'll stick to the sandwich, thanks.”

“Just keep remembering the terrible guy who forced you to eat it. I'm pushy, too.”

Her mouth twisted in a wry grin. “You're not pushy
enough.” She quickly changed the subject. “What's the green stuff?”

“Spirulina. It's the cyanobacterium that gives stagnant ponds the green color.”

“Oh, yum.”

He took a swig of the shake. “Did you know that in India, it's considered healthy to drink your own urine? One of the guys I worked with is a bodybuilder, and he swears by it. He's failed to convince me.”

“Oh, now that's just yuck.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You're just trying to distract me from being angry at you.” She nodded to the sandwich. “Maybe soften me up so I won't tell Darkwell.”

He grabbed another plate and flipped his sandwich onto it. “So you didn't?”

“No, but don't go in there again. If he knows you're snooping, he'll fire you. I won't cover for you next time.”

Nicholas lowered his voice. “Would he do more than fire me?”

“My father can be hard. Dogmatic. Tough. He's fought in wars, and, though I don't like to think about it, I'm sure he's killed people. But he's a good man. He loves his country. I trust that what he's doing here is for the good. I hope you will, too.”

His mouth opened to say
no way in hell
but held his words. Sometimes neither a lie nor the truth worked.

He finished his sandwich as she popped the last bite of hers into her mouth and licked the butter off her fingers like a child. Oh, but she wasn't a child. As he looked at her mouth, which he was doing too much, he couldn't help but remember how soft her lips were, how adventurous her tongue.

She took the plates and set them in the sink, where the kitchen fairies would come and clean them, or at least it seemed that way.

“Thanks for the sandwich,” she said, as they walked out of the kitchen.

“Thanks for not saying anything.”

Did Darkwell kill curious mice? At this point, Nicholas didn't care about losing the job. The question was, would he die because of leaving or staying?

They turned the corner to the hallway where his suite and the offices were. Sam Robbins was picking up some papers on the floor, looking more uptight than he usually did. No wonder, with Darkwell hovering over him.

That eagle-eyed gaze turned toward them. At that moment the cell phone the Rogues had given him vibrated in his pocket. His chest tightened. Time to make a decision. He had thirty minutes.

Darkwell stalked toward him and Olivia. For a disconcerting moment, Nicholas thought he might know about the phone. His gaze riveted on Olivia, and he forced the polite phrasing: “Olivia, can we speak in private, please?”

Without a glance back at Nicholas, she followed. The man had her under his thumb, no doubt. He thought about poor Uncle Gus.

Sam Robbins hurried down the stairs like the White Rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland.

Nicholas exited the house, needing a drive for the fresh air as much as the real reason for his escape. He headed down a road, the cool night air blowing through the vehicle, and feeling, for the first time since his meeting with the Rogues, able to really breathe.

Twenty minutes later he pulled off to the side of the road and waited for their second call. He answered on the first ring.

Rand said, “You were able to sniff around?”

“Enough to think you're on to something. And that I don't want to be part of the program anymore.”

“You need to be very careful. If Darkwell suspects, you may be taken out. You'll have to play along until we can get together and talk.”

“When will that be?”

“After you've proven you're not setting us up.”

He understood, but it still irritated him. “What do I need to do?”

“You're the master locator. Give us Sam Robbins's home address.”

That took Nicholas back. “What do you want with him?”

“We just want to talk. He knows a lot about the program, then and now, and I think he'd be willing to part with that information.”

Nicholas's voice lowered. “If I give it to you…I don't want him hurt. I won't be part of your violence.”

“He won't be touched. When Lucas and I were prisoners, he was the only person who was nice to us.” Rand let out a soft breath. “And I understand your antiviolence stand, but you are going to find yourself in a kill-or-be-killed situation one of these days. You'd better be ready.”

He'd felt a dark foreboding for several days now, and Rand's words weren't helping.

“I'll work on Robbins's address. Give me a few minutes. He left a half hour ago, so I'll try to do a locate on him.”

Nicholas disconnected and sat back in his seat. He brought an image of Robbins to mind. He hoped to hell Rand was telling the truth. He wanted nothing to do with killing anyone. Even Darkwell.

He saw Robbins in his home running papers through a fax machine to make copies. He looked anxious, a large stain beneath the armpits of his dress shirt, his brow shiny.

The man always seemed nervous and not particularly happy. Now he looked even worse.

Nicholas moved back, hovering over the house and the surrounding neighborhood. He moved higher and the word came to mind: Alexandria, Virginia. Then Robbins's house number. The street name. He came out of the trance and jotted it down, his hand weak, eyes heavy.

He sat in the seat for several more minutes, reorienting himself as he always did.

The phone rang, and he answered with, “I have an ad
dress. I'll give it to you on one condition: You tell me when you're going to talk to him. I want to remote-view, see what's going on.”

“Deal.”

Nicholas tapped his cross pendant twice and gave them the address.

A harsh male voice said, “If this is a trap, know that we're coming for you.”

Nicholas asked, “Who is this?”

“Eric Aruda.”

The guy who'd coldcocked Olivia.

Rand said, “We'll be in touch. And remember what I said: Be careful.”

Yes, he would have to be very careful. He was now Darkwell's enemy. And he knew how the enemy was treated.

L
ate the next day, Nicholas stepped out of his room but stopped at the sight of the man going into Darkwell's office. Olivia was in the hallway, watching the man with curiosity. She gave Nicholas a nod as she was about to head to her office, but he put his hand on her arm to stop her.

“That man.” He couldn't believe he was there. His mind swam with possibilities, none of them good. “The man who just went into Darkwell's office.”

“You're going to ask who he is, and I don't know.”

“His name is Pope, I know that much.” He felt a tightness in his chest. “Does he work with Darkwell?”

She hesitated, obviously weighing how much to tell him. Finally, she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “My father called him when the Rogues broke into the asylum. All he told me was that he wasn't officially CIA and that he cleans up messes to preserve the classified nature of projects. I saw him at the asylum once but never before that. How do you know him?”

She'd given him information, so he'd reciprocate. “I've done salvage work for the FBI, classified recovery missions as a contractor. At least I thought it was the FBI. Top secret experimental stuff, and even though I saw the pieces, I couldn't tell you what they were. Pope was the one—the only one—who approached me, super
vised my search, and paid me. In cash. I only know him as Pope.”

“Me, too.” She glanced at the door. “He's very odd.”

He was more than odd, but Nicholas couldn't really explain how. Beyond his looks, which were unusual enough. He was at least six-foot-five, with a muscular body and light skin. His slick, shaved head set off dramatic features and eyes an unusual shade of violet-blue.

Pope had approached him months before Darkwell had. If they worked together, why not tell him? Both had hired him for his skills, though Pope hadn't said a thing about thinking they were psychic. Pope, like Darkwell, had required Nicholas to sign a sheaf of papers swearing him to secrecy, so Nicholas couldn't even ask Darkwell about his connection with Pope. It was baffling. Disturbing.

He was staring at the door but shifted his gaze to Olivia, because he couldn't not look at her. He was tongue-tied. They were beyond small talk, and it would come off as phony anyway.

“Don't you want to know what they're talking about?” he asked.

“Yes. But it's none of our business.”

“It is my business. This whole project—”

The door opened, and Pope walked out, Darkwell not far behind him. Nicholas would find out now. Pope would say something to him.

But he didn't. Pope gave him a look that shimmered through him, piercing him with those eyes, stilling his tongue. Nicholas could only watch him walk down the hall and disappear around the corner.

He turned to find Darkwell glowering again and realized he'd been alone with Olivia in the hallway. They certainly didn't look flirtatious, so hopefully Olivia wouldn't get in trouble. Darkwell gave no indication that he expected Nicholas to know Pope.

Nicholas, for his part, was more confused than ever.

 

Two nights later, Nicholas was trying to watch a
Lost
rerun in his room. Of course, the “lost” aspect of the series drew him, but his mind was on Olivia tonight. She'd obviously been avoiding him, as he hadn't seen her since their encounter in the hallway. Which was good, he reminded himself. Very good. Now, if they could just avoid each other until he left…

His phone vibrated. Twenty-nine minutes later, he closed himself in the bathroom and turned on the water to mask his conversation.

Anyone can hear anything around here
, a warning voice whispered in his head.

“Tonight's the night,” a male voice said. Probably Rand.

“Be careful. I overheard Jerryl and Darkwell talking about Robbins. I don't know what's going on there. Robbins has been nervous as a rabbit hiding in a wolf's den.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Rand said. “We'll be in touch once we've talked to him.”

Nicholas flopped back on the bed and turned off the television. He kept Robbins's face in mind. He would keep checking on him.

At first he saw Robbins sitting at a bar sipping a whiskey. Thirty minutes later, the scene was much different: a scared Robbins hunched in the back of a car, flanked by Rand and Lucas Vanderwyck. Nicholas focused harder, trying to hear what was happening. He could barely make out the muffled words.

Rand was asking Robbins, “What's the purpose of DARK MATTER?”

“Political assassination.”

The shock of that nearly spun Nicholas out of the mission. He lost the connection but didn't come completely out.
Hold on.

The scene in the back of the car came through again, Robbins saying, “I don't like what Darkwell's become, what he's doing.”

“Will you help us?” Zoe asked.

“Take me back to my house, and I'll make you copies of the papers. What I can tell you is that Darkwell is gunning for you, and he's getting desperate. He's working on bringing another Offspring aboard, and he's the reason I'm finally leaving. The last straw. He's evil, he's powerful, and there's something you need to know about him.”

There was an exchange between Rand and Lucas that Nicholas couldn't hear clearly. The gunshot and splatter of blood coming from Robbins's chest launched Nicholas out of his session with a gasp.

No!
He couldn't breathe.
My God, they killed him.
He clutched his chest. It felt as though someone had smashed his rib cage.
I couldn't have been that wrong about them.
With a shaky hand, he punched the
CALL
button on the cell phone to dial the number from which Rand had called him. No one answered.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the water.
Damn them!
They'd lied to him. He kept calling until one of the women answered in a breathless voice.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“Amy Shane.” One of the Rogues. “Nicholas—”

“You weren't supposed to kill him!” He cleared the emotion from his voice. “I remote-viewed you to see what was going on. You lied—”

“Lucas never meant to kill Robbins! Someone got into his head. He just blanked out. He has no memory of shooting Robbins, and he's torn up over it. How do we know it wasn't you?”

“Because I can't get into someone's head and because I'm not a murderer.”

In a calm, low voice, she said, “Somebody did and somebody is. If you had anything to do with this…”

He hung up on her. Dammit, he didn't know what to believe. He sank to the bed, his head pounding. A man was dead, and he was responsible. What had Robbins said? That DARK MATTER was about political assassination. That
Darkwell was bringing in another Offspring. A dangerous Offspring.

The sound of three sharp knocks on his door jarred him. With one hand to his chest, which was so tight it ached, he stumbled to the door.

Jerryl stood there, his arms crossed over his ripped bare chest. He was going to step into the room, but Nicholas remained in his way. Jerryl leaned to the right and looked behind Nicholas. “Thought I heard you talking to someone.”

“Television.” He could barely push out words. “What do you want?”

“I know what you're up to, Braden.”

Fear spiked in his chest, and he fought to keep it from his expression. “Meaning?”

“Were you remote-viewing just now?”

Nicholas didn't like the look in his predatory eyes. As if he knew. “You think I do that in my spare time for fun?”

Jerryl stared at him, studying him as though he were a squirming insect stuck through with a pin. “Could be lots of reasons you'd do it.”

Nicholas kept his expression passive. “None that I can think of. I was about ready to hit it, so…' Night,” he added to sound normal.

He closed the door and locked it, remaining there for a minute. No sound of retreating footsteps. Just when he thought he must have missed them, he heard Jerryl finally return to his room.

He was on to Nicholas. Which meant he'd been in that car, too. What had Amy accused Nicholas of? Getting into Lucas's head. He'd denied it without even realizing what he was saying.

Then he remembered what he'd overheard when Jerryl was about to go on a mission.
Now, find Eric Aruda. Get into his head and quickly dispatch anyone in his vicinity. We want him to take out his comrades.

His legs went weak, and he stumbled to the bed. Hell. Jerryl
could
mind-control. And if he could do it to the Rogues, he could do it to Nicholas, too.

 

Gerard Darkwell was backing up his computer files in the study of his home when his cell phone rang. The number on the screen indicated Jerryl. Either trouble or news. His chest tightened as he engaged the call.

“Sir, it's Jerryl.” His voice sounded rushed, excited. “I've been checking on Robbins, as you asked.”

Robbins's usual reticence had turned to caginess in recent days, sending up Gerard's antenna. He'd had a feeling Robbins would eventually outlive his usefulness and become a problem.

Jerryl went on. “Robbins is with the Rogues.”

“
What?
”

“I think they nabbed him. He looks scared. I saw Rand and Amy Shane, then I lost the connection.”

“All the Rogues would have to do is poke Robbins, and he'll spill everything. Get into Eric's head and take him out.”

“I zeroed in on him next, and he's not in the same car.”

“Try to get into someone else's head. I'll work on another angle.” He disconnected and put in a call to the warden at Gainesville Correctional Institution. “I need to talk to inmate Sayre Andrus. It's urgent government business.”

“Hold for a moment, sir.”

Several agonizing minutes went by. Finally, that Southern drawl and childlike insouciance. “Howdy ho, what can I do for you,
sir
?”

Andrus intended no respect with his address. Gerard didn't care at the moment.

“Remember I told you I'd be giving you a test assignment? I've got one. Stay on the line and do it now. You get to take out a CIA agent, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Sounds yummy. Gimme his name.”

“Sam Robbins. You told me you can possess someone
when he's asleep, but also when he's stressed or in a fearful state. That's where Robbins is now.”

“I need to get into your head.”

Gerard twitched in alarm. “My head?”

“I need a touchstone, something that connects me to that person. That's you. You're gonna have to open that steel-trap mind of yours. Little pig, little pig, let me come in.” After a pause, he said, “How bad you want this guy?”

Gerard had been taught long ago how to shield his mind from probing psychic vibes. Back when rumors of the Soviets psychic programs had spurred the U.S. government to do the same, top personnel had been trained to block their minds. Gerard didn't want to let Andrus in—he had apparently already tried to get into his mind—but he had to stop Robbins.

“All right.”

“Put a picture of the son of a bitch in your head and hold it.”

Gerard closed his eyes. An icy feeling touched the back of his neck, right under the base of his skull. He held the image of Robbins while a cold probe poked through his brain.

What if he…?

He stopped the thought.
Can't let him sense my fear.

The feeling disappeared. Gerard felt relief for a second before launching into waiting mode. He hated waiting. Dammit, if only he'd been blessed with a psychic ability, he could take care of this himself. He hated depending on others. He hated the envy he felt every time he watched one of his subjects slip into the ether, a place unknowable to him.

Gerard suspected Andrus's skills, based on his heritage, could include dream interception. He had confirmed that in their discussions. It explained why the guards and other prisoners thought Andrus practiced black magic and could get into their dreams. And why one prisoner, after threatening Andrus, had hanged himself.

Andrus was going to be the key to finally destroying the Rogues. Once everything was in place, he had a plan to take care of all of them at once.

His cell phone rang. Jerryl.

“What happened?” he answered. No patience for a greeting.

“Holy shit…sir. You're not going to believe this. Lucas was there. I thought he was dead.”

“Lucas? Are you sure?” How had he survived? He'd been at death's door when his comrades had rescued him. Getting the last injection of the Booster should have done him in. Then he'd gotten shot in the chest when they'd rescued Rand two weeks ago. Even if he could have gotten medical treatment, which was doubtful, no way could he be out and about so soon.

“I'm positive, sir. But that's not the incredible part. Lucas shot him.”

“Shot Robbins?”

“Which doesn't make sense because Robbins was about to tell them about an Offspring, whatever that is. Why kill him before he'd told them everything?”

Gerard smiled. Andrus. Had to be.

“There's more. I sensed someone else remote-viewing. I immediately went next door. Nicholas denied it, but I saw a speck of alarm in his eyes when I accused him.”

“Good job.”

Someone was calling his name. Andrus on the main phone line. Gerard signed off with Jerryl and said to Andrus, “Nice work.”

“How did you know—?”

“Now that you've proven yourself, I'll begin the paperwork to transfer you. But I imagine you have a question for me.”

“Bet your ass I do.”

Gerard sat back and began to spin a story.