Declan stood and approached him. The creature braced itself on his shoulder, making a low-pitched whirring sound.
“Good. You made it in time. We are needed in Vancouver,” Declan said, starting to walk down the hall without stopping to explain the strange animal. “The gargoyles are all coming to life. If they do not have a sentinel soon, the killings will increase—by the thousands. Maybe more. Kate needs to make her decision permanent. Again, this is where I need your influence. I know you would make a fine sentinel, Ian. Regretfully, I must pass. Kate has to be the one. But first, we have to save her.”
What the hell? Was she hurt? Why couldn’t Declan just do something? “Is she—”
“She is fine. But she will not stay that way.” He gave Ian an exasperated glance as though he’d read his mind. “I cannot go blinking people out of existence, Ian. This is the only logical way.”
“And what is the, uh . . .” Ian didn’t know what to call the furry thing preening the feathery tufts between its feet. No matter how fast Declan walked, or how he turned, the creature sat perfectly balanced on his shoulder.
“This is Praesus. He is a gargoyle. I created the original gargoyles many years later, loosely based on his appearance.” He rubbed under the creature’s chin, and it whirred happily. “After I created him, of course. Kind of endearing, is he not? I have had him since I was a child. Faster, Ian. Try to keep up,” he said without looking back at him. “Praesus has the ability to call the others—to reroute them from other areas in the city. He is quite valuable to the sentinels—he taught the last one how to put the other gargoyles to sleep. But more importantly for tonight, he also serves as a translator.”
“Translator?” Ian almost ran into Declan, who’d led him into a room filled with covered furniture. He glanced about and wondered if the tall shape at the far corner was the mirror Kate had told him about.
Declan seemed to be annoyed with his questions; his face was taut and his eyes darkened. Declan wanted him to convince Kate to become the next sentinel. Even if Ian could persuade her, he wouldn’t.
“He can tell us what the others are thinking and saying by telepathy. Well, Kate at any rate. Now, if you are quite ready . . .” Declan said.
Ian nodded. “And this convincing thing—what does Kate have to do in order to take over?”
“I will tell you on the way,” Declan replied. He snapped his fingers, and the next thing Ian knew he was falling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Kate
According to the clock on Kate’s kitchen wall, it was just after 7:00 p.m. She listened, but heard only silence. Something didn’t feel right. She checked the alarm panel in the kitchen. It wasn’t set. Had she forgotten to set it? She’d been relying on the gate and the wall around her property a little too much lately.
No, she’d been forgetful. Preoccupied.
In fairness, she usually set the alarm before bed, or when going out. Last time, she just hadn’t exactly left through the front door. Kate flicked on the switch, bathing the gourmet kitchen in light. Pans hung above the center work island. The roses that Michael had sent her were still on the far counter and in need of watering. The wooden German knife block sat next to them, every slot filled. All knives accounted for.
It was an odd thought, but Kate had played a character that had to think this way. Now it was rubbing off, especially since she’d been gone for a day.
Get a grip, she told herself.
The guy in the Marauder hadn’t followed her home the other day. There had been no more notes on the front gate. Nothing in the mail. And—other than Michael—no more weird calls. She checked the back door: locked.
Still, Kate drew a knife from the butcher block on the counter.
You’re overreacting, she thought.
No, it’s just that what she had learned about Shadow Wood had freaked her out. She walked around the bottom floor looking for any sign that someone was or had been there. Room by room she went, carrying the knife firmly in her hand and carefully closing doors behind her.
Finally she checked the front door and, finding it locked, headed up the stairs. Her actress brain screamed out that there was always something up the stairs, but Kate pushed the thought aside. That was the movies. This was life. The difference was, in her life, there were gargoyles. Except for now.
“Where are you stone-faced freaks?” she muttered. She paused, waiting for the visions to start.
Nothing.
But something inside her house had changed. Worst case, it was Michael checking up on her. She’d asked for the key, and he’d given it to her, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t made another one. She should have changed the locks. She still hadn’t changed the gate code, either.
“Michael?”
Don’t panic, she thought. Stay calm.
No answer.
Because he wasn’t here, she told herself. No one was. Stop being such a baby.
But what if it was Michael? He’d been out of control lately.
She should go check for his car. Yes, just turn around and walk down the stairs and do a quick check. If his car was there, she’d get out. Call the police.
This was ridiculous. If he was here, he’d answer her.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling someone was here. She reached into her back pocket for her cell phone. Not much battery life remained, but it’d be enough. She hoped. Kate returned the phone to her pocket and continued up the stairs. She switched on the hall light. She peeked into the hall bathroom, then reached in and turned the light on in there, too. Kate stared at the shower curtain. It was too thick to see a shadow behind it. The curtain was perfectly still.
She took a deep breath and slid it to one side.
Nothing.
She let out a sigh of relief. Had she really expected Michael to be hiding in the hall shower?
Leaving the bathroom, Kate closed the door behind her. She had left the door to the guest rooms and her study closed and decided to check them last. The only room left was her bedroom. She’d hear if someone opened one of the other doors.
As she stepped over the threshold to her bedroom, she turned on the lights. The room was empty. Now was the hard part. Closet? Or bathroom? The closet was scarier. Stalkers and nut jobs always hid in closets. Her hand reached for the door, hesitating only for a moment before pulling it open. It took Kate a few seconds to look around the oversized walk-in closet.
She closed the closet door and then quietly walked to the bathroom.
Her hand found the light switch, then covered her mouth as she stifled a scream.
Michael sat in her oversized garden tub, slumped over, head cocked to one side, a gaping hole where his right eye had been. Blood and clumps of what Kate knew had to be brain matter coated the tile wall behind him.
“Michael!” She took a few steps into the bathroom. Michael’s right hand loosely held a gun. Her gun. The one she kept in a box in the closet.
She sank to her knees, still holding the knife.
“Michael,” she whispered to the corpse. She reached out to touch him, then recoiled, trembling.
No! Oh, my God, Michael . . . no!
But he wouldn’t kill himself. He just wouldn’t. Michael was too vain, too sure of himself. Why had he come here? Because he couldn’t reach her on the phone? Had he shown up last night and stayed, waiting for her to come home?
There had to be a reason. His career? What?
He knew. Somehow he knew about Ian.
No. He wasn’t suicidal. Not Michael. He wouldn’t do this because of her. She refused to accept it.
The blood! There was so much of it. Unable to look any longer, she forced herself to stand. She had to leave the room. Now.
She turned around, not sure if she wanted to run out of the house or just out of the room. The mirror caught her attention. Something was written on it. In pink lipstick:
It’s all for you, Kate.
His suicide note?
She could see his body reflec
ted behind her.
It’s all for you, Kate.
“What did you do, Michael? What have you done?” she whispered.
Kate couldn’t take her eyes off the scrawled note.
The words . . . they were wrong somehow. It took her a second before she realized the handwriting wasn’t Michael’s. Whoever wrote it had tried to copy his writing, but hadn’t made the a’s in “all” and “Kate” quite right.
Kate heard the electric buzz of the lights, her own heartbeat, her breathing. Someone else had done this. The guy who’d left those notes on the gate? The guy in the Mercury?
The killer could still be here. She needed to get out of the house.
Kate turned and fled the bathroom. Still holding the knife, she ran down the stairs. There was no chance the killer hadn’t heard her. She’d already called out to Michael before climbing the stairs. Now the sound of her feet racing downstairs would give away her location and tell the killer she had panicked—that she’d found Michael’s body.
She should have taken the gun, but she wasn’t going to turn around and get it now. She unlocked the front door. Was someone coming after her? Or was he just on the other side of the door, waiting? She threw the door open and scrambled outside.
No one was there. The trees and bushes, which the landscaping crew kept meticulously maintained, now seemed ominous. The killer might still be here, watching her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled.
Kate already had her cell phone out, her hand shaking. Then movement caught her eye. A shadow in the shape of a man stretched out from behind one of the evergreens, and Kate steeled herself for an attack. She stepped back, letting herself fall into shadow. Her grip on the knife tightened.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hatcher
Hatcher stared at the rear door to Shofner’s Flowers, his expression stoic despite the throbbing in his ribs and head. Kate’s friend needed a little talking to. If anyone knew Kate’s whereabouts, it’d be her. He’d hoped that Michael would be able to tell him, but the way he’d kept calling for Kate and the sound of panic in his voice had said he really didn’t know.
Michael might have instructed Kate to go somewhere safe until he made things right, somewhere not even Michael knew about. Hell, Michael might have even told her about him. Hatcher hoped that wasn’t true. Regaining Kate’s trust after something like that would take him awhile. But if Michael could do it, then so could he.
Kate needed him. She wasn’t herself lately. The last thing her career needed was a mental breakdown. She’d been working too hard. Eventually she’d understand all of this had to be done, that he was thinking of her career. She’d thank him for it.
He checked his face in the rearview mirror once more. His left eye had started to swell. Michael hadn’t gone down easy. He’d taken a few good punches before getting Michael into a sleeper hold. That had done the trick. Hatcher prided himself on his quick thinking. He’d contemplated killing Michael right there on the bedroom floor, but knew Kate would be angry if he ruined her carpet. Instead, he’d clocked Michael across the temple with the butt of Kate’s gun. Michael stayed unconscious long enough for Hatcher to drag his body to the bathroom and into the tub. Then he’d made it look like a suicide. The bruising that had started to form on Michael’s temple hadn’t mattered once the bullet entered through his eye.
He went over his story one more time before leaving the car and walking around to the front of the shop. It was late, maybe close to eight, but the lights were still on. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. He kept his face stern. He had to play this right. “Hi. I’m looking for Heather,” he said, adding a measure of concern to his voice.
His words blocked out the sound of him locking the door. He couldn’t risk anyone coming in.
A woman in her late twenties with light brown hair and fair skin was attending to a bouquet of roses. She wiped her hands on a towel as she looked up at him. “I’m Heather. What can I do for you?”
Hatcher stepped forward. “I’m a friend of Kate’s. Actually, I worked with her. Not an actor, just a production assistant. A few of us from the set were going to meet at a club tonight, and Kate didn’t show up. Neither did Michael. No one else seems concerned, but it’s not like Kate. She’d have told me if she wasn’t coming. And the way Michael has been around her lately, I’m worried. I hear that you’re her best friend. Have you seen her?”
Heather blinked, and her mouth popped open to say something, but then she stopped herself. “What happened to your eye?”
“Happened on the set, moving around some props. Look, I just want to know if you’ve seen Kate. Is she okay?”
“What did you say your name was?” Heather asked. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
“Joe.” The lie slipped from his lips before he could stop himself. It was a careless thing to do.
“Well, Joe,” Heather said, “if you’re a friend, you might try calling her. I’m sure one of you must have tried her cell.”
“We did,” Hatcher replied. “Went to voice mail. I just thought if you’d seen her—”
“I’m sure she’s fine. When I talk to her next, I’ll tell her about your concern,” Heather said. “You need to put something on that eye. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Look—”
“No, you look,” Heather said. “I don’t know you. And if Kate knew you well, she’d have mentioned you. So whatever you’re after, I’m sorry. I’ll have to ask you to leave now.”
Bitch. She did know where Kate was. Oh, she knew all right, but like Michael, she wasn’t going to make this easy. Why did they have to make this so difficult? He only wanted to help Kate. He’d have to go with plan B. It was messy, but he didn’t see any other way. He had to hand it to Kate—those around her had fierce loyalty. But he’d prove to be the most loyal, the most dedicated. Kate would admire that trait.
“I’m so sorry, Heather,” he replied, doing his best to sound apologetic. And he was sorry. This was Kate’s best friend, after all. That didn’t stop him from smiling as he saw alarm register in her eyes. Before she could back away, he grabbed her and turned her around so that he held her by the throat. “Fight me and you’ll get hurt,” he warned. “Help me find Kate, and everything will be fine.”
She grabbed at his arm, and he tightened it against her throat, shutting off her air supply. She was much easier to control than Michael. Not much of a challenge, actually. He waited until she went limp. He had twenty seconds, give or take, before she came to. He let her body slide to the floor, then grabbed the roll of tape off the counter where she’d been working. He bound her hands together. She began to stir as he dragged her to the back room.
He pulled out a chair from a nearby table and hoisted her into it. She tried to stand, and he struck her across the face. “Move again, and I’ll break your goddamn neck.”
Tears welled in Heather’s eyes. Pain or fear? It didn’t really matter. Either way, she’d talk. He waited until she looked at him. “We’re going to do this again. I’m going to ask you where Kate is, and you’re going to tell me.”
Heather shook her head. “I don’t know!” That defiant tone hadn’t fully left her. Yet.
“Let’s try it this way, then. Remember, move or scream and I’ll break your neck. I can do it. Don’t doubt me.” He unrolled more tape, this time around Heather’s chest and around the chair, ignoring her sobs that were meant to soften him. She had no idea what lengths he’d go to for Kate. None.
“You have a nice place here. Lots of pretty flowers.” He got right into her face, stared into her eyes. “I bet you do a good business. Do you do a lot of work for funerals? Because you might want to think about what kinds of flowers you want on your grave if you don’t tell me where Kate is.”
More sobs. “I . . . I really don’t know!”
Such a liar!
Hatcher raked a hand through his hair. She needed inspiration. He walked around the room and picked up a pair of wire cutters
. He shifted them from one hand to the other. Finally he took a seat facing her. He wiped a strand of tear-soaked hair from her face. “Shh!”
Heather tried to stifle her sobs.
“That’s better. I want you to know that I am truly sorry for all this. But it’s all for Kate. I know you’d do anything for her, so you understand, right?” He smiled then, thinking how poetic those words must sound to Kate’s friend. He’d written them on Kate’s bathroom mirror, hoping it’d look like Michael’s suicide note. And it was for Kate. Everything. Nothing but the best for her. Ever.
It’s all for you, Kate.
“You won’t get away with this,” Heather sobbed. “The roses I was working on, the customer will be here to pick them up soon.”
“Hey.” He tilted her head up so she’d look at him. “Do you think I’m incompetent? I locked the door.”
“The sign says I’m open until eight. He’ll call. And when no one answers—”
“He’ll be mad and go home, swearing he’ll never do business with you again. Might even call his credit card company and tell them to reverse the charge.” He leaned back in his chair. Heather watched him carefully. Good. He had her attention now. “No one is coming, Heather. It’s just you and me.”
“He’ll see your car. Later, he’ll report that, if anything happens to me.”
Hatcher ground his teeth. Kate’s friend was smart. But he was smarter. “I parked out back. Don’t make me keep asking you.”
“I told you I don’t know where she is!” Heather screamed at him.
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