A SMALL JET LEAPS RATHER THAN LUMBERS INTO the sky. It's a strange feeling. I watch the earth and sea fade away through a break in the clouds as the plane banks to the east. Then we're swallowed up once more and banks to the east. Then we're swallowed up once more and all I see is a blanket of white. In another few minutes we're above the clouds and the sky is flawless and brilliant.
The intercom buzzes to life. "We're at cruising altitude, Ms. Strong. Feel free to move about the cabin. There is water and liquor in the bar. If you need anything else, press the button on your armrest and we'll be back to assist you. We'll let you know when we're fifteen minutes out of Denver."
A click and I'm left to my own devices.
May as well explore. I head for the bar. It's fully stocked all right, with high-end liquor and several good imported beers. There's also a wine rack. I pull out a bottle. The label bears the same coat of arms as the patch on "my" crew's uniforms. It's Avery's coat of arms. Here, too, on the label of the bottles from the winery my family "inherited."
I push the bottle back onto the rack. I'm not ready to let that genie out of its elegant cabernet decanter.
It's interesting that the pilot mentioned water and liquor in the bar but nothing about food. And there isn 't any. Not even a bag of peanuts. I guess any pilot of Avery's would know his boss wasn't human. After all, his housekeeper at the mansion had been a host.
Maybe the two at the control are, too. Makes me wonder if I buzz, how much assistance they're willing to give.
I open the door at the back of the cabin. There's a bathroom, with shower, along with a small bedroom with queen-sized bed, built-in credenza and closet. There's even a vanity, although instead of a mirror, an oil painting hangs in a recessed alcove. Like the bar, everything is made out of a fine-grained, honey-hued wood. Teak? It reminds me of something you'd find in a luxury yacht.
Maybe I own one of those, too.
I eye the bed, thinking perhaps I should stretch out on that silk damask spread and close my eyes.
How many women did Avery have in that bed?
Does Avery's smell still cling to the bedclothes?
The thought propels me back into the main cabin. I close the door behind me.
I've just settled into my seat when Shelby reappears. He points to a telephone on the console. "Mr. Williams is calling."
He waits for me to pick up before returning to the cockpit.
"Hello?"
Williams doesn't speak right away. Waiting for me to yell at him, I suppose.
Like it would do any good.
When I remain silent and don't launch into a tirade, he jumps in. "Got some more information on the cream. Further analysis showed the blood in the cream is breaking down rapidly. It's doubtful that the cream could remain potent long enough to achieve those remarkable results for more than a couple of weeks."
Perfect to assure repeat customers. And to necessitate a steady stream of vampire donors.
Williams continues, "No official COD yet for Burke's three test subjects. The wounds they sustained were critical but not necessarily fatal. It might take up to two weeks to get complete tox screens back."
"Any other attacks reported?"
Another brief hesitation. I can imagine the relief he must be feeling that I 'm sticking to business. I glance around the plane. There'll be time later to pursue this flying palace.
"No," he says. "It may be that with the declining potency of the cream, the other effects wear off as well. If the two are related."
"What are the odds that they aren't? What about that syringe?"
"Nothing. Preliminary results ruled out most common narcotics. Identifying the compound is going to take time."
There's a pause, then he adds, "There will be a car waiting for you at the airport in Denver. The person meeting you will be of assistance if you come up against Burke or any of her followers. Locate Burke as soon as you can and get back to me. I have a plane of my own standing by. I can be there in two hours. We will do this together. Remember-I intend to be in on the kill."
I mouth the right words, tell him I understand and will wait.
It gets him off the phone.
I replace the receiver and cross to the bar. I choose a thirty-year-old scotch, pour two fingers into a glass, add a couple of ice cubes.
The liquor burns my throat and hardens my resolve.
I take the little .38 I'd clipped to my belt this morning and lay it on the bar. Williams can remind me that he and I are in this together, that he has as compelling a reason to want Burke dead as I do, that Ortiz was his friend, not mine.
And he'd be right.
It doesn't matter.
The simple truth is if I get Burke in my sights, there's no fucking way I'm going to wait.
The drink both relaxes and settles me. Since Culebra 's black-magic illness, I've had little time to think through a course of action.
Explains the blunders. This time I plan to be ready for any contingency.
Best-case scenario? I arrive at the address and spy Burke through a window. One shot through the forehead should do it.
Wonderful fantasy. Probably won't happen. I have no reason to believe she'd go into hiding with, or running to, her sister. What would she be running from? Up to this point, I've proven to be nothing more than an inconvenience.
What if Burke has donned a new persona? What if she and this Sophie are the same person? My fingers touch the charm nestled between my breasts. I'm glad my witch friends insisted I keep it. This little beauty will identify the bitch no matter how she 's cloaked herself.
I let my head rest against the back of the seat and close my eyes. How did Burke come up with the idea of using vamp blood in a cosmetic? However it happened, that such a bizarre notion would appeal to her is not surprising. She's sadistic and cruel. Where did she find Jason? What exactly was he? He was still attempting to turn others when I found him yesterday at his apartment. Had he been in contact with Burke? Had she set up another factory from hell somewhere? Or is it in his nature to turn others, a biological imperative of his species-whatever the hell it is.
Questions I may never get answered. Questions I hope I don't get answered. I don't want to have a discussion with Burke. I want to kill her.
I glance at my watch. The pilot said flying time would be two and a half hours. We've been in the air for forty-five minutes.
The sky outside my window is cloudless. When I glance down, I see the beginnings of a mountain range, white-capped and rugged. The Rocky Mountains? They look cold.
Give me the beach anytime.
My thoughts turn inward once more-to Burke's test subjects. What's going to happen to them? Williams said the effectiveness of the stuff breaks down with the blood. According to the file on the test subjects, most of the women had been using the cream for two months.
Will the women return to their former middle-aged dowdy selves when the effects wear off? Are there more sinister side effects? Could the three who developed a taste for blood be reacting to a withdrawal symptom? Maybe the craving is brought on by the cream losing its potency. Is that why they were killed? Will more bodies show up?
Christ, Burke, what have you done?
The intercom crackles on, alerting me that we are beginning our descent into Denver's Centennial Airport. I'd been through Denver once before on a job with David. We'd landed at Denver International, not Centennial. Maybe this is closer to where I'm headed. I seem to remember DIA being forty minutes or so from the city.
If it gets me to Burke quicker, I don't care where we land.