Lynne Connolly

by The Chemistry Of Evil (Triskelion) (lit)

  Sofie began to realize what he meant. “Isn’t there any way to stop it?”

  “There is. It takes work. You can develop a barrier that will shut me out, but you won’t be able to do it immediately. At least I don’t think so.”

  “Can you do it?”

  He nodded slightly. “I can. But I imagine you would like your own barrier, not be at the mercy of mine.”

  “Yes.” She would indeed. Power like that could give him complete domination over her, if she couldn’t develop her own protection. If she believed him. She wasn’t sure it was any more than mind suggestion, though. While the mind could be very powerful, this was new – and difficult to believe. But Evan believed it.

  He reached a hand out to her and she put her own in it, the contact as intimate as anything they had done over the last twenty-four hours. “If we do this thing, I want us to do it after thinking very carefully. I don’t want to rush you into it.”

  Something occurred to her. “Have you got this – contact with anyone else? Do you know for sure it works?”

  “It happened twice. I did it the first time when I was sixteen. My first girl. It shocked both of us, and was deeply unpleasant for a while. It was a school thing. It took about two years for us to learn about barriers and how to use them.”

  “It sounds terrible.”

  “It was.” He pulled on her hand, overbalancing her. She just managed to grab the book before she fell into his arms. He lifted her, settling her on his lap. “We’ll talk about it another time. Now we have other things to concern us.” He leaned forward and picked up the TV remote. “Guess we’d better check the news.” He flicked a button and the large screen at the other end of the room glowed into life. It was already set to a local news channel. The reporter was discussing the arts news, a new exhibition at the Guggenheim, one that ordinarily Sofie would have liked to go and see. The talking head on the screen, an attractive African American woman in a red jacket turned the topic to the theatre, and briefly discussed the latest productions, before turning back to the man in the studio with, “And back to our main story.”

  The man in the studio spoke rapidly and confidently. “The murder at the Astor Hotel brings the tally of this new serial killer up to four. All the victims were single young people, all were killed at night, and with this special method. The police have informed us that this symbol was carved into the chests of each victim.” For a moment the symbol gleaming on Evan’s computer flashed on the TV screen, a line drawing, black on white. Sofie clutched Evan’s lower arm tightly. “So far the authorities have been unable to interpret the symbol, and they would appreciate help from any member of the public who knows what it means. Meanwhile, police are warning all young people not to open their doors to anyone they don’t know after dark. All the murders have happened at night, and all to people under the age of thirty.” The screen widened to show someone else. Sofie knew him; a colleague at Quantico. “The FBI are involved in this case now; Professor Baum, what can you tell us about the killer?”

  The man was an ex field worker in the serial killer unit. Usually Sofie would be very interested in what he had to say, but the words seemed to make no sense. She turned her head to look at Evan.

  He was furious, his mouth compressed into a tight line, a deep crease between his brows. “What idiot decided to make it public? God, this could be bad!”

  “What do you mean, could be?”

  He put his hand over hers and lifted it, wincing theatrically. “Yes, I’m sorry. That was unfortunate. But it might be bad for you. If the press discovers you were Elaine’s room mate, they’ll be after you like a pack of dogs.”

  “What about you? You were Meghan’s brother!”

  “And,” he finished. “We’re together.”

  They stared at each other, ignoring the discussion on the screen. “Will they suspect us?”

  “I don’t think so. I have an alibi for the time Meghan was killed. Have you?”

  “When was she killed?”

  “September twenty fourth.”

  Sofie thought back. “I was in England then. My leave started the week before.”

  She felt his deep sigh of relief against her back. She’d turned to the TV and sat on his lap, but facing away from him.

  “Thank God. We were both out of the country when Elaine was killed.”

  She turned back to him. “They didn’t say who it was.”

  “No.”

  Her troubled feeling was reflected in his eyes. “I don’t like this, Sofie. We don’t know what that symbol means and now they’re making it available to all? Why would they do this?”

  “I don’t know, Evan. In Britain it’s usually when they want someone else involved. It’s often a message to the murderer, not the general public.”

  “It could be a rune of power. Broadcasting it could be the very thing the murderer wanted.”

  “Someone thought of that.” She motioned to the book, now lying open on the desk behind them. “Didn’t you notice? The rune has two circles, and the diagram on the TV only had one.”

  His eyes softened. “So clever,” he murmured. “I love a clever woman.” He leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on her mouth. She relaxed into the kiss and let herself fall forward to his waiting arms.

  His mouth froze in place on hers, and when she opened her eyes, Sofie realized he wasn’t watching her any more. His gaze was fixed on the TV. She drew back and turned.

  With Evan’s arms holding her she saw the picture of someone she knew well. The commentary, until now blocked out of her attention, returned. “There are marked similarities with the recent murder of Miss Gwyneth Coulter in England. Miss Coulter’s body was found in the village where she had been staying, during her work on the archaeological dig at the ancient castle of Tintagel, reputed to be the birthplace of the legendary King Arthur.” Even through her shock Sofie’s mind protested at this automatic linking of Tintagel with Arthur, a man who might never have existed. “Alarm for her safety began last week, when her mother reported she had never arrived at home after the closure of the dig, despite her expected return to work as a lecturer at Birmingham University. After an extensive search, her body was found behind the public house where the archaeologists took many of their meals.” Evan’s hand rubbing her back didn’t dissipate the chill creeping up Sofie’s spine. The picture changed to the pub where Sofie had sat with Evan so short a time before. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. “Her body was discovered two days ago and had been on the site for at least a week.” The commentary was so calm, so impersonal, as if it didn’t matter at all. Sofie wanted to hit someone. “Inquiries are ongoing, however the authorities consider it significant that a similar symbol was discovered carved into Miss Coulter’s back.”

  The scene changed back to the expert in the studio. He postulated that the carving was a coincidence, as it wasn’t exact and other factors were not present. “Serial killers are often obsessive about details,” he said. “The discovery of these details is vital for the identification of the murderer.”

  Sofie didn’t realize she was crying until Evan pulled her roughly back to face him.

  She sobbed, hearing his soothing murmurs, knowing that he was disturbed from the shaken quality of his voice. “Sofie, sweetheart, don’t cry. Please, love.”

  A sharp ring from somewhere above her head jolted her back to earth. Evan sighed. “My cell” Wiping her eyes she got off his lap and watched him walk upstairs, the fluid movement of his body reminding her of his strength and tenderness. She found a box of tissues on the desk and cleaned up, mopping her eyes and blowing her nose with a determination she was still far from feeling.

  She heard the murmur of his voice as he answered the phone. He came back down the stairs to her, phone in hand. “Cristos wants us on the scene. He’s sending a car.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea.” He raised the phone to his ear. “Why?”

  Sofie found the remote and muted the TV
just as the scene changed to that of the latest murder. A reporter spoke to camera, while police officers moved around behind him, setting up the inevitable tapes to isolate the scene. Behind the tapes a silver haired, tall man stood talking into a cell phone, his immaculately suit-clad back to the camera. “If you turn around,” Evan said into the phone, “You can wave to me. You’re on camera, sir. You might want to move to your right.”

  The silver head went up, but unlike ninety percent of the population, each of who would have turned around to confirm what Evan said, Cristos moved away from the camera. If it became generally known that he was there, speculation would increase tenfold. He wasn’t well known to the public, but there would be someone who knew him, who would spill to the nearest newspaper or TV commentator. There always was.

  “Why do you want us there?” Evan listened to the reply and glanced at Sofie. “The TV station has linked this to Miss Coulter’s murder. Did you know about that?” The reply made him frown ferociously, black brows snapping together. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Sofie gave up. She went upstairs to shower and dress.

  Evan came up while she was still in the shower. Without speaking he joined her, after shedding his clothes. He reached for her and held her close. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. That you should hear about it like that. Was Gwyneth a good friend?”

  “I thought she was. That night – when Archie turned, he said they’d talked about a threesome, but hadn’t done anything yet. I believed them. Gwynnie couldn’t have hidden that from me if she’d already slept with Archie. She was too transparent for that. When I could think about it clearly, I thought she had joked about it with him, and it had grown more serious. But she was my friend. Not a close friend, but I knew her and liked her. Oh, Evan!” She lifted her head to stare at him, but he drew her to him, all concern and comfort.

  “The thing that worries me most,” he murmured, “is that it might have been meant for you. If it wasn’t for that falling out, you’d have been with Archie that night. Somebody might have been sent for you, and seeing Gwynnie with Archie, assumed it was you. They didn’t make any secret of their night together the next day.”

  “Or perhaps someone who liked me wanted to kill Gwynnie for taking Archie away from me.”

  He stared at her, biting his lip, the water cascading over them. “Maybe. Sofie, I won’t give you up. You’ll be pressured into going to a safe house, but I won’t let you go unless I’m with you. We’ll find him, sweetheart. And we’ll stay together.” She nodded. She didn’t want to leave him. She had come to look on this loft as home, more home than she’d known for years, and she knew it was safe. Without Evan she would lose her anchor. “I’ll talk to Cristos, get him to call in all the favors he has. You won’t be alone. If he insists on a safe house, I’ll go with you. Do you mind?”

  “No.” she couldn’t tell him she liked it. Not now. It wasn’t the time.

  *

  The car arrived just as Sofie was putting the finishing touches to her appearance. She’d dressed in a dark blue skirt suit, flesh colored tights, white shirt and tied her hair back with a plain barrette. Her make up was understated but formal, and looking at herself in the mirror she was satisfied that she presented a neat appearance that hopefully would blend in with the other agents and officers present.

  When she went out, Evan, also formally attired in gray suit and tie, pulled a face. “I prefer the other Sofie, but you do look very fine. Scary.”

  “If I saw you like this, I would never have dared to approach you.” Evan looked untouchable, his broad shoulders set off by a suit that was obviously not off the peg. “Armani?”

  He grinned. “Hugo Boss. Call me patriotic.” Not a hair stood out of place. His cuffs were shot the requisite half-inch from his sleeves and his shoes gleamed with polishing. The word ‘immaculate’ could have been coined for him.

  Sofie studied him through narrowed eyes. “I can’t wait to see you in a tux.”

  He laughed. “I only wear one when it’s absolutely necessary. Still, from the look in your eyes, it might be fun.” His meaning was unmistakable and gave Sofie a vivid picture of herself slowly undoing every button, slipping a silk lined tuxedo off his shoulders, feeling that strong chest under the silk of a tailored shirt. It might be interesting at that.

  The car arrived and while it wasn’t the limo that had brought them to New York from the airport, it was a sleek, black Lexus, discreet, but comfortable and fast. The driver hardly exchanged two words with them, but gave them the security tags they would need to get through the barriers.

  The journey was swift. Once seated, Sofie reached for Evan’s hand, which closed tightly about hers. She guessed he needed as much reassurance as she did. They hadn’t said who the victim was and at the back of her mind Sofie was dreading seeing Archie’s face on the pillow of the hotel room, and the terrible symbol carved into the chest of a man she had once loved.

  The hotel entrance was filled with media people, and hotel staff, trying to get on with their jobs during this disturbance. Sofie and Evan knew better than to clip their tags on there, but slipped through the crowds, heading for the elevators.

  They stopped at the correct floor. At the end of the corridor a police officer lounged by a barrier, a clip pad in one hand. When they showed their tags they had to wait until he’d checked his list. “You’re not listed here,” he said.

  “Good.” Evan took Sofie’s elbow, ready to turn her around to leave.

  “You don’t get out that easily, Howell,” came a voice from the open door of one of the rooms. He nodded at the officer. “Let them through.”

  He unclipped the rope and they went through. Sofie stared at Cristos, waiting for him to tell her Archie was dead. Evan asked for her. “Who is it?”

  “No one we know.” Only Evan might have noticed the slight dip when her tense shoulders relaxed. Cristos barely gave her a glance. “A Frenchman, one Jean de Tineville. Come with me.”

  He didn’t take them to the murder scene, but to another room adjoining the center of all the activity. Here it was quiet, only one other operative sitting in front of the inevitable laptop, set on the ledge that served the room as desk and vanity, in the ordinary course of events. Evan nodded a greeting to him, and he nodded back. Cristos closed the door.

  “The man was a French businessman, thirty years of age. He shouldn’t be here. The last his family knew he was leaving his home in Lyons to attend a conference in Paris. That was a week ago. He took a flight here almost as soon as he left home, and seems to have been searching for a person. We’ve looked at his laptop. He connected it to the Internet and started to look through the classifieds, and the online guides to the city. The Agency is trying to discover his movements in the last week, but my guess is he was following leads.”

  Evan shrugged. “It looks as though he found whoever he was looking for.”

  “Unless someone else found him first.” Sofie could think properly now she knew the victim was a stranger to her.

  “He was discovered this morning when the maid came in to change the linen. About ten. His wife’s on her way, and hopefully we’ll know more then.”

  “Any theories?”

  Cristos fixed him with a frowning stare. “The case is classic, the M.O. is precise. Unlike the one in England.”

  “Are they officially connected?”

  “No. The profilers aren’t happy. There were a number of differences in the cases.” Cristos turned his attention to Sofie. “I’m sorry. Gwyneth Coulter was your friend, wasn’t she?”

  Sofie nodded. “Do you think they thought she was me?” She hesitated, but this was no time to be coy. “She spent the night with Archie. That’s why Archie and I split. So if someone had been sent, and saw her with him, they could have assumed it was me.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Sofie and Evan turned when the door opened. Harry Bent came in and closed the door behind him. He wasn’t wearing his waistcoat, but otherwise looked exactl
y the same as when Sofie had last seen him. The brown suit was even more crumpled, and the shirt was Harry’s usual white, the tie untidily knotted and not quite pushed up into place. “Sofie, I’m sorry,” he said immediately. It was unusual for Bent to address her so informally. It was a measure of his discomposure. “If I’d known they were going to release the information, I would have warned you first.”

  “Who did it?” Bent was an Assistant Director, and had enough authority to order a press blackout. If it had come from someone higher it might have been an indication of how important this case was becoming.

  “NYPD.” Both Cristos and Bent grimaced, united for a moment in their mutual dislike of the police department that insisted on investigating murders committed on its own turf. Sofie repressed a smile of recognition. “They were all over the place this morning. Had a half-hour head start and made the most of it.”

  “And why would they release the information about the symbol?”

  “The commanding officer took the view that he wanted to let the murderer know we’re on to him.”

  “More likely it’ll fetch all the nuts in New York State,” Cristos muttered. “It’s some kind of symbol.” Abruptly he turned to face Sofie. “Have you made any progress on identifying it, Dr. Adams?”

  “Evan has,” Sofie said.

  Cristos’s attention immediately turned to his operative. “Spill.”

  Sofie was uncomfortably aware of Bent’s perceptive look. She had used Evan’s first name, revealing a wealth of intimacy.

  “It’s a symbol from Crowley’s Book of Thoth,” Evan said quietly. Cristos’s mouth turned down in an expression of distaste. “It’s the symbol used to shape the card of The Fool from the Major Arcana. We don’t know what it means, or why it was used, but that’s what it is.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t identify it,” Sofie added. “I was looking for runes with an identifiable root. This has no alphabet, and comes from a tradition established in the late nineteenth century. My references were all wrong.”