Frostfire

Apparently CCS has taken at least part of Boyce’s false report seriously, as Sheriff Adkins has issued a request that anyone who has seen a cougar in the area contact his office at (514) 247-3432. To report an anonymous tip to CCS, text the keyword 514CCS, along with your message, to Tip3432; or call the CCS TipLine at (512) 247-9492.

Chapter 6

“Hey there,Daddy.”A long-legged working girl with hips as luscious and bouncy as her unfettered breasts strolled up to the back window of the limousine. She leaned over to offer Samuel Taske a closer view of the bountiful pale flesh exposed by her green spangled tank top. It would have had more effect on him if she weren’t covered in goose bumps from the cold. “Look at you. You’re some big daddy, aren’t you? Want a date?”

Although the traffic light would be turning green any moment, inherent courtesy compelled Taske to lower the window and reply. “I already have plans, my dear, but thank you.”

“Ah, come on.” Small, bitter chocolate eyes sized him up in a blink. “Baby needs a decent ride tonight, and you sure look like you’re all that and then some.”

“Baby needs to warm up, I think.” Samuel took a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and passed it to her, watching as she made an instant deposit in her straining cleavage. “Get out of this wind and have some breakfast on me.”

The light turned green, and a horn honked behind them, but Findley, Samuel’s driver, only glanced back to see if the conversation had concluded.

“You giving me a Benjamin for breakfast?” the prostitute demanded. “What do you think I have? Caviar and champagne?”

“Not unless you want heartburn and fish breath.” He nodded toward the east. “I recommend the diner around the corner. Passable omelets, but amazing coffee. Truly magnificent.”

“Uh-huh.” She backed away a step, but she returned the smile as well. “Whatever you say, Daddy.”

“Be safe, my dear.” He turned toward his patient driver. “Continue on, James.”

The brief encounter with the prostitute was nothing new for Samuel. Being a blond, bearded, Asian-eyed giant made it impossible for him to escape notice wherever he went, so he never tried. His oversize physique combined with an endless amount of personal charisma attracted people like a health-care-reform town meeting drew nutcases.

The times when Samuel’s magnetism became a nuisance were those when a situation demanded a certain amount of discretion or subterfuge. Under those circumstances he employed one of his few but intensely loyal staff members to act in his place, or hired a professional. Since Samuel had amassed a staggering fortune over the course of his lifetime, he could afford the best investigators and information brokers in the world.

None of them, however, had ever been able to locate or identify the woman he and the other Takyn knew as Delilah.

Findley hung up the car phone and glanced in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Dorsey on your private line, sir.”

“Thank you, James.” Samuel Taske picked up the cordless receiver and switched it on. “Hello, Glen. Please tell me you have some good news.”

“Wish I could, Mr. Taske,” the private investigator said. “My people have finished going through the last of the church’s archives. They didn’t find a record of any female child matching the age and description you gave me.”

Taske silently cursed. “Did you have any better luck with the shelters and the volunteer agencies?”

“We found a couple of prospects,” Dorsey admitted. “A Molly Perrine and Rachel Thomason, both red-haired and the correct age. But both women were born to their biological parents in county hospitals and have public birth records on file. Also, both are married and have children.”

Samuel knew birth records could be falsified, but keeping a phony husband and family would be much more difficult. “Were you able to check for the tattoo?”

“Perrine likes to sunbathe in her backyard,” Dorsey said. “She has a parrot in six colors on her left shoulder.”

Takyn were tattooed with only one or two ink colors. “And the other woman?”

“I inspected Thomason personally; she’s a beautiful girl, but other than some freckles she doesn’t have a mark on her.”

“Indeed.” Taske frowned. “Precisely how did you accomplish this personal inspection?”

“We sent her a gift certificate for a free massage at an exclusive spa.” Dorsey cleared his throat. “I observed her through a hidden camera in the treatment room.”

Taske relaxed a little. “Very commendable of you, Glen.”

“I always prefer to take the road less prosecuted, sir,” Dorsey assured him. “My secretary gave me the message about the woman possibly changing jobs and relocating this week. Did you obtain this information from the same anonymous source as all the other leads?”

“Yes.” He would have told the investigator that he was in contact with Delilah through the computer, but he would risk exposing the rest of the Takyn if he did so.

Dorsey was too well paid to probe further than that. “Then I’ll get to work on that. Enjoy your holidays, Mr. Taske.”

“I hope you do as well, Glen.” Taske switched off the phone.

Shame sank its subtle, accurate daggers into him as he stared out at the lightly falling snow. He’d always respected the anonymity of their group. It was the best safeguard they had for themselves as well as the only means of protecting one another. Their superhuman abilities made them vulnerable to exploitation and experimentation; real-life knowledge of one another was too dangerous to risk. He believed in that with all his heart.

Until a year ago, when he had learned something about Delilah that no one else in the group knew.

Samuel recalled how meek and shy Del had been in those first few months, when she would join their scheduled chats to get to know the others. Like the rest of them, she was an orphan who had been adopted through a Catholic charity. Her ability, a form of telepathy that she said allowed her to communicate with animals, had never been discovered by anyone outside the group. She had manifested at the age of sixteen after an unspecified accident. She never went into any details about her life, her adoptive family, or where she lived, but she sometimes asked advice for very mundane things, such as computer and home repairs.

None of what Delilah had revealed about herself had alarmed Samuel. Her word choices and interests indicated that she was self-educated, and he guessed she lived a simple, solitary existence on a modest income. He found her charming, if sometimes reticent and enigmatic.

Last year, just before the holidays, Delilah had begun signing into the chat room almost every night. He had noticed only because he had been bedridden for several weeks after badly straining his leg. Whenever he was too crippled to get around, he used the time to do research on the Internet. His computer was programmed to alert him whenever any of the group signed in to chat, so he began joining her in chat each night as well.

Delilah was equally shy with him at first, but after a few days she began spending more time chatting with him. Gradually he came to realize that she came to the chat room to wait not just for him but for anyone from the group to sign in.

Are you spending the holidays with your family? he typed in one night.

My mother died last month, she replied. We were never close, but she was all the family I had.

He had been the center of his adoptive parents’ universe, and the thought of someone not knowing that kind of love appalled him. Please accept my condolences, my dear.

It’s okay. She thought I was dead. I just wish I could have told her I wasn’t.

Sometimes the manifestation of their abilities caused permanent rifts with their adoptive families, but Delilah had an unusually benign gift, so it couldn’t have been that. Were you close before?

I tried to be. She wouldn’t let me in. After typing a string of unhappy faces, she added, Doesn’t matter. Long time ago.

Still, you deserve some TLC. Samuel sent her a virtual bouquet of flowers. I’d give you the real thing if I could, he typed.

You’ve been so nice, talking to me, she replied. But I’d better sign off. Have to go out of town tomorrow for work. Wish I could send you a Christmas card. I don’t have anyone to send cards to.

He immediately typed out the address to the remailer service he used. This is safe, if you want to use it. Address it to Samuel Jones. Just make up the return address.

Samuel, that’s a nice name. She sent him a happy face. Thank you.

Delilah had stopped signing in after that, and he hadn’t given any more thought to their conversation until a card had arrived two weeks later from his remailer service. He’d kept his gloves on while sorting through the mail and opening it, but as soon as he saw the name “D. Lilah” on the return address of one envelope, he couldn’t resist using his ability to take a peek at the life of his mysterious little friend.

To read the history of any object, all Samuel had to do was remove his gloves and touch it, and he would see where it had been and who had handled it before him. If he let his guard down with a well-handled or antique object, he would be flooded with imagery spanning the entire existence of the piece. That ability had made him the wealthiest antique dealer in the country, but it came with a price. Like King Midas, whose touch turned everything to gold, Samuel saw the entire history of everything he touched.

Delilah had been the only one to touch the card, he discovered, as she had made it herself a week ago. She sat at an old folding table, painting it with a cheap set of watercolors. The room she occupied was small, the furniture yard-sale quality. She reached to dip the brush in a little tin of water, and her shirt rode up on her back, revealing the tattoo at the base of her spine.

All the Takyn had been tattooed as children with stylized animal symbols that seemed to be related to their abilities. Jezebel, the founding matriarch of the Takyn, had been inked with a golden owl, which seemed appropriate to her powerful ability to read people’s darkest secrets in the same way Samuel read the history of objects. Aphrodite, a shape-shifter whom he now knew as Rowan Dietrich, had covered her two blue peacocks with black dragons. Young Taire, the runaway heiress Rowan had rescued in New York, had been inked with the head of a ram on both forearms—and she possessed telekinetic power so great that she could demolish entire buildings by thought alone. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">