Retribution

CHAPTER 18

THE ADDRESS I GAVE ORTIZ, THE ADDRESS ON J AVENUE I took from a utility bill in Burke ’s office, is across the bay in Coronado. I can’t even claim gut instinct that it belongs to Burke. All I can do is hope it ’s hers. If I’m wrong, I’ve wasted more precious minutes of Culebra’s life.

It’s a quick trip across the bridge and straight down Fourth Avenue to J. The neighborhood is old money—wooden shingles, tile roofs.

Multistoried houses with big yards and picket fences.

Not what I expected. I expected a black magic woman to live in seclusion behind high brick walls covered with poison ivy.

Doubt starts gnawing a hole in instinct.

The street is dead quiet in the early morning hours. I park half a block from the address and work my way on foot to the alleyway that runs behind each house. When I get to the right house, I leap the fence and crouch down, watching, listening.

I’ve got my gun in my hand. Ready this time. But I know it’s too much to hope that Burke will pass by a window. Too much to hope I’ll get a clear shot without giving myself away or allowing her to escape. Again.

I see and hear nothing out of the ordinary. The house is dark. The only sound, the faraway ebb and tide of the ocean a half dozen blocks away. I don’t feel anything, either. None of the strange vibrations I did around Culebra. A bad sign. Wouldn’t I feel something this close to the place where a powerful spell is being cast?

I touch the chain around my neck. Wouldn’t the amulet be sending a warning?

The windows along the back of the house are shuttered. I make my way closer and try to peek between the slats. It’s no good. I sneak around to the front, staying low to avoid being seen from the street. It’s three a.m., but you never know when some insomniac pain-in-the-ass neighbor might decide to walk the dog.

As soon as I find a window with the curtains parted enough for me to look inside, I know why I’m not getting any vibes from the place.

The living room is empty. So is the dining room beyond it. No couch. No tables and chairs. Nothing. An empty expanse of space that goes from one end of the house to the other.

Shit.

My handy-dandy lock picks let me in through the back door. I pause to see if there will be an intruder alert, but none sounds. Doesn ’t mean there isn’t a silent alarm going off somewhere, but by the time a response team gets here, I’ll be long gone.

I run through the house, just to assure myself it isn’t a case of Burke not taking the time to go shopping for her new digs. But there isn’t a piece of furniture anywhere in the place. Not a pot or pan in the kitchen. The closets are empty. I don’t find so much as a scrap of paper. If she had been living here, she isn’t now.

A dead end.

Fatigue washes over me. Fatigue and guilt. Culebra is still near death and Burke has eluded me once again.

I slip back outside, call Culebra’s cell. Sandra answers. Frey is asleep. There has been no change in Culebra’s condition. I can’t bring myself to tell Sandra that I’m not any closer to helping them than I was this morning.

So, I lie. Tell her that I’ll have news tomorrow. That I’m close to finding Burke. If the despair I’m feeling is mirrored in my voice, Sandra doesn’t let on. She may be as good a liar as I am.

When I’m back in the car, I call Ortiz. Tell him what I found, that is to say, what I didn’t find. I also tell him I’m too tired to do anything else tonight. Tomorrow I’ll go back to the warehouse and start all over again. I’ll grill that receptionist. She must be in contact with her boss. Either the human Anna or the vampire will get the information out of her.

But now, I’m going home.

He offers to call Williams. I quickly take him up on the offer and we say good night.

AS SOON AS I WALK THROUGH THE COTTAGE DOOR, I sense it.

Subtle as the drop in pressure before a summer storm.

Someone is here.

I pause, tasting the air, letting supernatural acuity take over from the human. It’s female, human, and she’s upstairs. In my bedroom.

The vampire reacts without prompting. I slip back out the door, position myself under the balcony that leads from my bedroom and leap up. I land on all fours, silently, weightlessly, and look inside.

A woman is on my bed. She’s gagged, bound hand and foot. In the quiet, I hear her labored breathing. I hear her heartbeat, frantic as she struggles against her constraints. I smell her fear, acrid and harsh as bitter almond. I smell something else.

I smell her blood.