Virals

CHAPTER 63

Chance had played me like a xylophone.

And I’d fallen for it. Hook, line, and one-ton sinker.

Like a love-struck moron.

Chance was only interested in protecting his father’s secret. He’d toyed with me, distracted me from the truth. And I’d been suckered.

Shame burned my face. How could I have been so stupid? Chance probably thinks I’m wrapped around his little finger.

We’ll see about that. You messed with the wrong girl, Claybourne.

I knew what I had to do. Find the evidence. Bring the Claybournes down.

I shoved the print report into my bag.

Livid. Furious at Chance. At myself.

I let the anger build. Multiply. Reminding myself again and again how dense I’d been. How gullible. How juvenile. The rage blossomed in an instant.

Something flashed in my brain.

My lips curled.

A low growl rose from my throat.

SNAP.

The flare rushed through my veins. Energizing me. Filling me with deadly purpose. My senses sparked. Soared.

Golden light shone from my eyes.

I eased the door open and sniffed the hallway. Burnt tobacco, one thread among many. I honed in, tracked the scent back toward the main staircase.

Hollis Claybourne smoked cigars—the odor would lead me to his study. I slunk down the corridor, eyes boring through the gloom.

Swish.

I froze. Cocked my head. The sound was faint, but growing in intensity, coming right for me.

To my left stood a towering armoire. I shrunk into its shadow and pressed myself to one side. Waited.

Seconds later, a maid passed, skirt swaying with the movement of her body.

My heart returned to my chest.

Yikes. Without my flare, I would never have heard in time.

I continued toward the staircase, sniffing all the while. The olfactory trail led to the third floor. I followed.

Leaving the last riser, I entered a long passageway set at intervals with small brass sconces. Dark murals covered the walls—men killing game, men in battle, men in wigs signing documents with feather pens.

The smoke smell was coming from the second door on the right. I slipped inside.

The chamber was massive, its opposite side an expanse of floor to ceiling windows framed by red velvet drapery drawn back by gold cords. Bookcases climbed the remaining walls to a wood-beamed ceiling twenty feet up. A wrought-iron catwalk circled the room three yards above the floor, accessed by a spiral staircase tucked into the far left corner.

In the room’s center, four leather-bound chairs formed a semi-circle around a low coffee table. The arrangment faced an enormous stone fireplace. Behind the seats, a desk the size of Kansas sat with its back to the window. On it were pictures of Hollis smiling or shaking hands with famous people. Souvenirs from a life in the upper crust.

Now what?

Hollis Claybourne’s study made the Colosseum look small.

I rummaged the desk, found nothing suspicious.

I tried a wooden bureau standing beneath a tapestry of General Custer at Little Big Horn. The drawers held Civil War era clothing. Reenactment garb.

I circled the room, probing with my laser vision. Under different circumstances, I might’ve enjoyed myself.

Hollis Claybourne was a collector. Along with books and pictures of himself, the shelves were jammed with African tribal masks, Inuit carvings, Indonesian puppets, and sculptures from every corner of the globe. The collection was refined, the work of a man with a discerning eye.

But it held nothing I could use.

My fists clenched in frustration.

What’d you expect? A folder labeled Incriminating Evidence Here?

I closed my eyes, desperate for a plan. I was alone in Hollis’s study. I’d never have this chance again.

My nose picked up a trickle of loam, an earthy smell out of place in the immaculate office. And something else. Non-organic. Chemical.

My lids flew apart. I knew that smell. Dirt. Metal. The sharp bite of cleaning solution. Like Windex.

The dog tags! They were somewhere in this room.

I went still. Sniffed. My nostrils recaptured the scent.

Up.

I hurried for the spiral stairs and climbed to the narrow catwalk. Skirting the shelves, I paced the length of the inside wall, then turned left, toward the windows. The catwalk ended in the corner directly across from the room’s entrance.

Built into the wall, deep in the corner, was a small wooden cabinet. The smell was coming from inside.

I tried the little silver handle.

The cabinet was locked.

No more playing nice.

Cocking one arm, I chopped with the heel of my hand. The front panel cracked, but held. Ignoring the pain, I let fly a second time. The door splintered. Loose fragments fell to the floor.

I inspected my handiwork. The wood was at least an inch thick. Mike Tyson couldn’t have split it. Yet I’d smashed it with two blows.

SNUP.

Dizziness swept over me. I dropped to my knees.

My senses dulled, returned to normal.

“Damn!”

Rising, I checked the cabinet’s interior. Three items.

The first was an old black-and-white snapshot of Hollis Claybourne. Young Hollis was standing by a stand of longleaf pine, pointing to a pair of eagles swooping low in the sky.

Cole Island! The bastard knew about the eagles!

Below the picture was a manila folder. Inside were legal documents. I flipped through. Records of the sale of Cole Island to Candela. A contract of employment. Evidence, but no smoking gun.

The bottom shelf held a small velvet box. I popped it open.

Inside were two weathered dog tags, one grimy, one gleaming like new.

Francis P. Heaton. Catholic. O Positive.

“Son of a bitch,” I whispered.

Any sane person would have destroyed the tags. Not Hollis Claybourne. The egotistical bastard saved them in his trophy case as another souvenir.

Anger blazed anew. Those tags represented Katherine’s murder. Hollis kept them in a box to admire at his leisure.

Monster.

The door creaked.

Footsteps kissed the carpet below.

“What the hell are you doing?”