Press shrugged. “Even if the local flatfoots aren’t up on their paperwork, they still have shift briefings where they get the rundown on what’s on the hot sheets, et cetera.”
“The murdered man’s car has just been found in Santa Monica,” Fitch broke in. “It ran out of gas.”
“What’d I tell you?” Press asked scornfully as they all grabbed for their stuff and hurried out. “You can kill somebody in L.A. and never get caught, but everybody in the world knows when you rent a room or hoist someone’s car.”
“What did you expect to find, Doctor?” Laura stood with Stephen, Press and Dan at the front bumper of the stolen orange Puma. “This is not a human being we’re dealing with, and she won’t behave like one.”
Fitch peered into the car for at least the tenth time. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Matches maybe. Food wrappers. Something.”
“I doubt she’ll smoke,” Laura said. “She probably won’t eat much either.”
“Everybody has to eat, don’t they?” Dan joined Fitch at the driver’s door of the car, studying the black leather interior with interest.
“Usually,” Laura said. She pulled a three-by-five notebook from the back pocket of her slacks and flipped through a couple of pages. “But nothing relating to food or sustenance has been found since the sleeper compartment on the train, remember? We don’t know what her life span is—long or short—but she doesn’t appear to be eating right now. She may have completed that phase of her existence altogether.”
“You mean she’ll never eat again?” Press asked, startled. “If that’s the case, she can’t live very long, can she? Every living creature requires energy to keep functioning.”
“True enough. She may not eat right now,” Stephen noted, “but that’s not to say she won’t start again if she breeds. She may require extra nutrients to support the growing offspring.”
“Or she may breed, then go through the whole cycle all over again,” Laura added. “Eat, enter a sort of hibernation, and reproduce.”
“You mean she might go into another cocoon?” Dan asked. “That’s really scary, don’t you think? Who knows what she’d come out looking like a second time.”
Fitch’s forehead creased. “I think that’s unlikely—”
Robert Minjha hurried over. “We might have something,” he told Fitch. “Seems a doctor at Santa Monica Med Center says he had a female patient who healed a severe shoulder wound in front of his eyes. Apparently he thought it was a practical joke by a coworker involving hallucinogens, then the blood work came back on the woman.” Robert’s arched eyebrow said the rest. “It’s only a couple of miles away.”
“Laura, you and Press go,” Fitch said. “We’ll wrap it up here and meet you there. Keep us posted if you go anywhere else, and for God’s sake, don’t confront her by yourselves!”
But they were already out of earshot.
27
“This area is called Pacific Palisades,” John told Sil as he set a pair of tall, frost-covered glasses on the table. She watched as he filled them from a pitcher of ruby-colored liquid. “Cranberry juice,” he said at her questioning look. He laughed self-consciously. “I guess I’m kind of a health-food junkie. Nothing radical, but I . . . you know. Pay attention to things, I guess.” John Carey’s attention to details was evident in his home and the carefully planned area in the rear of his house. Even the trees overhanging the fenced yard had hundreds of tiny white Italian lights woven into their lower branches.
Sil accepted the glass of cranberry juice and raised it to her lips for a sip, recoiling slightly at the tart flavor. John’s home was spectacular, far nicer than Robbie’s modern A-frame in the Hollywood Hills. This place was more of a mini-Tudor mansion set back on at least a half acre of rolling green lawn. The rear of the house, where she and John were now, was surrounded by a high chain-link security fence backed by heavily leafed trees that blocked them from anyone’s view. Off to the side was a full-sized swimming pool covered by a green canvas tarp; John had told her the pool liner had cracked and was under repair. It didn’t matter to Sil; she’d seen swimming pools on television and thought they were too big to encourage intimacy. She felt John’s eyes on her and picked up the glass of cranberry juice again, rolling it back and forth between her palms to feel the crispness of the ice coating as it melted. Her eyes traced the area behind the house again. “John,” she said brightly, “what’s that?”
“What’s what?” He followed her pointing finger. “Oh, you mean the Jacuzzi?”
“Ah,” Sil said. “The Jacuzzi.” She let herself slide farther back against the warm plastic of the lounger, enjoying the heat and the feel of the sun where it striped across her feet. Her shoes were off, tossed carelessly under the patio table; she wished she could get rid of the rest of her clothes and feel the sunshine and John’s hands all over her body.
John watched her for a few minutes, then reached for a sports bag at the side of his lounger. He groped around in it, then held up something that looked like a black box with a glass eye on the front. A camera—Sil remembered them from the compound, and also from advertisements on television. “Do you mind if I immortalize the moment?” he asked. “I’m kind of an amateur camera buff but I try to be polite about it. Some people don’t like having their photograph taken. Besides, I’m just starting in the hobby and I take terrible pictures.” He grinned at her. “But it’s fun seeing them develop. I really love the Polaroids. What do you say—is it okay with you?”
“Sure,” Sil said. She wasn’t sure what she was agreeing to, but her response seemed to please John and he looked into the camera a few times, then positioned it facing her on the arm of another lawn chair. With a controlled move, he pressed a button on the camera then sped back to her side and threw an arm around her shoulders. Before she could ask what to expect, a tiny red light began to blink on the camera and it made a whirring sound. Sudden light flashed weakly in Sil’s eyes, making her blink and illuminating the dark green foliage behind them. As John went to retrieve the camera she hoped he hadn’t felt her tremble when the flash had startled her. When he returned with the Polaroid, she watched as he pulled two sheets of paper apart, then carefully set the thicker one on the table and stared at it intently.
“Here it comes!” he said excitedly. “Look!”
“Wow,” she breathed. Sitting next to him, Sil gaped at the developing image and started to touch her finger to it. He caught her hand.
“No, no,” he warned. “Don’t touch the print area while it’s still developing. It’ll mess it up.” The photo was off center and taken from too far away, but she could still recognize both herself and John and it made her grin with delight. John beamed at her. “Do you like it? We’ll take some more later, okay?”
“Yes,” she agreed, and smiled up at him. “Oh, yes.”
28
“We see a lot of unusual things in the emergency room,” Dr. Sugata Shah told Laura and Press. “Crackheads, gunshot wounds—people do amazing things to other people, not to mention to themselves. But this girl . . .” He trailed off and his gaze wandered to the ceiling, where he seemed to lose himself in the study of the light fixture.
“Yes?” Press prompted. “What did she do?”
Dr. Shah squinted at the light, then rubbed his eyes. “My first thought was that she’d slipped me some sort of hallucinogen, perhaps in mist form. I have a . . . colleague in the trauma intensive-care unit with whom I have had an ongoing debate over an article published in the New England Journal of Medicine. I thought perhaps he had sacrificed common sense for a foolish practical joke. However, I did take the blood sample myself, I trust the nurse who delivered it to the lab . . . and I know what I saw.”
“And what did you see, Dr. Shah?” Laura could barely stop herself from shaking the young doctor to get him to simply tell them the meat of his story. The mental reminder that he had no idea of the circumstances or the peril did nothing to heighten her patience.
“She re-formed he
r bone structure and healed herself in front of my eyes,” Dr. Shah said in a modulated voice. “We didn’t get X rays, but my preliminary appraisal of her injuries indicated a compound fracture of the left clavicle plus a possible fracture of the left humerus. She had extensive soft-tissue damage and a severe laceration in the injured area.”
“Excuse me, Doc.” Press held up a hand and scowled. “Did I hear you say healed herself? Did I get that part right?”
Dr. Shah met Press’s glare without blinking. “Yes, you did, Mr. Lennox. She healed herself. When she got off the gurney, she had no broken bones or cuts, and she was not bleeding. She walked out of here under her own power.”
“Fascinating,” Laura said.
“And you let her go?” Press demanded. “Just like that?”
Dr. Shah spread his hands. “How could I have stopped her?” He began ticking off points on his fingers. “She was not unconscious, she was not injured, she was not confused.” He shrugged and folded his arms. “She did something I literally can’t explain, but at the end of it all, Mr. Lennox, Dr. Baker, she was not injured.”
“But you did get a blood sample?” Laura asked. “Which is when you realized this wasn’t a joke.”
“Yes.”
“May I see the results?”
“Certainly.” He handed Laura a folder and watched as she quickly scanned the contents. “You don’t seem surprised,” he said as she glanced at Press and nodded, then closed the file.
“I’m not,” she responded. “It’s what I expected.”
“It’s her?” Press asked.
“Yes.” Laura tucked the folder under one arm instead of returning it and offered her hand to Dr. Shah. “Thank you for your cooperation, Doctor. We’ll stop at admissions on our way out and see if we can trace the woman you started to treat. Since she was never technically a patient, I’m sure you won’t be needing these test results.”
Dr. Shah opened his mouth to protest, then changed his mind. His black eyes were very sharp. “I can’t help wondering how my call to the Santa Monica Police Department ended up being routed to you two,” he remarked. “Dr. Laura Baker . . . I’ve heard of you and your work. You’re a molecular biologist, aren’t you? If my memory is serving me correctly, you’re a Fellow with the National Academy of Science.” He turned his gaze to Press. “And what do you do, Mr. Lennox?”
“Me?” Press gave the doctor a charming smile. “Why, I’m just here to be kind of the go-between, Dr. Shah. Just call me a . . . negotiator.”
“A negotiator? That’s an interesting title.”
Press chuckled as he watched Laura’s fingers fly over the computer keyboard at the admitting station. The outraged admissions nurse had stormed off in the direction of the employee lounge when her scathing call to the hospital administrator had resulted in a green light for Laura and Press. Laura had promised to return control of the woman’s console in under five minutes; she was almost ready. A good thing, since three irritated people were already pacing the waiting room and muttering about tests and the time, and what the hell were appointments for, anyway? “It’s part of my ongoing private contest to see how many words I can stretch to be a synonym for mercenary,” Press finished.
“Is that what you are?” she asked without looking away from the screen. “Someone who hires out for the best price?”
On the computer monitor, screens full of data were flashing by too fast for Press to follow and one side of his mouth turned up mockingly. “Not a chance. I prefer the smaller paychecks of Uncle Sam.”
Although it didn’t extend to her lips, Press saw the area around Laura’s eyes crinkle with amusement. The smile lines disappeared as she leaned forward. “Here we go, no thanks to the friendly admitting staff. The guy who came in with her is John F. Carey. There’s nothing else on him in the hospital’s records, so he’s never been a patient here himself. It says in the comments section that he’s no relation, just a witness to the accident. I don’t get it. Why would he offer his credit card for a total stranger?”
“Hell,” Press said, leaning over her shoulder to read, “Nurse Friendly likely pried it out of his wallet. He probably figured he’d straighten it out later.”
“No address or phone,” Laura said as she jotted down the name and credit-card number, “but I can get that from the laptop in the car.”
“I hope you realize that hospital information is confidential,” a female voice said harshly from the other side of the counter. “Releasing it without authorization can result in fines and imprisonment.”
Press had to bite the inside of his cheek when he saw Nurse M. Madbar standing with her hands on her hips and glowering at them both. He thought he’d make it, but the urge became too much. He made his eyes widen as far as they would go in a parody of innocence. “Of course. But we’re only going to use his credit-card number to redecorate our living room.”
The nurse’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
“We’ll keep it all confidential, of course.” Laura’s voice was smooth and soothing as she stood and pressed a key that cleared Carey’s information off the screen. “My associate has a zany sense of humor, that’s all.” She gave Press a severe look as she returned the area behind the console to Nurse Madbar’s control.
“That wasn’t funny.” The young woman sniffed. “Any more than when that young woman walked out on Dr. Shah.” Without another word, she presented both Laura and Press with her stiffened back and began typing earnestly.
“Come on, hotshot. I can trace Carey’s whereabouts in the car. Let’s get out of here before you endear yourself to someone else around here.”
“Hey, they love me,” Press protested as he followed her back to the gray government sedan waiting in the lot. He opened the door for her and she slid in and typed her password into the computer, then did a network link to the system at Fitch’s headquarters. By the time Press climbed behind the wheel, Laura already had full information on Carey displayed on the computer screen.
“Here we are,” she said as he started the car. “It’s an address in the Palisades on Wildomar. Phone number, too.”
“We’re on the way,” Press said. “Try and get Carey on the phone. If he answers, tell him to get out of the house . . . and leave Sil behind. Then call Fitch and tell him where to meet us.”
“How long before we get there?” Laura asked as she began dialing on the cellular phone.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Press answered. “Maybe not before dark, but I live in Greenwich Village, New York, not the Palisades, remember? While you’re trying to call this guy, look in the glove box for a map.”
“Got it,” Laura said. “Damn, the guy’s got his answering machine turned on. Should I leave a message?”
“Sure,” Press said dryly. “Tell him he’s thinking about copulating with a monster from outer space.”
“Thanks, smartass,” Laura said as she disconnected the call, then dialed Fitch. “After that, I’ll ask him what color he thinks we should use for the living room.” Despite the light words, her eyes were wide and worried.
“I guess Carey’s on his own until we get there.”
“How much farther?” Press demanded. The seat belts around both him and Laura locked into place as he barreled around another curve on Sunset Boulevard at full speed.
“Not too far,” Laura estimated as she scrutinized the map with a magnifying glass and penlight. “We’re at about 14500 now, and Wildomar’s past 15700. There’re at least a dozen streets in between—well, how about this!”
“What?”
“There’s a street coming up that’s actually named Carey.”
“Too bad the guy doesn’t live there instead,” Press ground out as he whipped the sedan around another curve. “He’d be a helluva lot closer to safety if he did.”
“What’s next?” Press swung the car tightly to the left, following the yellow line so closely that a car going in the opposite direction blared its horn. “It can’t be much farther.”
The map jounced in Laura’s hands as the sedan hit a bump. “Left at the next street—that’s Wildomar. Carey’s home should be the third on the right.” She tossed the map over the seat back and let it fall to the floorboard, then grabbed for a handhold as the sedan fishtailed around the final turn.
“Finally!” In spite of the wild ride, Press braked quietly and made sure the car rolled to a silent stop in the driveway of John Carey’s house.
29
The water in the Jacuzzi was hot, much more so than Sil had expected. It felt wonderful—silky and sensual against her skin, like the touch of a lover who knew every inch of her. She’d left her clothes in a pile on the cedar deck, not caring if they got wet or ended up smelling like the fragrant wood. In fact, she didn’t care if she ever put them on again. The soft outside lights and the tiny bulbs twinkling in the tree branches ringing the patio were far enough away to let the single underwater light in the hot tub make her skin glow like soft cream.
Sil didn’t know what to make of John Carey. At a deeper level, she thought that had his mind-set been more like Robbie of Hollywood Hills, they would have mated by now. At another level, she liked that he was shy and unsure of himself. But she was starting to get impatient. She’d been here all day—how much longer would it take?
“Come and get in with me,” she purred. “The water is very nice.” She smiled invitingly.
Standing at the edge of the tub, a plush bathing towel wrapped around his waist, John still looked unsure of himself and when the telephone rang inside the house, she thought for a moment he’d go to answer it. Instead, he reluctantly pulled his towel free and tossed it on a nearby lounger. She was dismayed to see that underneath he wore a loose pair of royal-blue swim trunks. As he stepped into the Jacuzzi and lowered himself into the steaming water, Sil moved to his side and began tugging off his swim trunks.
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