Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance)

by Heather Graham

  She couldn’t go back. Not now. By tomorrow, she would know if he had indeed gone to the police, and if he hadn’t, she would do so. And she would be able to describe him. And insist that although he had not committed the murder, he might know something about it.

  This was illogical. She should go to the police immediately.

  But an instinctive voice was rising inside her. No. Do as he says!

  Shaking as she was, she pulled the car out onto the street, and headed for the chateau.

  She needed to talk to her grandfather.

  CHAPTER 3

  There would be little that the police could do.

  As Brent Malone sat in a chair before the desk of Inspector Henri Javet, he answered every question with complete honesty.

  He didn’t attempt to offer his own insight into the bizarre murder.

  He admired the detective, and the speed with which the man worked. Within minutes, police officers had scoured the tomb. They had done so with competence and efficiency, being careful not to compromise any evidence that might be discovered by crime scene detectives and the forensic team. Then, when the site had been roped off and officials set in place to do all that they could, the questioning had begun.

  And it hadn’t been difficult to tell the truth. He and Jean-Luc had been closing down. He was afraid that a tourist might still have been on the premises. When he went in pursuit of the offending visitor, he heard the screams. The visitor had departed. Professor Dubois had left by the excavation route, but after finding the remains of Jean-Luc, he had panicked himself and departed by crashing through the church door.

  Javet, a man with dark eyes, slick dark hair, and a build that spoke of many nights in a gym, was amazed that Brent had been able to break down the door.

  “Adrenaline,” Brent told him, lifting his hands in a rueful explanation. “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but ... I had no thought other than to get out, and get to the police.”

  “You’re certain that Professor Dubois had departed?” Javet asked him.

  Dubois had been a total asshole through much of Brent’s association with the man. That the professor was going to face intense questioning from the police himself seemed to be a beacon in the darkness.

  “I believe he was gone. I can’t be certain. Jean-Luc and I were working to finish for the night. And then I heard noise and knew someone was not out of the church. I thought perhaps a kid, a tourist. Maybe even someone who had been dared to spend the night in the crypt. You know how crazy people can get. I hadn’t started along the corridors long before I heard the screaming. But I have no actual time frame. When I emerged from the church and came to you, it was dark already. I might have been walking along the corridors for several minutes . . . or more.”

  “And then you raced back?” Javet said, though they had been over this before.

  “He screamed. My first thought was to help. Then I went to him, and I knew I couldn’t help. My next thought was to get the hell out and get to the police.”

  “You were working legitimately in France?” Javet asked sharply.

  Brent produced all his papers. Javet nodded. “This is your correct address in the area?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t intend to leave the country?”

  Brent smiled. “No, sir. I have no intention of leaving at all.”

  “You might be out of work for some time.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be all right.”

  “And that is how?”

  “Family money ... I dabble in the stock market and real estate back home.”

  “And yet, you were doing manual labor on a dig.”

  “I’m an eternal student of history, Inspector. I was fascinated by the dig, and glad to take any work to be a part of it.”

  Javet nodded. “While it seems that the man who was killed was working to keep food on his table.”

  “I realize that I remain a suspect,” Brent said flatly.

  “You were there. In fact, you were the only one there. Except for this tourist or student or whomever it was you were chasing when you say the murder occurred. What else can you tell us about him—or her?”

  “There is practically nothing I can tell you. I didn’t have a chance to find the person. Perhaps they had managed to get out. When I heard the screams, I went back to the site. And found Jean-Luc. I touched him to see if he was still breathing, but I touched nothing else at the site. I got out of there as quickly as I could.”

  “Dead is dead. And still, the way the man looked . . .” Javet wasn’t an old man, but he had a drawn look to his features, as if he had seen many evils in his years as a detective. “Such a heinous murder. And all for an empty coffin,” Javet said, shaking his head sadly.

  Brent shrugged, lifting his hands again in a hopeless expression.

  “I touched nothing after I tried to see if Jean-Luc had a pulse. When the head . . . well, I was quickly certain that he was dead, and, as perhaps you can imagine, I felt a surge of pure self-preservation. And I also wanted to get to professionals like you as quickly as possible.”

  Javet nodded. Brent forced himself not to look at his watch. Hours had gone by.

  Hours he needed.

  “I will be holding on to your passport,” Javet said.

  “Naturally.”

  “Now,” Javet said, leaning back, “we will go over it all one more time.”

  “Again?”

  “Indeed, the entire event from the beginning to the end.”

  He had waited and waited, and all to no avail. Watched when the two had run from the broken door.

  Watched, cursing and angry, as the police had arrived, swarming over the place.

  And he had stood there and tried and tried to fathom . . .

  All for nothing.

  So he had listened. Listened to the officers talking. And then he had known what was about to occur, and hurried to position himself properly.

  Shadows were easy to find in the dark streets of the village. By the train station, they were numerous. And so he waited, watched, tensed and ready, using every sense within him.

  They weren’t needed. The man arrived on the train from Paris in full uniform. He immediately began to follow him. When they were on the streets alone, and the shadows were dense and tight, he approached him.

  “Monsieur! ”

  The man, assured of his office and his own abilities, stopped impatiently. “Yes, where are you? What is it?”

  He stepped out of the shadows.

  And approached the impatient officer.

  “I have information for you,” he said quietly, coming close.

  A cloud covered the bit of moon in the sky, and all the stars, and the two were swallowed up by the shadows.

  Brent again looked at his watch, damning this man who went over and over every small detail.

  Javet spoke. “I must tell you as well that, as you were the only person known to be present, I could hold you now for suspicion of murder.”

  “If I had murdered the man myself, I would hardly be running to you now, telling you all that I know.”

  Javet shrugged. “I usually have a sense for certain things, Malone. And I sense that you are telling me the truth, and that you are not a murderer. But the village, and perhaps all of Paris, will be in great alarm. They will be demanding an arrest, so that they can sleep tight in their own beds at night, unafraid. There may be many as well who think that you should be arrested on the spot.”

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Not at this moment. Every word you spoke rang true when we came to the crypt. The coroner says that you must have come straight here upon finding the body as the man had been dead so short a time. You couldn’t have hidden any riches or done away with a decaying body so quickly. For now . . . no, you are not under arrest.”

  “Ah.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I’m assuming you’ll be watching me.”

  “You assume correctly. �
�Javet hesitated for a moment, as if he considered his next words carefully. “There is a sense of unease rising in the city center as it is.”

  “Oh?” Brent frowned. He’d been so totally concentrated on the work in the crypt that he’d paid attention to little else. “Have there been other murders lately?”

  Javet had been carefully watching him for his reaction. He shrugged. “It is probably all unrelated. We’ve had reports of missing persons. But you know . . . people sometimes disappear because they choose to do so.”

  Brent leaned forward. “And sometimes they disappear because something has been done to them. How many missing persons?”

  Again, Javet hunched his shoulders. “Five—in my files. One was a British tourist . . . a young woman of about twenty-five.” He pulled open a drawer in his desk and produced a file, flipping pages. One young man, four young women in total. Two were prostitutes ... the man and the other two were tourists. All three tourists possessed rail passes, so they could be almost anywhere, backpacking through Europe. As to the prostitutes ... they worked the seediest streets of the city, had drug habits, and . . . well, they were young, but defying death on a daily basis.”

  “A prostitute murdered by a john or a pimp would most probably be discovered in an alley somewhere, don’t you think?”

  “We’ve not found a single body in an alley, and as I said, the other young people might be anywhere—you know, children will forget to call home, and nervous mamas will call, and become more nervous. So, we have taken the reports, and the files and pictures are all across the entire metropolitan area.”

  “I haven’t seen anything on the news, or in the paper.”

  “You must not read past the first page. There has been mention.”

  “Perhaps there should be more mention made.”

  “Paris is the City of Light. We need visitors from around the world. We try not to panic the public irresponsibly.”

  “Warning them might be nice as well.”

  “Perhaps you should walk out before I do decide to arrest you.”

  Brent leaned back. “You’re not going to arrest me, because you actually believe that the disappearances might have something to do with this murder. And you do know that I didn’t kill Jean-Luc, so there is an unknown murderer out there. He—or she—might be afraid that I did see something, and therefore, on the streets, I might be bait to lure the real killer.”

  Javet shrugged. “Perhaps.” He kept staring at Brent as if he could read something from watching him.

  Brent stared back.

  At last Javet lifted his hands. “You are free to go. As long as you do not go far, of course.”

  “Well, I can hardly ask you to trust a stranger, but I am as anxious to see his murderer brought to justice as you are, sir,” Brent said, rising.

  Javet rose as well and shook his hand. Brent was aware that he spoke very softly to one of the men who came by his desk as Brent started out. The inspector was aware that his French was fluent, and he didn’t want Brent knowing that he was to be followed.

  Even if he hadn’t heard the whisper, Brent knew that men would be sent out to watch his movements.

  He left the station, lit a cigarette on the street, and then paused.

  There was something ...

  A strange sensation touched him again.

  He had felt it before, coming from the crypt, onto the street. When he had insisted that Tara Adair get in her car and leave quickly.

  Now . . .

  For a moment, the feeling was strong.

  And close, very close.

  Looking back, he frowned. The station suddenly seemed to rest in a large shadow. Down the block and across the street, there was still much police activity around the outer entrance to the dig.

  He looked back at the station, and went over his conversation with Javet again. He considered everything he had seen and sensed regarding the man.

  It didn’t make sense.

  And yet it was there, the feeling of unease. That something wasn’t quite right.

  Here.

  He walked back in. The sergeant at the desk stopped him. “Sir?”

  “I need to see Javet again.”

  “He has just left with another inspector. You’ll have to come back.”

  The sense of unease remained. And yet ...

  It was as if something had been . . .

  And even as he stood there, it faded . . .

  And was then gone.

  He could do no good, standing there, arguing with the desk sergeant on duty.

  He walked down the block to the café, took a table outside, and ordered coffee with a whiskey, neat. He paid when his drinks arrived, then pretended to linger, staring at the crime tape around the crude stairway that led down to the excavation site from what had been a garden square area before the church. The front of the new St. Michel was also cordoned off now, around the door he had broken down.

  He waited, then spoke to his waiter about the toilet facilities, and rose. Once inside, he followed an EMPLOYEES ONLY door out a hallway to the delivery entrance in the rear.

  He was not followed.

  His car was on the street. He chose to leave it while he walked on to another bar. Once inside, he used the pay phone, though he had a cell phone in his pocket.

  He wasn’t certain that the phone even rang. He heard the deep voice answering almost instantly. “Hello?”

  “I need you,” he said.

  “I know. I’ve felt it coming. It was today . . . tonight for you.”

  “I should have known. I suspected. I—failed,” Brent said flatly.

  “There is no blame. Unless I were to take it myself.”

  “One is dead. That I know of—for certain—so far. I’ll be on the prowl.”

  “We have tickets already. You’ll get us at Orly?”

  “No, I’ve been to the police. I’ll explain when you arrive.”

  “We already have tickets on the overnighter.”

  “Tomorrow then. I’ll do what I can tonight. But . . . it’s a big city.”

  “I’ll do what I can as well.”

  He hung up, walked outside, and made certain that he wasn’t being followed.

  He stood very still, feeling the breeze, listening.

  There was nothing. Nothing on the air. Nothing in the wind.

  Not even a sense of direction.

  Still, he had to move.

  Five disappearances. Five that were official. Paris was a transient city. People coming and going all the time.

  There could be more. Many more.

  And now, this girl in the tomb, if she had been seen, if they knew that she might even begin to suspect . . .

  He considered taking his car, then decided against it.

  For a moment, he closed his eyes, and saw her as she had stood in the tomb. Slim, blond, erect, beautiful features, intelligent, suspicious, and determined eyes. Unnerved, but not a coward, dignified even in fear. He had barely seen her, barely spoken with her.

  And yet . . .

  A sudden urge to protect and defend her gave him new direction. It was, of course, because he was pretty certain of just who she was.

  And because he was fairly certain that the disappearances had plenty to do with the murder that had occurred tonight, he had good reason to worry about her.

  The night was long. He need only see that those in the greatest danger were secure. And then the hours of darkness would stretch on.

  And there were, of course, those things which must wait until dawn.

  Determined on his course, he started out of the center of the village, seeking the darkness of the roads in the more rural region beyond. He walked and looked up at the sky. Not a full moon . . .

  A waning moon. But it was riding high in the heavens.

  He moved more quickly, ever searching the village, and those now stopping to gawk at the police activity at the dig site.

  More and more, he became certain of the reason that the girl had been t
here. There was so much she didn’t know, and still . . .

  She would.

  He knew the address of where she was staying.

  He knew where she lived.

  They did not; not yet. And still, that sense of danger remained.

  He began to run.

  In seconds, he was swallowed up in the darkness.

  Tara jerked the car to a halt in front of the chateau and went flying in, noting that Ann had not come from work. She rushed through the hall to the library, but her grandfather wasn’t there.

  She raced up the stairs to his room.

  With pillows piled behind his back, he had been sleeping. The sound of her arrival woke him, and he opened his deep blue eyes, staring at her intently.

  She had never been disrespectful to her grandfather, and she didn’t really mean to be so at that moment, but words spilled from her lips before she could stop them. “What the hell did you send me into?”

  He stiffened, all attention, rheumy eyes as sharp as tacks.

  “What happened?”

  “A murder.”

  “A murder? You’ve got to be explicit. Exactly what happened, who was murdered, and where did it happen?”

  His determined calm forced her to breathe a little more slowly, but she could be as stolid as he was, and she meant to understand what was going on.

  “I went to the church, and they were allowing tourists into the ruins. I flirted with that ridiculous Professor Dubois, and learned that he was certain he was near to discovering the coffin of a noblewoman who had lived during the reign of the Sun King. She had been his mistress, but she had been ordered buried in unhallowed ground because of her evil practices. I kept at it as long as I could, and yet I was being urged out. They were closing down for the day. Still, I lingered, wondering if I could sneak back and eavesdrop on the workers. One of them came after me. When he did, there was suddenly the most god-awful scream I have ever heard. The fellow who had followed me went back. I went blindly racing for a way out. While I was banging away at the church door, the worker who had come after me suddenly reappeared and broke the door down.”