by CJ Lyons
“You said Tyree told you who was behind the PXA attacks,” I said.
He gave a grunt of disgust. “Kingston’s son. Leo.”
I thought about it. If Daniel Kingston made Leo the CEO of the pharmaceutical company he was bringing to Cambria, it made sense that Leo had a background in chemistry. Which would go with Ryder’s theory that the rapes were secondary to the PXA drug being modified. What had he called it? A twisted clinical trial. “Why would Leo kill Sister Patrice and Jess?”
“I’m guessing they saw something they shouldn’t have.”
“And Esme? You think Leo might have something to do with Esme?”
He didn’t answer right away. “Do you think you can do that thing you do? With my mother.”
Funny. Louise thought my newfound ability to communicate with the not-quite-dead was a simple delusion—my Swiss-cheese brain filling in details, making them seem real. She was my best friend and doubted me. Yet, this man, a virtual stranger, he believed. Had faith. In me. “How does your mother fit in?”
“I need something she has.”
“You mean something she has to tell me, don’t you?”
He hesitated, staring at the road before us. Then nodded. “If you can reach her, I’m hoping she can tell you where Daniel Kingston used to take her.”
One coherent memory from a woman who’d suffered years of abuse and drug use before she fell into a persistent vegetative state two decades ago? “You know it’s a long shot. Your mom’s brain waves probably won’t have the right pattern. Why is it important to know where Daniel took her twenty years ago? If Leo has Esme, why would he take her to the same place when he has the tunnels and property all over the city?”
He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple jerked up and down. “If Leo has Esme, the only reason he’d keep her alive is to torture me. Best way to do that would be to make her suffer like my mother did.”
I blanched. Esme was just a child—to think of her in the hands of the sadist who’d hurt Allie and those other women was unimaginable. Except I didn’t have to imagine it. Thanks to Allie, I’d lived through it.
We pulled up to a large Queen Anne house—almost but not quite a mansion, probably built by some turn-of-the-century banker or railroad magnate as a country home a hundred-plus years ago. The discreet sign in front read: Holbrook Care Facility.
The receptionist knew Devon by sight—as John Smith. So unoriginal. Who’d believe it was an alias? “Mr. Smith, it’s nice to see you again.” Her gaze settled on me with curiosity. “And you brought a friend.”
She signed us in—no tacky sticky name tags here. Instead, Devon got a custom ID badge to clip to his suit coat, and I got a generic visitor’s one. I followed Devon through the halls, the only sound our footsteps on the polished dark wood floors and the occasional distant muted tone of a woman’s voice.
“John Smith?” I asked once we were out of sight of the receptionist.
“No one knows about this place. No one. It was the only way I could keep her safe.”
I had a feeling he brought me here for more reasons than just one. “You’re worried this is your last time here.”
He shrugged. “You’ve met Tyree. I watched him kill a cop this morning. Didn’t blink twice.”
“He killed a cop? We need to tell Ryder.”
“Tell Ryder?” He made a sound that was half-scoff and half-growl. “Seeing as how Tyree shot the cop—who’d just killed an innocent woman himself—with the gun that Ryder took from me… Well, let’s just say, I’m pretty sure Ryder already knows all about it.”
I reached for my phone. He laid a hand on my arm. Not tight or even painful. Just a warning. We were playing by his rules now.
“Ryder had nothing to do with sending a cop to kill anyone—or with helping Tyree to frame you. He handed that pistol off to patrol officers. Besides, we were together pretty much all night long. And he almost got killed trying to find Esme, don’t forget that.”
A crease formed along his forehead. Exhaustion rimmed his eyes. “Maybe he didn’t know,” he conceded. “But one thing I do know is Tyree is taking orders from Daniel Kingston. So that’s all the more reason not to get Ryder involved, put a target on his back as well.”
He released my arm. “You do what you think is right. But I’m not talking to any cops or wasting any time giving evidence. As of now, I’m not trusting anyone with anything until I have Esme back safe and sound.”
I pulled my cell phone out, glanced at it, then returned it to my pocket. “Let’s see what happens here first. But, if this is a dead end, we need to let Ryder know. That way, we’ll have leverage to use on Tyree.”
“Tyree doesn’t know where Esme is. If he did, he’d be using her against me instead of running me out of town with threats. Way I see it, the person we need to get leverage on is Leo Kingston. Or, even better, his father.”
We reached a bedroom door. He knocked and entered without waiting. He knew no one would answer.
It could have been a room at any upscale bed-and-breakfast: bright chintz curtains, antique dresser and rocking chair, tasteful art prints. Only the bed—a special air bed designed to minimize the risk of pressure sores—and the woman lying motionless in it revealed the truth.
Devon approached the bed and sat on the edge, taking the woman’s hand. She lay with her face turned to the left, as if looking out the window. She didn’t look old enough to be his mother. Her face was too peaceful, no wrinkles or worry lines. Her hair was neatly braided, one long rope of hair draped elegantly over her left shoulder. She wore a burgundy dressing gown that enhanced her dark complexion.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me. This is Angela. Angela Rossi. She’s a doctor. Been helping me.” He glanced at me. “Angela, meet my mother, Tanesha Price.”
There was a single framed photo on the table beside me. A woman in her twenties bouncing a baby boy on her lap. Her smile had a radiance to it that reminded me of the stained-glass saints at St. Tim’s. But she wasn’t looking up at God or anyone else. Her gaze centered on the boy with such focus and power, it was as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. “She was beautiful.”
“She still is,” he said, stroking Tanesha’s arm.
There was a gentle knock on the door, and a nurse entered carrying a basin, a bottle of no-rinse shampoo, and a stack of towels. “Mr. Smith, I heard you were visiting today. I know how you like to help with her hair.”
Devon smiled and took the basin and towels from her. “Thanks, Michele. I’ll take it from here.”
The nurse nodded and left. Devon hung up his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves. Hidden beneath his clothing were scars—old ones.
“Burns?” I asked.
He glanced down at his arms as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Most are from the fire. When Jess… was hurt. We were kids, looking for a place to make out and stumbled across a new lab Tyree had set up.”
“Booby-trapped?” I remembered the blackened door we had passed last night down in the tunnels.
“Yes. The room went up so fast. I pulled Jess out, but something splashed in her face…” He turned away, pretended to be concentrating on washing his hands. “It was in the ER we learned she was pregnant. Best and worst night of my life.”
I said nothing. What was there to say except empty platitudes? He dried his hands, positioned the basin on the chest of drawers beside Tanesha’s bed, and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Nothing compared to her scars,” he said. Gently, he slid a palm between her left cheek and the pillow and turned her so I could see her entire face.
Under her left eye was a brand. Exactly like the one Allie and the other victims had had seared into their flesh.
Tanesha’s had healed, and I could finally make out details. Two letters, a D and a K, arranged to look like a crown resting on a man’s head.
Daniel Kingston’s insignia.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“What caused that mark?” Angela pointed to the brand on Devon’s m
other’s cheek.
“One guess,” he said bitterly. He undid Tanesha’s braid and combed the no-rinse shampoo through her thick hair. “Daniel Kingston’s signet ring. His special calling card.”
“Devon.” He glanced up at the excitement in her voice. “Allie and the other victims. They all have a brand just like this. It was swollen and inflamed, too fresh to get a decent idea of the details, but I’m sure it’s the same.”
He finished combing Tanesha’s hair and rebraided it. “I already told you it was Leo. How does knowing he’s using his dad’s ring to mark his victims help?”
“We don’t have any proof. But a big heavy ring like that, full of nooks and crannies—almost impossible to clean completely. We might be able to match DNA from it to our victims.”
“That will take weeks or months. Esme is out there now, and Leo’s looking for her, wants her dead. If he doesn’t already have her.” Devon tied a burgundy ribbon around the end of the braid, carefully tucking the stray strands inside the bow. Every time he did this, he imagined braiding Esme’s hair, Jess sitting beside him, like a normal family.
Imagining? More like wishing. The kind of wish that never came true.
“You ready to try this?” he asked Angela.
She didn’t look ready for anything. Her face was pale, eyes sunken. Most of all, she looked afraid. First time he’d seen fear in her. He didn’t blame her. This thing she did, who knew where it could lead a person? He’d almost lost her earlier when Allie died.
“I wish there was another way,” he told her. It was only half a lie. He’d take any wisp of a clue if it led him to Esme.
She nodded and sat down on the opposite side of the bed, taking care not to touch his mother. She pulled in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and reached a hand to Tanesha’s arm.
And then she was gone.
Devon wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to the way she was fully there, so vibrant, alive, one moment and then just… empty. Totally frozen, only the pulse at her neck and gentle rise and fall of her chest revealing any signs of life.
He watched her, realized something was different this time. Her eyes darted back and forth beneath closed lids. Her breathing was irregular, short little gasps followed by long—too long—pauses. The kind of breathing he’d seen in guys with sucking chest wounds right before they died.
Devon was torn. He wanted to make sure she had all the time she needed, but he also couldn’t risk her dying without telling him what she’d learned. He moved to her side of the bed, standing close but not touching her. Finally, when she stopped breathing so long that her lips went dusky and her body slid forward, all tone in the muscles gone, he caught her and grabbed her hand, removing it from Tanesha’s body.
“Angela,” he called, feeling for a pulse. It took a long time, but it was there. Barely. “Angela, come back now.” In the ICU with Allie, just his touch had brought her back, even though Allie had been dying.
No response. At least she was still breathing. He carried her to a chair. She slumped, lifeless. “C’mon, wake up.” He crouched beside her and shook her. Again, harder. Damn, what now?
Finally, he slapped her. Once, twice. Hard enough to rock her entire body. Christ, she was burning up. He grabbed the water basin and splashed water on her face, surprised it didn’t sizzle.
Her lips moved the slightest bit. He grabbed her, rubbing her hands and arms, then lifting her chin to stroke her forehead and cheeks. “Angela, come back. Please, come back.”
She choked and gagged like a drowning woman. Her entire body spasmed. Then, like turning a switch on, she was back, pushing and flailing and struggling as if fighting for her life.
Her eyes popped open, wide with terror, and she would have screamed if he hadn’t covered her mouth.
“It’s okay,” he told her, trying to get her to focus on him. Her breath came in gasps so powerful he felt them cascade down the length of her body. “Angela, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.”
She shook her head, pushed his hands away, and flung herself from the chair to the floor as she vomited into the basin he’d left there. Her body heaved over and over again, until finally she collapsed back against the wall, hair hanging in her face.
He took the basin, emptied it and rinsed it, then returned to kneel beside her on the floor, handing her a damp washcloth. Slowly, she relaxed against him. Less feverish but still warmer than normal. He gently lifted her back into the chair, then grabbed a glass of water, helped her drink it, her hands too unsteady to hold it on her own.
“Did you see anything?” he asked after she’d downed two full glasses and spilled half of another.
She held a hand up, pleading for time, and finished the third glass. Her gaze was haunted, spiraling around the room, never holding steady for longer than a few heartbeats. But her breathing was back to normal, and her trembling had eased.
Finally, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. There was nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.” Her voice was a pale shadow of her normal clear alto. “Blackness…no, not even blackness. No color. No… anything.” She blinked hard, gripped his arms, and stared at him. “I was lost, so lost, falling, it felt like forever. Nothing to measure time or distance, no memories, no… me.”
“It was only a few minutes, shorter than when you were with Allie.”
“Time doesn’t matter. Not in there.” She shuddered. “Devon, I’m sorry, so sorry.”
He nodded, looking away to his mother lying on the bed. “It’s okay.” He knew this day would come. Just had always hoped… fool to ever hope. Of all people, he should have known better.
He left Angela and moved to stand beside his mother. She looked so peaceful. As if she were asleep. But now he knew better. “Give us a moment?”
Angela seemed to understand. She squeezed his shoulder. “I’m going to call Jacob, see if we have enough for a warrant to search for that signet ring. If any of our victims’ DNA is on it—”
“Can’t risk Esme’s life on wishes and ifs,” he told her. “She won’t be safe until Leo is behind bars.” Maybe not then. In fact, he wasn’t counting on the cops to deal with Leo at all. That pleasure was going to be Devon’s and Devon’s alone.
Once Esme was safe. That was all that counted.
She nodded. “I’ll wait at the car while you say good-bye.” Then she surprised him by giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Devon. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help. I wish—”
He looked away, his vision suddenly blurry. Blinking back unbidden tears, he told her, “You did the best you could. More than most would have been willing to do. Thanks.”
She left the room, and it was just him and his mother. All alone. Just like it always had been.
“I miss you, Momma,” he whispered as he tenderly pressed the heel of his hand over her lips, sealing her mouth, and then pinched her nostrils.
It had to be done. For her sake as well as his. Some small part of him, the eight-year-old boy who’d let Mrs. Anders whip his skinny body with rosary beads and dunk his head in holy water until he about drowned, that boy who’d held candles until they burned his flesh, willing to do anything if it meant the light in his mother’s eyes returning even for one more day… that boy would always be hostage to his mother’s memory as long as her body lived.
He stroked her hair, kissed her closed eyelids, crooning nonsense nursery songs to her as he sat with her until his hand cramped. “I love you. Always have and always will.”
She never struggled, just one quick jerk toward the end, before the pulse fluttering at her neck faded away.
He released his hand, straightened her covers, and sat with her. Then, one final kiss. “This one’s from Esme.”
He stood and left his mother behind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
It wasn’t difficult to find Rossi’s address. She lived above a bar called Jimmy’s Place. A workingman’s bar in a working-class neighborhood half a dozen blocks from St. Tim’s.
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When Voorsanger had called Ryder, asking to meet someplace outside work, he’d been all too happy for an excuse to leave the brick walls he’d been banging his head against all day. He’d gone home, then walked here with the dog, Ozzie being better company for Ryder than Ryder would be to anyone else, mood he was in. Why wasn’t Rossi answering her phone? Was she avoiding him? Or was it because she’d gotten bad news from the doctor?
No one objected to Ozzie’s presence, but all heads swiveled to give Ryder the once-over when they entered, immediately marking him as an outsider. Ryder didn’t mind; he was quickly caught in the spell of the music wafting from every corner of the dark-paneled, high-ceilinged room.
He stood for a moment, letting the cold breeze from the open door sway the tune around him. It sounded haunting, otherworldly, a woman sobbing for a lost love. He shook his head—lost love, yeah, right—and strode up to the bar in search of a little industrial-strength fortitude.
On the large-screen TV behind the bar played a video of another one of Rossi’s past performances. The sound was nowhere near the quality of a live performance or even the computer video he’d seen yesterday, yet Ryder was transfixed.
Jimmy himself, according to the name embroidered on his shirt, took Ryder’s order and delivered a beer to Ryder’s waiting hand. The bartender had an average build, light-colored hair and dark eyes, with the ruddy complexion of someone who may have sampled his wares a little too often.
“What’s the name of that song?” Ryder asked.
“Ain’t got no name. When the kid plays, she makes it up as it comes.”
“The kid?”
The bartender straightened, aimed his chin at Rossi’s image on the nearest screen. “My niece. She’s something, isn’t she?” The man had no evidence of Rossi’s dark, Mediterranean looks. He was Irish through and through.
“And the rest of the band?”
“Mickey’s mine, playing the bodhrán.” He indicated the drummer. “And Gino is a cousin from the kid’s dad’s side—Italian, that’s her dad’s own concertina he’s playing.”