by J. R. Ward
And then shit got real quiet. Dead quiet. Well, except for the phones.
“I know you’ve read my file,” Veck said.
“Yup.”
“Yeah, well, I am not my father.” The words were spoken on a low-and-slow. “I didn’t even grow up with the guy. I barely knew him and I’m nothing like him.”
File that one under: Sometimes You Luck Out.
Thomas DelVecchio had a lot of things going for him: He’d gotten straight As in his criminal justice major . . . top of his class at the policy academy. . . . His three years on patrol were spotless. And he was so good-looking he never bought his own coffee.
But he was the son of a monster.
And this was the root of the problem they had. By all that was right and proper, it was not fair to lay the sins of the father around the neck of the son. And Veck was right: On his own psych assessments, he’d come up as normal as anyone else.
So José had taken him on as a partner without a second thought about that pops of his.
That had changed since last night, and the issue was the expression that had been on Veck’s face when he’d gone for that photog.
So cold. So calm. With no more affect than if he’d been popping the top off a soda can.
Having worked in Homicide almost all of his adult life, José had seen a lot of murderers. You had your crime-of-passion types who lost it over a guy or a woman; you had the stupid-ass department, which in his mind covered drug- and alcohol-related as well as gang violence; and then you had the sadistic sickos who needed to be put down like rabid dogs.
All of these variations on the theme caused unimaginable tragedy for their victims’ families and the community. But they weren’t the ones who kept José up at night.
Veck’s dad had murdered twenty-eight people in seventeen years—and those were only the bodies that had been found. The bastard was on death row right now, a mere hundred and twenty-five miles away in Somers, Connecticut, and he was about to get the injection, in spite of the number of appeals his lawyer had filed. But what was really fucked-up? Thomas DelVecchio, Sr., had a fan club—that was worldwide. With one hundred thousand friends on Facebook, merchandise on CafePress, and songs that had been written about him by death-metal bands, he was an infamous celebrity.
Fucking hell, as God was his witness, all that shit made José mental. Those idiots who idolized the fucker should come work his job for a week. See how cool they thought killers were in RL.
As things went, he’d never met DelVecchio, the elder, in person, but he’d seen plenty of video from various DA and police department interviews. On the surface, the guy was straight-up lucid and as calm as a yoga instructor. Pleasant, too. No matter who was in front of him or what was said to inflame him, he never wavered, never broke, never gave an indication that any of it mattered.
Except José had seen the tell in his face—and so had a few of the other professionals: Every once in a while, he’d get a twinkle in his eye that made José reach for his cross. It was the kind of thing a sixteen-year-old boy might have when he saw a cherry ride drive by or an apple-bottomed girl with a belly shirt. It was like sunlight glinting off of a sharp blade—a brief flash of light and delight.
That was all he’d ever given away, however. The evidence had convicted him; never his testimony.
And that was the kind of murderer who left José staring at the ceiling while his wife slept beside him. DelVecchio Senior was smart enough to stay in control and cover his tracks. He was self-reliant and resourceful. And he was as relentless as the change of seasons. . . . He was Halloween in a parallel universe: Instead of a normal Joe with a mask on, he was a fiend behind a friendly, handsome face.
Veck looked just like his dad.
“Did you hear what I said.”
At the sound of the kid’s voice, José refocused. “Yeah, I did.”
“So is this it for you and me,” Veck said sharply. “You saying you don’t want to work with me anymore? Assuming I still have a job?”
José went back to his paper-clip sketching. “Internal Affairs is going to give you a warning.”
“Really?”
“I told them your head was where it needed to be,” José said after a moment.
Veck cleared his throat. “Thanks, man.”
José kept moving the clip around, the little scratching noise so very loud. “The pressure in this job is a killer.” At this, he looked Veck right in the eye. “It is not going to get easier.”
There was a pause. Then his partner murmured, “You don’t believe what you told them, do you.”
José shrugged. “Time will tell.”
“Why the hell did you save my job, then?”
“I guess I feel that you should have a chance to right your wrongs—even if they’re not really yours.”
What José kept to himself was that it wasn’t the first time he’d taken on a partner who had things to work out on the job, so to speak.
Yeah, and look at how Butch O’Neal had turned out: Missing. Presumed dead. In spite of whatever José had thought he’d heard on that 911 tape.
“I am not my father, Detective. I swear to you. Just because I was being professional when I hit the guy—”
José leaned forward, his eyes boring into the kid’s. “How did you know that was what bothered me about the attack. How did you know the calm was the thing.”
As Veck blanched, José eased back again. After a bit, he shook his head. “It doesn’t mean you’re a killer, son. And just because you fear something doesn’t mean it’s true. But I think you and I need to be real clear with each other. Like I said, I don’t think it’s fair for you to be held to a different standard because of your pops—but if you have another outburst like that over anything—and I mean parking tickets”—he nodded toward the Starbucks mug—“bad coffee, too much starch in your shirt . . . the goddamn photocopier . . . it’s game over. Do we understand each other? I’m not going to let someone dangerous wear a badge—or a gun.”
Abruptly, Veck went back to staring at his monitor. On it was the face of a pretty blond nineteen-year-old who had disappeared about two weeks prior. No body yet, but José was willing to bet she was dead by now.
After nodding, Veck picked up the coffee and sat back into his chair. “Deal.”
José exhaled and put the paper clip where it belonged, in the little clear box with the magnetic rim. “Good. Because we’ve got to find this guy before he takes anyone else.”
THIRTY-NINE
Traveling south on “the Northway,” as Manuel called it, Payne’s eyes were starved for the world around her. Everything was a source of fascination, from the streaming lines of traffic on either side of the road, to the vast black heavens above, to the bracing night chill that rushed into the car’s cockpit every time she opened her window.
Which was about every five minutes. She just loved the change in temperature—warm to cool, warm to cool. . . . It was so totally unlike the Sanctuary, where everything was monoclimatic. Plus there was the great blast of air that blew into her face and tangled her hair and made her laugh.
And then, of course, every time she did it, she looked over at Manuel and found that he was smiling.
“You haven’t asked where we’re going,” he said, after her most recent shutting.
In truth, it did not matter. She was with him and they were free and alone and that was more than enough—
You scrub him. At the end of the night, you scrub him and come back here. Alone.
Payne kept her wince to herself: Wrath, son of Wrath, had the kind of voice that went with the likes of thrones and crowns and black daggers hung about the chest. And the royal tone ’twas not window dressing. He expected to be obeyed, and Payne was under no misapprehension that just because she was the Scribe Virgin’s daughter, somehow she was not subject to his rule. As long as she was down here, this was his world and she was in it.
Whilst the king had uttered those awful words, she had squeezed her eye
s shut, and upon the silence that had reigned thereafter, promptly realized that she and Manuel would be going nowhere unless she avowed.
And so . . . she had.
“Would you like to know? Hello? Payne?”
With a start, she forced a smile to her face. “I would prefer to be surprised.”
Now he grinned deeply. “Even more fun—well, as I said, I want to introduce you to someone.” His smile faded a little. “I think you might like her.”
Her? As in a female?
Like?
Verily, that would happen only if the “she” in question had a horse face and a big butt, Payne thought.
“How lovely,” she said.
“Here’s our exit.” There was a soft click-click-click and then Manuel turned the wheel and drew them off the larger road onto a declining ramp.
As they stopped in a line of other vehicles, she saw off on the far, far horizon a huge city, the likes of which her eyes struggled to comprehend: Great buildings marked with an incalculable number of pinhole lights rose up from a ground cover of smaller structures, and it was not a static place. Red and white lights snaked in and around its edges . . . no doubt hundreds of cars on roads similar to the one they had just traveled upon.
“You’re looking at New York City,” Manny said.
“It’s . . . beautiful.”
He laughed a little. “Parts of it certainly are. And darkness and distance are great makeup artists.”
Payne reached out and touched the clear glass window in front of her. “Where I tarried in the above, there were no long vistas. No grandeur. Nothing but the oppressive milky sky and the choking boundary of forest. This is all so wondrous—”
A harsh sound rang out behind them, and then another.
Manny glared into the small mirror o’erhead. “Relax, buddy. I’m going . . .”
As he accelerated, quickly closing the distance to the next car ahead, she felt badly that she had distracted him.
“I am sorry,” she murmured. “I do not mean to go on.”
“You can talk forever and I’ll listen quite happily.”
Well, wasn’t that good to know. “I am not unfamiliar with some of the things I witness here, but for the most part this is all a revelation. The seeing bowls we have on the Other Side offer but snapshots of what transpires upon the Earth, focusing on people, not objects—unless such an inanimate is part of someone’s fate. Indeed, we are provided only destiny, not progress . . . life, not landscape. This is . . . everything I wanted to become free for.”
“How did you get out?” Which time? she thought. “Well, in the first instance . . . I realized that when my mother granted audiences to people from down below, there was a small window whereby the barrier between the two worlds was . . . a kind of mesh. I discovered that I could move my molecules through the tiny spaces that were created—and that was how I did it.” The past drew her in, memories flaring to life and burning not just in her mind, but her soul. “My mother was furious and came forth unto me, demanding that I return to the Sanctuary—and I told her no. I was on a mission and not even she could derail me.” Payne shook her head. “After I . . . did what I had to . . . I thought I would just live my life, but there were things I did not anticipate. Down here, I need to feed and . . . there are other concerns.”
Her needing, specifically—although she wasn’t going to explain the way her fertile time had hit and crippled her. It had been such a shock. Up above, the Scribe Virgin’s females were ready to conceive nearly all of the time, and thus the great swings of hormones did not o’ertake their bodies. Once they came down below, however, and spent more than a day or so thus, the cycle came upon them. Thank fate it was only once a decade—although Payne had wrongly assumed she’d have ten years until she had to worry about it.
Unfortunately, it had turned out that that was ten years after the cycle first initiated itself: Her needing had started up no more than a month after she’d been out of the Sanctuary.
As she remembered the great pains to mate that had left her defenseless and desperate, she focused on Manuel’s face. Would he service her in her time of needing? Take care of her violent cravings and ease her with the release of his sex? Could a human even do that?
“But you ended up back there again?” he said.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, I did. I had some . . . difficulty and my mother came unto me anew.” Verily, the Scribe Virgin had been terrified that rutting males would set upon her only daughter—who had already “ruined” so much of the life that she had been given. “She told me that she would aid me, although only on the Other Side. I agreed to go with her, thinking that it would be as before—and I could once again find the way out. That was not what transpired, however.”
Manny’s hand covered her own. “You’re out of all that now, though.”
Was she? The Blind King was seeking to rule her destiny just as her mother had. His reasons were less selfish, granted—after all, he had the Brotherhood and their shellans and a young living under his roof and that was a lot worthy of protecting. Except she feared her brother’s view of humans was shared by Wrath: namely that they were but lessers waiting to be called into service.
“You know what?” she said.
“What.”
“I think I could stay in this automobile with you forever.”
“Funny . . . I feel the exact same way.”
More click-click-clicking and then they took a right.
As they went along, there were fewer cars and more buildings, and she saw what he meant about night improving a city’s visage; there was no grandeur to be had in this neighborhood. Broken windows were blackened out like missing teeth, and the grime that faded down the flanks of the warehouses and stores were age lines. Pockmarks made by rot or accident or vandalism marred what once had no doubt been smooth facades and bright, fresh paint jobs had faded, the bloom of youth long lost to the elements and to time’s passage.
And indeed, the humans who were propped up in the shadows were in no better condition. Wearing wrinkled clothes in the colors of pavement and asphalt, they appeared to be weighted down from above, as if an invisible bar had forced them all to their knees—and was going to keep them there.
“Don’t worry,” Manuel said. “The doors are locked.”
“I am not afraid. I am . . . saddened, for some reason.”
“Urban poverty will do that to you.”
They went by yet another rotting, barely roofed box attended by two humans sharing a single coat. She never thought she would find any value in the Sanctuary’s oppressive perfection. But mayhap her mother had created the haven to protect the Chosen against sights like this. Lives . . . like those.
The environs soon improved slightly, however. And shortly thereafter, Manuel pulled off the road into a lot that ran parallel to a sprawling, new facility that appeared to cover a great plot of land. All around, lights on towering, craned arms cast peachy illumination upon the low-slung building and the shiny tops of the two vehicles that were parked and the clipped shrubs that bordered the walkways.
“Here we are,” he said, stopping their ride and turning to her. “I’m going to introduce you as a colleague, okay? Just roll with it.”
She grinned. “I shall endeavor to do that.”
They got out together and . . . oh, the air. Such a complex bouquet of good and bad, of metallic and sweet, of dirty and divine.
“I love this,” she said. “I love this!”
She put her arms out and swung herself in a circle, pivoting on a foot that had been booted just prior to their leaving the compound. As she halted her spin and her arms came to rest at her sides, she found him staring at her and had to laugh in embarrassment.
“I am sorry. I—”
“Come here,” he growled, his eyelids dropping low, his stare hot and possessive.
Instantly, her sex was aroused, her body flushing. And somehow, she knew to take her time as she approached him, knew to draw it out and m
ake him wait, even if it wasn’t for long.
“You want me,” she drawled when they were face-to-face.
“Yeah. Hell, yeah.” His hands grabbed her waist and pulled her in tight. “Gimme your mouth.”
As she did just that, she wrapped her arms around his neck and melded into his solid body. The kiss had ownership all over it, on both sides, and when it ended, she could not stop smiling.
“I like it when you demand of me,” she said. “It takes me back to the shower, when you were—”
He let out a groan and cut her off, putting his hand gently over her mouth. “Yeah, I remember. Trust me—I remember.”
Payne gave his palm a lick. “You will do that to me again. Tonight.”
“I should be so lucky.”
“You shall be. And so shall I.”
He laughed a little. “You know what? I’m going to need to put one of my coats on.”
Manuel reopened his door and leaned into the car. When he reemerged, he drew on a pressed white jacket that had his name in cursive by the lapel. And she knew by the way he closed the two halves that he was trying to cover up his body’s response to her.
Pity. She liked to see him in that condition, all proud and hard.
“Come on—let’s go inside,” he said, taking her hand. And then under his breath, he seemed to add, “Before I come inside . . .”
As he didn’t finish the sentence, Payne left her smile right where it was, front and center on her face.
Upon closer examination, the facility seemed to be fortified for a siege, with discreet bars on its windows and a tall fencing stretching far down into the distance. The doors they approached were also barred, and Manuel didn’t test their handles.
Logical to secure the building, she thought. Given what the greater part of town had looked like.
Manuel pushed a button and immediately a tinny little voice said, “Tricounty Equine Hospital.”
“Dr. Manuel Manello.” He turned his head toward a camera. “I’m here to see—”
“Hey, Doc. Come right in.”
There was a buzz and then Manuel held the door open for her. “After you, bambina.”