Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  She wanted to know what had happened, and she wanted to know about the man called Allgate. What had Sera said? Blood and death. It seemed she had found them after all in this land that time forgot.

  Tia moved again, this time toward the witness who was still being interviewed by the other cop, but she was unable to catch any of the woman’s statement to the officer. Undaunted, Tia slowly wove her way closer to Allgate, but couldn’t hear any of his words either. For all the confidence the man seemed to radiate, he looked uncomfortable with the crowd’s attention, the flashing emergency vehicle lights, and most of all, with the news media van that rolled up. Turning his back to the crowd and news van, Allgate slowly maneuvered his officer down the block to a spot where a stately magnolia shaded them from the glare of the street lights and the prying eyes of the crowd.

  She followed, stood at a distance of one building away, and studied the man. Humidity dripped like honey, and Tia pulled on parts of her shirt that were sticking to her, but she would wait all evening if she had to. In spite of his discourtesy to her, he intrigued her. She very badly wanted to know who he was. And what a shoot he would make. Rudeness aside, if all females responded to him the way she had, she would have women drooling over photos of him. He stood now, relaxed but alert, like an animal that depends on its senses for survival. Though he spoke to the officer, she was aware that he knew she was watching. His restless eyes settled on her more than once, but there was no recognition in the look, no accompanying smile, no gratitude for the assistance she had rendered.

  You are one cold bastard, Mr. Allgate. Suddenly she shook her head. Of course! It was too easy.

  Tia made her way back to Bishop’s Inn and looked for the young waitress named Jaz. She figured it would be easier to pry information from a teenage girl than from the bartender, who looked like he had seen his share of life.

  “Excuse me, Jaz?”

  The girl turned toward her. “Oh, were you ready for your bill? I have it right here.” She produced the slip.

  “I’m finished. I can pay you right away.” Tia paused before handing over the bills. “The man who was sitting across from me at the reserved booth—can you tell me who he is?”

  “Mr. Allgate? Why, he’s the owner.”

  “The owner?”

  “He owns Bishop’s Inn.”

  “What’s his first name? I’d like to speak with him.”

  Jaz eyed the press card still visible around Tia’s neck. “About what? Are you a reporter?”

  Tia nodded. It was a small enough lie. “I’d like to talk to him about what happened outside just now.”

  The girl shook her head slowly, and her drawl became even more unhurried. “Mr. Allgate doesn’t care for publicity. I doubt he’ll talk to you. And he for sure won’t let you take his picture,” she added, nodding toward Tia’s case. Jaz was sharper than she looked.

  “Can you at least tell me his name?”

  “No secret. Dallas Allgate.” The sly hint of a smile that curved a corner of the girl’s mouth was full of secrets.

  “Thanks. The meal was excellent.”

  “Tell your friends.”

  Tia smiled her prettiest smile, left the inn, and headed for her car. She started the engine and turned the air conditioning on high, not caring a whit if she felt like a tourist from up North. Dallas. It was a strange name, conjuring pictures in her mind of cowboys and oil wells. The owner of Bishop’s Inn might have money, and the man had an earthy, hardy appearance, but cowboy was the last association she would have thought of. She sat up straighter as she saw him stride easily back toward the inn. Tia sucked in a deep breath, turned off the engine, and jumped out of the car.

  Walking straight up to him, she fell into step beside him when it was obvious he wasn’t going to stop for her.

  “Mr. Allgate, I’d like to speak to you.”

  “No.” He kept walking.

  “You don’t even know what I want to talk to you about.”

  His eyes flicked to her, and it was almost like a physical touch. A rather insulting touch.

  “I know what you are. I don’t do interviews.”

  Tia had to half run to keep up with his quickening gait. “I’m not a reporter. I’m a photographer.”

  He stopped dead so suddenly that she ran into him. Her face brushed his long hair, her breasts pressed against his back, and whether or not her legs actually tangled with his, she felt her sense of balance abandon her like a bird startled from its roost. She clutched his arm to steady herself and a swarm of new sensations filled the void. His body was solid and hard, and while he seemed unflustered by having a woman touch him in such a manner, still she swore she could feel the blood racing through his veins. She held him a second longer than she needed to regain her balance, then took two steps backwards, trying to slow her own heart rate.

  A street lamp flooded his features. “If you want to know about the inn, talk to my assistant manager. Take all the photos you like of the building. No photos of me. Do you understand?” His eyes glittered with an inorganic hardness.

  “Is that a request, an order, or a threat, Mr. Allgate?”

  “Take it as you will. Have a nice evening, Miss Martell.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  He fingered the cord around her neck and twisted it around his fingers. His hand was large, the fingers long and thick, and his nails were as pale as his skin.

  She had always prided herself on not letting any man intimidate her, but Allgate’s closeness robbed her of breath and thought. Finally, his gaze lowered to the press card dangling from his fingers, and with the hold of his eyes broken, she found her voice.

  “Let go of me.”

  “Certainly. Syntia Marie Martell.” He let the cord slip out of his fingers, and slowly raised his eyes to hers. Her name, whispered in the sonorous drawl, made her forget about his implied threat. His eyes made her forget everything else. Green. A clear, hard-as-glass green with flecks of gold, like green amber. She vaguely wondered what secrets were trapped in that amber.

  “No secret.”

  “What?” The two words startled her to reality.

  “Your name, of course. If you’ll excuse me, I have pressing business. Do enjoy our town. Good night, Miss Martell.”

  TIA DROVE TO her hotel on Devereaux Drive, trying to keep her mind solely on business. She needed to find the location of a quick photo, and she needed to find the phone number and office of the Daily Democrat. Newspapers, as a photo market, paid notoriously low. A local paper as small as this one was . . . well, she figured she’d be lucky to negotiate a sale for fifty dollars. And that was only if her photos came out as well as she hoped.

  Addresses soon in hand, Tia drove the few blocks to a pharmacy that housed a one-hour photo, dropped her film off, and returned to her hotel room. As soon as she stepped inside and closed the door on Natchez and the night, her thoughts skidded from the images she had seen through her viewfinder to the images her eyes had burned into her mind of the man Allgate. The man.

  Tia had met and worked with lots of men on her previous job, and, miraculously in the male-oriented field of law enforcement, had managed to get along well with most. In her heart, Tia had developed a real fondness for “the boys.” Macho as they came, playing their computer combat games, buying and trading the latest off-duty weaponry, fishing in the summer and hunting in the winter, still they were boys to her compared to the man she had met today.

  How could a stranger make such an impression on her, and in such a short span of time? Especially one who had been as unfriendly as Allgate had been? She had to know.

  Her mind tried to return to business. How would he look through the camera’s eye? She had an overpowering desire to shoot him from every possible angle, inside, outdoors, in every kind of light. But it was more than just business. Like a
n obsessive teenager, she wanted to tape photos all over her bedroom walls and commit every detail of every one to memory. Even as the fantasy formed in her imagination, she knew he’d never consent to the briefest of shoots. He had said “no photos” and had meant it.

  She had to know what made him tick. Tia shook her head. Photos wouldn’t do it anyway. She could stare at a hundred posed images and never see what was behind those eyes that were like one-way windows—staring out, but never revealing what lay behind the mirrored glass.

  She would have to see him again. And she would. Her old job had taught her how to be aggressive, and her new job had taught her how to be persistent. Besides, it hadn’t been just her eyes drilling holes in him. His eyes, with their cool facade of indifference, like the lady that doth protest too much, had indicated an interest every bit as strong as her own.

  DALLAS DROVE TO the hospital, more upset than he had been in a very long time. The accident was aggravating only in that it jeopardized the receipt of information that could be important. Whether the man lived or died was immaterial to him. All Dallas was interested in was making sure he got everything Private Investigator Marty Macklin had come to Natchez to give him. Marty had been able to tell him little on the street, in spite of Dallas’ insistent questioning. The man had been in too much pain, and the woman had persisted in interrupting him.

  Miss Syntia Martell. He felt a muscle twitch in his cheek, a subtle reminder that while he employed the art of deception with others, he ought to be ever truthful with himself. His mouth twisted in acknowledgment. Very well. What happened to Macklin was an irritation. What happened with Miss Syntia Martell was a disturbance of major proportion.

  He rarely gave women undue attention anymore. Even the beautiful ones. It had been a long, long time since he had desired or been attracted to a woman in the way of the living. Even if such desire did arise, the object of affection could never be anything other than a victim of the serpent’s art. The serpent played upon the lust of the wretched, tempting them beyond redemption, and just as easily lured the innocent into the quicksand of trust. But the end effect was always the same. His sustenance was the destruction of the contemptible and virtuous alike. It wasn’t that he sought to destroy others out of malice. He was what he was—a creature existing outside the time frame that governed human actions, thoughts, and feelings.

  Why, then, had he had such a strange reaction to this particular woman? Detached from the boundaries limiting the living, he perceived reality in a unique way, seeing all in her that a living man might—the beauty of her long black hair and the grace of her tall, lithe body. But he saw more. In eyes the color of the sky he rarely saw anymore, he saw a pain and sadness deeper than her years would suggest, and beyond that, an awareness of him that was even rarer than a glimpse of daylit heavens.

  That awareness was a danger.

  It made her the one creature the serpent feared. And he, with all his knowledge of survival, cunning, and art of manipulation, would be vulnerable. Regrettably, he had given up the beauty of the sunlight that debilitated him so much. Just as regrettably, he would avoid Miss Martell.

  And if she couldn’t be avoided, the serpent would strike back any way he could.

  Two

  DALLAS ARRIVED AT Natchez Community Hospital and waited in the emergency room waiting area until Macklin was out of surgery. A nurse, with only the slightest encouragement of Dallas’ compelling stare, informed him that the man had sustained a broken pelvis and a fractured tibia, but internal injuries were minor, and he hadn’t hit his head on the cement when he had been thrown. The man was extremely lucky. He would live, she said.

  Luck. What a strange word humans used. He had experienced very little luck in life, or in his present Undead state, good or bad. “Good luck” was simply being smart, cautious, prepared, and, if need be, ruthless. “Bad luck” was the destiny of the foolish, the weak, and the uncaring.

  Macklin had not been uncaring, but careless. Dallas thought about the little he had already learned from the man. One week ago, Macklin had phoned and introduced himself as a private investigator from Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. He’d stated he had been hired to find a man named Dalys Aldgate who may be using an alias of Dalys Alexander, Dallas Alexander, Dalton Allgate, Devon Aldgate, or a combination of any such first name and surname. Macklin said that when he found one Dallas Allgate in Natchez he thought he might have found his man. However, upon finding out that Dallas held a Mississippi P.I. license, Macklin had decided to afford Dallas the professional courtesy of a call before giving him over to his client. Still, Macklin had refused to disclose his client’s name over the phone, even after a generous offer of money, but had agreed to come to Natchez to meet Dallas on the promise of reimbursed travel expenses.

  When Macklin had been hit, Dallas had asked but one question—who had sent the P.I. to find him? All the injured man had been able to voice had been one word, “Flynne.”

  Dallas paced the waiting area like a lion in a cage, the room much too small for his present state of unrest. Having pushed Miss Syntia Martell out of his mind, Dallas was still bothered by several annoying questions. He needed more information from Macklin. The name Flynne meant nothing to him. He needed more to go on, and he needed it before dawn. Once the sun came up, Dallas would be forced to retreat to his mansion, Rose Hill. The rays of the sun weren’t lethal, but sapped his strength to the point of almost total vulnerability. And one didn’t survive by allowing oneself to become vulnerable.

  The second question that plagued Dallas was the “accident” itself. There was the distinct possibility that the hit and run was no accident, but a deliberate criminal act. If that were the case, the driver of the car, suspecting he had not killed his victim, might come to the hospital to finish the job. Dallas would have to protect Macklin until he got the information he needed.

  Lastly was the issue that had caused Dallas to take Macklin’s initial phone call seriously and to offer to pay him to come to Natchez in person. Macklin had said that the man who hired him knew Dallas by several aliases—aliases that Dallas had used dating back to the early 1800s. The implication was clear. The person who wanted to find Dallas was a being who roamed the same realm of Midexistence that Dallas did.

  The one who wanted Dallas was another of the Undead.

  Dallas didn’t necessarily fear his own kind. He had known from the beginning that others like him existed, had even learned relatively quickly of the formal vampire community, the Directorate and hierarchies of the local councils. In France, it was the Coterie, and in England it was the Circle. Here it was simply the Brotherhood. In every country he had been in, it had been the same, and there was nothing at all brotherly about it. Organized, populated, and powered by the truly ancient Undead, he had shunned the councils as much as possible. Repelled by their squabbling and constant power plays, Dallas had resigned himself long ago to coexisting with his victims. Besides, Dallas was only two hundred thirty-five years old, still considered a youngster by the old ones.

  He was sure, though, that the Brotherhood knew of his existence and present location. If they wanted him, they would surely not hire a human to find him. Dallas could come to only one conclusion. A vampire wanted him, but it wasn’t one of the old ones, and it was very personal.

  Dallas had made the passing acquaintance of several of his kind—other young vampires who chose to avoid the machinations of the Brotherhood—but he hadn’t parted on a sour note with any that he could remember. He might have actually believed that the desire to find him was nothing more than a benign effort to renew an old friendship, if not for the hit and run.

  The “accident” made Dallas extremely wary of being found.

  It had been four hours since Macklin had come out of surgery. Time was running short. No visitors were allowed at this time of night, but that didn’t worry Dallas. As long as the man was not unconscious, Dallas would get the
information. He checked his watch. Three fifteen in the morning. It was time.

  The hospital halls were quiet. No one else had come in asking about Marty Macklin. The night shift nurse was the only person Dallas could see. Two soft questions, accompanied by the forceful stare he had mastered so long ago, told him Macklin’s room number and condition.

  “It’s imperative I see Mr. Macklin. Neither you nor the doctor will have any objection.”

  She stared at him, her eyes like a doll’s, round and unblinking. “No, of course not.”

  Dallas eased down the hallway like a shifting shadow and slipped into Macklin’s room. There lay Marty Macklin, Gold Coast Private Eye. Marty had been “lucky,” though. No epitaph yet. The Florida tan, dark and even, still glowed rosy with the warmth of life. The weathered skin and nearly all-white crown of hair may have added years to his appearance, but Dallas still put him in his fifties.

  Dallas sat down next to him, slid the fingers of one hand to Macklin’s temple and closed his own eyes, stretching his senses to read Macklin’s condition. The warm skin burned hot beneath Dallas’ fingertips, and he felt the blood racing through the man’s veins like liquid fire. The pulse was sure and steady, and his heart pumped a strong rhythm of life. Vampire senses extended to the man’s mind. There, Dallas could discern a determined will that churned bright through the darkness like a white wake through black water. Macklin would indeed be all right.

  Dallas’ pale hand lingered at the P.I.’s temple. He rarely got this close to people unless they were to become a victim of his need. The feel of hot blood pulsing under the sensitive pads of his fingers was a sharp reminder of his hunger, not yet sated this night. How different the heat generated by life was from that generated by fire or machine. There was a song to life’s heat—a rhythm of sound and vibration and a melody of scents and aromas—that flooded his vampiric senses and triggered a need as elemental to him as water and bread to man.

  Dallas’ low voice vibrated through the air and demanded not only a reply, but compliance. “Macklin, this is Dallas Allgate. You will be able to hear me clearly, and you will answer all my questions. Who hired you to find me?”