“Thanks for suggesting this, Marcello,” she said, a lilt in her voice. “It’s lovely out here, isn³y o"><’t it?”
“Lovely,” he agreed, though he was not referring to the beach.
She placed a hand on his forearm. An innocent contact but enough to set his imagination running wild. What if she let her other hand trail gently down his chest? No, what if she grabbed the front of his jacket, pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him until he begged for mercy? No, what if she shoved him backward onto the sand and—
“Race you to the dock,” she said.
He was so caught up in his fantasies that she had a ten-yard head start on him before he realized he had just been issued a challenge.
“Slowpoke!” she tossed over her shoulder. A slur to which any healthy young Italian male would take exception.
Marcello managed to catch up halfway along the beach. “Who is the slowpoke now?”
Britt flashed him a mischievous grin. “You!” she shouted and lunged ahead.
Again, Marcello caught up with her. “Who?” he demanded.
“Me,” she said, “though I do have one advantage over you.”
“What is that?” he asked, preparing to pull ahead.
“I have no ethics.” Deliberately, she stuck out her foot and tripped him. He hit the sand, and she flew past.
“That is cheating!” he yelled as he dragged himself to his feet and sprinted after her.
But the race was hers. Britt touched the end of the dock a good six inches ahead of him, then jumped in circles. “I won! I won! I won!”
He grabbed her arm. “Get down.”
“What?” She shot him a questioning look.
“I said, get down.” He pulled her to the sand.
“What’s going—”
“Shh. Listen.”
She cocked her head, frowning slightly. “I don’t hear anything. Oh, wait. A motor?”
He nodded. “Someone is coming up the lake, and I would rather not be seen.”
The boat drew steadily nearer, passing within a meter or so of the far end of the dock, close enough for them to see there was only one person aboard. A man. A large man. But that was all Marcello could tell for certain.
A dozen meters farther along, the tenor of the motor changed.
“He’s slowing down,” Britt whispered. “Do you think he spotted us?”
“No,” Marcello said. “I think he has spotted his destination. The beach below the Granger mansion.”
“But why would anyone—” Britt fell silent as the logical answer occurred to her. “Do you think it’s—”
“Sarge,” Marcello said. “He has returned.”
“You don’t know that,” Britt said. “It could be someone out for a moonlight ride.”
“I might believe that if there had been more than one person in the boat. And if he was just out for a ride, why did he douse his lights and kill the motor just as he approached the Granger property?”
“I don’t know, but there might be a perfectly innocent explanation.”
Marcello raised his eyebrows. “Such as?”
“Maybe our mystery boater’s a thief.”
“You have an interesting definition of innocent,” Marcello observed. “Look, we both know the odds are it is Sarge. In fact, it makes sense. If you recall, we never found where he and his partner parked last time. Perhaps that is because they came by boat, not by car.”
“Okay, that does make sense, but—”
“We are wasting time,” Marcello said. “Stay here. I am going to try to get a little closer to see if I can make a positive identification.”
“No!” Britt grabbed his arm with both hands and held on tight. “Are you crazy? What if he spots you? The man’s a psycho. Remember what he did the last time he caught up with you.”
“Do not worry,” he told her. “I have no intention of allowing him to torture me again. There were two of them last time, and they caught me unawares. This time I have the advantage.” He pried her hands loose and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I will be careful. I promise.”
Marcello jogged back across the beach, trying to act casual about it in case anyone was watching. A large stone outcropping marked the end of Britt’s beach and the beginning of Trick’s. Unlike Britt’s stretch of sand, which extended a good twelve meters from the water up to the lawn, Trick’s beach was much narrower. Above the stone outcropping, the trees grew thickly. Below it, a narrow four-meter strip of beach extended across the property, a ribbon of sand separating the forest from the lake. Marcello melted into the shadows of the rugged rock formation, listening hard for sounds of movement.
Nothing.
He peered cautiously around the lower end of the rock formation. A speedboat, one of the rentals from the public marina across the lake, was tied up at one end of the dilapidated dock, but there was no sign of whoever had come across the lake in the boat. Marcello scanned the beach carefully. Nothing. No one.
But perhaps if he tried a better vantage point…He levered himself up the rock and peered down from above. Still no one in sight, though he could definitely see where someone had plowed through the sand toward the path that led up through the trees to the house. He sat back on his haunches to wait.
The house was locked up tight, not that Marcello thought for a moment that locks would stop Sarge—if, indeed it was Sarge—from getting inside. But this time, he would find no one to intimidate.
The burns on Marcello’s chest were well on their way to healing, but he would never forget the pain nor the obvious pleasure Sarge had taken in inflicting it.³ ins o The excitement glittering in his eyes, the quickening of his breath, and the sinister smile twisting his face had all betrayed his delight in the torture, his glee at forcing Marcello to talk.
And Marcello had talked. That shame that would follow him to the grave.
“If Sarge returns, don’t confront him. Just keep an eye on him if you can. See which way he goes when he leaves.” That was what Trick had said.
Had Trick guessed how difficult it would be for Marcello to follow those orders, how loudly would his instincts be shouting for revenge?
Fire. Even monsters like Sarge feared the flames. It would not take Marcello ten minutes to slip up to the house and tamper with the natural gas line. He imagined the resulting explosion. An old house like that would go up like kindling.
The only problem with the scenario—aside from destroying Trick’s property—was that it was not a hundred percent guaranteed to destroy the vampire. If Sarge was not knocked senseless by the initial blast, he might very well escape the building before the fire had a chance to reach him, and then Marcello’s desperate and violent act would have been all for nothing.
Worse, Sarge would realize someone nearby wanted him dead. And Britt’s lodge was the only place nearby. Marcello had a sudden ghastly vision of the vampire pressing the tip of a burning cigarette to Britt’s tender flesh.
No. Marcello could not risk that. He would hide and watch as Trick had instructed.
Fifteen minutes later, Sarge strode into sight, the scowl on his face clearly illuminated by the moonlight.
Marcello did not linger. He took off for the lodge at a dead run, knowing if he expected to beat Sarge back to the marina, he would have to hurry. He met Britt near the back door.
“What happened?” she asked, looking worried.
“He is getting away, and I need to know which way he goes. May I borrow your SUV?”
“Of course,” she said, handing him the keys. “But I’m coming with you.”
Marcello did not waste time arguing. They cut through the lodge to the attached garage, where Britt was parked. She punched the automatic garage door opener while he started the engine.
“How do you chase down a man in a boat using an SUV?” she asked as she buckled herself into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”
“The marina,” he said. “I need to see which way he heads from there.”
; “And then what?” she asked. “We’re not going to follow him, are we?”
“No.” he gave her a reassuring smile. “As soon as I know which way he is headed, I will contact Faraday.”
As Trick climbed out of the shower, he heard his cell phone ringing. Figuring no one but Marcello would be calling this late, he grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist, then dripped his way into the bedroom to grab the cell phone he’d left on the dresser along with his w³lone gallet and the rest of the contents of his pockets. “Yeah?”
“Trick?” Definitely Marcello and he sounded upset.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Sarge came back to Midas Lake.”
“Did he hurt you? Britt? How’s Britt?”
“We are both fine. We saw him. He did not see us.”
“You’re positive?”
“Absolutely. We saw him approach the mansion by water.”
“Good thing you were at the lodge instead of holding down the fort by yourself.”
“Fort?” Marcello said.
“Never mind. What else happened? You said he didn’t spot you, but you sound upset.”
“Britt and I drove to the marina, assuming he had left his vehicle there when he rented the boat. We were anxious to see which direction he went when he left.”
“You sound strange, Marcello. What’s wrong? What haven’t you told me?”
“The boat…” Marcello faltered. “Sarge had not rented it.” He swallowed audibly. “After he drove away, heading down toward Sacramento, by the way, not into Midas Lake—”
“Did you let Faraday know?” Trick asked quickly.
“I called him before I called you.”
“The license plate. Did you think to get the license plate?”
“I tried. It was obscured with mud, purposely, I think.”
“That’s not the end of the story, though, is it?”
“No.”
If Trick hadn’t known better, he’d have thought his friend was on the verge of tears. “Marcello, what is it?”
“Mr. Spinelli, the man who runs the North Shore Marina…?”
“Short, stocky old guy with a hula girl tattoo on his left biceps. Told me once he was a sailor in World War Two.”
“He is dead,” Marcello said. “After Britt and I watched Sarge drive off, we went into the office to see if Mr. Spinelli could give us any additional information.” Marcello paused. “But he was not able to tell us anything. Sarge had seen to that. Mr. Spinelli was lying there on the floor with his throat ripped open, and the blood…” He paused again. “The blood—his blood—was everywhere. The place looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse. I thought Britt was going to faint. I thought I was going to faint.”
“I assume you called the police.”
“Britt did.”
“So they’ll be looking for him, too,” Trick said.
“Only they do not realize they are looking for a mon³oki bester.”
SIXTEEN
Such a pity,” Great-aunt Leticia said, glancing up from the newspaper.
Trick helped himself to scrambled eggs from the buffet set out on the sideboard, then took a seat at the breakfast table across from his great-aunt. “What’s a pity?”
Great-aunt Leticia frowned. “Regina Snowden’s disappeared. A possible abduction, according to the police, though so far, there’s been no ransom demand.”
“Maybe she just ran away,” Trick said.
“Who ran away?” Nevada asked from the doorway.
“Stepmother to one of our state representatives,” Great-aunt Leticia said. “And I very much doubt she disappeared of her own accord. I can’t say I know the woman well, but she’s always been very supportive of her stepson’s career, very active in his campaigns. I can’t see her taking off just as he’s about to throw his hat in the ring again.”
“The stepson’s running for something?” Trick asked.
“Governor,” Great-aunt Leticia said. “He’s heavily favored to win the Democratic primary even though he hasn’t officially announced that he’s running.”
Trick noticed Nevada then, still standing in the doorway, an odd abstracted expression on her face. “Is something wrong?”
She blinked, then frowning, shook her head. “I don’t think so. For a minute there, I…No, it’s nothing.”
“You’re probably just hungry,” Great-aunt Leticia said. “There’s food on the sideboard. Help yourself. Only I’d skip the fried tomatoes if I were you.”
“I heard that, madam,” Rivers said, hardly surprising since he was standing next to the sideboard, adjusting one of the chafing dishes.
“Then take a hint already,” Great-aunt Leticia told him. “No one but you likes the nasty things.”
Trick caught Nevada’s gaze and winked.
She smiled back, though she seemed a little preoccupied.
“Well, then.” Great-aunt Leticia smiled first at Trick and then at Nevada. “What do you two children have planned?”
“For starters,” Trick said, “I thought I might pick your brain.”
“Don’t pick too hard, Patrick dear. We seniors are fragile, you know.” She finished off her scrambled eggs and popped a strawberry into her mouth.
“Do you know the Mitchell Harringtons, by any chance?”
“I’ve met them.”
Which didn’t ¶t="exactly sound like a ringing endorsement.
“You don’t care for them?” Nevada asked tentatively as she took a seat next to Trick. Apparently she, too, had noticed a lack of enthusiasm.
“He’s quite an admirable man, rich as Croesus and earned every penny of it himself.”
“But…?” Trick prompted.
“Pamela’s father is Tony Blaine,” she said as if that explained everything.
“Who’s Tony Blaine?” Trick asked.
Great-aunt Leticia widened her eyes. “Tony Blaine,” she said. “The Tony Blaine.”
“Never heard of him.” Trick took a bite of his toast.
She shook her head sadly. “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.”
“Humor me, okay? I’ve lived out of the country for years.”
“Tony Blaine’s the premiere Beverly Hills exercise guru,” she said. “He started as a stuntman back in the seventies, but he made a fortune later in life as a fitness expert. Half the stars in Hollywood owe their abs and booties to the Tony Blaine workout. Tried it once myself. Crippled me up for a solid week. Could barely move from my bed to the bathroom.”
“So Mrs. Harrington’s father’s something of a celebrity,” Nevada said, dragging the conversation back on track.
“Who spoiled his daughter rotten.” Great-aunt Leticia gave a dismissive head toss that set her Shirley Temple ringlets bobbing.
“Define rotten,” Trick said.
“Pamela Harrington would rather fly to L.A. to shop on Rodeo Drive than help to raise money for a worthy charity.”
“She turned up her nose at your pet cause,” Trick guessed.
“Acted like I was a batty old lady to care what happened to the Presidio clarkia.” She frowned. “I may be old, but I’m not…” She turned to Trick. “Why did you bring up the Harringtons in the first place, Patrick?”
“Do you know their place on Broadway?”
“The old Smith mansion, you mean?”
Great-aunt Leticia’s casual correction seemed to have an unnerving effect on Nevada. All the color left her cheeks. By contrast, her eyes looked like dark holes. Trick turned back to his great-aunt. “Smith is the name of the people who sold it to Harrington, I presume.”
“Oh, no. The Smiths were the original owners, the family who built the place. Before the Harringtons, the mansion belonged for a brief time to a wealthy man from Colombia. Rumor had it he was a drug lord, but I never actually met the man, so I can’t say.”
“Meaning you could say if you’d met the man?” Trick teased.
“Anyone who’s lived as long as I have, Patrick Donatelli Granger, is bound
to be an astute judge of character.”
“What sort of person am I?” Nevada asked in a strangled voice.
Great-aunt Leticia’s penciled eyebrow arches disappeared beneath her curls. “Why do you ask, my dear?”
“Because I’d really like to know.” Pain rippled across Nevada’s face. “I don’t remember who I am. I could be a thief or a liar or…a killer.”
“Nonsense,” Great-aunt Leticia said briskly. “You’re nothing of the sort.”
“Then what am I?” Nevada demanded.
“You’re a fairy-tale princess. Right now you’re lost in the enchanted forest, which is why you can’t remember who you are, but sooner or later you’ll find your happy ending.”
“And my memory,” Nevada said.
“And your prince,” Rivers added.
The others turned to stare at him in surprise. Trick, for one, had forgotten Rivers was still in the room.
He shrugged. “One can’t have a happy ending without a prince, can one?”
Great-aunt Leticia shot him a pointed look.
“And before the Colombian drug lord?” Trick asked in an attempt to divert her before she could comment on his role in Nevada’s fairy tale.
Great-aunt Leticia screwed her forehead into a ferocious frown. “I believe”—she put her wrinkles through yet more contortions—“the Snowdens owned it prior to that. Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that strange?”
“What?” Trick asked.
“What a coincidence! About the Snowdens, I mean. Mrs. Snowden sold the Smith mansion after her husband’s death, and just this morning I read in the paper that she’s disappeared.”
Nevada looked as if she were about to faint.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shoved herself to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said and all but ran from the room.
Nevada lay curled in a tight ball in the center of the bed, eyes shut, fists clenched. Her fear was like a giant python, coiled tightly around her chest, squeezing tighter and tighter with every breath she took. The past was still a blur, but red-tinged now and terrifying. She’d wanted to remember. For years, she’d wanted nothing more than to remember, but now, she wasn’t so sure.
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