Blood Ties

CHAPTER 5

EVEN AS SHE SAID IT, his face began to change, to distort into something she instinctively recognized as evil, and the only thing Diana knew for certain was that she did not want to see what it would ultimately become.

Who it would become.

She scrabbled frantically behind her for the door handle, and her mind reached as well, everything inside her reached, for the way back, a way out, for safety.

Warm, strong fingers closed over hers.

Diana opened her eyes with a gasp to find herself sitting up in her bed, in her room.

She was staring at Quentin’s face. Not gray and colorless, not a façade over something unspeakably evil, but warm and alive and Quentin.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed facing her, both his hands holding both of hers, watching her with that steady, rock-solid intentness that made her feel so safe and yet, on some deep and nameless level, so terribly uneasy.

“What happened?” she asked, unsurprised by the drained sound of her own voice.

“You tell us.”

Diana looked quickly around to find that Hollis was sitting on the foot of the other bed in the room, wearing the somewhat sexy nightgown she had worn in the gray time. Except now she was also wearing one of the B&B’s thick terry-cloth courtesy robes over it. She was paler than normal, and the skin around her blue eyes bore a shadowy, bruised appearance that made her look very fragile and very tired.

DeMarco leaned almost negligently back against the dresser a couple of feet behind her, dressed as he had been that day, in jeans and a white shirt. He looked wide awake and not in the least tired.

It was Hollis who had spoken.

“We were in the gray time,” she said. “You and me.”

Quentin said, “Something we’ll talk about later.”

Diana knew he was bothered and knew why, so she kept her gaze on Hollis. “I remember,” she said slowly.

Hollis nodded. “We were in a… a very bad place.”

“The hallways. All the doors. You said it had been an asylum.”

“Yeah. What happened after I was pulled out?”

“How were you pulled out?”

Hollis sent a somewhat rueful glance over her shoulder at DeMarco. “Reese thought I was in trouble.”

“I didn’t think you were, I knew you were,” he said imperturbably.

Diana looked at him. “And so you just… pulled her out?”

“It seemed the thing to do.”

Diana studied that coldly handsome, impassive face, then returned her gaze to Quentin’s much warmer and more expressive one. “That’s… interesting.”

“I thought so,” Quentin said. But he was clearly unwilling to follow that interesting tangent, since he immediately added, “But what I want to know is how you two ended up at that old asylum. Especially since it’s been razed to the ground.”

Startled, Diana said, “It has? It doesn’t exist anymore?”

“After what happened there, the property owners barely waited until all the evidence had been collected and it was declared no longer a viable crime scene before they sent in the bulldozers. The buildings were destroyed, and everything that could be burned was. The rest was buried, and buried deep. Last I heard, the plan was to haul tons of topsoil to the spot and plant trees for the forestry service. Nobody wants to build any other structure there. Ever.”

She frowned. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been taken in the gray time to a place that doesn’t exist.”

DeMarco pointed out, “You do call it the gray time—not the gray place. Must be a reason for that. It could be out of sync with our time, even be another dimension. There are plenty of theories about that sort of thing—that time isn’t as linear as we think it is, that other dimensions exist.”

Diana gently pulled one hand from Quentin’s grasp to rub the nape of her neck. She felt stiff and very tired, and there was a fuzziness to her thoughts that made it difficult for her to think straight. ‘Okay, sure, it’s possible. Maybe even probable; it’s certainly something I’ve considered before. But why that place—in any time or dimension—if what happened there is over and done with?”

“Maybe it was my fault,” Hollis said. “What happened there…” Her eyes slid to the side, as if she would have looked back at DeMarco, but she didn’t turn her head. “It wasn’t all that long ago, and with back-to-back cases since, I haven’t had a lot of time to … process… everything. I suppose it’s possible the place was so much on my mind that we were both pulled there. I still have nightmares about it.”

It was Quentin’s turn to frown. “I don’t blame you. But what I know about Diana’s abilities tells me that if you two found yourselves in that place, it’s not because of old memories but because there’s some connection to what we’re doing now. This investigation. This killer.”

Hollis kept her gaze on Diana and repeated, “What happened after I was pulled out?”

“Nothing unusual—at first. A guide appeared. A young girl, maybe thirteen or so. Said her name was Brooke.”

DeMarco said, very evenly, “Brooke.” His face didn’t change, but his weight shifted slightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. As if he needed to move.

Quentin sent a quick glance back at DeMarco and then said, “Assuming it’s the same girl, Brooke was one of Samuel’s… sacrifices. Though we never found a body, there was an eyewitness to her death. From what that witness said, it was a horrible way to die.”

The reminder jogged Diana’s memory. In addition to reading all the reports, she had talked to Quentin about the case and knew that DeMarco had spent more than two years undercover inside that “church.” She couldn’t imagine how much strength that must have taken, to pretend for so long to be someone else without losing who you really were. Even more, to be forced by the role to be unable to act to protect innocent victims. Victims you might well have known. Might have been close to.

Like Brooke.

“I’m sorry,” Diana said to him.

DeMarco nodded slightly but didn’t say anything.

“What did Brooke say—or do?” Quentin asked.

Diana concentrated on remembering. “Typically cryptic, like most guides. I asked her why I was there, in that place, because Hollis had been so—had reacted so strongly to it. So I asked why there, if everything was over and that place was no longer important, no longer mattered. Brooke said everything was connected.”

DeMarco said, “But didn’t say how.”

“No. Before I could ask, she said she needed me to find the truth. I asked if she meant the truth of how she died and she said no, that it had started long before she died. ‘The truth buried underneath it all,’ she said.”

Quentin frowned again. “Yeah, I’d call that cryptic.”

“No kidding. I told her I didn’t understand, and she said I would. Then she walked through a door—” Diana looked at Hollis, interrupting herself to clarify, “That open door.”

Hollis nodded. “I’m guessing you followed her through it?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

She really didn’t want to answer, but finally Diana said, “And I was back here, outside in the hallway, but still in the gray time. Brooke was gone, and I was alone. I opened what I was sure was my door, the door to this room. Only when I came in, it was Quentin’s room instead.” She wished suddenly that he wasn’t holding her hand, and yet she couldn’t seem to draw away.

He was looking at her intently, waiting, and Diana did her best to meet his gaze and sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “You were there, waiting for me, expecting me. Except it wasn’t you. You—it—looked like you and sounded like you. But I knew it wasn’t you.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know. It… was coming toward me, smiling, saying—” Diana broke off, wishing she wasn’t so damn tired, because if she’d had her wits about her she could probably think of a dozen reasons why the others in this room didn’t need to hear any of this. And then she could keep it to herself, as she wanted. But she was tired, her thoughts were fuzzy, and they were telling her that maybe this was important for the case, maybe it wasn’t as intensely personal as it felt.

“Diana?” Quentin’s voice was steady. “Whatever happened in the gray time, whatever was said or done, you know that wasn’t me, know I wasn’t there. Right?”

“Right.” She nodded. “Right.”

“We can leave,” DeMarco offered, matter-of-fact, and Hollis nodded grave agreement.

Diana got a grip on herself. Be a professional about this, dammit. If you’re going to be any help at all… “No, of course not. Because it has to mean something to the case. It has to be connected somehow. Brooke said it is, and the guides don’t lie. And maybe one of you can work it out, because I can’t seem to.”

Hollis said, “Okay, then. Tell us what the fake Quentin said.”

“He said… that we belonged together and that he’d been waiting for me to realize it. That I had to accept it because it was the way things had to be. That he knew what was best for me and I could trust him.” Avoiding everyone’s gaze, she hurried on, “Here’s the thing. The gray time is an almost-empty place, between worlds or times, whatever. That’s why there’s no substance, no color or light or shadow, no depth or dimension. It’s a place to… travel. Like a road through a cold desert. Not a place where you want to pause any longer than necessary, let alone a place to live in.”

“Okay,” Hollis said. “I would certainly agree it isn’t a place to live in. And so?”

Fumbling for the right words, Diana said, “It’s also a place of truth, or always has been. Absolute truth. Like everything else has been stripped away, with only the truth left. I see the guides there, and once before I felt some… thing… truly evil there. But I don’t see deception, and none of the guides has ever lied to me. As far as I know, anyway. They never tell me everything, and as I said they’re more often than not damn cryptic, but there’s never been any attempt to deceive. Not like this.”

DeMarco said, “You’re sure you have no idea what it means? The deception?”

“No.”

“How many times have you had company in the gray time? From this side, I mean.”

Trust DeMarco to home in on that. “Once before,” Diana said reluctantly. And before anyone else could comment, she looked steadily at Hollis, adding, “I’m sorry, Hollis. I should never have done that.”

“It was my idea.”

“I know. But it was wrong, and I should have known why.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a medium too. The last person I should have taken there. And now you’re sort of… connected to the gray time, almost like I am. At least according to Brooke.”

Hollis blinked. “Which means?”

“If Brooke was right, if she wasn’t trying to deceive me, it means that whenever I visit the gray time, whenever I open that door, you’ll be drawn there too.”

“Whether she wants to be or not,” DeMarco said, and it wasn’t really a question.

Diana nodded. “She’s a medium, and we’re hardwired to communicate with the spirit world, one way or another. Most of us open doors, the way Hollis opens doors. But those doors are almost always meant to work only one way, allowing the spirits to come here, to this plane of existence. According to Bishop, I’m the only medium he’s ever encountered who… walks with the spirits on the other side of the door, in that place or time in between. And I’ve spent my whole life—even if it was mostly subconsciously—learning how to do that, learning how to exist over there, as safely as possible. Hollis, I thought I could protect you too, but… now I’m not so sure.”

Hollis began to chew on a thumbnail and without moving her thumb managed to say clearly, “This is the whole pillar-of-salt thing, right? The consequences?”

“Bishop’s Second Rule,” Quentin murmured. “There are always consequences.”

Momentarily distracted, Diana said, “What’s his First Rule?”

“Some things have to happen just the way they happen.”

“Oh, right. He mentioned that. You mentioned that.”

DeMarco said, “It’s something we’ve all learned. The hard way.” He paused, adding dryly, “Though I hadn’t realized we were numbering Bishop’s rules.”

“Quentin is,” Hollis said. “Of course Quentin is. And can we get back to my own pillar-of-salt consequences? Sorry to sound selfish, but I really would like to know what the worst outcome might be. What to be on guard against if—when—I find myself in the gray time again.”

“You already know, Hollis. The worst outcome is that you could be trapped on that side of the door when it closes.” Diana drew a breath and let it out slowly, fighting to hold her voice steady as the reminder brought back an old but still-aching memory. “Lost, with no way of getting back to your body. And a body cut off from its spirit, deprived of its soul… can’t exist very long without medical intervention.”

“Medical intervention? You mean—”

“I mean machines. To keep the body breathing, the heart beating. Under those conditions, the body can last years. Decades. But you wouldn’t be there. You wouldn’t be there ever again.”

Bobbie Silvers was proud to be a deputy. Of course, she wasn’t a real deputy, not yet; she was only partway through the training manual, and the sheriff refused to let her even begin weapons training.

Still, she was young, energetic, and determined, so she knew it was only a matter of time until she made it to full deputy status.

In the meantime, she worked as hard as she could to prove to Sheriff Duncan that she was deputy material. If he asked her to do something, no matter how seemingly routine or unimportant, she went above and beyond to make sure she did a thorough job of it.

Which was why she was, in the middle of the evening and the middle of her shift, still at her computer terminal, poring through missing-persons reports—covering a radius of five hundred miles.

“Give it up,” Dale McMurry advised. “Sheriff’s gone home for the night, and, besides, there isn’t much anybody can do ‘til morning.”

“The only thing I can’t do until morning,” she told him without looking at him, “is talk to a first-shift deputy or other officer. Law enforcement is 24/7, Dale, or didn’t you know that?”

He grunted. “It took you ten minutes to find the right state bureau guy and get their list, and twenty to get the one from the cops two counties over. At this rate, you’ll be at it until midnight and still not get done.”

“The county doesn’t pay me to sit with my feet up and read magazines,” she told him. “If I’m still working on this when the next shift shows up and it’s time to clock out, so what? As long as I’m making progress—trying to make progress—then I’m doing my job.”

“I’m doing my job,” he said, mildly defensive. “I’m waiting to answer the phone. So far, it hasn’t been ringing much.” He got out of his chair and went to change the channel of the TV resting on a nearby filing cabinet, grumbling underneath his breath at the lack of a remote.

“Don’t turn on wrestling, please,” she said, still without looking at him.

“What do you care? You haven’t taken your eyes off that screen since you talked to the SBI guy.”

“I care because you get too caught up in the so-called action and end up yelling and throwing things at the screen. Find a nice cheerleader or beauty competition instead. You drool quietly.”

He threw a balled-up piece of paper at her.

Bobbie ducked, sent him a smile to indicate she was only kidding, and went back to her work. Not that she had a whole lot to work with. From the remains of both victims, only the barest of preliminary descriptions could be listed with any certainty—and height, weight, eye color, and probable hair color in the case of the female left things pretty damn vague.

The list Bobbie had painstakingly compiled from five hundred miles around Serenade now contained more than a hundred names of people reported missing and not yet found.

With so few specifics about their victims, Bobbie wasn’t about to try to narrow that list on her own. But what she could and did do was to include a brief profile on each of the missing men and women. Most of the details were in the reports she’d gathered from other law-enforcement agencies, so it was an easy—if tedious—matter to condense the information under simple categories: Height; Age; Weight; Coloring; Missing From; Missing Since; Reported Missing By; Criminal Record (it was almost always no under that category); Financial Problems; Unexplained Financial Transactions; Beneficiaries of Death.

That last one creeped Bobbie out, but it had to be noted, because at least half a dozen of the missing people carried hefty life-insurance policies left to spouses. Not so unusual, of course, but worth noting, in her opinion.

So Bobbie noted it. And noted all the other bits of information she had gathered. And then she put it all on a somewhat crude spreadsheet, hoping that something would help the far-more-experienced FBI agents identify the two poor souls whose remains had been found so horribly tortured and mangled.

And it wasn’t until just before midnight and the end of her shift, while barely aware of Dale yawning over a less-than-involving seventies-era sitcom, that Bobbie saw something unexpected. Very unexpected.

She rechecked all the information she had, bit her lip for a moment in indecision, then reached for the phone, hoping to find another second-shift cop in another quiet law-enforcement agency with time on his or her hands and the will to stay past this shift and dig just a little deeper.

“So nobody comes back from being lost in the gray time?” Hollis held her voice steady.

Diana shook her head. “Nobody, as far as I know. Because even if the body is kept alive on this side, the gray time really is a corridor between two realities. Nothing belonging to either side can exist in there indefinitely; the guides have told me that much. For us, from this side, the exhaustion becomes overwhelming, all our energy is drained away, and…”

“And?”

“And our spirits apparently pass on to whatever lies beyond the gray time. I’m told there’s peace to be found there. But I’m also told peace isn’t necessarily the destination for every soul.”

“So there is a hell,” DeMarco said, sounding thoughtful. “I’ve always wondered.”

Diana nodded a bit hesitantly. “I think so. At least it sounds that way, that something… unpleasant… is waiting for at least some spirits. Calling it hell is probably as good as anything else.”

Hollis said, “Let’s not get sidetracked by a philosophical—or theological—discussion, if you don’t mind. Not tonight, anyway. Diana, you’re basically telling me that if I got trapped in the gray time and couldn’t find my way out before the door closed, I’d be dead.”

“Afraid so.”

“And the door closes—how?”

Diana blinked. “You know, I haven’t really thought about it that way. Because there are doors in the gray time that seem literal, and they open or close without seeming to affect me.”

“Guess,” Hollis suggested.

“Okay.” She thought about it for a moment. “My guess is that if anyone of this world stays in the gray time too long or… somehow … wanders too deeply into the gray time, gets too far away from their physical self, then the door would close. The door we open as mediums. I suppose, thinking about it, that it’s less a door than a connection that gets severed—the connection between the body and the spirit. Cut that tie or have something cause it to snap, and… and it doesn’t get repaired. The spirit can’t return to the body.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound fun.” Hollis’s voice remained calm, even somewhat sardonic. But her eyes were wide and dark, and she continued to chew on her thumbnail—until DeMarco stepped away from the dresser, reached around to grasp her wrist, and with seeming gentleness pulled her hand down and away from her mouth.

Very interesting indeed, Diana thought, distracted again.

Hollis turned her head briefly toward him and said, “Leave me my vices, will you?” But her voice was still calm, and her hand remained in her lap where he had put it.

“That’s not a vice, it’s just a bad habit,” he said. “If you’re interested in vices, I’ll go find some booze. Don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use a drink.”

Diana shook her head. “Not me. After spending most of a lifetime medicated to the gills, I don’t drink.” As personal as the first part of that information was, she was completely aware that most if not all the other SCU agents knew at least some of her history. As Quentin had pointed out with a shrug, even stuff never said out loud was known when there were so many telepaths around.

Hollis laced her fingers together in her lap and said, “I’m so tired one drink would knock me on my ass. Diana, I hope you have a few tricks you can teach me to protect myself over there. But even if you don’t, stop blaming yourself, okay? It was my idea to go the first time. I can deal with the consequences. I’m a survivor.”

“She is that,” Quentin agreed. “More lives than a barrelful of cats, if you ask me.”

Diana wished that made her feel better. It didn’t.

Either seeing that or else pursuing a thought of his own, Quentin added, “And then there’s Reese. After tonight, I’m betting he could be Hollis’s lifeline and pull her out before she gets lost.”

“Happy to oblige,” DeMarco said.

“Let’s hope it isn’t necessary,” Hollis said without looking at him, her tone rather careless. “Anyway, at the moment I’m more interested in what happened after I was pulled out tonight. Why something in the gray time—presumably a spirit—tried to trick you, Diana. And what it was trying to trick you into doing. Or believing.”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you speculate? Guess again?”

Diana shook her head, trying to throw off the last tendrils of that weird fuzziness in her mind. “I can’t even imagine what it might be.”

“Sure you can,” DeMarco said.

She stared at him, frowning. “Oh? And how is that?”

He didn’t appear to be the least bit bothered by her stiff tone. “First, stop assuming it was a spirit. Just because we haven’t encountered another medium who can walk in the gray time doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist. In fact, it’s almost certain one does, since psychic abilities aren’t unique. Certain aspects, sure; I have a double shield and, so far as we know, that’s unique. But most psychics have a shield of some kind, and without knowing every single one of them I could hardly be sure there isn’t another double shield out there.”

“He has a point,” Quentin noted thoughtfully.

DeMarco nodded and said to Diana, “You can walk in the gray time, and you’re exceptionally strong there because of most of a lifetime’s experience. But on two separate occasions, Hollis has been able to function there as well.”

“If you can call it functioning,” Hollis muttered.

“I can,” DeMarco told her, then added before she could comment, “She may not be able to open the door to the gray time, but only one previous visit enabled her to form a connection to that place, to be drawn back into it when Diana opened the door. Which could mean it’s a lot more accessible to mediums than we’ve assumed and that others have been drawn there as well. And that, somewhere, another medium exists who was drawn to cross through that doorway rather than just open it for spirits. Curiosity alone would surely drive at least some to wonder what it would be like. And it’s a small step from wondering to attempting.”

Hollis said, “It would better explain the deception. I mean, if the guides have never attempted to deceive you, why start now? But if it’s another psychic trying to do that…”

DeMarco finished: “…what better way to attempt a deception than to show you a face you trust?”

“It makes sense,” Diana allowed. “At least as much as any other possibility does.”

Quentin said, “It also opens up the probability that this particular enemy knows you well enough to know who you trust. Or has been watching long enough to … draw certain conclusions.”

Diana wasn’t sure which possibility made her more uneasy. But both of them did. She was about to comment on that when the sudden ringing of a cell phone made all of them—except DeMarco—jump. He reached back to pick up Diana’s cell phone from the dresser, looked rather automatically at the caller I.D., and then tossed the phone to land within Diana’s reach.

“Elliot Brisco. Your father, I gather.”

Diana reached her free hand to pick up the phone—and turned it off midway through its ring tone. “Yeah. He’s been out on the West Coast—and never considers time differences when he’s calling me. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“Could be an emergency,” Hollis suggested.

“Trust me, it isn’t. Just him ready to argue one more time that joining the FBI was the worst idea of my life.” She drew a breath and let it out slowly, then ruthlessly got them back on topic. “Okay, so let’s assume for the moment another medium was there in the gray time. And either knows me well enough to be sure of who I trust or else has been able to read me. I don’t have much of a shield, right?”

It was DeMarco who answered. “Not much of one, no. But you don’t broadcast like Hollis does, so it would probably take a fairly strong telepath to read you.” Before Hollis could make an indignant comment, which she seemed about to do, he added, “But there’s nothing to say another medium with a lesser telepathic sense might not be able to read you far more clearly in the gray time than on this side of the door. Or even another medium who isn’t telepathic at all. A lot of the rules we’ve come to accept in this world, this reality, may not be true in that one. In fact, the chances are pretty good that there are a lot of differences over there.”

Diana wished she could dispute that, but the more she thought about the possibility, the colder she felt. “So another medium could be reading me in the gray time. And maybe… influencing me?”

DeMarco was utterly matter-of-fact. “Maybe. We’re generally more vulnerable in an unconscious state—which is what your dreams and trances amount to.”

“You’re strong in the gray time,” Quentin reminded her.

“Am I? What if I only think I am? There’s… something I’ve never been able to explain about the gray time. It hasn’t happened often, but throughout my life I’ve awakened from trips there to find my physical self somewhere other than bed. Somewhere dangerous.”

Quentin nodded, clearly remembering. “Up to your waist in a lake. Driving your father’s sports car at high speed when you were too young to drive at all.”

“Yeah. And there were other things, awakenings I haven’t told you about. Finding myself in other dangerous places or just baffling ones. Sometimes miles and miles from home. With no memory or understanding about what I was doing there. Or what I was meant to do. At the time I thought those things were more symptoms I was losing my mind—or had already lost it. Once all the meds were gone and I could think clearly, once I knew I was a medium and understood what that meant, I guess I thought I’d been trying to help a guide get a message to someone but that my body and spirit were still so out of sync, things got confused and I tried to act before knowing what it was I was supposed to be doing, before I was even awake.”

“That sounds possible,” Quentin said. “Maybe even likely.”

“I guess. Looking back now… I don’t know what to think.”

In his usual neutral, pleasant tone, DeMarco said, “But it’s equally possible that someone could have been trying to influence you. Make you behave in ways you wouldn’t have consciously done.”

“Even when I was a child?”

“Maybe especially then. When it was still new to you, still something you were trying to learn to control.”

The possibility that someone could have been following her around in the gray time all these years, without her knowledge or even awareness, made Diana feel cold to the bone. It felt like a violation, a rape of her mind, of herself. She forced herself to speak calmly. “I suppose it’s possible. But—”

Still in that impassive tone, DeMarco said, “Psychic abilities often run in families.”

Understanding, Diana said, “My mother was psychic, I believe. Probably my sister, Missy, as well. But they’ve both been dead for years.”

“Is it possible your father—”

Diana laughed, hearing how brittle it sounded. “No. My father isn’t psychic. At all. My father doesn’t believe in psychics. He was convinced my mother was mentally ill. He chose to believe I was mentally ill rather than accept the possibility I might be a medium. How’s that for not believing in psychic abilities?”

DeMarco’s expression didn’t change, but his voice softened somewhat when he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to open up old wounds.”

“Oh, no need to be sorry. You didn’t reopen anything. He more or less said that about a week ago. So, still a fresh wound, I’m afraid.”

Quentin said, “Diana, I told you it takes some people a lot longer to come to terms with this. My father still refuses to accept I’m a seer, and he’s known it for years.”

“Yeah, well, your father didn’t threaten to have you committed when you first told him, right?”

Hollis said, “Your father seriously did?”

Diana nodded jerkily. “He was deadly serious, believe me. Quentin can tell you; he was there. So was Bishop. I don’t know what Bishop said to my father later, but whatever it was, it at least stopped him threatening me. Now he just… It’s like water dripping on stone. I don’t belong in the FBI. I’m out of my element. I’m going to get myself killed. On and on.”

“I’m sorry,” DeMarco repeated.

She looked at him, then at the other two, and sighed. “No, I’m sorry. That’s … personal junk. Baggage. We all have it. Mine doesn’t alter the possibility that somebody could have been there with me in the gray time, trying to influence me—for whatever reason.”

“Creepy,” Hollis noted.

“I’ll say. Especially when I don’t have a clue who it might be—and have never been aware of another presence there.”

Quentin said, “Maybe because there wasn’t one. Look, this is all speculation.”

“But possible,” DeMarco noted.

Quentin sent the other man a quick frown, then said to Diana, “Never mind that now. Let’s focus on what happened tonight. How did you know it wasn’t me?” His voice was calm and steady, as was his gaze when she finally looked at him. “We both know I could have said those words, most of them at least. So how did you know it wasn’t me?”

“I just… knew. Almost from the first instant. It felt wrong. Like something was off. And all my strength was draining away suddenly, too suddenly. As if…”

“As if you were under attack?” DeMarco asked. “Because when I was pulling Hollis out, that’s what it felt like to me.”

He sat up and swung his feet off the bed, reaching immediately for the bottle on his nightstand.

A strong hand beat him to it, removing the bottle from his reach, and the visitor said, “Not just yet. Tell me.”

“Look, this shit isn’t easy, you know. Takes a lot out of me, I told you that. I’m tired and thirsty. I need—”

“You need to tell me what happened in the gray time. Now.”

He studied the visitor for a moment, then sent a longing glance toward the bottle and shrugged, trying not to look as wary as he felt. Money was great, and he was as willing to use his God-given talents for hire as a gifted artist was to sell his paintings; a man had to make a living, after all. But this particular “buyer” made him nervous.

Ruthless men with scary agendas made him nervous. Especially when they looked dangerous as hell.

“Tell me,” the visitor repeated.

‘Okay, okay. But I’m not so sure you’re going to like what I have to say, Bishop.”

“You let me worry about that.”