Blood Ties

CHAPTER 8

“ANOTHER PET MONSTER?” Quentin speculated, then shook his head before any of the others could offer an argument for or against. “No, if we’ve got two involved here, it feels more like a partnership to me. Maybe it’s just a hunch, but that’s the way it feels to me. Two individuals with a plan. Working together.”

“But what’s the plan?” DeMarco asked. “To destroy the SCU? Because that sounds a bit ambitious to me, especially if the idea is to pick us off one by one.”

“It does make a kind of sense, though,” Hollis said, still thinking about the possibility of two enemies working together. “Using this… method. The murders are quite effective at drawing us out, making us visible. And they couldn’t be—you should forgive the phrase—normal murders, because then we wouldn’t be involved. So, serial murders spread out over multiple states, particularly gruesome in nature, with bodies dumped where they’re quickly and easily found, the killings so bizarre and seemingly random that local and state cops or even most FBI units can’t effectively investigate.”

“Enter the SCU,” Diana continued. “Because gruesome and bizarre is pretty much our bailiwick. First two investigators, Miranda and Hollis, with Reese coming and going. Maybe that wasn’t enough for them. Maybe they wanted more of us involved, for whatever reason. To test us, or their skill. So the killings continued, the torture and mangling of the victims’ bodies escalating. Quentin and I join the team a couple of weeks ago, so a larger SCU presence.”

Quentin frowned. “You know, maybe those shots yesterday really weren’t about killing either of you guys. Maybe they were about making us sit up and take notice. Maybe one or both of these bastards decided it was time we knew we were being watched. More fun for them, if we knew about it. More of a challenge.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” DeMarco complained. He was still scanning Main Street, still keeping an eye on the so-far undisturbed and unexploded SUVs parked in front of the sheriff’s department. “And it all hinges on the premise that this rampage is about us, about the SCU. If we’re wrong about that basic supposition, then we could allow others to die while we’re looking in the wrong direction.”

“That’s just as true the other way,” Quentin said. “If we ignore signs pointing to a motive behind this simply because we find the motive hard to swallow, then we’re no closer to stopping the killer—or killers—and the rampage continues.”

“True.”

Diana shook her head and said, “It still all boils down to guesswork, so far, at least. I thought psychic abilities would make this sort of thing easier.”

“Sometimes I think they make it harder,” Quentin told her. “In fact, I think that a lot.”

To Hollis, Diana said, “Not that I’m doubting you, but considering what happened last night in the gray time, do you think this Andrea might have been deceiving you? Lying about there being a bomb?”

“I don’t think so. She was awfully convincing. Awfully upset, now that I think about it. But I’m still relatively new to this stuff, so I can’t be a hundred percent sure about it.”

“So there may not be a bomb?”

“Rationally… yes. There may not be a bomb.”

Quentin said, “But you aren’t sure, and we can’t take the chance there isn’t a bomb.”

DeMarco looked at Hollis, his brows rising slightly. “What does your gut tell you? Was Andrea lying? Trying to trick you?”

Slowly, Hollis shook her head. “No. No, I really don’t think she was trying to trick me. I think she wanted—needed—to warn me. Because there’s a bomb in one of those cars.”

“That’s all I need to hear,” DeMarco said, returning his gaze to the quiet, peaceful street. “So now the question becomes, how do we get out of this with as few casualties as possible?”

“Gabe, I’ve got the sheriff getting ready to send the few people he has out to try and clear as much space as possible around the vehicles. Where are you?” Miranda asked.

“About two blocks from the station.” He parked the car as he spoke, getting out with his cell and his keys and without the backpack. “I’m armed. And I think I can find this bastard.” He locked the car and dropped the keys into one of his jacket pockets.

“What does Roxanne think?” The question was curiously literal.

Tell her I think he’s on top of that old theater building half a block down from the station. There’s no fire escape, no outside stairs, so you’ll have to go up from inside the building.

Gabriel relayed the information, adding, “The building’s for rent, Miranda. Empty. There’s a rear entrance.” When she seemed to hesitate, he added, “Look, I know you wanted to just watch this guy, but if he’s willing to blow up a nice little town, I say the time for watching is over.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “You won’t get an argument about that. But I don’t like you going up there alone, Gabe.”

“I don’t think we have time to argue about it.” He was nearly at the rear of the old theater building, where he’d been heading since he stepped out of the car. He could see that the old door was barred by an equally old padlock. “You guys are blocks away, and for all we know one or both of those SUVs are packed with explosives. Maybe even nails and other kinds of shrapnel. An explosion could destroy a lot more than those vehicles, and we both know it. I can take the bastard out.”

“All right.” Whatever hesitation Miranda might have felt was clearly past. “But don’t kill him unless you have to. We need to be able to talk to him if at all possible.”

“Copy that.”

“Leave the cell on; with a little luck we won’t lose the signal.”

“Copy that,” he repeated. “Talk to you on the other side.” He slid the cell, still on, into the other pocket of his jacket and then drew his weapon from the shoulder holster he wore underneath it. “Rox? The lock?”

Working on it. Tougher than I expected. The lock hasn’t been opened in a while, I’d say.

“So he used the front entrance to gain access. Wonder whether he had a key or broke in.”

In full view of anybody on Main Street, I’m guessing he had a key. He had to look and act normally enough not to attract any undue attention. Just a minute more…

There was a brief pause, and then Gabriel heard a click, and the old padlock swung free. He got rid of it and used muscle to force the door open, not at all happy when the ancient hinges creaked loudly.

Stairs. Just to your right. There’s no electricity, Gabe.

“And it’s dark as pitch.” He barely whispered it, pausing for only a moment inside the door to allow his eyes to adjust a bit to the dark.

These stairs go up to the projection room, I think. From there, we’ll have to find the door that leads to the roof.

“When was it ever easy?” With fumbling fingers, he found a rough old handrail and began to climb the dangerously creaky stairs as swiftly as he dared.

“Wait—” DeMarco gestured toward the street. “A couple of Duncan’s deputies are coming out. Damn, looks like the part-timers. I guess the rest of the first shift is out on patrol.”

Hollis said, “They aren’t very good at acting casual, are they? Their body language is tense as hell. There’s the sheriff. He’s a lot better at seeming nonchalant, I have to say.”

Miranda rejoined the group near the walkway in time to hear that and said, “As expected, the sheriff has no bomb squad, but he has a call in to Knoxville for the nearest one. Only a couple of his part-timers are at the station. He’s sent them out with orders to stay far away from the vehicles and keep the area around them clear. He’s going to try to get to the restaurants and stores in the immediate area, alert them to clear themselves and their customers out—or, at least, get away from windows facing the street. We’re going to give them five minutes to do as much as they can.”

“You’re thinking we have to detonate the bomb?” DeMarco said, after a quick glance at her.

“I’m thinking we need to be ready if we have to,” Miranda replied. “The nearest bomb squad is more than an hour away—and the lunch crowd, such as it is, is about to head to the downtown restaurants. We don’t have the equipment to safely inspect those vehicles, or even to effectively barricade the area, and we don’t have the luxury of time.”

“If he has a remote, one of us will have to approach before he’s likely to trigger it,” DeMarco said.

“I’m hoping we’re the ones with the remote.” She nodded to the keys in his hand. “We can unlock, raise the cargo doors, and start the engines from here. Maybe that’ll set off the bomb. If not…”

“The sort of body armor we have isn’t going to protect us, Miranda. Not from a bomb.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Still, it’s all we’ve got. Before any of us approach those vehicles, we get the vests on.”

“Copy that.”

But neither DeMarco nor any of the others moved, all their attention fixed on the vehicles a few short blocks away.

Quentin, after gauging the distance between the vehicles and the buildings around them, said, “There is not a whole lot of room down there. And way too many glass windows. I gather you’re also hoping for a small bomb or bombs with a small blast radius.”

“That would be my preference,” Miranda said. “Since explosives have never been part of the M.O. so far, I have to believe whatever he brought with him or got his hands on in the last twelve hours or so isn’t likely to be very large or very complicated.”

“Which,” DeMarco said, “means a remote detonation is a bit more likely. Wiring explosives into a vehicle’s electrical system or using some kind of timer is more difficult and time-consuming, even if he knows what he’s doing. And since those vehicles have been right out in the open since last night, I’m guessing he didn’t want to risk spending any more time than necessary near them.”

Diana shook her head and said, “You’re all so calm about this.” She sounded decidedly tense.

Hollis murmured, “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

DeMarco looked down at her, a very slight frown pulling at his brows. “Hollis, what are you trying to do? I can feel the effort.”

“Yeah, it’s… hard. But electrical energy is electrical energy, right?” The strain in her voice was evident. “And explosives are… inherently unstable. Probably giving off waves of energy just being themselves. I’m trying to see if there’s an aura of some kind around… Huh. What do you know? I see a funny sort of shimmer above the second SUV. A kind of red haze. Nothing above the one in front.”

Miranda said, “Reese, do you still sense him out there?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s watching. I still can’t pinpoint a location, but I think he’s up high. Maybe a rooftop.”

“You think he’s using his scope or binoculars?”

“Binoculars. I don’t feel a gun. Not yet, anyway. But I am having a little more trouble than usual tuning him in.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to Hollis. “Here.”

“What—” She felt the tickle underneath her nose and pressed the cloth there, adding a muttered, “Damn.”

“I told you I could feel the effort,” DeMarco said.

“It’s just a little nosebleed, that’s all.”

“Yeah, right.”

Miranda checked her cell, frowned, and muttered, “Damn, lost the signal.”

“What signal?” Quentin asked.

As if she hadn’t heard him, Miranda said, “A minute left. Hollis, when this is over, I want you to—”

That was when one of the SUVs exploded.

Dale McMurry both heard and saw the explosion. In fact, he was damn near knocked out of his chair—though that may have been more of a rather drastic flinch on his part than the force of the actual blast.

Like everybody else, he went running outside and toward the station, so shocked by the very notion of something exploding in this normally very peaceful place that he didn’t think it through.

Or consider possible consequences.

Gabriel had just reached the old theater’s projection room when he heard the explosion. And felt the vibration shudder through the old building.

Shit,

“Goddammit, Rox, where the hell are the stairs to the roof?” Even though his eyes had adjusted and there was—inexplicably—what appeared to be a dirty skylight far above, he could see no sign of a door or another set of stairs upward.

Wait… Over there, behind those shelves sticking out into the room.

A couple of rusted and ancient film cans on one of the shelves mutely proclaimed the reason for its existence in the room, but Gabriel didn’t pause to think very much about it. He found the door right where Roxanne had indicated. It was unlocked, opened easily, and gave access to steep stairs leading up.

Climbing them swiftly and silently, he breathed, “Can you give me a sense of where he is?”

I’m still not sure. It feels… weird. Cold. Distant. I should understand what that means, I know I should, but I don’t.

At the top of the stairs was another door, and it, too, opened easily under his careful hand. No creaking hinges betrayed him, but he was too wary a hunter not to move with exquisite caution. He opened the door just a few inches at first, to give his eyes time to adjust to the late-morning brightness of the rooftop, then eased it farther open.

Be careful, Gabe.

“Copy that.” The whisper was automatic; all his attention was focused on the roof.

It was, for the most part, a flat, tarred roof, various exhaust vents and other pipes sticking up here and there. The stairs had ended on the roof in a kind of dormer, and in the heartbeats it took him to orient himself, Gabriel realized that the front part of the building was behind him.

And behind the dormer.

There’s nowhere else he can be, assuming he’s still up here. And he has to still be up here. Unless he’s a damn bird.

Gabriel would have copied that, but he was concentrating on every careful movement as he eased around the dormer to find the sniper’s vantage point. But the caution proved to be unnecessary.

“He’s not a bird,” Gabriel said out loud, relaxing and slowly holstering his weapon.

What the hell?

Yesterday’s sniper—if the very expensive rifle lying beside him was any indication—half-sat with his back against the four-foot parapet wall, where he had apparently crouched to watch the street below. His legs were splayed apart, his hands limp on either side of his hips. He looked rather like a hunter, wearing faded jeans, much-used hiking boots, and a camo jacket, with a backpack nearby.

In one limply open hand was a small black box with a simple toggle switch, apparently the detonator he had used to set off his bomb.

In the other hand was a silenced automatic.

The hole in his right temple hadn’t bled much, probably because of the gaping exit wound on the left side of his skull—which had. Blood and tissue were spattered all over the sand-colored bricks.

He was an ordinary-looking man, clean-shaven, with brown hair, and brown eyes that stared sightlessly into eternity.

Gabe, this doesn’t make sense.

“You’re telling me.” He kicked the pistol away from that limp hand just to be sure, then hunkered down and reached to check the pulse. As soon as his fingers touched the dead man’s skin, he had to fight not to jerk his hand away in an instinctive reaction.

“Christ.”

Gabe?

“He’s cold, Rox. And I mean really cold. There’s no way he detonated that bomb and then killed himself. This guy’s been dead for hours. Hell, maybe for days.”

But, what—

That was when they heard the craa-aack of a rifle.

From somewhere in the street below.

They didn’t decide to abandon the cover of the B&B’s shaded yard when the SUV blew, they simply ran toward the sheriff’s department, training and instinct guiding them. Because the explosion was bigger than it should have been, blowing out windows on both sides of the street for more than a block and sending hot chunks of metal and melted plastic in all directions.

It was impossible to even guess whether anyone had been hurt but easy to see that the damage to surrounding buildings was substantial. Still, human nature being what it was, the SCU team was only about halfway down the hill when townspeople began pouring out of buildings both damaged and whole.

Hollis heard both Miranda and DeMarco swear, presumably about the curious putting themselves in harm’s way, but she was focused on the flaming hulk that had been a gleaming black SUV.

The bomb had been of considerable size, if she was any judge. The SUV only vaguely resembled a vehicle, and pieces of it—or of whatever had been inside it, or of the bomb itself—were still raining down, on the streets and on the curious townsfolk who had rushed out to see what happened.

Hollis turned her attention from the fiery wreck, fighting to ignore the skip in her heartbeat when she saw that DeMarco had gone immediately to the SUV in front, the one that hadn’t exploded, and was moving it away from the burning one. So it wouldn’t blow up from the heat of the other one, she assumed.

Idiot’s going to get himself killed. Dammit, what if I’d been wrong about only one having a bomb?

She shoved that thought away and hurried to help the others try to move the people back and out of danger.

Dale McMurry stopped short yards away from the burning vehicle, staring at it in fascination. He was aware of other people around, of bewildered shouting and curses, of a few folks calling the names of others frantically, but all he could think was, Damn, what a show!

Like something in the movies. It was incredibly bright and incredibly loud, with bits of still-burning debris showering the street and the sound of glass tinkling almost musically as shards of it fell.

Entirely forgetting that he was a deputy—even if only a part-time one—he stood there in the middle of the street and watched the show. Watched the sheriff appear from somewhere and begin trying to shepherd people back toward the buildings. Watched the feds arrive, not even out of breath despite running several blocks, and while one of them moved the undamaged—or at least unexploded—SUV away from the burning one, the others joined in the efforts to get people off the street.

It occurred to Dale only then that the danger might not be over, and he found himself pondering that with a curious detachment. Nothing had hit the SUV; he had been watching, after all. It had just… blown sky-high.

Which meant it must have had explosives in it.

A bomb. And that meant that somebody had deliberately set explosives in order to destroy the SUV. And maybe a healthy chunk of Main Street.

Maybe even a few people.

That was when Dale wondered, for the first time, if maybe the show wasn’t quite over yet.

He didn’t even have time to really get scared about that before feeling a tremendous punch to his back, as though a two-by-four had slammed into him. He saw his sweatshirt sort of balloon out from his chest, the pale gray material turning scarlet, and a strange-tasting hot liquid bubbled up in his mouth.

He didn’t actually see the bullet. But as the world tilted crazily and the pavement reared up to meet him, Deputy Dale McMurry realized he had been shot.

And it wasn’t anything at all like the movies.

Diana wasn’t quite sure where she was at first. Oh, she knew she was in the gray time; that was unmistakable. Everything was gray and still and cold and silent. And there was the unsettling odor, faint though it was, of rotten eggs.

But where was she within—or outside—the gray time?

She looked around herself with a frown and finally recognized the place as, oddly, the cramped conference room at the sheriff’s department, where they had sat the evening before, speculating about the case.

And that was odd because she almost always began a visit to the gray time in the room in which she had been sleeping or had otherwise managed to put herself into a trancelike state.

Almost always.

Still frowning, she left that cramped room and moved through the building toward the front door. The empty desks, the round clock—handless and numberless—high on the wall, the silent TV and telephones she passed, all held the eerie qualities of the gray time: the lack of depth or dimension, the lack of color or light or shadow.

She wondered if she would ever truly get used to it.

Probably not.

Probably not supposed to.

Because even without putting it to the test, Diana believed what she had told the others, that the gray time was not a place or time for the living and that no living thing would be able to exist there except temporarily.

She walked out the front door of the building and paused, surprised but not sure why. Main Street, town of Serenade. The street looked like streets in the gray time always looked. Like every place in the gray time looked. Eerie. There were vehicles parked here and there, including the two SUVs left for them the night before.

No people, of course.

The gray twilight surrounded her. She felt cold and absently rubbed her arms, even though she knew it wouldn’t help. The presence of the two vehicles bugged her, though she wasn’t sure why.

“Okay, so where’s my guide?” she asked aloud. “I don’t want to wander around in here—out here—with no idea where I’m supposed to go or what I’m supposed to see. Come on, a little help here.”

As usual, her voice sounded oddly flat, almost hollow.

After what felt like a long minute or so, she shrugged and continued down the walkway toward the street. She walked around the nearest SUV, sparing it no more than a glance as she passed.

She paused in the street, wondering where the hell she was supposed to go with no guide—

“Diana.”

Finally. She turned to find the same guide who had greeted her the previous night.

“Brooke. Okay why am I here? I don’t remember falling asleep and, besides, isn’t it the middle of the day?”

“Is it?”

“Please, let’s not do the cryptic guide thing, okay?”

The little girl nodded gravely. “Okay. You came here because you had to, Diana.”

“And why is that?”

“I need you to concentrate.”

“On what? And why?”

“On Quentin. Reach for him, Diana.”

“Before I’ve done whatever it is I’ve come here to do?”

“This is what you’ve come here to do.”

Diana frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It will. Reach for Quentin. Hold on to the connection the two of you share.”

Deciding to humor the guide, Diana thought about Quentin, thought about reaching for him. But even as she did, she knew the effort wasn’t a complete one, because she was wary of that connection and used it only when she had to.

There was a sudden flash, as if lightning brightened the twilight for an instant. And for that instant, Diana had the sense of color and noise and life. Of people around her, and movement.

Just for an instant.

Something very similar had happened nearly a year before, when she first met Quentin. When the connection between them began to form, or they both recognized that it had been there for a long time. She still wasn’t quite sure which it was.

When she began to consciously remember the gray time for the first time in her adult life.

“Brooke, I don’t—”

“Diana, you have to try harder.”

Diana was beginning to feel cold, and not because of the normal chill of the gray time. She concentrated, this time reaching for Quentin with more focus, more will.

A lightning flash, this one lasting several seconds. The noise was almost deafening, a roar, the sound of thudding feet and loud voices, a curiously musical tinkling, like wind chimes. Or maybe it was glass breaking and falling to strike some solid surface like concrete or asphalt. A wave of heat swept over her, yet she still felt cold.

Almost at her feet, a young man she vaguely recognized lay on the street. A woman and a man knelt on either side of the young man, and they were pressing what looked like somebody’s yellow shirt against his chest. The yellow material was turning scarlet, and the young man, more blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, stared up into the sky with a look she recognized.

He was already dead.

The lightning flash was gone, and she was in the gray time again with only Brooke.

“That poor kid,” she said. “He’s one of the deputies, I think. What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Am I supposed to?” A nameless unease crawled over her, cold and slithering.

“Reach for Quentin, Diana. You have to.”

She was even more reluctant now, but not for the same reasons. Now she wasn’t afraid of the connection. She was afraid of what the connection would show her.

“You have to,” Brooke insisted.

Diana braced herself inwardly and then concentrated, reached for Quentin again.

The bright daylight almost hurt her eyes for a moment or two, and the noise was still deafening, with people running about and shouting, and the SUV burning, and—

She turned her head a little, more in response to the noise and brightness than out of conscious intent, and that was when she saw. She took a step, and then another. And felt her legs go weak.

Yards away from where the young man had fallen lay another bleeding body, surrounded by other frantic people trying to stop the bleeding, trying by sheer force of will to hold life in a vessel even her layman’s eye recognized as too damaged to sustain life on its own.

“Diana! Listen to me—hold on to me. Do you hear? Diana, don’t let go of me. Goddammit, do not let go of me!”

Quentin’s voice was a hoarse shout, his bloody hands holding one of hers tightly, so tightly, while others on the team worked over her still body.

She wished she could see his face, but the angle was wrong.

The bright daylight flickered, dimmed, flickered—and she was back in the gray time, facing Brooke.

“I’m sorry, Diana.”

The cold that swept over Diana then was horribly familiar, a chill terror from her childhood, from seeing a beloved mother lying still and silent in a hospital bed and knowing there was no soul inside.

“Oh, shit,” she whispered.