Nightbred

“Hungry.” Eugene reached out with his cuffed hands to pick up the candy bar. “Right.” He tore off the wrapper and crammed the entire bar into his mouth, closing his eyes as his cheeks bulged and he chewed.

“If he chokes on that, you’re writing up the reports,” Sam told Massey. She waited for the suspect to swallow before she said, “Mr. Gates, I can get you some real food, if you want.”

“Real food.” He nodded, and seemed unaware that tears were rolling down his face.

He’s been starved. Sam felt an unwilling sympathy for the man. “Before I order a meal for you, I’d like you to tell me about the last time you saw Noel Coburn.”

“The last time . . . was in the garden.”

“Was this your garden?”

He shook his head. “She made it for us. She was nice. She kept us in the garden as long as she could.”

Sam frowned. Murder suspects could invent all kinds of imaginary reasons to be found temporarily insane at trial, but Gates didn’t seem to be phonying it up. “Eugene, have you been using some of the stuff in your sample case?”

“No.” He turned his right wrist back and forth, jangling the cuffs and a bracelet around his wrist.

Sam leaned over and tugged back the end of his jacket sleeve. Gates wore a MedicAlert bracelet, and when she turned over the oval tag, she saw a list of serious allergies to substances that included opiates. “Did anyone else give you drugs?”

“No.” He stared down at his bracelet. “Gold.”

The bracelet was the classic MedicAlert red and silver on a silver chain, so he wasn’t talking about that. “What’s gold, Eugene?”

His eyes met hers. “Hell.”

Massey uttered a soft, urgent sound, and when Sam looked at him, he made a swirling motion with his finger beside his temple.

Sam felt inclined to agree with him, but she had to press for details before they could write him off as a potential nutcase. “Eugene, what was the name of the woman who kept you in the garden?”

“Whore.” He lunged across the table at her, trying desperately to claw at her with his hands.

Sam stood and moved out of reach, and just as quickly as he had attacked, Gates subsided back in his chair. “Why did you kill Noel Coburn, Eugene?”

His face reddened as his voice returned to the flat monotone. “He owed me money and he wouldn’t pay. So I killed him.” He looked up at her, his eyes hard and ugly. “You whore.”

“Hey,” Massey said. “Watch your mouth.”

Sam watched his face. “How did you kill Coburn, Eugene?”

He stared at her, his expression confused. “I tied the rope around his wrists, and held it when . . . when . . .”

“When what?”

Gates bent over, his face darkening to purple as he tried to open his jacket.

Sam hurried around the table. “Massey, call for a rig.” She loosened the knot in his tie and popped his collar. “Now. He’s having a heart attack.”

Massey ran to the wall phone as Sam released Gates from his cuffs and lowered him to the floor. He looked up at her, his eyes wide as he tried to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth.

“Starting CPR.” Even as she began compressions, Sam knew it was hopeless; she could smell the rot that had already begun to seep into his scent.

Fifteen minutes later Sam stood and watched as the responding paramedics lifted the gurney holding Gate’s draped corpse and wheeled him out of the room. She followed them to the hall, where cops from other departments had come to stand in clusters of twos and threes to watch the body being removed.

As Sam walked past them, she heard one of Dwyer’s old buddies mutter, “Another notch for her nightstick.”

“What did you say?” Suddenly Massey was there, in the jackass’s face, and he looked ready to shove the old-timer through the wall.

Sam stopped and tugged at Massey’s arm. “Forget it.” She glanced at the blustering cop. “No marks on your nightstick, huh, Dave? Keeping it stuck up your ass is working.”

As the other cops snickered, Massey backed away with insulting slowness, and then walked with Sam to see the paramedics to the elevator.

“I didn’t know how much shit you put up with. You’ve got to dodge it all the time,” he said as soon as the doors closed. “But you never report it. Why?”

“Dave Kernan has already racked up two internal suspensions since January,” she told him, “and since he’s managed to alienate or lose all the friends he had in the department, he can’t afford a third. He’s only about eighteen months away from retirement.”

“Fuck his retirement,” Massey said promptly. “He’s an asshole.”

“True. He’s also got two mortgages, an old crap Caddy that really needs a transmission job, and a wife on an insulin pump.” She regarded him. “As for his nightstick, he’s shoved it so far up his ass you can see the top of it when he yawns.”

Massey grinned. “Now I get you.”

As they walked back to the squad room, Sam noticed a bucket and mop sitting by the stairwell exit, and stopped. “Your pal the janitor needs to learn how to clean up after himself.”

“Sorry, what janitor?”

She eyed him. “The one you were talking to right before we questioned Gates.”

“I wasn’t talking to anyone. I don’t even know any of the janitors.” His scent radiated truth. “You sure you saw me?”

“You were standing out in the hallway, talking to the guy, right over there.” She strode to the spot where the janitor had been standing, and breathed in deeply. She could smell hot metal, and beneath that a trace of something cold and green. Just as she had another time before, but where?

The hallway dimmed as a voice came into her mind. This is nothing to concern you. You will forget it.

Sam couldn’t move. The thing in her head held her somehow, and she could feel it sifting through her memories even as it erased them. She couldn’t stop it—and in a minute, she suspected, she wouldn’t want to—so she focused on what it was. Are you Kyn?

I am like you. A guardian.

No, you’re not. I don’t freeze people’s bodies or rummage through their brains.

Yet you jail and question your suspects. The voice sounded amused. You know Death so well, Samantha. You have devoted your life to the study of it. Yet you remain blind to the gifts it has given you.

I can see fine, pal.

Then look upon what you never saw.

The hallway outside Homicide shifted into the penthouse suite at the stronghold, where she could see Lucan sitting outside on the balcony. A blanket fell from either side of the oversize rocking chair he occupied, and as she walked to him, she saw the limp bundle he was holding in his arms, and her own white, still face pressed against his chest.

He looked exhausted, his handsome face almost as pale as hers, but he sat and rocked her like a baby as he watched the sun rise.

Burke walked past her, a silver tray with a glass of bloodwine in his hands. “My lord,” he said softly. “Has there been any change?”

“None.” Lucan didn’t even glance at the tray. “I want nothing. You may go.”

Burke bowed and turned to leave.

“Herbert.” When the tresora returned, Lucan looked up at him. “If she dies, I fear my sanity will not survive it. Under such circumstances I expect I will lay waste to anything that steps in my path. Rafael mentioned to me that you are a marksman.”

Burke’s throat moved as he swallowed and nodded.

Lucan handed him a pistol. “I’ve loaded it with copper rounds. One to the head to slow me, and the second to the heart to finish it.” He bent to press his mouth to Sam’s brow and tuck her in closer to him. “If you would, carry the weapon at all times.”

Something glistened in Burke’s eyes. “I will, my lord.”

Samantha tried to reach out to her lover, but the balcony vanished, and she stood again in the hallway, still frozen in place. Why did you show me that?

When he tells you that you are his life, daughter, you should know the true meaning. The voice grew more insistent. What the mortal said during your questioning is not important. You will dismiss it.

She smiled. “I can do that, sure.”

Return to the stronghold now. He’s waiting for you, my lady.

“My lady?”

Sam shook off what felt like a vague daydream about Lucan as she turned to Garcia. “Sorry, what did you say?”

The captain frowned. “Were you able to get anything out of Gates before he died?”

“Nothing important.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m going to head back to the stronghold. He’s waiting for me.”

* * *

Chris had never used her no-limit jardin credit card to buy much more than office supplies, and briefly worried that Lucan had canceled it, but the agent had no problem putting through the charges for the rental car.

“You’re all set,” the agent said as he handed her the keys to the black Lexus. “May I ask why you chose Enterprise for your rental needs?”

“You picked me up at a dock. The only other people who do that are sailors.” She winked at him. “I’ve already got a guy and a boat.”

She drove from the rental agency to the nearest cluster of shops, where she bought a warm jacket and comfortable shoes, along with two weeks’ worth of casual wear and lingerie for herself, and some trousers and dress shirts for Jamys. After brooding over a pair of ripped jeans that she loved but wasn’t sure he’d even wear, she added them to the pile.

One of the salesgirls intercepted her on the way to the cash wrap. “Excuse me, but I would love to show you something special.”

Chris glanced at her overflowing pushcart. “I haven’t bought enough stuff already?”

“Oh, no, it’s just, well, you’re perfect for this unbelievable dress we have in Petites.” She glanced at a thick-bodied overdressed woman rummaging through a nearby rack. “We don’t get many petites in here.” 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">