Maker's Song - In the Blood Part 20

Scanning the yard, Caterina saw no sign of a dog, or pets of any kind. Perhaps the Wellses weren't a cuddly kind of family.

The smell of pine and wet gra.s.s filled her nostrils.

Had Bronlee sent the med-unit footage to Wells? Caterina planned to find out as soon as it was dark. Her mission that day was twofold: Clip Wells. Retrieve the missing footage-if it was in Wells's possession.

Several quiet hours later, the cottage door swung open and a figure stepped out. Caterina focused the binoculars on Athena Wells. Dressed in a stained lab coat and brown cords, she walked barefoot into the yard, leaving the door open behind her. She headed toward the main house, then stopped abruptly. She swiveled.

And looked directly into Caterina's binoculars.

Athena touched a finger to her lips. Shhhh.

"Christ," Caterina breathed. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled. "She knows we're here."

"Impossible," Beck said. "She's a basket case. She doesn't know s.h.i.+t."

Caterina had the distinct feeling that they were the ones who didn't know s.h.i.+t.

Athena Wells looked away, then skipped the rest of the way to the main house. Opening the front door, she slipped inside.

It closed behind her. A moment later, Caterina's handheld scanner beeped an all-clear on the alarm system.

It was down. Off or disabled.

Caterina watched the house for another half hour, feeling the tightrope stretch taut beneath her feet. "I'm going in."

"Roger that," Beck replied, finally in work mode. He touched the com bud tucked into his ear. "I'll signal you if the son returns." Caterina packed up her binoculars and other gear, and started down the hillside, gun in hand.

WELLS SAT DOWN BEHIND his desk, resting the shotgun against it. A slide show of family pictures flashed across his computer monitor: Gloria in the surf on the beach at Lincoln City, the twins as towheaded toddlers, Gloria laughing. The deep ache in his chest eased for the first time in months.

Soon Gloria would be laughing again. In a matter of hours, Alex would ensure that S listened to the message on the iPod.

Then S, beautiful and deadly, would spin into action and his a.s.signed target, SAC Alberto Rodriguez, would die. Hopefully in great agony. And looking into S's pale, merciless face, Rodriguez would know who had sent him and why.

Once Alex brought S home, Dante Prejean would disappear forever. Wells would direct S to heal Gloria, to steal his beautiful Persephone from Hades's heated grasp once more, and restore to Wells his laughing bride.

A dark excitement uncoiled within Wells. He tapped his keyboard and the slide show disappeared. Scrolling through his files, he clicked on the one marked S and opened it. He relaxed into his chair as images filled the monitor.

Locked inside a rabbit hutch, the toddler, black hair curling at the nape of his pale neck, watches as his few toys are tossed into a debris fire one by one. Following Wells's instructions, the boozed-up foster parents tell the child that it's his fault his toys are being burned.

"You was a bad boy, you. Bad, bad, evil boy. All your fault, you."

A small plastic guitar melts in the flames. A ball joins it. But when the last toy, a ragged, chewed-up turtle plus.h.i.+e, is dangled above the blaze, the toddler tears his way free of the cage. Firelight glints on his tiny fangs as he s.n.a.t.c.hes the turtle from his foster mother's hand.

"s.h.i.+t and h.e.l.lfire!" The foster father cries, then recovering from his shock, he grabs the toddler. The toddler's hand and the turtle clutched in the little fingers are shoved into the flames.

Let someone try that now, Wells mused. He scrolled forward through the file seeking other choice bits, other fond memories, then paused. Had he heard the front door open? An alarm beep-beep-beeped in a rapid cycle and Wells's heart slammed into his throat. His pulse drummed so fast his vision grayed. He lowered his head, gasping for air, thinking, Lovely. All your preparations and you get caught gasping for air like a land-drowning goldfish.

As he reached a shaking hand for the shotgun, the frantic beeping stopped. Locking his fingers around the gun, Wells grabbed it and strained to listen past his thundering pulse. After a moment, he became aware of a soft sound, like the whisper of the wind through the trees.

He exhaled in relief. Only Athena. He drew a still trembling hand across his sweat-damp brow. The whispers preceded his daughter down the hall, the words she was repeating over and over, becoming clear.

"Threeintoonethreeintoonethreeintoonethreeintoonethreeintoonethreeinto one..."

But then a chilling question occurred to him-how had Athena silenced the alarm? Not even Alexander knew that he'd changed the codes, not yet.

Still whispering, Athena walked into his office, her dirty, bare feet tracking mud across the pale carpet. She shuffled past his desk, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her spattered and stained lab coat.

"Athena," Wells said, tucking the shotgun under his arm and reaching for the psi blocker in his pants pocket. The whispers stopped. "What are you doing here?" He swiveled around in his chair.

Athena stood in front of his collection of h.e.l.lenic spears, s.h.i.+elds, and breastplates. She plucked a spear free and spun around on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet. Her Aegean eyes gleamed, a sunlit tide. Smiling, she yanked from her pocket the Taser he'd hidden.

The p.r.o.ngs pierced his chest. Electricity jolted through his body. Pain wiped all thought from his mind. His body twitched and convulsed and flopped onto the floor.

Through a haze of thrumming, heated pain, he heard his daughter's voice.

"I'm breaking a promise, Daddy," she said.

22 NOT MEANT FOR ME.

Seattle, WA March 23

SUDDEN SCRATCHING AT THE window in the front room along with an inquisitive chirp from Eerie caught Heather's attention. She looked up from her laptop. "You hunting moths, kitty boy?" Another thought flared in her mind: Nighttime.

Dante. First thing tomorrow evening.

She pushed back from the table and rose to her feet, reaching for her purse and the .38 tucked inside in case it wasn't Dante crawling in through her fricking window again.

The window slid open, pale hands grasping the edge, then Heather saw a black-clad leg edged from ankle to hip with vinyl straps and buckles swing over the window sill, and into the room, quickly followed by the rest of Dante. A hood hid his face, but not the lambent gleam of his eyes.

"Hey," he said as he straightened, pus.h.i.+ng his hood back. A smile tilted his lips.

The sight of him caught at her heart. As always. Heather's muscles unknotted. "I could've shot you, you know. Why the h.e.l.l don't you use the front door?"

Dante shrugged. Turning, his leather jacket creaking, he slid the window shut. He fingered the broken hasp. "I bought stuff to fix this."

"Do you even know how to use a screwdriver?"

Dante snorted. "How hard can it be? Slide A into B, twist. Could be fun."

"Sounds s.e.xy, but where's the kiss?"

Dante puckered his lips and blew her a kiss. "Good enough?"

Heather glanced over her shoulder. "You missed, Cupid. But Eerie's purring."

Dante laughed. He nodded at the computer. "You find anything out? Like where to find...him?"

Heather shook her head. "Not yet. All of his Bureau records have levels of security like I've never seen. The last known address was in Maryland and it's five years old. I've tracked him to the West Coast, then he vanishes. I'm still looking, though. But I've made a few other interesting discoveries."

"Yeah?"

Heather hesitated. "You get into this with me, you'll be in the crosshairs, Dante. More than you are now."

"Doesn't matter. You were there for me, Heather. I'm here for you."

Heather held Dante's gaze. "It was my job."

"Nuh-uh. You'd been called back. Case closed. You stayed, alone, and without backup, to help me."

And she'd failed him. More than once. "I didn't do a very good job of it either."

"Yeah, you did," Dante said. He crossed the floor in quick strides and joined her at the table. He cupped her face between his hands, fevered hands, and she looked into his dark eyes, drawn into their unguarded depths. "You risked everything for me.

You never gave up."

"Neither did you." Heather grasped his right hand and pressed it against her chest over her healed heart. Something chimed within her, triggered by his touch, and resonated from the palm of his hand to her heart and back, ringing between them like struck crystal, pure and clear and true.

Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she thought she saw black wings arching up from Dante's back and sweeping around her.

Wonder lit Dante's eyes. "Listen," he said, lowering his face to hers.

Pulse racing, Heather tilted her face up and he kissed her, his lips as fevered as his hands, his kiss hungry and a little rough.

As the kiss deepened, Heather thought she heard a song-wild and dark-its complicated melody weaving in and around the crystalline hand-to-heart refrain dancing between them. The song arced electricity through her heart, her mind, and sparked fire in her blood.

She hears a rush of wings.

All too soon, Dante ended the kiss and took a step back, his hands sliding away from her breast, from her face, and curling into fists. The song vanished. His jaw tightened.

"What's wrong?" Heather asked.

He shook his head, then trailed a hand through his hair. "How's Annie?"

Bewildered by his abrupt physical and conversational s.h.i.+ft, Heather shrugged. "She's okay for the moment. She walked up to the market to get a pack of smokes."

"C'est bon." Dante nodded at the table. "So what'd you find?"

"Pull up a chair," Heather said. "I'll show you."

Dante shrugged off his leather jacket, then the hoodie beneath it, and hung both over the back of a chair. He wore a long- sleeved mesh s.h.i.+rt under his black tee. White letters on the chest read BLOW ME. In his usual manner, he swung the chair around, and then straddled it. He folded his arms along the chair's back.

Heather pulled her chair around so she could sit beside him. She awakened the laptop with a quick tap to the keypad. A file appeared on the monitor and she clicked it open. A photo flashed onto the screen.

"SAC Alexander Lyons," Heather said. "Portland office. He's the one who accompanied me to my mom's death site.

Spotless record, amazing test scores, exemplary field work. He transferred to Portland from D.C. about five years ago." "Why?"

"An illness in the family. His mother had cancer, I believe."

"So how come he was asked to keep an eye on you, instead of someone lower in the food chain?"

"Good question," Heather said. "Near as I can find out, Rodriguez in Seattle gave him the a.s.signment...oh, excuse me, the request to ensure my safety. And that's another interesting thing."

"Interesting how?"

Heather minimized Lyons's file and clicked open another. She scrolled through text for a few moments until she found the section she was looking for and highlighted it. "Read it," she said softly.

"'William Ricardo Rodriguez, whose reign of terror as the Boxcar Strangler ended ten years ago when he was captured by federal authorities, died in prison while serving out multiple life sentences. He was killed by another inmate during a dispute.

Rodriguez's father, FBI agent Alberto Rodriguez, had been instrumental in his capture.'" Dante quit reading and gave a long, low whistle. "Holy f.u.c.king h.e.l.l."

Heather nodded. "Can you imagine? Not only is your son a serial killer, but you bring him in. Yet as amazing and tragic as that is, it's not the interesting part."

"Yeah?"

Heather held Dante's gaze for a long silent moment, then she said. "The next part might be hard, maybe impossible, for you to read. I'll-"

Sudden understanding lit Dante's eyes. "No, I'll read it," he said, voice low. "You take over if I..." He twirled a hand in the air.

"Okay."

Dante returned his attention to the monitor. "'Years earlier, SA Rodriguez filed a malpractice lawsuit against Dr.

Robert...'" Dante's voice trailed off. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "Hold on. Let me try again."

Heather reached over and squeezed Dante's arm. "You don't have to."

"Yeah, I kinda do." Dante opened his eyes and looked at the monitor again. "'Filed a malpractice lawsuit against Dr.

Robert...'" His voice trailed off again and he blinked several times. He glanced at Heather, his pupils dilated. "What was I saying?"

Heather stared at him, her fingers tightening on his arm. Cold panic crackled through her veins. "You were reading, do you remember?"

Sweat glistened at Dante's hairline, at his temples. "An FBI agent..."

"Look at me, Dante, not the monitor."

"Yeah, d'accord." Dante's dark eyes fixed on Heather, focused.