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Chapter Nine

Richard slipped the bags of blood into the vegetable bin, slapped the refrigerator door shut, then shed his coat and black Stetson onto the kitchen table. He went straight to his computer in the living room, hitting the power buttons to wake it up, going through the technical rituals necessary to access the databases he needed. It seemed to take forever. As he waited for the information to appear, he considered an upgrade. It used to be every year was enough, then every six months; advances were now coming so fast and thick these days it was impossible to keep up. He'd not been down here since last fall, more than sufficient time for this machine to become antiquated, given his special requirements.

He thought about the mundane, rather than the fact that his last Dallas visit had little to do with company business. He'd appeared at Stephanie's door with a stack of pizza boxes, a bottle of good wine for the adults, and some toys for . . .

Damn.

He pushed the memory away. Hard. The touch of it on his heart was too cold and heavy to bear.

The DEA screen came up, asking for a password. He carefully entered the code Bourland had provided and was gratified when it worked. After that, it was only a matter of delving into what they had on the Trujillo brothers. He traced Luis first just to see if there was anything new on him. Their interest in him mostly stopped the same day that Richard had gotten the whole family to disappear. Good. So far as it went.

Next, he concentrated on Alejandro, with mixed results. The latest report was three months old, placing him firmly and unreachably in Colombia. He'd taken quite a financial setback when Luis turned on him, but seemed to be recovering. In the gap left by the other drug lords' arrests and confiscation of stock, Alejandro had stepped in, taking up the slack and raising the prices. According to some conservative estimates, he was making as much now as before and looked to be expanding his business geometrically. Such was the nature of demand and supply.

Much on Alejandro's habits and methods of operation were in his file, though the greater part of it was speculation. Some few bits were accurate. He usually had at least two bodyguards from home with him at all times, hiring others on when he traveled. He liked clubbing, fancied himself a ladies' man, and was a lavish tipper.

He would not have personally set the bombs; that was for hiring out. Alejandro had many such associates, mostly in Colombia, only a few in the States. Richard recognized some of the names, but they had to do with the actual business of transport and sale of product. What he wanted were the soldiers, the ones willing to do the dirty work. If he could find just one of them, he could find Alejandro.

After a search, two prospects presented themselves: Nick Anton and Jordan Keyes, both local. Anton was muscle, working as bodyguard, bouncer, or collection agent, whatever was needed for any given job. Alejandro was just one of his many employers. Anton had been questioned several times in regard to a number of killings and disappearances, but never arrested—lack of direct evidence. His juvenile records were sealed, but Richard hacked into them, turning up nothing too terribly surprising. It would have been odd if Anton had not come from a broken home and dropped out of school. He was bright, though; what time he'd spent in jail he'd put to good use in furthering his criminal education and making important contacts. After turning twenty some dozen years ago, he managed to keep himself, if not out of trouble, then at least out of jail for it. Anton was a thug, but a smart thug.

Jordan Keyes was quite a bit more interesting. He had no police record in the States or anywhere else in the world so far as could be determined. He'd resided in the same house in Fort Worth for the last twenty years, paid his taxes, his modest income clearly derived from solid and steady investments. He traveled, mostly to South America, ostensibly as a tourist. Whenever he visited a country, someone important connected with the drug trade died. The victim was nearly always an enemy or rival of Alejandro Trujillo. There had been about a hundred of them.

The method varied, sometimes a long gun, sometimes a bomb, sometimes close range with a small pistol jammed into the victim's spine. On several occasions, though, death was delivered by a crossbow bolt, the razor-sharp point coated with curare. Even a graze would kill. Dramatic, but effective.

Keyes was suspected of being the hit man, or at the very least arranging the hits, but so far no one could find anything even remotely resembling evidence that could be used against him. He lived alone, had no expensive vices. His past was wholly innocuous with its records of school transcripts, various mundane jobs, and promptly paid bills. But paper trails could be faked with the right know-how. The one photo of him, taken from a distance, showed a bald man in sunglasses, bearing a superficial resemblance to Vladimir Lenin, average height, average weight and build, the sort who would blend invisibly into nearly any crowd in the world. An excellent talent to have for such a profession. The report stressed the speculation that Keyes was probably not his real name, but investigations into discovering his true identity had been futile.

Richard snorted. Wonderful. Another exotic assassin with a predilection for symbolism. Jordan conjured up crossing over the famous river . . . and Keyes? Perhaps Keys of the Kingdom?

I'll ask him when I see him, Richard thought, writing down the man's address next to Anton's. It was his short list of people to interview and probably eliminate, should Keyes's slim connection to Alejandro prove solid. If so, then he would have been the one who made the bombs and murdered Stephanie and the girls. Such skills were thankfully rare, but if he was the instrument to carry out Alejandro's orders, he would suffer for it.

Exiting the DEA's database, Richard then tried the FBI. They had essentially the same information, just different details. He saved what information he deemed relevant, then closed down.

Now it was time for some on-site research. Richard took the elevator to the ground floor. For a quiet Saturday, there was plenty of activity in the vast lobby. Beyond a screening row of palm trees and other greenery, he heard the shrieks and splashings of children enjoying the indoor pool. The scent of food drifted on the cooled air from a small eatery situated halfway between the residential and business halves of the complex. He glimpsed adults at ease on a scatter of tables before the pool, watching their kids.

As it should be and too often is not. 

He turned away from them, swiping his special magnetic key through a slot, then pushing open the glass door to the business side of New Karnak. He softly approached the large round reception kiosk there. One security man was seated on duty, a lean young fellow, his long hair neatly tied off at the base of his neck. In front of him was a stack of open college texts, but his attention was on the TV screens built into the desk below counter level. One camera's view took in the Egyptian-motif pool. In addition to children playing, the area was also populated by lots of young ladies attempting to push the envelope of brevity with their choice of bikini design.

"Yes, they do look very dangerous," Richard remarked, coming up behind him.

The guard gave a slight start, then grinned. "Just doing my job. May I help you?"

Richard took out his Arhyn-Hill identification. "I'm Mr. Dun, and I'm down from Toronto for a few days to check on things."

"Mr. Dun? The Mr. Dun?" The fellow gave the ID a twice-over, then goggled, apparently well aware of Richard's status as owner of the company. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I need to be let into one of the offices, Mr.—ah—Ballard." He read the name off the man's pocket tag.

"Sure, I mean, yes, sir, and you can just call me Charles. Right this way. Which office?" He left his post, coming around.

"First I want to see your sign-out roster." He indicated a flat book lying open on the desk top. Ballard did an about-face and grabbed it, setting it before him like a gift. Richard flipped the page back to Friday's date. All employees and visitors were required to sign themselves in and out. The template for each sheet had spaces for names, times, and their reason for being in the building. The regular employees usually left the latter blank.

Among the scribbles in various hands was the strong signature of Luis Marcelja, the name he'd lived under all these years. He'd entered the building at 7:55, stayed in through his lunch, and departed at 5:17. According to the previous log entries, this was his usual routine, give or take a few minutes.

So why hadn't he gone straight home? Had he been ambushed on the way by Alejandro's killers? And if so, then why should the hit man have waited to blow up the house? Why even bother to set charges if the main target was already dead?

Richard frowned, mulling over the possibilities, the most likely still being that the hit man had mistaken him for Luis in the dark and followed through with his orders. If Luis had come home earlier he'd have died. If he returned after the blast, he'd have missed finding Richard.

Hell, I was probably unconscious in the pump house. 

Richard shut the book. "Thank you. I need to see Mr. Marcelja's office now."

He knew the way, but let Ballard usher him along, summoning the elevator then opening doors with a wave of his master key. He flicked on the lights to a large, luxuriously furnished chamber on the fourth floor. They were hardly needed; plenty of sun blasted its way through the slanted glass of the outer wall despite its darkening glaze. Richard winced and sought out the control rod for the blinds, quickly shutting them.

"Sure heats a place," commented Ballard. "He must roast up here in the afternoons."

"You know Mr. Marcelja?"

"Just by sight. I'm usually signing in for my shift when he's on his way out. I do nights and weekends. Mostly he just says hello and bye, same as the rest."

"Do you recall him signing out yesterday?"

"Sort of . . . yes, because he left later than the rest. Usually on a Friday everyone can't wait to cut out early and try beating the traffic. I remember saying he'd have a tough time driving home. He just nodded and smiled like he always does, then went off to the employees' garage entrance."

"Anything odd about his manner?"

Ballard shook his head. He was clearly curious about being questioned, but held it in.

"How was he dressed?"

"Dark suit, I think. Dark tie. He had a laptop case, usually does."

"Did you notice any strangers hanging about the place? Did any of your coworkers?"

"We get lots of strangers every day, but we don't allow people to loiter. I'd have been told to look out for anyone if that happened."

"What about outside the building?"

"We make regular circuits—and we have the cameras. You want to look at the tapes?"

"Not just yet." That would take hours, and probably be futile. Richard was hoping for a straw to grasp, but wasn't to the point of desperation just yet.

He surveyed Luis's office. It was decorated in Southwest style with big comfortable chairs, landscape prints on the walls; a huge ceramic jar with a three-foot round of glass over the mouth served as a table. The credenza behind the huge desk displayed a scatter of business awards and trophies, an ambitiously creeping ivy, and a large portrait-style photo of Luis with his family. Stephanie beamed happily from it, her arms protectively around her children in a relaxed, informal pose.

Richard made his gaze skip over it, turning his focus on the desk, which Luis had left in a tidy state. The top was clear of mess, only some memos lined up by the phone, presumably ready for his attention on Monday. The computer was on, the monitor left running. A screen saver showed an underwater scene of drifting tropical fish in vivid colors.

"Is Mr. Marcelja in some kind of trouble?" Ballard finally asked.

"He might be, but not with me. I'm just looking for him."

"What, he's missing?"

"I think so. You may have been the last person to see him."

Ballard's expression indicated that he had no need of such a dubious honor. "Maybe he was in an accident. Have you called the hospitals or the cops?"

"Not yet." And for a very good reason. He didn't want the calls traced back to his own line. By now the authorities would have identified the owners of the destroyed house and be alert to anyone asking after them. "Will you do that for me? The hospitals only for now."

"What'll I say?"

"Just that his supervisor is trying to find him, you don't know why. You may keep my name out of it for the time being. If you have any luck, let me know. I'll be up here."

"Yes, sir." Ballard took himself and any further questions away.

Richard was unsure how many hospitals were in the area, but judged he had more than enough time to go through Luis's sanctum. He began with the computer. All the files were password protected, but there were ways around those, the most obvious involving a search of the desk. On a battered notepad shoved far in the back center drawer he found a list of random letters and numbers, the top dozen crossed through. He typed in the new string at the bottom. The computer opened up like a flower. He'd have been suspicious over his ease of entry but for knowing Luis. The man was careful, but only up to a point. He'd not taken Stephanie's fears seriously. Had that cost them their lives?

Scowling, Richard tore through all the files in the hard drive, then one by one went through every disk he could find. They all had to do with the business, and Luis was a good businessman. Even without the necessity of disappearing the family, Richard might well have hired him. All the work was up to date, nothing neglected or out of place.

Next he tried the e-mail, which was somewhat more tricky when it came to passwords. Richard referred to the string on the notepad and gained access by entering the last one backwards.

Interesting.

Except for some correspondence that arrived after five on Friday, the files were all empty. Most people held on to old mail for one reason or another, but not Luis. His on-line address book was also clean. Had he wiped that out or had someone done it for him? And if yes to either possibility, why?

Richard called up the undelete function and tried to salvage the files to no avail. They'd been erased beyond recovery. Damn.

The next search involved the office itself, inch by inch. The place was as clean as the computer, right down to the emptied wastebasket. Richard thought it might be so and was not overly frustrated when he found exactly nothing. The only puzzle was the computer. A virus could account for the erasure, but more likely Luis had done it himself. Had he a clue that something was wrong? If so, then why hadn't he gone home?

Richard attacked the keyboard and tapped out a note to Luis: Am in Dallas. Michael is well and safe. Contact me.

If Luis was alive and still had his laptop, he might check his mail. A long shot, certainly, but it never hurt to be thorough.

Quitting the office, Richard went back to the lobby to see if young Ballard had made any progress. He was seated in the kiosk, poring over the yellow pages, where he'd checked off a number of the listings.

"I called all the hospitals in the Metroplex," he said. "None of the ER rooms had Luis Marcelja or a John Doe of his description brought in since last night. Should I try the coroner's?"

"Not yet." Best to stave off official notice for as long as possible.

"Sir, has he been kidnapped or something?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, I used to see in the papers about oil company executives getting grabbed by South American terrorists. I thought maybe they'd migrated north."

"The truth is I don't know what's happened to him. Yours is as plausible an idea as any I've come up with."

"Or could he have embezzled from the company and be on the run?"

Richard smiled and shook his head. He came around the desk and took the second chair there to be eye level with Ballard. "I'm going to fill you in on a couple things, but you need to listen to me, listen very carefully . . ."

The young man proved to be an excellent subject for hypnotic suggestion.

"The police or FBI or BATF will be turning up here sooner or later," said Richard. "When they do you will cooperate fully with them, but not bring my name into it. In fact, you've never even seen me. You can refer them to Mr. Marcelja's immediate supervisor instead, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"But if and when they turn up, you're to let me know. Leave a message at the penthouse extension; here's the number. If Mr. Marcelja comes in, you send him straight up there, no questions, then forget all about it."

Ballard, somewhat blank of eye, nodded.

That out of the way, Richard primed him to expect Bourland on Monday, leaving a note to that effect for the weekday guard shift to find. Arhyn-Hill's security did not normally have to deal with the residential side of the complex, but an exception could certainly be made in the case of the company's president.

As he left, Richard had to admit to himself, and not for the first or last time, that it was good to be at the top of the food chain.

At this hour of the afternoon the heat of the day was in full force, and the damned compact's air conditioning had yet to correct itself. Richard sought and found a branch of the rental agency and exchanged the small disaster for something larger that functioned efficiently. He had some driving to do and preferred to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling every time the road dipped. All the better as well to have cold air blasting on him; it made up a little for the pitiless sun.

Despite the blocking lotion and hat, his face was quite red and sore by the time he reached Nick Anton's apartment in north Euless. Situated near the center of the Metroplex, it was an excellent location for a man with work calls in both Fort Worth and Dallas.

The apartments were respectable-looking, the grounds neat, but not expensively landscaped. The cars in the lots indicated their owners to be average wage earners, with a few standouts at the high and low end of the market. A nearly new red Corvette nudged close to a rusted and decrepit Nova, the two vehicles conjuring the image of an automotive Lady and the Tramp. What would their little ones be? In-line skates?

Richard peered about for the block numbers, finally locating H-105. The corresponding parking slot was empty, meaning Anton was either without a car—almost unheard of in Texas—or gone on some errand.

He levered out and strode quickly along a walkway. Anton had a ground floor flat by the pool. Only a few determined, sunburned teens were using it. The heat was too oppressive for anyone else.

The balcony above Anton's flat made a shady overhang for his partially enclosed porch. Richard welcomed the relief, pushing open the iron gate, which shrieked protest. He paused. Anyone inside would have heard it, a built-in alarm system, perfect in its innocent simplicity. Well, he'd not planned to sneak up on the man, anyway.

He pressed the bell, but heard no noise of it within. He knocked, loudly. It was form only. He could get in easily enough. The door had glass insets; it would require little effort to put his fist through one and unlock the place.

"He's gone for now, cowboy."

A woman's throaty voice drifted down to him. Richard eased out enough from the shelter of the overhang to see the speaker. There was quite a lot of her standing on the balcony above, and it was all beautifully arranged under the cover of some very tight shorts and a halter top. From his low angle, her bare legs seemed to go higher than Everest.

"Excuse me?" he said, forcing himself to look at her face. Her eyes were hidden by sunglasses, and a huge mane of blond hair balanced precariously above. Several tendrils had come loose and clung to the damp skin of her neck. She looked quite delicious.

"Nick's gone to work," she informed him.

"Oh. I was hoping to catch him before then. I thought he said he'd be here."

"He says a lot of things. You a friend of his?"

"Not directly. Someone recommended him to me for a job."

"What kinda job? A club?"

"Yes."

"He might be too busy. He's working a security gig with some guy, but the rest of the time he's a regular over at Bubba Rob's. What kind of club?"

He smiled. "The kind he usually works at."

She smiled back. "You looking for dancers?" She punctuated the question with a remarkable shifting of her center of gravity, bending slowly at the hips to lean forward. The halter top proved to be a marvelous marketing ploy, the ample goods within on tantalizing display.

"Maybe."

"I'd like to—um—put in an application."

He reflected that Mae West would have been proud of the girl's delivery of that line. "I'd be pleased to accept it, but I'm in a bit of a hurry to find Nick. You said Bubba Rob's?"

"Yeah. He might not be there until later. The place don't start jumping until ten. He said they were having some kinda party then."

"They? Would that be his new boss?"

"I dunno; I guess. He works for a lotta different guys."

"You're good friends with Nick?"

She laughed, playing with a wisp of hair. "Not that good. Where can I get an application? I could fill it out . . . right now."

The girl has a natural aptitude for filling things out, he thought. "If Nick gets the job I'll have him pass one on to you. I'm sure you'll suit. You can carpool in together."

She grinned. "Cowboy, you're crazy! I like that."

Not much point in searching Anton's place. The girl's watchful presence, though decorative, was inconvenient for any attempt at breaking and entering. He could adjust her memory to forget, but it wasn't worth the effort. He had the information he wanted. All he needed to do now was wait.

And find out where the hell Bubba Rob's was located.

He retreated back to New Karnak, hiding from the furnace blast of sun. Texas afternoons, with their all-day buildup of heat, were near-intolerable to the natives, much more so to a visitor from Toronto, and infinitely more so when he happened to be a vampire. Richard gladly shut himself in and stripped, soothing his flesh with a tepid shower. He ran the cold faucet only, but the climate was such that even the groundwater was warm. How people survived here prior to air conditioning was a mystery to him.

His face was very red and itched, always a sign of sun damage. Much more and he'd have come out in bloody blisters. He made an ice pack with a damp hand towel and pressed it to the worst spots, his cheeks, nose, and chin, then phoned Sam. The receptionist, recognizing his voice, put him straight through.

"It's me. How's Michael?" he asked.

"Sleeping again. He's in the back room with Helen watching."

"Any sign of bad guys?"

"No more than usual for the neighborhood. Things are slowing down. I thought I'd close up and get us out of here on time for a change."

"Have you decided where to stay?"

"Helen has room at her place. And before you object I'll follow her home and make sure no one follows either of us. God, you've got me thinking like you, now."

"It's a good way to live longer."

The doctor's reply was muttered and not terribly edifying.

"Did you get Michael to eat anything?"

"Yes. He settled down a bit after you left, and Helen had some luck getting some fruit and peanut butter into him. He drank some juice and water, so I didn't have to do a drip on him."

"That's a good sign, isn't it? His eating?"

"I'd say so. Give him some time, Richard. He won't recover from this for a while, no matter how much we want it." After promising to call from Helen's, Sam rang off.

Sam was right about recovery taking time, but unaware of a treatment option Richard could offer that was outside of modern medicine.

Sabra would be able to reach the boy's mind . . . and heart.

She of all people could touch Michael's damaged spirit and bring him real healing.

Where are you, my lady? 

Richard knew she would be well aware of his pain and turmoil. As far away as she was in her Vancouver retreat, it would have lanced right through her, especially what had happened to him the night before. Her Sight would have disclosed the whole terrible ordeal to her by now. It was an awful Gift at times, yet Richard could almost wish for it himself. Perhaps he then could have somehow saved them . . .

No. He'd been down that road too many times before, and it always led to sorrow . . . or helpless rage. He was in the here and now and must deal with things as they were, not as they should be. Learning that aspect of life and fate and death had been his bitterest lesson.

To keep the past at bay, he flicked on the living room set and sought out CNN for distraction. He had a feeling that the Addison explosion might be of interest to them and was not disappointed. It was the top story on their national report, containing the same helicopter views of the ruins he'd seen earlier. They had more details, this time giving the name of the home's owner, Luis Marcelja. Amid ground views of the house, they'd incorporated a shot of the body bags being carried out.

Richard made himself watch. And think.

The investigators would connect Luis with his job and be by Arhyn-Hill soon. If they took prints from his office . . . well, that would be difficult. Richard had wiped down everything he'd touched while there, marring Luis's by default. They might still turn up some latent prints, then run them through the system and learn his real identity. If any of them were on the ball, they would know about brother Alejandro and have their prime suspect. They'd put an alert out for him, for all the good it would do.

Had he been smart enough to stay out of the country for this? Richard hoped so. He would have the field to himself, able to deliver hard justice without having to stumble over legitimate authorities. He'd have to go to Colombia and track Alejandro down there: difficult, but absolutely possible.

Of course, much depended on the information Nick Anton would provide.

Bubba Rob's Texas Nights was an upscale topless place, lots of lights in the parking lot, a huge sign with more lights, a marquee to announce headliners, and plenty of grim-looking muscle roaming the area. At nine-thirty the lot was full and likely to stay that way. Richard parked half a block down in an annex lot, surprised that he didn't have to pay for the privilege. He could have gotten valet service, but eschewed that in favor of simplicity and a low profile.

With the sun gone, he was free of the encumbrances of his drover's coat, gloves, and Stetson, but still felt the heat as he strode toward the club. It was as though the concrete had absorbed it during the day so as to vent throughout the muggy evening.

He'd dressed to blend: dark new jeans over his boots, a dark shirt, and bolo tie. Texas chic, though he had a sneaking suspicion he looked more like a Jersey tourist than a native. He got something of a confirmation of this as he passed a couple of young women hanging about the front of the parking annex. The dark-haired one flashed him a winning smile.

"Howdy, honey, you looking for some southern comfort?" she asked, her lazy drawl thick enough to cut.

Her blonde friend—so many blondes down here—smiled as well, waiting for an answer. Both were casually attired in tight, but not too revealing clothes and restrained makeup. The only obvious giveaway to their profession were their too-high heels and oversized handbags. Fort Worth hookers were less gaudy than their Dallas sisters.

"Perhaps later," he responded, and he meant it. The blood he had at home was fine for survival, but not nearly as good as taking it fresh from a vein.

"We might not be here later, honey. Maybe you should stick around before the good times slip away."

"I could say the same thing." He gave them one of his charmer smiles, no real promise implied, but sufficient to take any sting out of his refusal. "It'll have to be later, though, sorry."

"You just remember Gail," she said as he walked on. "Like a tornado, but with an i."

"I will."

"And I'm Stormee, with two es," added her friend, managing to drawl and sound breathless at the same time.

What interesting weather they have here, he thought. And, lord, but he loved their accents.

He reached the club's entry without additional distracting delays, paid the cover, and went in to an assault of lurid noise, light, and movement. A deep base drumbeat of recorded music provided a background for the current dancer on stage—yet another blonde—her hair swinging free as she went through her routine. He spared her a scant second of attention, intent on getting his bearings first.

The layout of the place was fairly standard, but large. A long bar ran along the length of one wall, open booths facing the center of the room took up another. The third wall accommodated the stage area and runway, the fourth had doors leading to the rest rooms and business offices. The floor, crowded with filled tables, had upper and lower levels so customers could enjoy a clear view of the performers. Hanging from the ceiling was a Southwest variation of a mirror-encrusted disco ball, this one shaped like a saddle. Vari-colored spotlights shot sparks off it as it slowly revolved. Red and black were the theme colors throughout, accented with streamers of silver tinsel and ribbons meant to conceal the sound system and other hardware.

Damned little else was being concealed here.

Men pressed close to the stage, eyes upturned to a dancing fantasy of paradise. The dancer had several bills tucked into her G-string and readily drifted over to any man looking to add to her collection. If she liked him, he might be rewarded in turn with a brushing kiss, a smile, and some special dance gyrations just for his benefit. The men here weren't allowed to touch back, though, which made this club rather tame compared to other such establishments Richard had seen over the centuries. The intent was unchanged through time, however, for here was the purest sort of relationship. It lasted exactly as long as the man had money. Hopefully, both parties considered the trade of feminine attention for cash to be a fair and balanced exchange. If not, then that was for the bouncers to sort out.

Richard found a place at the bar, paid too much for a beer he would never drink, and began a careful survey of the male employees. Nick Anton, from the statistics in his description, would be on the large side. His file photo showed a full-faced man with jet black hair, a beard, and dead eyes. No shortage of that type working here.

When a small table opened up, he took it, having another ploy in mind. Girls circulated over the floor, some doing lap dances, others sitting to chat with the customers, the unspoken objective being to get them to buy more drinks. Richard ended up with a lady who seemed intent on doing both.

She was a slender, well-muscled redhead, her hair falling straight to her waist. Her lithe body was clad in a spectacular, red belly dancer's costume trimmed with gold fringe, jangling coins, and bells. Wisps of transparent red fabric accented rather than hid her figure.

"I'm Vashti of the Flaming Tresses," she said, by way of introduction.

"You are indeed." Had she claimed to be the Empress of Russia he'd have wholeheartedly agreed with her.

"Would you like me to dance for you, or would you prefer another drink?"

"Both would be delightful," he said with a nod of encouragement.

She shot him a wicked smile and caught the beat of the speaker music with her hips. They seemed to function quite separately from her torso. Not just a girl in a costume, she knew her art and lavished a full minute of it on him, more than enough to leave him dry in the mouth and craving more. Men at the other tables looked on, grinning, her presence enough to take attention away from the D-cup on the runway.

Richard obligingly tipped her with a large enough bill to compel her to linger for that drink. She ordered an iced tea. Overpriced, of course. He stuck with his untouched beer.

"You're very good," he said.

"Thank you."

"You've too much talent for this place."

She shrugged. "Maybe, but the Renaissance Faires don't pay as well. The local ones are through for the season anyway."

"You usually perform at those?"

"Sometimes, but it gets so hot, and I burn easily." She pushed away a lock of russet hair, tilting her head so as to better expose her milk-white neck with its dusting of freckles. "See?"

"Indeed." God, but it was almost as though she knew exactly what to do to arouse him.

"Yes, a nice dark club is the best place for me." She fastened her gaze on him, oddly familiar in its force. "You new in town?"

"Not really. Trying to find someone who works here."

"Anyone I know?"

"One of the bouncers, Nick Anton. He's a big fellow."

"They usually are. Yeah, we got a couple of Nicks here."

"This one has black hair, maybe a beard."

She pulled back, eyes narrowing. "You a cop?"

He laughed. "No. Just a businessman."

"Then maybe you should talk to the manager."

His turn to fasten his gaze on her. "I prefer your company. Is Nick here tonight?"

Vashti caught her breath, rocking back slightly. "Wha . . ."

He repeated the question, stepping up the pressure.

"I . . . I . . ." She shook her head sharply, fighting it. "Hey, who the hell are you?"

That was unexpected. She should have been under by now. Instead she glared right back at him, eyes blazing and guarded. He found he could not get through to her again. Not drunk, could she be on drugs? They would make her resistant to—

"Listen, I don't want any trouble from you," she stated, her voice low. An ordinary man wouldn't have been able to hear her above the blast of music. "Let's just be a couple of ships passing in the night and leave it at that—no collisions. No complications. Okay?"

So that was it. "Yes, absolutely. I apologize for the presumption."

She gave him a long look, apparently sizing him up. "Accepted."

"Thank you."

It was enough to mollify her. "It's an easy enough mistake to make. Doing that stuff with them is one thing, but not your own kind. If it makes you feel better, I didn't know about you either."

He grinned. Encounters with other vampires were rare. He wondered what breed she might be. Probably not of his blood, else he might have sensed a kinship. "You were trying for me?"

"Sure, why not? Big healthy guy like you could spare a bit of the fresh for little old me."

Feeling flattered, he raised his undrunk beer. "To might-have-beens?"

She smirked and tapped her undrunk tea glass against his mug. They then set both containers back on the table. "You weren't trying for me, though, were you?" she asked.

"Regrettably, no. I really am looking for Nick Anton. Is he here?"

"Why do you want him?"

"It's about a job."

"What kind of job?"

"You said you wanted to avoid collisions."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. He's here, but in the private party room in the back. They won't let you in."

"They?"

"One of the boys is on watch at the door. It's invitation only. Lots of big spenders with grabby hands. I was invited but didn't like their energy. They look like Mob, but not as polite."

"You could handle them."

"Too much trouble. Besides, it's harder when they're drunk. You know that. I like it out here where the house guys keep an eye on me, and I can pick and choose who I want to be with."

By that she meant whom she chose to feed from. "Understandable. Where's this party?"

"Take a left at the rest rooms, door at the end of the hall."

"Thank you." He made to stand, but she put a hand on his arm.

"Ladies first. It'll look better, and it's good for my ego."

He liked her style. "No problem."

"And one thing? Be careful with them. They're dangerous. Even for someone like you, they're dangerous."

"Someone like me?"

"Like us."

"Throwing in with me against them?"

"Your energy tells me you're a good guy. I like good guys."

"I try."

"You don't discount that kind of stuff, do you? Auras and things?"

"Never. It's a useful gift to have. Thank you for the warning. Professional courtesy?"

"Something like that. As one bloodsucker to another." Vashti of the Flaming Tresses winked, flashed her delightfully wicked smile—with just a hint of her retracted fangs showing—and gracefully rose, bangles and bells making their own music as she undulated away. Seconds later she was at work on another man, presumably someone who could provide her with more than mere cash to keep her well nourished for the evening.

Ships in the night, indeed. I wouldn't mind docking at her port. 

When the next dancer took her place on the runway, Richard quit his table, heading toward the rest room area. Its arched opening led to a short hall containing better lighting, a phone, and a moderate respite from the noise. At the end of the hall was a red door with PRIVATE painted on in silver. Before it stood a large slab of a man with absolutely nothing better to do than watch the comings and goings of the patrons. He wore a loose tan sport coat, warm for the weather, but excellent for hiding weapons.

Though lacking in Vashti's gift for reading an individual's energy, Richard could tell at thirty feet that the fellow would not be readily persuaded to allow in a party crasher.

Not by ordinary means, anyway.

Richard walked up as though he had a perfect right to be there. The man shifted slightly, the movement reminiscent of a boulder settling itself more firmly in the earth. But all boulders could be budged—providing one had the right sort of lever.

Fortunately, the lighting was sufficient, and the man conscientious enough not to drink while on duty. A moment of quiet talk and he obligingly held the door open to let Richard pass through.

"Forget you ever saw me," Richard told him, by way of a final order, getting an affirmative grunt in reply.

He stood in a dim antechamber. Loud music, drunken whoops, and laughter beyond another arch indicated that the party was in full swing. Richard stepped forward, using the cover of an artificial ficus tree to delay notice of his presence. Through the silk leaves he saw a rousing orgy in the making. It reminded him of the goings on at the old Hellfire Club, but with fewer clothes to remove.

Booths lined three walls, the center of the floor given over to dancing. All the dancers were topless, and several of them were clad only in high heels, some jewlery, and a smile. He wondered where they stowed their tips. The men getting lap dances had seemingly forgotten the no-touching rule, and one couple who had slipped under a table was in desperate need of a hotel room. Though more than enough to get the whole club closed down, apparently the money going to the management made the risk worth it.

Richard scanned each man's face, looking for Nick Anton among the crowd of thirty or forty. In the bouncers there was a preponderance of shaved heads, tattoos, goatees, and sloped shoulders. The low lighting wasn't much of a hindrance, but it was erratic as it flashed in time to the music, making it hard to focus. Figures writhed in the gloom, or sat transfixed by the dancing or by whatever booze or drug they'd taken. The heavy sweet smell of pot was on the air, along with that of regular tobacco. The restless, too-bright eyes of some indicated there was plenty of coke to be had as well.

All the better for him, there was less chance of any of the guests noticing . . .

Time stopped. The hubbub of the party went still and faded. A frisson of pure shock struck him almost as solidly as a fist. Richard blinked, but what he saw remained firmly in place. He gaped, disbelieving his luck, then with an internal lurch accepted it as a gift from a benevolent Goddess.

Right in the middle of the drunken and drugged mob, like a king carousing with his sycophantic court, was Alejandro Trujillo.

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Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Nine

Richard slipped the bags of blood into the vegetable bin, slapped the refrigerator door shut, then shed his coat and black Stetson onto the kitchen table. He went straight to his computer in the living room, hitting the power buttons to wake it up, going through the technical rituals necessary to access the databases he needed. It seemed to take forever. As he waited for the information to appear, he considered an upgrade. It used to be every year was enough, then every six months; advances were now coming so fast and thick these days it was impossible to keep up. He'd not been down here since last fall, more than sufficient time for this machine to become antiquated, given his special requirements.

He thought about the mundane, rather than the fact that his last Dallas visit had little to do with company business. He'd appeared at Stephanie's door with a stack of pizza boxes, a bottle of good wine for the adults, and some toys for . . .

Damn.

He pushed the memory away. Hard. The touch of it on his heart was too cold and heavy to bear.

The DEA screen came up, asking for a password. He carefully entered the code Bourland had provided and was gratified when it worked. After that, it was only a matter of delving into what they had on the Trujillo brothers. He traced Luis first just to see if there was anything new on him. Their interest in him mostly stopped the same day that Richard had gotten the whole family to disappear. Good. So far as it went.

Next, he concentrated on Alejandro, with mixed results. The latest report was three months old, placing him firmly and unreachably in Colombia. He'd taken quite a financial setback when Luis turned on him, but seemed to be recovering. In the gap left by the other drug lords' arrests and confiscation of stock, Alejandro had stepped in, taking up the slack and raising the prices. According to some conservative estimates, he was making as much now as before and looked to be expanding his business geometrically. Such was the nature of demand and supply.

Much on Alejandro's habits and methods of operation were in his file, though the greater part of it was speculation. Some few bits were accurate. He usually had at least two bodyguards from home with him at all times, hiring others on when he traveled. He liked clubbing, fancied himself a ladies' man, and was a lavish tipper.

He would not have personally set the bombs; that was for hiring out. Alejandro had many such associates, mostly in Colombia, only a few in the States. Richard recognized some of the names, but they had to do with the actual business of transport and sale of product. What he wanted were the soldiers, the ones willing to do the dirty work. If he could find just one of them, he could find Alejandro.

After a search, two prospects presented themselves: Nick Anton and Jordan Keyes, both local. Anton was muscle, working as bodyguard, bouncer, or collection agent, whatever was needed for any given job. Alejandro was just one of his many employers. Anton had been questioned several times in regard to a number of killings and disappearances, but never arrested—lack of direct evidence. His juvenile records were sealed, but Richard hacked into them, turning up nothing too terribly surprising. It would have been odd if Anton had not come from a broken home and dropped out of school. He was bright, though; what time he'd spent in jail he'd put to good use in furthering his criminal education and making important contacts. After turning twenty some dozen years ago, he managed to keep himself, if not out of trouble, then at least out of jail for it. Anton was a thug, but a smart thug.

Jordan Keyes was quite a bit more interesting. He had no police record in the States or anywhere else in the world so far as could be determined. He'd resided in the same house in Fort Worth for the last twenty years, paid his taxes, his modest income clearly derived from solid and steady investments. He traveled, mostly to South America, ostensibly as a tourist. Whenever he visited a country, someone important connected with the drug trade died. The victim was nearly always an enemy or rival of Alejandro Trujillo. There had been about a hundred of them.

The method varied, sometimes a long gun, sometimes a bomb, sometimes close range with a small pistol jammed into the victim's spine. On several occasions, though, death was delivered by a crossbow bolt, the razor-sharp point coated with curare. Even a graze would kill. Dramatic, but effective.

Keyes was suspected of being the hit man, or at the very least arranging the hits, but so far no one could find anything even remotely resembling evidence that could be used against him. He lived alone, had no expensive vices. His past was wholly innocuous with its records of school transcripts, various mundane jobs, and promptly paid bills. But paper trails could be faked with the right know-how. The one photo of him, taken from a distance, showed a bald man in sunglasses, bearing a superficial resemblance to Vladimir Lenin, average height, average weight and build, the sort who would blend invisibly into nearly any crowd in the world. An excellent talent to have for such a profession. The report stressed the speculation that Keyes was probably not his real name, but investigations into discovering his true identity had been futile.

Richard snorted. Wonderful. Another exotic assassin with a predilection for symbolism. Jordan conjured up crossing over the famous river . . . and Keyes? Perhaps Keys of the Kingdom?

I'll ask him when I see him, Richard thought, writing down the man's address next to Anton's. It was his short list of people to interview and probably eliminate, should Keyes's slim connection to Alejandro prove solid. If so, then he would have been the one who made the bombs and murdered Stephanie and the girls. Such skills were thankfully rare, but if he was the instrument to carry out Alejandro's orders, he would suffer for it.

Exiting the DEA's database, Richard then tried the FBI. They had essentially the same information, just different details. He saved what information he deemed relevant, then closed down.

Now it was time for some on-site research. Richard took the elevator to the ground floor. For a quiet Saturday, there was plenty of activity in the vast lobby. Beyond a screening row of palm trees and other greenery, he heard the shrieks and splashings of children enjoying the indoor pool. The scent of food drifted on the cooled air from a small eatery situated halfway between the residential and business halves of the complex. He glimpsed adults at ease on a scatter of tables before the pool, watching their kids.

As it should be and too often is not. 

He turned away from them, swiping his special magnetic key through a slot, then pushing open the glass door to the business side of New Karnak. He softly approached the large round reception kiosk there. One security man was seated on duty, a lean young fellow, his long hair neatly tied off at the base of his neck. In front of him was a stack of open college texts, but his attention was on the TV screens built into the desk below counter level. One camera's view took in the Egyptian-motif pool. In addition to children playing, the area was also populated by lots of young ladies attempting to push the envelope of brevity with their choice of bikini design.

"Yes, they do look very dangerous," Richard remarked, coming up behind him.

The guard gave a slight start, then grinned. "Just doing my job. May I help you?"

Richard took out his Arhyn-Hill identification. "I'm Mr. Dun, and I'm down from Toronto for a few days to check on things."

"Mr. Dun? The Mr. Dun?" The fellow gave the ID a twice-over, then goggled, apparently well aware of Richard's status as owner of the company. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I need to be let into one of the offices, Mr.—ah—Ballard." He read the name off the man's pocket tag.

"Sure, I mean, yes, sir, and you can just call me Charles. Right this way. Which office?" He left his post, coming around.

"First I want to see your sign-out roster." He indicated a flat book lying open on the desk top. Ballard did an about-face and grabbed it, setting it before him like a gift. Richard flipped the page back to Friday's date. All employees and visitors were required to sign themselves in and out. The template for each sheet had spaces for names, times, and their reason for being in the building. The regular employees usually left the latter blank.

Among the scribbles in various hands was the strong signature of Luis Marcelja, the name he'd lived under all these years. He'd entered the building at 7:55, stayed in through his lunch, and departed at 5:17. According to the previous log entries, this was his usual routine, give or take a few minutes.

So why hadn't he gone straight home? Had he been ambushed on the way by Alejandro's killers? And if so, then why should the hit man have waited to blow up the house? Why even bother to set charges if the main target was already dead?

Richard frowned, mulling over the possibilities, the most likely still being that the hit man had mistaken him for Luis in the dark and followed through with his orders. If Luis had come home earlier he'd have died. If he returned after the blast, he'd have missed finding Richard.

Hell, I was probably unconscious in the pump house. 

Richard shut the book. "Thank you. I need to see Mr. Marcelja's office now."

He knew the way, but let Ballard usher him along, summoning the elevator then opening doors with a wave of his master key. He flicked on the lights to a large, luxuriously furnished chamber on the fourth floor. They were hardly needed; plenty of sun blasted its way through the slanted glass of the outer wall despite its darkening glaze. Richard winced and sought out the control rod for the blinds, quickly shutting them.

"Sure heats a place," commented Ballard. "He must roast up here in the afternoons."

"You know Mr. Marcelja?"

"Just by sight. I'm usually signing in for my shift when he's on his way out. I do nights and weekends. Mostly he just says hello and bye, same as the rest."

"Do you recall him signing out yesterday?"

"Sort of . . . yes, because he left later than the rest. Usually on a Friday everyone can't wait to cut out early and try beating the traffic. I remember saying he'd have a tough time driving home. He just nodded and smiled like he always does, then went off to the employees' garage entrance."

"Anything odd about his manner?"

Ballard shook his head. He was clearly curious about being questioned, but held it in.

"How was he dressed?"

"Dark suit, I think. Dark tie. He had a laptop case, usually does."

"Did you notice any strangers hanging about the place? Did any of your coworkers?"

"We get lots of strangers every day, but we don't allow people to loiter. I'd have been told to look out for anyone if that happened."

"What about outside the building?"

"We make regular circuits—and we have the cameras. You want to look at the tapes?"

"Not just yet." That would take hours, and probably be futile. Richard was hoping for a straw to grasp, but wasn't to the point of desperation just yet.

He surveyed Luis's office. It was decorated in Southwest style with big comfortable chairs, landscape prints on the walls; a huge ceramic jar with a three-foot round of glass over the mouth served as a table. The credenza behind the huge desk displayed a scatter of business awards and trophies, an ambitiously creeping ivy, and a large portrait-style photo of Luis with his family. Stephanie beamed happily from it, her arms protectively around her children in a relaxed, informal pose.

Richard made his gaze skip over it, turning his focus on the desk, which Luis had left in a tidy state. The top was clear of mess, only some memos lined up by the phone, presumably ready for his attention on Monday. The computer was on, the monitor left running. A screen saver showed an underwater scene of drifting tropical fish in vivid colors.

"Is Mr. Marcelja in some kind of trouble?" Ballard finally asked.

"He might be, but not with me. I'm just looking for him."

"What, he's missing?"

"I think so. You may have been the last person to see him."

Ballard's expression indicated that he had no need of such a dubious honor. "Maybe he was in an accident. Have you called the hospitals or the cops?"

"Not yet." And for a very good reason. He didn't want the calls traced back to his own line. By now the authorities would have identified the owners of the destroyed house and be alert to anyone asking after them. "Will you do that for me? The hospitals only for now."

"What'll I say?"

"Just that his supervisor is trying to find him, you don't know why. You may keep my name out of it for the time being. If you have any luck, let me know. I'll be up here."

"Yes, sir." Ballard took himself and any further questions away.

Richard was unsure how many hospitals were in the area, but judged he had more than enough time to go through Luis's sanctum. He began with the computer. All the files were password protected, but there were ways around those, the most obvious involving a search of the desk. On a battered notepad shoved far in the back center drawer he found a list of random letters and numbers, the top dozen crossed through. He typed in the new string at the bottom. The computer opened up like a flower. He'd have been suspicious over his ease of entry but for knowing Luis. The man was careful, but only up to a point. He'd not taken Stephanie's fears seriously. Had that cost them their lives?

Scowling, Richard tore through all the files in the hard drive, then one by one went through every disk he could find. They all had to do with the business, and Luis was a good businessman. Even without the necessity of disappearing the family, Richard might well have hired him. All the work was up to date, nothing neglected or out of place.

Next he tried the e-mail, which was somewhat more tricky when it came to passwords. Richard referred to the string on the notepad and gained access by entering the last one backwards.

Interesting.

Except for some correspondence that arrived after five on Friday, the files were all empty. Most people held on to old mail for one reason or another, but not Luis. His on-line address book was also clean. Had he wiped that out or had someone done it for him? And if yes to either possibility, why?

Richard called up the undelete function and tried to salvage the files to no avail. They'd been erased beyond recovery. Damn.

The next search involved the office itself, inch by inch. The place was as clean as the computer, right down to the emptied wastebasket. Richard thought it might be so and was not overly frustrated when he found exactly nothing. The only puzzle was the computer. A virus could account for the erasure, but more likely Luis had done it himself. Had he a clue that something was wrong? If so, then why hadn't he gone home?

Richard attacked the keyboard and tapped out a note to Luis: Am in Dallas. Michael is well and safe. Contact me.

If Luis was alive and still had his laptop, he might check his mail. A long shot, certainly, but it never hurt to be thorough.

Quitting the office, Richard went back to the lobby to see if young Ballard had made any progress. He was seated in the kiosk, poring over the yellow pages, where he'd checked off a number of the listings.

"I called all the hospitals in the Metroplex," he said. "None of the ER rooms had Luis Marcelja or a John Doe of his description brought in since last night. Should I try the coroner's?"

"Not yet." Best to stave off official notice for as long as possible.

"Sir, has he been kidnapped or something?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, I used to see in the papers about oil company executives getting grabbed by South American terrorists. I thought maybe they'd migrated north."

"The truth is I don't know what's happened to him. Yours is as plausible an idea as any I've come up with."

"Or could he have embezzled from the company and be on the run?"

Richard smiled and shook his head. He came around the desk and took the second chair there to be eye level with Ballard. "I'm going to fill you in on a couple things, but you need to listen to me, listen very carefully . . ."

The young man proved to be an excellent subject for hypnotic suggestion.

"The police or FBI or BATF will be turning up here sooner or later," said Richard. "When they do you will cooperate fully with them, but not bring my name into it. In fact, you've never even seen me. You can refer them to Mr. Marcelja's immediate supervisor instead, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"But if and when they turn up, you're to let me know. Leave a message at the penthouse extension; here's the number. If Mr. Marcelja comes in, you send him straight up there, no questions, then forget all about it."

Ballard, somewhat blank of eye, nodded.

That out of the way, Richard primed him to expect Bourland on Monday, leaving a note to that effect for the weekday guard shift to find. Arhyn-Hill's security did not normally have to deal with the residential side of the complex, but an exception could certainly be made in the case of the company's president.

As he left, Richard had to admit to himself, and not for the first or last time, that it was good to be at the top of the food chain.

At this hour of the afternoon the heat of the day was in full force, and the damned compact's air conditioning had yet to correct itself. Richard sought and found a branch of the rental agency and exchanged the small disaster for something larger that functioned efficiently. He had some driving to do and preferred to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling every time the road dipped. All the better as well to have cold air blasting on him; it made up a little for the pitiless sun.

Despite the blocking lotion and hat, his face was quite red and sore by the time he reached Nick Anton's apartment in north Euless. Situated near the center of the Metroplex, it was an excellent location for a man with work calls in both Fort Worth and Dallas.

The apartments were respectable-looking, the grounds neat, but not expensively landscaped. The cars in the lots indicated their owners to be average wage earners, with a few standouts at the high and low end of the market. A nearly new red Corvette nudged close to a rusted and decrepit Nova, the two vehicles conjuring the image of an automotive Lady and the Tramp. What would their little ones be? In-line skates?

Richard peered about for the block numbers, finally locating H-105. The corresponding parking slot was empty, meaning Anton was either without a car—almost unheard of in Texas—or gone on some errand.

He levered out and strode quickly along a walkway. Anton had a ground floor flat by the pool. Only a few determined, sunburned teens were using it. The heat was too oppressive for anyone else.

The balcony above Anton's flat made a shady overhang for his partially enclosed porch. Richard welcomed the relief, pushing open the iron gate, which shrieked protest. He paused. Anyone inside would have heard it, a built-in alarm system, perfect in its innocent simplicity. Well, he'd not planned to sneak up on the man, anyway.

He pressed the bell, but heard no noise of it within. He knocked, loudly. It was form only. He could get in easily enough. The door had glass insets; it would require little effort to put his fist through one and unlock the place.

"He's gone for now, cowboy."

A woman's throaty voice drifted down to him. Richard eased out enough from the shelter of the overhang to see the speaker. There was quite a lot of her standing on the balcony above, and it was all beautifully arranged under the cover of some very tight shorts and a halter top. From his low angle, her bare legs seemed to go higher than Everest.

"Excuse me?" he said, forcing himself to look at her face. Her eyes were hidden by sunglasses, and a huge mane of blond hair balanced precariously above. Several tendrils had come loose and clung to the damp skin of her neck. She looked quite delicious.

"Nick's gone to work," she informed him.

"Oh. I was hoping to catch him before then. I thought he said he'd be here."

"He says a lot of things. You a friend of his?"

"Not directly. Someone recommended him to me for a job."

"What kinda job? A club?"

"Yes."

"He might be too busy. He's working a security gig with some guy, but the rest of the time he's a regular over at Bubba Rob's. What kind of club?"

He smiled. "The kind he usually works at."

She smiled back. "You looking for dancers?" She punctuated the question with a remarkable shifting of her center of gravity, bending slowly at the hips to lean forward. The halter top proved to be a marvelous marketing ploy, the ample goods within on tantalizing display.

"Maybe."

"I'd like to—um—put in an application."

He reflected that Mae West would have been proud of the girl's delivery of that line. "I'd be pleased to accept it, but I'm in a bit of a hurry to find Nick. You said Bubba Rob's?"

"Yeah. He might not be there until later. The place don't start jumping until ten. He said they were having some kinda party then."

"They? Would that be his new boss?"

"I dunno; I guess. He works for a lotta different guys."

"You're good friends with Nick?"

She laughed, playing with a wisp of hair. "Not that good. Where can I get an application? I could fill it out . . . right now."

The girl has a natural aptitude for filling things out, he thought. "If Nick gets the job I'll have him pass one on to you. I'm sure you'll suit. You can carpool in together."

She grinned. "Cowboy, you're crazy! I like that."

Not much point in searching Anton's place. The girl's watchful presence, though decorative, was inconvenient for any attempt at breaking and entering. He could adjust her memory to forget, but it wasn't worth the effort. He had the information he wanted. All he needed to do now was wait.

And find out where the hell Bubba Rob's was located.

He retreated back to New Karnak, hiding from the furnace blast of sun. Texas afternoons, with their all-day buildup of heat, were near-intolerable to the natives, much more so to a visitor from Toronto, and infinitely more so when he happened to be a vampire. Richard gladly shut himself in and stripped, soothing his flesh with a tepid shower. He ran the cold faucet only, but the climate was such that even the groundwater was warm. How people survived here prior to air conditioning was a mystery to him.

His face was very red and itched, always a sign of sun damage. Much more and he'd have come out in bloody blisters. He made an ice pack with a damp hand towel and pressed it to the worst spots, his cheeks, nose, and chin, then phoned Sam. The receptionist, recognizing his voice, put him straight through.

"It's me. How's Michael?" he asked.

"Sleeping again. He's in the back room with Helen watching."

"Any sign of bad guys?"

"No more than usual for the neighborhood. Things are slowing down. I thought I'd close up and get us out of here on time for a change."

"Have you decided where to stay?"

"Helen has room at her place. And before you object I'll follow her home and make sure no one follows either of us. God, you've got me thinking like you, now."

"It's a good way to live longer."

The doctor's reply was muttered and not terribly edifying.

"Did you get Michael to eat anything?"

"Yes. He settled down a bit after you left, and Helen had some luck getting some fruit and peanut butter into him. He drank some juice and water, so I didn't have to do a drip on him."

"That's a good sign, isn't it? His eating?"

"I'd say so. Give him some time, Richard. He won't recover from this for a while, no matter how much we want it." After promising to call from Helen's, Sam rang off.

Sam was right about recovery taking time, but unaware of a treatment option Richard could offer that was outside of modern medicine.

Sabra would be able to reach the boy's mind . . . and heart.

She of all people could touch Michael's damaged spirit and bring him real healing.

Where are you, my lady? 

Richard knew she would be well aware of his pain and turmoil. As far away as she was in her Vancouver retreat, it would have lanced right through her, especially what had happened to him the night before. Her Sight would have disclosed the whole terrible ordeal to her by now. It was an awful Gift at times, yet Richard could almost wish for it himself. Perhaps he then could have somehow saved them . . .

No. He'd been down that road too many times before, and it always led to sorrow . . . or helpless rage. He was in the here and now and must deal with things as they were, not as they should be. Learning that aspect of life and fate and death had been his bitterest lesson.

To keep the past at bay, he flicked on the living room set and sought out CNN for distraction. He had a feeling that the Addison explosion might be of interest to them and was not disappointed. It was the top story on their national report, containing the same helicopter views of the ruins he'd seen earlier. They had more details, this time giving the name of the home's owner, Luis Marcelja. Amid ground views of the house, they'd incorporated a shot of the body bags being carried out.

Richard made himself watch. And think.

The investigators would connect Luis with his job and be by Arhyn-Hill soon. If they took prints from his office . . . well, that would be difficult. Richard had wiped down everything he'd touched while there, marring Luis's by default. They might still turn up some latent prints, then run them through the system and learn his real identity. If any of them were on the ball, they would know about brother Alejandro and have their prime suspect. They'd put an alert out for him, for all the good it would do.

Had he been smart enough to stay out of the country for this? Richard hoped so. He would have the field to himself, able to deliver hard justice without having to stumble over legitimate authorities. He'd have to go to Colombia and track Alejandro down there: difficult, but absolutely possible.

Of course, much depended on the information Nick Anton would provide.

Bubba Rob's Texas Nights was an upscale topless place, lots of lights in the parking lot, a huge sign with more lights, a marquee to announce headliners, and plenty of grim-looking muscle roaming the area. At nine-thirty the lot was full and likely to stay that way. Richard parked half a block down in an annex lot, surprised that he didn't have to pay for the privilege. He could have gotten valet service, but eschewed that in favor of simplicity and a low profile.

With the sun gone, he was free of the encumbrances of his drover's coat, gloves, and Stetson, but still felt the heat as he strode toward the club. It was as though the concrete had absorbed it during the day so as to vent throughout the muggy evening.

He'd dressed to blend: dark new jeans over his boots, a dark shirt, and bolo tie. Texas chic, though he had a sneaking suspicion he looked more like a Jersey tourist than a native. He got something of a confirmation of this as he passed a couple of young women hanging about the front of the parking annex. The dark-haired one flashed him a winning smile.

"Howdy, honey, you looking for some southern comfort?" she asked, her lazy drawl thick enough to cut.

Her blonde friend—so many blondes down here—smiled as well, waiting for an answer. Both were casually attired in tight, but not too revealing clothes and restrained makeup. The only obvious giveaway to their profession were their too-high heels and oversized handbags. Fort Worth hookers were less gaudy than their Dallas sisters.

"Perhaps later," he responded, and he meant it. The blood he had at home was fine for survival, but not nearly as good as taking it fresh from a vein.

"We might not be here later, honey. Maybe you should stick around before the good times slip away."

"I could say the same thing." He gave them one of his charmer smiles, no real promise implied, but sufficient to take any sting out of his refusal. "It'll have to be later, though, sorry."

"You just remember Gail," she said as he walked on. "Like a tornado, but with an i."

"I will."

"And I'm Stormee, with two es," added her friend, managing to drawl and sound breathless at the same time.

What interesting weather they have here, he thought. And, lord, but he loved their accents.

He reached the club's entry without additional distracting delays, paid the cover, and went in to an assault of lurid noise, light, and movement. A deep base drumbeat of recorded music provided a background for the current dancer on stage—yet another blonde—her hair swinging free as she went through her routine. He spared her a scant second of attention, intent on getting his bearings first.

The layout of the place was fairly standard, but large. A long bar ran along the length of one wall, open booths facing the center of the room took up another. The third wall accommodated the stage area and runway, the fourth had doors leading to the rest rooms and business offices. The floor, crowded with filled tables, had upper and lower levels so customers could enjoy a clear view of the performers. Hanging from the ceiling was a Southwest variation of a mirror-encrusted disco ball, this one shaped like a saddle. Vari-colored spotlights shot sparks off it as it slowly revolved. Red and black were the theme colors throughout, accented with streamers of silver tinsel and ribbons meant to conceal the sound system and other hardware.

Damned little else was being concealed here.

Men pressed close to the stage, eyes upturned to a dancing fantasy of paradise. The dancer had several bills tucked into her G-string and readily drifted over to any man looking to add to her collection. If she liked him, he might be rewarded in turn with a brushing kiss, a smile, and some special dance gyrations just for his benefit. The men here weren't allowed to touch back, though, which made this club rather tame compared to other such establishments Richard had seen over the centuries. The intent was unchanged through time, however, for here was the purest sort of relationship. It lasted exactly as long as the man had money. Hopefully, both parties considered the trade of feminine attention for cash to be a fair and balanced exchange. If not, then that was for the bouncers to sort out.

Richard found a place at the bar, paid too much for a beer he would never drink, and began a careful survey of the male employees. Nick Anton, from the statistics in his description, would be on the large side. His file photo showed a full-faced man with jet black hair, a beard, and dead eyes. No shortage of that type working here.

When a small table opened up, he took it, having another ploy in mind. Girls circulated over the floor, some doing lap dances, others sitting to chat with the customers, the unspoken objective being to get them to buy more drinks. Richard ended up with a lady who seemed intent on doing both.

She was a slender, well-muscled redhead, her hair falling straight to her waist. Her lithe body was clad in a spectacular, red belly dancer's costume trimmed with gold fringe, jangling coins, and bells. Wisps of transparent red fabric accented rather than hid her figure.

"I'm Vashti of the Flaming Tresses," she said, by way of introduction.

"You are indeed." Had she claimed to be the Empress of Russia he'd have wholeheartedly agreed with her.

"Would you like me to dance for you, or would you prefer another drink?"

"Both would be delightful," he said with a nod of encouragement.

She shot him a wicked smile and caught the beat of the speaker music with her hips. They seemed to function quite separately from her torso. Not just a girl in a costume, she knew her art and lavished a full minute of it on him, more than enough to leave him dry in the mouth and craving more. Men at the other tables looked on, grinning, her presence enough to take attention away from the D-cup on the runway.

Richard obligingly tipped her with a large enough bill to compel her to linger for that drink. She ordered an iced tea. Overpriced, of course. He stuck with his untouched beer.

"You're very good," he said.

"Thank you."

"You've too much talent for this place."

She shrugged. "Maybe, but the Renaissance Faires don't pay as well. The local ones are through for the season anyway."

"You usually perform at those?"

"Sometimes, but it gets so hot, and I burn easily." She pushed away a lock of russet hair, tilting her head so as to better expose her milk-white neck with its dusting of freckles. "See?"

"Indeed." God, but it was almost as though she knew exactly what to do to arouse him.

"Yes, a nice dark club is the best place for me." She fastened her gaze on him, oddly familiar in its force. "You new in town?"

"Not really. Trying to find someone who works here."

"Anyone I know?"

"One of the bouncers, Nick Anton. He's a big fellow."

"They usually are. Yeah, we got a couple of Nicks here."

"This one has black hair, maybe a beard."

She pulled back, eyes narrowing. "You a cop?"

He laughed. "No. Just a businessman."

"Then maybe you should talk to the manager."

His turn to fasten his gaze on her. "I prefer your company. Is Nick here tonight?"

Vashti caught her breath, rocking back slightly. "Wha . . ."

He repeated the question, stepping up the pressure.

"I . . . I . . ." She shook her head sharply, fighting it. "Hey, who the hell are you?"

That was unexpected. She should have been under by now. Instead she glared right back at him, eyes blazing and guarded. He found he could not get through to her again. Not drunk, could she be on drugs? They would make her resistant to—

"Listen, I don't want any trouble from you," she stated, her voice low. An ordinary man wouldn't have been able to hear her above the blast of music. "Let's just be a couple of ships passing in the night and leave it at that—no collisions. No complications. Okay?"

So that was it. "Yes, absolutely. I apologize for the presumption."

She gave him a long look, apparently sizing him up. "Accepted."

"Thank you."

It was enough to mollify her. "It's an easy enough mistake to make. Doing that stuff with them is one thing, but not your own kind. If it makes you feel better, I didn't know about you either."

He grinned. Encounters with other vampires were rare. He wondered what breed she might be. Probably not of his blood, else he might have sensed a kinship. "You were trying for me?"

"Sure, why not? Big healthy guy like you could spare a bit of the fresh for little old me."

Feeling flattered, he raised his undrunk beer. "To might-have-beens?"

She smirked and tapped her undrunk tea glass against his mug. They then set both containers back on the table. "You weren't trying for me, though, were you?" she asked.

"Regrettably, no. I really am looking for Nick Anton. Is he here?"

"Why do you want him?"

"It's about a job."

"What kind of job?"

"You said you wanted to avoid collisions."

She snorted. "Yeah, right. He's here, but in the private party room in the back. They won't let you in."

"They?"

"One of the boys is on watch at the door. It's invitation only. Lots of big spenders with grabby hands. I was invited but didn't like their energy. They look like Mob, but not as polite."

"You could handle them."

"Too much trouble. Besides, it's harder when they're drunk. You know that. I like it out here where the house guys keep an eye on me, and I can pick and choose who I want to be with."

By that she meant whom she chose to feed from. "Understandable. Where's this party?"

"Take a left at the rest rooms, door at the end of the hall."

"Thank you." He made to stand, but she put a hand on his arm.

"Ladies first. It'll look better, and it's good for my ego."

He liked her style. "No problem."

"And one thing? Be careful with them. They're dangerous. Even for someone like you, they're dangerous."

"Someone like me?"

"Like us."

"Throwing in with me against them?"

"Your energy tells me you're a good guy. I like good guys."

"I try."

"You don't discount that kind of stuff, do you? Auras and things?"

"Never. It's a useful gift to have. Thank you for the warning. Professional courtesy?"

"Something like that. As one bloodsucker to another." Vashti of the Flaming Tresses winked, flashed her delightfully wicked smile—with just a hint of her retracted fangs showing—and gracefully rose, bangles and bells making their own music as she undulated away. Seconds later she was at work on another man, presumably someone who could provide her with more than mere cash to keep her well nourished for the evening.

Ships in the night, indeed. I wouldn't mind docking at her port. 

When the next dancer took her place on the runway, Richard quit his table, heading toward the rest room area. Its arched opening led to a short hall containing better lighting, a phone, and a moderate respite from the noise. At the end of the hall was a red door with PRIVATE painted on in silver. Before it stood a large slab of a man with absolutely nothing better to do than watch the comings and goings of the patrons. He wore a loose tan sport coat, warm for the weather, but excellent for hiding weapons.

Though lacking in Vashti's gift for reading an individual's energy, Richard could tell at thirty feet that the fellow would not be readily persuaded to allow in a party crasher.

Not by ordinary means, anyway.

Richard walked up as though he had a perfect right to be there. The man shifted slightly, the movement reminiscent of a boulder settling itself more firmly in the earth. But all boulders could be budged—providing one had the right sort of lever.

Fortunately, the lighting was sufficient, and the man conscientious enough not to drink while on duty. A moment of quiet talk and he obligingly held the door open to let Richard pass through.

"Forget you ever saw me," Richard told him, by way of a final order, getting an affirmative grunt in reply.

He stood in a dim antechamber. Loud music, drunken whoops, and laughter beyond another arch indicated that the party was in full swing. Richard stepped forward, using the cover of an artificial ficus tree to delay notice of his presence. Through the silk leaves he saw a rousing orgy in the making. It reminded him of the goings on at the old Hellfire Club, but with fewer clothes to remove.

Booths lined three walls, the center of the floor given over to dancing. All the dancers were topless, and several of them were clad only in high heels, some jewlery, and a smile. He wondered where they stowed their tips. The men getting lap dances had seemingly forgotten the no-touching rule, and one couple who had slipped under a table was in desperate need of a hotel room. Though more than enough to get the whole club closed down, apparently the money going to the management made the risk worth it.

Richard scanned each man's face, looking for Nick Anton among the crowd of thirty or forty. In the bouncers there was a preponderance of shaved heads, tattoos, goatees, and sloped shoulders. The low lighting wasn't much of a hindrance, but it was erratic as it flashed in time to the music, making it hard to focus. Figures writhed in the gloom, or sat transfixed by the dancing or by whatever booze or drug they'd taken. The heavy sweet smell of pot was on the air, along with that of regular tobacco. The restless, too-bright eyes of some indicated there was plenty of coke to be had as well.

All the better for him, there was less chance of any of the guests noticing . . .

Time stopped. The hubbub of the party went still and faded. A frisson of pure shock struck him almost as solidly as a fist. Richard blinked, but what he saw remained firmly in place. He gaped, disbelieving his luck, then with an internal lurch accepted it as a gift from a benevolent Goddess.

Right in the middle of the drunken and drugged mob, like a king carousing with his sycophantic court, was Alejandro Trujillo.

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Framed