Mallory's Hunt

by Jory Strong

  "At this point, I can't confirm or deny."

  Aubrey returned with the orange juice. He muted the TV, taking the glass and asking, "What are you up to today?"

  "Mommy and I are going shopping. She wants a new bracelet for the show. We're leaving as soon as she changes clothes."

  "Tell your mother to buy you something pretty. Tell her Daddy said so."

  Aubrey giggled. "I will."

  She hugged him again and peppered his cheeks and lips with kisses before skipping out of the office.

  He woke the computer.

  There was little to be found on the adult version of Mallory Cassel. She wasn't mentioned in gossip rags. She wasn't heralded for bringing in famous criminals. She was a nobody, except for her past, a nothing living what passed for a normal life.

  He wouldn't allow her to ruin his. He wouldn't allow her to unearth his secrets and expose them.

  Maybe he could use the Russian…

  No. No.

  On the television screen the pictures of the dead girls appeared, lined up like tombstones.

  He couldn't risk Korotkin making the connection.

  He might already know.

  He can't.

  I've been careful. If anything, he'll believe I know who the killer is and am protecting a client by trying to find a safer way to procure girls.

  Korotkin wouldn't waste time on subterfuge when a threat would do.

  Linden shivered, discovered himself grasping a handful of shirt, the medallion pressed hard against his palm.

  How much does the woman know?

  Could he get close, capture her, sacrifice her?

  He Googled Phillip Ackerman.

  His fear deepened the more he read. Cops and cops and more cops. It didn't need to be the stepfather who'd sent the bounty hunter looking for answers.

  He followed another link and fear was beaten back by sudden temptation, by Phillip Ackerman's beautiful young daughter, all dressed up and sitting with her parents and brother at some ceremony.

  "No," he whispered. Too risky, though with her innocence and upbringing, she resembled Aubrey more than the Russian girl, more than the ones before her.

  Taking her could be made easy—if he was willing to expend a huge amount of stored magic to change his appearance into a familiar one so he could lure her away.

  Trying to rid himself of temptation, he scrubbed his hands over his face. Doing it brought the scent of Aubrey's shampoo, the remembered heat of her warm body so trustingly held against his.

  Desire stirred and he hated himself for it. So great was the depth of his love for Aubrey that he'd castrate himself rather than harm her. But there was no need, and he was no hypocrite to deny being grateful for it.

  His gaze strayed to the computer screen. A call and he could find out where the girl lived.

  Don't!

  But he did, speed-dialing Jason. The private investigator had yet to fail him.

  "A news story caught my attention," he said. "About a bounty hunter named Mallory Cassel. Hunt down her address and her mother's. There's a movie there, if I can pitch the possibility and lock them in as clients quickly enough. The mother is married to a prosecuting attorney. Phillip Ackerman."

  "Probably take me less than an hour. I'll get back to you."

  It didn't hurt to know.

  Linden struggled to his feet. Sweat coursed down his sides.

  He was glad he'd called his secretary. He couldn't have appointments hanging over his head. He needed to go to the house.

  The spell that kept him in remission was specifically targeted. He needed to determine if he'd caught some bug or if the sigils had been desecrated. If they had—

  I'll find a way to get them fixed. Luck isn't going to fail me now.

  He had wealth, connections, power.

  They didn't reduce his caution.

  It took several hours and most of the remaining magic in the medallion to change his appearance before he felt confident enough to approach the house.

  He drove into the garage. Its door closed behind him.

  Entering the house, he felt drained, his skin slick, his muscles lax and his bones heavy. He couldn't afford to allow the appearance of a black man to fall away like a discarded costume.

  He hated that truth. Without the change, he'd be a stranger to the girl, this first time they were alone together and she was aware of him as her savior, her protector, her soon-to-be lover.

  He didn't bother turning on the TV to see what she was up to. He stepped into the bedroom, stumbled.

  His heart seized at discovering that all the stored magic was gone. His eyes frantically traced the glyphs.

  "What have you done!" he yelled, voice edged with hysteria, and hearing it in himself opened the floodgates to fury.

  Rage energized him like an infusion of powerful life force. "Don't you know that I saved you? Come here!"

  She remained hidden, cowering out of sight.

  He stormed over to the bed, gripped the frame and jerked upward rather than lower himself to the floor.

  She wasn't there.

  Hard, fast strides took him to the bathroom.

  He froze in the doorway.

  She hung from the shower head, the desk chair lying on its side against the white tile.

  "No!"

  "No! No! No!"

  He couldn't believe this was happening.

  He didn't deserve this.

  "No!" he screamed. "No!"

  She'd stolen his magic. In killing herself, she'd undone all of his sacrifices.

  He couldn't accept it.

  "No!" he shouted.

  "No," he whispered, sounding weak, pathetic, sounding like he had as a child, before his mother had taken him to Haiti, before that first killing.

  Fury dumped out of his system in a rush. He swayed, numb. His body trembled. Fever came in sweaty waves and coated his skin until the stench of perspiration and the stink of returning disease overwhelmed his deodorant.

  "Think," he whispered, feeling more feverish but unsure whether it was real or imagined.

  "Think."

  He turned away from the small body still wearing the cheap, thin nightgown.

  He forced himself to visually trace the sigil-scripted spell.

  It was unbroken.

  Think.

  Why did this happen?

  He began to theorize, to gain assurance, to hope again.

  No two deaths held equal value. He'd learned that early on.

  Being loved made the difference. Chickens, rabbits, goats, one girl versus another, their value, how much time they gave him when they surrendered their lives fluctuated.

  Korotkin had claimed that the sisters were close, that one could be controlled by knowing what could befall the other. What if the girl had sacrificed herself, stolen his magic in an ignorant, wasteful effort to make it easier for her sister to escape? If that were so, wouldn't he then gain a tremendous boost by killing the surviving sister?

  Like a starving man, he grasped at the possibility. He would take back what had been stolen.

  When he was well away from the house, he would call Korotkin. He would make arrangements to take possession of the other girl.

  He had no real choice. Just as he had no choice as to how he would spend the remainder of the day.

  He'd sworn he would never again use pets and farmyard animals to sustain himself, but he couldn't afford otherwise.

  Revulsion gripped him, anger at being reduced to this. The dead girl wasn't the bounty hunter's fault, but because of her, fear crawled through his stomach.

  He wished he could sacrifice her, but he'd settle for striking out at her in a different way.

  Not now. He couldn't risk it now. But soon, when he had enough magic to be sure of success, he'd find a way to take Mallory Cassel's sister. She'd know what it was like to rage and fear and fail.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 27

  The sick taste returned to Oleg's mouth at seeing the sedan s
top in front of the office across the street. Police. He did not need to see their badges to recognize what they were.

  Sweat gathered beneath his arms. He should have killed the woman the other day instead of making Vadim aware of her existence.

  Now she was bringing more trouble. Perhaps he would need to kill the policemen also, because she had talked to them.

  Nyet. No. That would draw too much attention.

  What could she know? That he liked to piss on women. He would do the same to her after she'd known his fists and cock, and then he would turn her over to Vadim.

  Vadim would work out his rage and it would calm him, and these problems started by Iosif Gruzinsky would be gone.

  Files were missing, the computers, but that was not proof of wrongdoing. It would cast suspicion, yes. But there would always be suspicion.

  Vadim did not need the bride business. That business was extra, not the way most of the women came to owe debt. It was a place for Vadim's mistresses to work and a way for his mother to have power of her own.

  Other things could be found to occupy his mother, and the whores Vadim made into his mistresses were often replaced. Yes, this trouble would soon be at an end. He did not think the police would remain parked in front of the office if they didn't expect the woman to arrive.

  He licked his lips, the bad taste in his mouth sliding away. Today he hoped the man and the dog were with her.

  He pulled the gun from its harness and screwed on the silencer. Let the police draw them to their deaths.

  * * * * *

  "Looks like they're waiting for us," Caleb said.

  "Sure you don't want to opt out?"

  "I'm going to get a complex if you keep trying to get rid of me."

  She glanced at him, expression somber. "The smart thing to do would be to run."

  Yeah. Yeah it would be.

  "Not happening."

  She parked the Jeep behind the unmarked sedan. A tall black man with a receding hairline got out on the driver's side. A mixed-race woman exited on the opposite side, curvy and attractive, the jacket and slacks only serving to highlight that she'd gotten the best of Hispanic and African-American roots.

  She held a folder, crime scene photos, maybe. And a shiver went through him remembering another alley and a different dead Russian.

  Their eyes met and she flashed a quick smile meant to disarm. She'd be the good cop, the sympathetic cop, the let's work together and make it go away cop. Her partner would play the hard-ass.

  "Leash," Mallory said to Dane, blocking him. "Or I can leave the windows open."

  The dog showed his teeth but didn't resist when she tugged a thin rope from beneath the seat and slipped the looped end around his neck.

  Caleb shook his head. "Like that'd really stop him?"

  "It's not meant to."

  "That's not exactly comforting."

  Dane jumped out, ignoring the detectives when they reached the Jeep.

  The man was Marlon Gerke. His partner, Isabella Jordan.

  "You wanted to talk," Mallory said, not moving.

  Jordan smiled big, tilting her head toward the office. "Okay if we talk inside? Might as well do this sitting in a cool place. You've got air-conditioning, right?"

  Caleb's lips quirked at having nailed what role she'd play.

  Mallory gave in with a shrug.

  Steps away from the front door, she slowed. A heartbeat later Dane growled, a deep, low sound of menace that sent an adrenaline surge into Caleb and had him reaching beneath his jacket for the gun.

  The cops did the same.

  Dane's hackles rose. He tilted his head, making eye contact with Mallory.

  The sun caught on the dog's eyes so for an instant they were molten amber, like that glimpse of gold in Mallory's before she'd fainted in the columbarium.

  Caleb's hindbrain awakened. Primordial fear crawled into his consciousness like dark ooze climbing out of genetics coded when what counted as human squatted in caves and equated fire with safety and survival.

  Not real. But it didn't make it go away.

  Dane strained at the end of the leash, looking back over his shoulder as if asking to be freed to track the scent.

  She gave a small negative shake of her head.

  He showed his teeth.

  "Enough, Dane."

  For now. While the cops are here.

  That's what Caleb heard.

  "What's he alerting on?" Gerke asked.

  "Someone came by. He doesn't like their smell."

  She unlocked the door, opened it, let Dane go in first.

  His hackles flattened.

  Caleb's hand dropped from the gun.

  "You got a permit to carry concealed?" Gerke asked, lips thinned, hand remaining on his weapon.

  "You want to see it?"

  "Yeah," Gerke said, playing the hard ass.

  Caleb pulled his wallet and extracted the permit.

  Gerke looked it over, studied it like he was checking for a forgery.

  Mallory unleashed Dane and claimed one of the chairs. The dog positioned himself next to it.

  Caleb took the other chair, forcing the cops onto the couch.

  Showtime.

  Gerke's attention was on Mallory while Jordan watched him, looking for a reaction when her partner said, "We're here about Wayne Cleary."

  Caleb went cold at hearing the pedophile's name instead of Iosif's. Experience and training kept him from glancing at Mallory, from allowing even a hint of speculation or suspicion into his expression, but he could sense her tensing, could feel the sudden pounding rush of her heart as if it were his own.

  "I texted Detective Davidson what I knew about him," she said, sounding calm and controlled.

  "What time did you text him?" Gerke asked, but they'd already know the answer.

  She pulled her phone, tapped the screen and handed the cell off, the gesture saying, I don't have anything to hide.

  "Where were you when you sent this?"

  "Outside of Cleary's house."

  Gerke returned the phone. "Alone?"

  "Matthew was there."

  "And Cleary?"

  "In his house the last time I saw him."

  "Alive?"

  "Yes."

  Mallory's hand went to Dane's neck. Seeking comfort?

  "You've had no contact with him since then?" Gerke asked.

  Mallory shrugged. "Why would I? He answered my questions."

  "Under duress?"

  "He was a pedophile free because the drug war has the jails so overcrowded that guys like him get out on so-called good behavior. Was he killed in his house?"

  "What led you to him?" Gerke asked, ignoring her question.

  "Confidential sources."

  Jordan leaned in, smiling, her voice friendly. "Come on, give us a name."

  "And have people stop talking to me? No."

  Earlier anger returned, spiking through Caleb. She'd never give up Hayden.

  "Where were you from the time you texted Detective Davidson until we contacted you?" Gerke asked.

  "Tell me when Cleary was killed and I'll fill in the timeline."

  Gerke opened the folder his partner had been carrying. He pulled a photo out and dropped it onto the coffee table.

  Cleary's throat gaped like someone had carved a second smile there, widening and finishing Mallory's initial slash.

  Suspicion made Caleb's heart stutter. Do you know who killed him?

  His gut answered for him. She knew. Or could guess which one of her brothers had finished what she started.

  We're all killers.

  He wasn't ready to believe she was one. But the others, the dog…

  "You like using a knife," Gerke said. "Word is that you brought a bond skip in with a cut in about the same place."

  He glanced at his partner. "What was that guy's crime?"

  "Rapist."

  "Rapist. Child molester. Not so far apart, are they?" Gerke's gaze drilled Mallory. "Where were you from the ti
me you texted Detective Davidson until we contacted you?"

  "Narrow it down or charge me with something and wait for me to continue this talk with a lawyer present." Her eyes flicked to the phone in her hand to communicate that she was done.

  "We're all on the same side here," Jordan said, conciliatory, shooting her partner a back-the-hell-off look that had probably been perfected within days of their starting to work together. "The coroner puts time of death at eight a.m."

  "She was in her apartment," Caleb answered. "I saw her roll in at around four fifteen."

  Hell, he'd followed her in the car, body and brain arguing, the one wanting her to knock on his apartment door at spotting the Harley parked in front of it, the other praying she didn't.

  The detectives looked at him hard for alibiing her, probably pegging him as an accomplice but going after Mallory as the softer target.

  "Did she see you?" Gerke asked, his tone sarcastic disbelief.

  Caleb gave a nonchalant shrug. "Doubt it. She looked done-in after hanging out with Hayden at the Brass Ring."

  Let her asshole brother finish alibiing her. Let him enjoy the detectives' company.

  Gerke and Jordan spent a few more minutes, alternating plays until Gerke finally called it quits.

  From the window Caleb watched the detectives get into their sedan, the car continuing to sit in front of the office.

  Good luck with that intimidation tactic.

  Mallory joined him at the window.

  "You shouldn't have pointed them at Hayden."

  "Who killed Cleary?"

  "Would you believe me if I said I don't know?"

  He turned toward her. Fuck. Would he?

  Yeah, but he couldn't be absolutely sure whether it came from a gut read or a desire for her to be completely innocent.

  The dog padded to her side, eyes on Mallory's face, hackles lifting then smoothing, an unnatural communication that tightened his chest and had Caleb taking a step deeper into the weird.

  "Who was here?"

  "Iosif's killer."

  He believed her. Absolutely. "Then there's a good chance he's close."

  "Let's hope so. Let's give him a reason to come for me."

  Caleb's hand gripped her forearm, forcing her to face him. "Fuck no. It's too dangerous."

  The dog wouldn't have the advantage of darkness and surprise that he'd had when she left him with the junkie.