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find the body," he suggested, a yawn threatening to dislocate his jaw. Henry arched a brow. "So easy to say," he murmured. "Yeah? What about that funny smell Vicki says you ran into last night?'' "I am not a bloodhound, Detective. Besides, I traced it as far as it went-to the parking lot." "What did it smell like?" "Death." "Not surprising. You were in a body parlor." He yawned again. "Funeral homes go to a great deal of effort not to smell like death. This was something different." "Oh, lord, not again," Celluci groaned, dragging a hand up through his hair. "What is it this time? The creature from the Rideau Canal? The Loch Ness fucking monster? The Swamp Thing? Godzilla? Megatron? Condor? Rodan?" "Who?" "Didn't you ever watch Saturday afternoon monster movies?" He shook his head at Henry's expression. "No, I guess you didn't, did you? Every weekend thousands of kids were glued to their sets for badly dubbed, black and white, Japanese rubber monsters stomping on Tokyo. Not to mention Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter, Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy, The Curse of the Werewolf.'' A car door, slamming in the parking lot, suddenly sounded unnaturally loud. "Jesus H. Christ." Celluci's eyes were fully open. Still tired, he no longer had any desire to sleep. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "A motive. You don't think ..." "That Tom Chen was playing Igor to someone else's Dr. Frankenstein?" Henry smiled. "I think, as I said before, that you watch too many bad movies, Detective."''Oh, yeah? Well, you know what I think? I think ..." Bam. Bam. Bam. file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...20Victoria%20Nelson%20-%2004%20-%20Blood%20Pact.txt (47 of 167)23-2-2006 23:10:32 file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20d...a%20Huff%20-%20Victoria%20Nelson%20-%2004%20-%20Blood%20Pact.txt They faced the door, then they faced each other. "The police," Celluci said, and stood. "No." Henry blocked his way. He could feel the lives, hear the singing blood, smell the excitement. "Not police although I suspect they'd like us to think so." Bam. Bam. Bam. "A threat?" "I don't know." He crossed the room. When he stopped, Celluci moved up to stand behind his left shoulder. It had been a very long time since he'd had a shield man. He opened the door. The flash went off almost before he could react. A mortal would have recoiled-Henry's hand whipped out and covered the lens of the camera before the shutter had completely fallen. He snarled as the brilliant light drove spikes of pain into sensitive eyes and closed his fingers. Plastic and glass and metal became only plastic and glass and metal. "Hey!" The photographer's companion ignored both the sound of a camera disintegrating and the accompanying squawk of protest. Sometimes they got a great candid shot when the door opened, sometimes they didn't. She wasn't going to worry about it. "Good evening. Is Victoria Nelson at home?" Elbows primed, her notebook held like a battering ram, she attempted to push forward. Most people, she found, were just too polite to stop her. The slight young man never budged; it felt like she'd hit a not very tall brick wall. Time for plan B. And if that didn't work, she'd go right through the alphabet if she had to. "We were so sorry to hear about what happened to her mother's bo . . ." Her train of thought derailed somewhere in the depths of hazel eyes. Henry decided not to be subtle. He wasn't in the mood and they wouldn't understand. "Go away. Stay away.'' Darkness colored the words and became threat enough. Not until they were safely in the car, cocooned behind steel and locked doors, did the photographer, cradling the ruins of his camera in his lap, finally find his voice. "What are we going to do?" he asked, primal memories of the Hunt trembling in his tone. "We're going to do ..." With an icy hand and shaking fingers, she jammed the car into gear, stomped on the gas, and sprayed gravel over half the parking lot. ". . . exactly what he said." Together they'd been threatened a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. Once, they'd even been attacked by an ex-NHL defenseman swinging a hockey stick with enraged abandon. They'd always gotten the story. Or a version of the story at least. This time, something in heart and soul, in blood and bone recognized the danger and overruled conscious thought. Inside Marjory Nelson's apartment, Celluci glared enviously at the back of Henry's red-gold head. If he hated anything, it was the press. The statements they insisted on were the bane of his existence. "I wish I could do that," he muttered. Henry wisely kept from voicing the obvious and made sure all masks were back in place before turning. This was not the time for Michael Celluci to see him as a threat. Celluci rubbed at the side of his nose and sighed. "There'll probably be others." "I'll deal with them." "And if they come in the daytime?" "You deal with them." Henry's smile curved predator sharp. "You're not on duty, Detective. You can be as rude as . . ." Just how rude Celluci could be got lost in a sudden file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruis...20Victoria%20Nelson%20-%2004%20-%20Blood%20Pact.txt (48 of 167)23-2-2006 23:10:32 file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20d...a%20Huff%20-%20Victoria%20Nelson%20-%2004%20-%20Blood%20Pact.txt change of expression and a heartbeat later he was racing for the bedroom. To mortal eyes, one moment he was there, the next gone. Celluci turned in time to see Vicki's bedroom door thrown open, swore, and pounded across the living room. He hadn't heard anything. What the hell had Fitzroy heard? How could she have forgotten? She dug frantically at the tiles in the kitchen. As they ripped free, she flung them behind her, ignoring the fingernail that ripped free with them, ignoring the blood from her hands that began to mark its own pattern on the floor. Almost there. Almost. The area she cleared stretched six feet long by three feet wide, the edges ragged. Finally only the plywood subfloor remained. Rot marked the gray-brown wood and tendrils of pallid fungus grew between the narrow boards. Fighting for breath, she slammed her fists against this last barrier. The wood cracked, splintered, and gave enough for her to force a grip on the first piece. She threw her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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