Bond of Darkness Read online

  Steve’s pulse skittered.

  Daisy reached the boardwalk and edged out onto the pavement, accompanied by her master. The once-thick crowd had thinned out, pushed back by insistent cops. A single reporter snapped a picture, the TV journalists having long since departed for their stations.

  The great tracker circled at the end of her leash, twenty feet from her master, her red and gold coat blazing under the street-lights like Texas’s star come to life. Her nose wrinkled, every fold working to hold and process the faintest bit of aroma. She sniffed a few cars and whined deep in her throat—but didn’t linger.

  Every cop was silent, even Roberts’s big German shepherd.

  She edged down the avenue away from the hotel—and stilled. “Ah-whoooo!” she bayed at the moon.

  An instant later, she was trotting west down the street with Sabathia at her side. Away from Pelican Island and the harbor but toward what? The cruise ship terminal, the causeway, or the airport?

  The other cops scrambled to follow, Steve and Posada walking, but some driving. Roberts trailed them slowly in his car, his shepherd watching every move from the passenger seat.

  Once they knew the direction the bad guys had taken, Sabathia put Daisy back into the pickup. They formed a slow procession, following her like an empress whichever way her nose pointed.

  Daisy grew more confident of the scent after they passed the big cruise ship terminal, somehow always able to retrieve the scent from a passing breeze.

  Daisy turned away from the causeway, confirming their target hadn’t driven the miles to the island.

  Steve was damn sure he hadn’t walked, either. Nobody with a lick of sense would subject himself to travel more than a dozen miles, by foot, through this kind of brutal humidity with only the hope of an occasional breeze from the Gulf through the shrouding buildings. The alternatives weren’t pleasant.

  She clenched her fists and fought not to think about the implications of a bloodthirsty murderer, striking as readily as the one she’d been studying. No woman in Texas would be safe. And, dear God, this little team was hardly prepared to catch a vampiro. She knew she didn’t have enough weapons. Even if she did, could she pull the trigger on Ethan?

  No. It might be sick, but she’d rather die believing Ethan was a good guy than live knowing he was a bad guy.

  And if he hadn’t done it, who had? Nobody in Texas had enough firepower to take down somebody like Ethan on his own. They’d need an ally—even Ethan himself, in order to have a chance.

  Now they were heading straight for the airport but it was well past midnight. No way had this bastard taken a commercial flight.

  “What do you think—charter flight or helicopter?” Posada asked Steve under his breath. “I can’t believe he’s still on the island.”

  “How about sending Daisy to the charter terminal, since she’s got the best scent discrimination? But have the two local canines check out the helipads, since they work on most recent scent.”

  “Which will give us a fast answer. Sweet. I’ll talk to Zimmerman.”

  She nodded, well aware he was saving his questions.

  Minutes later, Roberts released his shepherd with a single guttural command after letting the dog sniff the same gauze square that had triggered Daisy’s search. The big dog nosed the pavement and then leapt forward toward the helipad, ears laid back and teeth ready, desperate to redeem himself—and his human—with a successful search.

  Steve and Posada raced after them, her heart pounding. Did she want to be wrong and have the bastard still be around?

  They burst into the open, onto the circle of intricately marked concrete. A battered Jeep, top down, was parked only a few feet away—the getaway vehicle. It must have just enough ventilation to have allowed Daisy to pick up the killer’s scent along the trail from the murder scene.

  The police dog was lying next to it, rumbling happily deep in his throat, while Roberts examined something between the dog’s great, furry paws. Gold flashed briefly in the flashlight’s beam.

  “What is it?” Steve asked, trying to see.

  “A girl’s earring. We’ve got its mate back in town with its dead mistress.” He rubbed his dog’s ears and pulled a big rubber ball out of his pocket. “Good boy, you found where the bad guys went poof!”

  Steve’s knees tried to dive for China and she stiffened them by sheer force of will. They’d found how the bad guys came and went. Unfortunately—or fortunately?—they hadn’t encountered the sons of bitches.

  “Do you want to start that chat now or later, Reynolds? Was asking for the bloodhound a lucky guess?” Posada asked very softly. “Or is there something you want to tell me?

  Steve’s heart answered before her head.

  “It reminded me of some other cases I’ve been investigating on my own time, sir,” she said silkily—and mendaciously, avoiding the subject of who might have committed the crime.

  There was a brief pause.

  “Let’s talk about that.”

  TEN

  COMPOSTELA RANCH, JULY 6

  Ethan took the last steps up the hill more slowly, the bouquet of yellow roses brilliant in his hand. He usually tried to bring red roses, with their hotter fragrance, but he hadn’t been able to reach them tonight. Don Rafael had forbidden anyone to enter either that garden or his wing of the house, on pain of death.

  Grania O’Malley had been forced—shit, forced!—into El Abrazo and would rise within the next hour. Even under the best circumstances, her chances of surviving La Lujuria, El Abrazo’s first phase, would have been next to nothing. Now she might as well have been under a death sentence.

  And if she died, Don Rafael would tear the world apart for revenge. As it was, he’d sent Jean-Marie to New Orleans, challenging her attacker to a duel à l’outrance which only one vampiro would survive. Ethan and the others would have their hands full getting Texas ready. But Ethan had come here first, to stand vigil while he waited to learn if Doña Grania survived those critical first hours.

  He was still amazed Don Rafael had brought a woman to Compostela to rise as a vampira, no matter how obsessed he was with her. Given the oath Don Rafael had sworn never to create one, and the likelihood the lady would awaken so completely insane that death would be a blessing—there was every reason for Don Rafael to grant her a speedy, merciful death. But no.

  Ethan shook his head and climbed faster, almost breaking into a run.

  He rounded the last corner and the fountain’s spray misted around him, welcoming him like an old friend. Low limestone walls terraced the hillside, interspersed with flowering plants and evergreens. Stone pathways meandered in between, their steps intertwined with tumbling watercourses. Junipers, roses, and jasmine scented the soft summer night, as welcoming as a friend’s conversation. It was a simple garden, where deer could be found drinking from the crystal clear waters more often than men. Even Compostela’s omnipresent guards were more concealed here.

  Brass plaques were neatly embedded into the stones—sometimes next to a tree, or by a rosebush. Occasionally a half dozen were clustered together overlooking a small waterfall. Ethan could have named them all and their locations in his sleep, just as he could have recited the words engraved on every tombstone in the cemetery behind the tallest fountain.

  He laid the flowers down on the great sundial embedded in the central plaza, and lifted his hand in salute. Every one of the men buried here had been his friend. The tombstones were for compañeros and the plaques for vampiros. If a vampiro’s ashes could be found, they were buried here, too, whenever possible.

  Now they could enjoy the sun, as he could not. At least not for another half century.

  He pivoted and began to pace, always keeping an eye on Compostela. If anything happened to Doña Grania, surely there’d be an immediate uproar.

  A breath of clean, dry, cold air washed over him.

  “Evening, Mr. Templeton.” The voice was thready and thin, with an odd flatness to it.

  Ethan spun
but didn’t, quite, grab his Colts.

  A slender man watched him, garbed in a long, fringed, leather coat and high leather moccasins. A silver star gleamed on his chest, the surrounding wheel fading in and out of the fountain behind him.

  A ghost but not a vampiro, or at least not one he recognized.

  “Good evening, sir.” Ethan gave his most formal bow, as he’d been taught in a New Orleans drawing room before the War between the States. “Yes, I am Ethan Templeton. But it appears you have the advantage of me, sir.”

  The unexpected guest delivered a flourishing salute in the old Spanish style. “Erastus Smith, very much at your service, sir.”

  Ethan’s jaw dropped. “Deaf Smith? Of the Battle of San Jacinto and the Grass Fight? The great Texas Ranger?”

  “I hope I have been of some service to my adopted country.” A faint color mounted to the other’s cheeks. “That is not why I have come here, although I confess I’m glad you can see and hear me. It’s very pleasant to converse again.”

  “I’ve always been able to hear, and usually see, ghosts.” Ethan shrugged. “My best friend while growing up was a ghost.”

  “A most unusual talent that my own son never exhibited.”

  “I only mentioned it to my mother once,” Ethan commented.

  “You were brave to have mentioned it that often.”

  “Or foolish.”

  They chuckled together.

  “How can I be of assistance to you, sir?” Ethan asked briskly.

  “My friends and I have observed new invaders arriving from Mexico. While there have been others, these use the oldest road.”

  Ethan stiffened. El Gallinazo? Devol? The bandolerismo? “Can you describe them?”

  “Large, smelly vehicles.” Deaf Smith spread his hands, as if apologizing for the vague description.

  Damn, did he mean SUVs or trucks? Or even semis? “How many wheels?”

  The Ranger opened his mouth to answer but footfalls interrupted, speeding up the path from Compostela.

  “Just a minute!” Ethan spun back. “Exactly where?”

  But the ghost had vanished before he’d told Ethan which route the invaders were using.

  Damn, damn, damn! Ethan threw a handful of pebbles across the pool. Now he’d have to do his own scouting.

  Or he could call on Jean-Marie, whose spies had accumulated the list of banks Ethan had leaked to Steve. Well, why the hell not? Don Rafael wasn’t going to attack El Gallinazo, a minor nuisance on his southern border.

  “Ethan! The fountain in the rose garden has been turned back on.”

  Doña Grania lived? She’d made it through the first stage of La Lujuria, when almost every woman died? A woman would live at Compostela—possibly opening the door for other women to do so one day?

  A grin cracked Ethan’s face. Jean-Marie’s eyes twinkled, a bit smugly.

  Shit, could Jean-Marie have guessed he’d been seeing Steve far too often?

  “Our creador will be much happier now, I think.” Jean-Marie tried to look sober for an instant before his smile broke through, brilliant as the sun.

  “Assuming he brings her all the way through,” Ethan cautioned.

  Jean-Marie drew back for a moment before waving that concern away. “He will succeed. After all, isn’t he the only patrón who’s successfully reared every cachorro? With a woman, especially one who holds his heart, he’ll be certain.”

  Ethan nodded. Yeah, if he wanted to turn a woman into a vampira, he’d bet his bottom dollar on the only patrón with the perfect track record.

  AUSTIN, DPS HEADQUARTERS, JULY 7

  The small room was noticeable for its efficiency, comfort, and lack of style. A conference table took up the center and was currently covered by stacks of large manila envelopes and several briefcases. Its more or less matching leather chairs had been shoved hard against the walls and the big bank of windows. A small corner table held a telephone, with a fiercely blinking row of lights and a pronounced tendency to erupt into peremptory trills, although it currently lurked under a pristine white Stetson.

  A large map of Texas covered one wall, dozens of orange, chocolate, and black pins coiling across its center like a venomous copperhead snake. Its belly was thickest in Austin and San Antonio, but included Houston, Galveston, and Waco, although there were almost none in Dallas. Each pin was staked through a neatly lettered tag bearing a single name and a date.

  The conference room contained twice as many people as originally planned, and half again as many as chairs. It reeked of conversations long since suspended.

  Steve’s mouth twisted slightly. She’d have been happier if they were chatting about tonight’s baseball All-Star Game or comparing notes about the Galveston killings, rather than straining their necks to follow her every move. Thankfully, Posada still chaired the meeting by virtue of having convened it, so nobody else could interrupt her.

  She tapped a final sequence of orange pins one last time, verifying their labels and positions. Dan was leaning against the corner beside her, his gourmet latte having long since turned cold and stale. Posada was pacing by the door, his thumbs in his belt and his gun very much on display. She doubted his irritation and abstraction were solely due to having so many gate-crashers at his meeting.

  She forced her pulse to steady and turned to face them, satisfied with the record if nothing else. She would not, could not, let them learn of Ethan’s possible involvement.

  “That’s it. Orange for highly unusual deaths of young women, categorized as initially unexplained. Chocolate are suicides for no solid reason, in the same age group. Black are the few that still don’t have a death certificate.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Dan muttered, and crossed himself. “We had no idea there were so many.”

  “That’s why you didn’t think the killer would be anywhere on the island, Steve,” Posada noted, running his fingers lightly over the pins. “He’d have been a fool to stick around there.”

  “They’ve all been given death certificates,” Dan protested. “Natural deaths, accidental, suicides—not homicides.”

  “But they also fit within the pattern Steve identified,” Posada countered. “Eighteen- to thirty-year-old women, very healthy. Alone but not engaged in risky behavior—”

  “In a heavily populated urban or suburban area late at night.” Dan flung up his hands. “Who’d have thought picking up a prescription for your kid could be hazardous to your health, like the gal in Waco?”

  A murmur of horrified disgust rustled through the room.

  “Yeah. No signs of violence or a killer until the two in Galveston. The girls just—die.” Steve drank her coffee, long since immured to lukewarm liquid, carefully not looking at the files on the table. Best to seem casual, lest anyone start thinking about them—and wonder if she had a set of copies stashed away elsewhere to do some private analysis. The results of which she wasn’t sharing—in complete contradiction of every regulation in anybody’s book.

  “Has anybody been able to figure out how he gets the girls to walk away with him? Or stay quiet while he assaults them?” Posada’s head swiveled between Dan and Steve, his black eyes drilling them into the wall.

  “Nothing in the toxicology so far,” Dan said flatly. “Not unless the Olympic labs come back with something.”

  “What about the two in Galveston?” Steve asked. “Those samples were taken sooner after death. Early enough to pick up roofies, for example.”

  Dan shrugged and started to scribble notes. “Maybe. But we haven’t found any date rape drugs before, even when we were within the window.”

  “We’ll ask the guys in Galveston to check, of course,” added Moyer, the DPS criminalist.

  “There are rumors El Gallinazo’s pet chemist is cooking up a new brew, something to knock everybody else’s date rape drug into the ground. Stronger, faster acting. Could that make a girl pliable and later kill her, Dan?” Posada’s voice was far too relaxed.

  “Yeah—but it should still show u
p in the toxicology!”

  “Maybe it’s also designed to pass even faster through the system, especially if it’s mixed with a certain kind of drink?” Steve suggested.

  “Like what?” Dan dropped his pen, his eyes widening. “Hell, if that happened, nobody would be safe.”

  Oh crap. A thousand tiny fingers plucked at Steve’s skin and she closed her eyes. Texas wasn’t safe.

  “Is it possible?” Posada demanded, dropping his pretense of calm.

  Dan reluctantly nodded. “Barely, mainly because El Gallinazo’s chemist is a genius. He could make a fortune in the legitimate world if he wasn’t so greedy and hot tempered.”

  “In that case, these deaths could be from a test run for such a drug, since they occurred along the interstate highways.”

  Steve frowned, the connection refusing to come into focus. Her gut said Posada was wrong but why?

  “There’s enough of a pattern here for me to take this upstairs. Do you mind if I ask Travis County to loan you to us, Schilling? You’d be working with Moyer.”

  “Of course not. I can show him how to do things right.” Dan winked and Moyer snorted comfortably.

  “That’s it for now, guys. We want you to go back to your home offices and do some research. We’ll need copies of the complete file for all these cases, plus any other deaths which might fit this pattern. After that, we’ll go through them with a fine-tooth comb, looking for common threads.”

  Heads nodded, expressions betraying gratitude for having some standard police work to do.

  “Any questions? No? Good. This is, of course, to be treated with the utmost sensitivity. God help Texas if the public got the slightest whiff of this.”

  More people than Steve shuddered at that possibility.

  “There have been some rumors, sir, about single women disappearing from bars,” a guy volunteered from the back row. “But they were tourists, down on the River Walk.”

  “Check into it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Cops began to file out of the room, mingling with others to talk more, their expressions both shaken and thoughtful.