Dark Heart

by Margaret Weis;David Baldwin

  “No. Not at all. I know some people can live in peace. That’s what civilized really means. People living together and not letting the dark urges in our hearts get the better of us. I just don’t think all people can live in peace. The ability to keep my blood lust in check is what separates me from the murderers I hunt. I may feel like killing ten times a day. But I control those urges. I wanted to kill that redhead, but I didn’t do it.”

  “So you never follow your urges?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. But I believe in fairness and justice. I strive to find them and give them to those around me, and I don’t let my urges push me off that path. Civilized people don’t.”

  “So far I’ve heard you profess to believe in a devil, but what about the side of the angels? That’s a little hazier.”

  She shrugged. “I try to believe in God. I would like to believe in him, but I need proof. And I’ve never seen real proof—the kind you can touch and feel and smell. I have questions about the nature of God that have never been answered to my satisfaction. I go to St. Joseph’s Cathedral sometimes, to think. I usually feel better when I leave than when I went in. It just feels right that I should ponder important questions in a place like that. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because God actually is there. I don’t know.”

  Sandra took a last drag on her cigarette and tossed the butt into a nearby trash can. It gave a sharp spit as it hit the puddle at the bottom of the can. Justin offered her another, but she declined. It suddenly occurred to her that they had been talking like two people who already knew each other well and wanted to know each other better. And she hadn’t batted an eyelash. She probably should be worried about it, but she wasn’t.

  “If my primary sin is curiosity, then I think yours is melancholy, Justin,” she said. “The more I know about you, the more I see this huge dark cloud hanging over you. You do put up a good act, though.”

  She turned to look at him and found his gaze fixed on the pavement, his brow furrowed. Sandra winced, wondering if she had crossed some unseen line.

  “You’ve caught me.” He seemed reluctant to speak, but then continued anyway. “I’ve made choices in my life that I often regret. You remind me of someone who was once very dear to me.”

  Sandra raised an eyebrow, “Is that why you picked me out to hit on?”

  He shook his head, smiling, “No. I hit on you because I like the way you dance, actually.”

  “Good, so do I.” She paused. “Who is she, this person I remind you of?”

  “My late wife.”

  Sandra whistled. “Hey, I didn’t mean to step on a tender spot. Let’s just—”

  “No, it’s all right,” he said. “I lost her a long time ago. The pain is an old friend by now. A habit as much as anything else. Some of the things you do remind me of her.”

  “Were you together long?” she asked.

  “For centuries, it seems.”

  Despite his assurances, Sandra felt she had stepped over some line, into forbidden territory. She decided it was time to change the subject.

  “So how’d you end up in Chicago?” she asked. “You’ll never pass for a native here, you know.”

  He flashed a relieved smile. “Would you believe I liked the look of Wrigley Field?”

  She looked dubious. “You look more like a polo aficionado to me.”

  She paused. “I’m cold,” she said, rubbing her arms. The scrapes on her shoulder and her elbow were beginning to sting again. “And we should probably get you to a hospital for a few X rays. I’m pretty sure you’re fine, but you’ll want some baseline stuff for the insurance company in case you wake up in agony tomorrow. And who knows—maybe the police are looking for you. I could fix all that while we’re at the hospital.”

  “I’m fine, really. Barely a scratch. And I could afford to buy the hospital, so I won’t need to bother the insurance company. As for the police, well…” He grinned at her. “As you say, I already have a connection with the police. Or do I?”

  She grinned in return. “Maybe…”

  They headed for the street. Justin hailed a cab. It stopped by the curb. He held out a hand in invitation as he got into it.

  “I’ve enjoyed our adventures tonight. Come with me, and let’s see if we can continue them.”

  Sandra paused before replying, sorely tempted. Since her marriage, she’d been almost entirely celibate, only occasionally soothing her urges with the odd one-night stand. After Chuck’s abuse, she’d never been able to trust a man enough to think about a relationship

  And the age of AIDS had made those one-night stands even more dangerous than they used to be. She’d be a fool to take this man up on his offer, no matter how much she liked him.

  On the other hand…those eyes!

  She took his hand, stooped, and slid into the taxi next to him.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “We’ll figure that out on the way,” he said.

  twelve

  Sandra slid to the edge of the bed. The air in the room felt cold on her bare skin as she slipped out from under the covers. She stood up slowly so as not to disturb the sleeping man beside her, and her feet sank into the plush carpet. The room smelled like every other hotel room she’d ever been in. Impersonal. Neutral ground.

  Sandra had not wanted to take Justin back to her place. She had no desire to listen to Benny give Justin the third degree, which he’d certainly do if given the opportunity. Although he meant well, Benny considered it his right, both as her brother and her friend, to screen her male acquaintances.

  Justin, for his part, had said he would rather not return to his home. He’d told her that it was above the club, and he knew if he went back, he’d undoubtedly have to check in on things downstairs and wouldn’t come back for hours. It was, he said, one of the joys and hazards of owning a business.

  He had suggested he splurge on a luxurious compromise, and so here they were.

  The room had that sumptuous feel the best hotels strive for. True to his suggestion, Justin had arranged for a beautiful suite in the gorgeously restored Conrad Hilton on Michigan Avenue, overlooking Lake Michigan.

  They’d checked in, and for a few short hours Sandra had forgotten all about her troubles—the kid, the murders, her paranoia about something following her, her nightmares. All she’d thought about was Justin: the texture of his skin, the way his expressions flitted across his face, the gleam in his blue eyes, the way his hands felt on her body, the way he made her feel when he touched her just so…

  Her skin tingled in the cool air. She could feel the pull and twinge in seldom-used muscles as she walked across the room. It had been an evening to remember in more ways than one. Justin had made her feel cherished, adored, and—finally—wild for him. She’d forgotten everything, even her own name, in the resulting rush of pleasure.

  But now she was scared.

  It had been too good. The perfection of the night frightened her. She needed her mind clear to solve the murders she was investigating. She needed to be a cop first, a woman second, until she had the killer behind bars. She needed her emotions under control and her energies focused. She simply couldn’t afford to fall head over heels for an English aristocrat, no matter how charismatic he was or how fabulous he was in the sack.

  If this night had been a casual one-night stand, forgotten almost before it was begun, it would be different. And that had certainly been what she’d planned when she’d gotten into the cab with Justin. But it had very quickly become something else, a soul mates-finding-each-other bonding experience that had her scared to death.

  Maybe she should’ve accepted the other man’s advances—that middle-eastern guy had clearly wanted to jump her bones. She was sure she could’ve screwed him and dumped him without a second thought.

  Since Chuck had nearly destroyed her, she had made a semiannual habit out of one-night stands. She was no longer the trusting fool who’d married a handsome monster with love in her heart and stars in her eyes. S
he didn’t think she could trust a man enough to have a long-term relationship. Not after Chuck.

  She’d learned the hard way that the law and social mores didn’t adequately protect her if something went wrong between a man and a woman. All the restraining orders in the world couldn’t keep a man out of her life if he was determined to destroy her. Right up until the situation between her and Chuck had escalated into assault and attempted murder, and even after that, the law couldn’t—hadn’t—done a thing to help her. Not until she’d had witnesses and proof. Now she was a cop. In a way, she understood. But it still sucked. And it probably had a lot to do with why she’d become a cop.

  Still, just because she felt unable to have a successful relationship with a man didn’t mean that she didn’t like sex. Until it had become as abusive as the rest of their marriage, she’d always enjoyed the physical aspect of her life with her husband. And she’d discovered that she still needed the kind of release only sex with a man could give her. As dangerous as it was—and because she was a cop, she knew exactly how dangerous it could be—she would still, once or twice a year, go out looking for Mr. Goodbar. She figured she did it to prove to herself that she was still a sexual being, that Chuck hadn’t taken that away from her along with everything else.

  Tonight had been one of those nights when she needed a man, any man. And Justin had been handy.

  But somewhere during the velvet depths of the night it had turned into something much more complicated.

  She turned and looked down at Justin. His black hair was spread out over the pillow, gleaming like a raven’s wing in the dim light. She liked him. Really liked him.

  But she was afraid she might feel even more for him, certainly as she came to know him better. Maybe this warmth in her heart had ignited the moment he’d rushed out into traffic after her—like the name of that old Joe Cocker group, Mad Dogs and Englishmen. Maybe it was the way he’d understood her longing for a cigarette to help her get through what had happened, or the way he seemed to know her so well even though they’d barely met. Maybe it was the fact that he talked interestingly about so many subjects, and actually listened to her replies. But however it had come to happen, she knew that she really liked him.

  She looked at him again, sleeping quietly on the far side of the huge, canopied bed. Part of her wanted to snuggle up beside him, to sleep through till morning and wake up in his arms in that glorious bed. But she could not allow that. She had a job to do—one he would get in the way of if she let him into her life in any real way. And, more importantly, she had no intention of giving her soul to a man again.

  Never, never again.

  Chuck had destroyed any hope of that forever.

  She found her clothes and her possessions, scattered in passion scant hours before. She slipped the garments on, most of them, though they were sadly the worse for wear, and picked up her purse. She left her underthings behind—they’d been torn past the point of usefulness in their first breathless rush of passion. She hoped those scraps of silk were all she was leaving behind.

  But she feared she’d lost something much more precious than a few shreds of clothing to Justin. She was desperately afraid that, somewhere down there in the tangle of clothing and pillows on the plush carpeting, she was leaving behind a big piece of her heart.

  She tried not to think about it. Whatever she feared had happened last night, it was over now. It would end right here, right now. She would see to it.

  Pausing one last moment beside Justin’s sleeping form, Sandra watched his chest rise and fall with his breathing, the way his eyelashes fanned out over his cheekbones, so long and thick they almost appeared to be fake. She wanted to touch him, kiss him. She shook her head. After all she’d been through, you’d think she’d have learned. Men were predators, and women their preferred prey. Even the best of them expected the house to be clean, the meals to be on the table, and the shopping to be done while they were off doing manly things. The worst of them would kill or maim at the slightest excuse. Use them or they will use you, she thought. Nothing good can come of this.

  She turned and fled the room.

  Home at last, Sandra emptied her pockets onto her dresser in the first faint blush of morning. She thought about turning on a lamp but left it off. The darkness was comfortable.

  She felt like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. Her stomach was queasy and her head hurt, the alcohol and nicotine chasing each other in a painful relay through her body.

  She had gone out seeking clarity. Instead, she’d indulged in a wonderful distraction that was likely to cause her more pain than it was worth.

  Frowning, she decided she wouldn’t let it get to her. She had too much at stake to fall apart over a man.

  Unbuttoning her blouse, she started digging through her closet for something new to wear. She tossed the ruined blouse on the floor.

  Think of the case, she told herself. She’d been so close to catching that snitch last night…damn it!

  If he wasn’t bullshitting her, maybe he knew the man who had killed Carlton Wheeler, and possibly killed Madrone, too. At the very least, he could’ve provided new leads.

  But Red was crazy skittish, even though he’d gone out of his way to talk to her. The moment that Omar guy had stepped outside the bar, Red had bolted like he’d seen a ghost.

  As she finished stripping off her clothes, Sandra drew in a deep breath. Justin’s scent clung to her, mingled with her own, making it hard for her to concentrate on anything else. She should take a shower, but she was exhausted, and she had to go to work in a few hours. She’d rather spend the time sleeping, if she could.

  She really should go to bed, but her mind was restless, unsettled. Resting her fingertips lightly on the window, she leaned in, put her forehead against the glass, looked down. It was a trick she and her girlfriends had learned in high school, when they’d gone to the Sears Tower. Lean over the rail, put your head to the glass, and look out. It seemed like you were going to fall, all that way. It made you dizzy.

  Now only the alcohol was dizzying, and the feeling was hardly the pleasant glow she’d felt in high school. The view from an eighth-floor condo was nothing compared to the sights seen from the vast height of the Sears building.

  She thought of the killer, out there somewhere in Chicago’s mean streets. Was that the source of her weird paranoia, that feeling of being stalked she just couldn’t seem to shake? Madrone had been a cop, and she was a cop. And Madrone was connected to Baxter, and to Wheeler. And she was connected to Madrone now.

  Somebody had killed one cop. Why not another?

  Why not me? Am I jumping at shadows?

  Jesus…

  Hopefully something would turn up in this dead-end case. She’d find the redhead and squeeze him. She still had the dime bag she’d taken from him yesterday. In the shape he’d been in, if she could find him before he scored again, he’d probably trade anything he had for a taste.

  It was an appealing thought, at least. She walked to her bed, climbed in, and pulled her heavy comforter up around her neck. She set the alarm to give herself four hours, settled into the buoyant down pillows, and closed her eyes. A moment later she was snoring softly.

  Justin opened the door to his apartment. The rooms were dark, though outside the rosy pink glow of dawn was painting Chicago’s skyline with gleaming highlights. But he made no move to turn on the light. He wanted no part of the light. The darkness had been his home for centuries.

  It’s true, he thought. I have been shrouded in the dark, working for the light. The Dragon said it was the curse of those who would truly change the world. That only the rare few were brave enough to wade through eternal darkness to give others light.

  I am tired of it, he thought. How can a man serve others forever, without gaining something for himself?

  Justin had done more than just observe Sandra tonight. He had joined with her, had probed her mind. He had lain with her and tasted her essence. And he knew now that she was sm
art enough, driven enough, to put the pieces together. His dilemma with his role as the Dragon’s scalpel had increased tenfold.

  He did not want to kill Sandra. He had not believed it necessary before this night. He had sought her out to prove to the Dragon that he was right. But the Dragon’s fears were well-founded. Now he knew he’d have to control Sandra or kill her. If she was given half a chance, she would learn everything there was to learn about Justin and his master. He’d find her snooping around his club, just like Madrone. At the rate she was moving, he’d find her coming after him before another day had passed.

  Justin moved across to the huge picture window in his living room and opened the heavy drapes to let the daylight stream in. He stared out over the city to Lake Michigan, glinting golden in the dawn.

  She’d trusted him last night, had slept in his arms after they’d made love. He could have killed her then, painlessly, and she’d never have known that her time had come. Her last thoughts would have been soaked in pleasure, her passing a gentle release. But he had not done it.

  Justin turned his thoughts to the past—to Hong Kong in the 1920s. He had made a different choice then. He’d been standing just like this, looking out over the dark waters of Victoria Bay, and there had been a dead woman in his bed.

  The body cooling in his bed had been Angela Mary Godfrey, archaeologist and adventuress. Justin had loved her, he supposed. More than that, she had been a taste of glowing life to him, at a time when he’d been drowning in death. Perhaps it was that sensation he had coveted, rather than the woman who gave it to him.

  Angela had been a vibrant woman, a woman who lusted for knowledge and experience, who lusted for Justin the moment she had laid eyes on him. And when Angela saw something she wanted, she took it. In the twenties, she had been an anomaly. She would have been branded an outcast in the tightly restrained society of the time, Justin supposed, if her father hadn’t been so wealthy, or if she’d shown the slightest signs of caring what people thought of her, or if she had stayed in one place long enough to be branded anything.