Thirst No. 5: The Sacred Veil Page 3

  “The phone might have been new,” Seymour says.

  “No. Shanti used it to make numerous calls. I can detect that much. But she erased all the numbers before she put it back in her suitcase.”

  “Hand me the phone, please,” I say.

  Brutran tosses it to me, not worried that my reflexes won’t be up to the task of the catch. The woman knows more about me than I would like. Her comment about my activities during the war did nothing to diminish my suspicions about her. Okay, so she helped me destroy the Cradle—IIC’s headquarters, even. The company continues to exist, continues to print money like a paperback press rolling out the latest bestseller. She is staying close to us for a reason, I know, besides protection from those who pursue us. She still has an agenda independent of ours.

  “I tell you, it’s empty,” Brutran says. “It’s a dead end.”

  “Maybe not,” I say softly as I close my eyes and let my fingers play over the numbers. My hearing is my most powerful sense, but all my senses are more acute than a human being’s. The tips of my fingers, in particular, can detect things mortals couldn’t imagine. For example, I can tell if something is poisonous just by touching it. My skin cells react, they immediately send a message to my brain—Don’t eat it! They can also detect disease with the lightest of brushes. That was how I knew Seymour was infected with HIV the moment I met him. But lucky him, while he slept one night, I put a drop of my blood inside his wrist vein and killed the virus.

  Now, though, I feel something unrelated to disease or poison. I can tell which numbers Shanti used most often. Five numbers—1, 2, 5, 7, 8, 9. They’re obvious to me from the amount of resistance they offer, which is less than the other numbers on the cell’s pad. These five numbers are more worn. Deepening my focus on the digits, I even get a sense of the rhythm Shanti used when she struck the keys, which tells me the order in which she dialed the numbers.

  1-212-555-7819.

  A New York number.

  But not the same number on the lawyer’s card.

  I gesture for the others to be silent while I dial.

  Someone answers immediately, before the first ring is complete, as if they have been waiting to hear from me. It’s a voice I’ve not heard before, yet I recognize it. Not from the vocal cords it’s using—those are new—but from the evil I hear behind it.

  It sounds like a young woman. Intelligent, resourceful.

  But I know it’s really Tarana.

  Ancient Egyptian for “the Light Bearer.”

  Lucifer.

  My blood turns cold, while my hand that holds the phone drips with sweat from the heat that suddenly seems to radiate from it. The pain in the center of my head, from last night, returns with a vengeance, and I feel I’m going to be sick. Worst of all, I, Sita, last of the vampires, am afraid.

  There is no way I can put down the phone.

  I know this for a fact.

  Not without his—or her—permission.

  “Hello, Sita,” the voice says. “Calling to make another deal?”

  The others stare at me in shock. It is as if they sense my pain, or else they feel exactly what I feel. It’s possible the horror is not confined to the phone, nor has anything to do with the words I hear. She speaks so softly I doubt even Matt can pick up her voice.

  I swallow thickly. “Go to hell,” I whisper.

  The voice quietly laughs; it mocks me.

  “Yes,” she replies. “It’s as good a place as any to meet.”

  The line goes dead and the cell phone drops from my hand onto the floor. The others stare at me, stricken. Matt is the only one capable of speech.

  “Who was that?” he asks.

  I hesitate. “The enemy.”

  “What does he want?”

  I shake my head, unable to answer. How can I say the words? They would sound foolish, so childish. Yet true, yes, it’s obvious what he—or she—wants. To make a deal. For our souls.

  No, not exactly. She chose her words carefully.

  With me it will be another deal.

  God help me, I can’t remember the first one.

  FOUR

  As a group we vote to leave the motel. Brutran is the only one who is against the plan. But when we’re on the road, heading toward nearby Las Vegas, she mentions that she has a safety deposit box loaded with cash and fake IDs in the City of Sin.

  “Why did you hide the dough in Vegas?” Seymour asks.

  Brutran continues to work on her laptop. “I have drop boxes all over the world. So do your two friends.”

  “How do you know the Vegas drop box isn’t being watched?” Matt asks. He is driving our SUV, being careful not to speed. I sit up front with him; the others are in the back.

  “There’s no way the box can be traced to me,” Brutran replies.

  “Do we need so much cash?” Seymour asks.

  “Cash is always handy when you’re on the run,” Brutran says. “It will allow us to do things without creating a fuss. Like buy a plane.”

  “That’s a huge purchase,” Seymour says, doubtful. “It might draw attention to us.”

  “Sita?” Brutran says, wanting me to explain.

  “Our own plane will be safer than flying commercial,” I say. “Once in the air, we can choose to move between small airports, where there are fewer restrictions. Right now, we have no idea how long it will take to find Harrah and Ralph Levine’s grandchildren.” I pause. “Which reminds me. Brutran, check your databases. Look for phone numbers of any Levines living in Clearglade, North Carolina.”

  “Why that town?” Brutran asks.

  “It’s a long shot but the terrain in the picture reminds me of that place. It’s a small town, just east of Chapel Hill.”

  “The couple in question probably have a different last name from Levine,” Brutran says as she types rapidly on her computer. “Remember, they’re at least two marriages removed from your World War Two friends.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I say. “But I know that your software, along with your countless IIC files, is sophisticated enough to trace Harrah and Ralph’s descendants.”

  “If we hadn’t kept such records, we would never have found you,” Brutran says. “We wouldn’t be together now.”

  “I should feel grateful?” I reply, letting a chill enter my tone. Brutran knows that I can kill her in an instant, that she is only alive because we need her. She answers my unspoken thought.

  “We’re stronger together,” she says.

  “Find them,” I order.

  Twenty minutes later, as the mass of hotels comes into view beneath the glare of the afternoon sun, Brutran hands me a slip of paper with a name and address. Mrs. Sarah Goodwin, 134 Tree Leaf Lane, Clearglade, North Carolina. She’s confident that’s the woman in Shanti’s photo.

  I try calling Sarah. There’s no answer but I get a machine. I don’t dare leave a message.

  I’ve been to Las Vegas a few times in the last sixty years but have never stayed long. Gambling doesn’t excite me, although I can win as much as I want as long I’m allowed to throw the dice at the craps tables. I haven’t been to the city since the turn of the century and it’s impressive how much it has grown.

  Brutran steers us away from the Strip and the fancy hotels. Her drop box is located in a small private bank downtown—one, she assures us, that is very discreet. She takes Matt and her daughter with her as she enters the building, leaving me alone with Seymour in a run-down parking lot that looks like it was last paved when Las Vegas was born.

  “I think she has a thing for him,” Seymour observes.

  “She’s not his type.”

  “Too old?”

  “Are you forgetting that Matt was born in the Middle Ages?”

  “Well, he still has his boyish good looks.” Seymour pauses. “Are you his type?”

  “Do you ask because I resemble Teri?” I ask, referring to Matt’s recently deceased girlfriend and a descendant of mine.

  “That’s one reason,” Seymour say
s, waiting.

  “There’s no reason to be jealous.”

  “You slept with him.”

  “I was in another body. It doesn’t count.”

  “That’s such an old excuse,” he says.

  I smile as I turn and look at him. “You are jealous. How cute.”

  “Never tell a guy he’s cute.”

  “Are you jealous because you want to have sex with me?”

  “What guy wouldn’t want to have sex with you?”

  My smile wavers. “Matt’s not over Teri. I don’t know if he’ll ever get over her.”

  Seymour is sympathetic. “She was a wonderful girl.”

  “The best.” I add quietly, “But I know she’s in a good place.”

  He sees how serious I am. “You know because of what happened to you at IIC headquarters?”

  “There, and last night, at the motel. After . . .”

  “After you dealt with Shanti,” he finishes for me.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember what happened to you when you died?”

  I hesitate. “Everything.”

  Seymour sucks in a breath and leans forward to where I can feel his breath on my cheek. “Did you see Krishna?” he asks.

  I have to close my eyes a moment. Just the thought of Krishna, his bewitching smile, his enchanting voice, the love I felt when he said my name, his dark blue eyes, in whose depths all the stars in all the galaxies shone . . .

  “It matters not, Sita. Stay or go, you will always be with me.”

  There could be no greater longing, and I realize I would live a thousand lives, suffer a thousand horrible deaths, just to see him again.

  Of course, in a sense, I already have.

  “Yes,” I say as my eyes burn. I fight to hide any tears, although I’m happy to confide in Seymour. There’s no one I’d rather share secrets with. He nods and smiles at my answer. He knows what Krishna means to me.

  “Did he ask about me?” Seymour says.

  I chuckle. “Before he invited me into paradise, I had to reassure him that you were doing well.”

  Seymour catches my eye. “Did he invite you?”

  A serious question. “Yes.”

  “And you said no? How could you say no?”

  “Because of you.” The words just come out. “Because of what I left behind here on earth.”

  Seymour understands, he’s probably the only one who can.

  “You returned because your job isn’t finished,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “And because you love me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Not because of Matt.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say.

  Seymour sits back in his seat, satisfied.

  The others return in twenty minutes. Brutran carries a leather bag stuffed with hundred-dollar bills and documents. Matt carries a larger bag—they must have been provided by the bank. I have an eye for counting cash. Brutran has probably withdrawn over three million. I’m not surprised at the amount. But the documents are something of a shock.

  She has fake IDs for all of us. Driver’s licenses. Passports. Credit cards. The quality is obvious, no authority would look at them twice.

  “When did you have these made?” I ask as I study my new identity. My name is Lara Wine and I’m from Napa Valley, California. I’m twenty-two and I have a pilot’s license.

  “A long time ago,” she replies.

  “How long ago?” It’s hard to imagine she could have foreseen our present situation. It makes me wonder if she used the Cradle as an oracle more often than she let on.

  Brutran shrugs. “Let’s just say I like to be prepared.”

  Matt hands his bag of cash back to Seymour and starts the engine. “I want to get rid of this vehicle,” he says. “Let’s drive halfway to the airport and flag down a cab.”

  “We can’t close a deal on a plane in one afternoon,” Seymour says.

  Brutran gestures to her laptop screen. “I’ve already found a list of twenty-four planes for sale at the local airport. A third of them are being handled by a single broker. We show him the money and he’ll get us what we need.”

  The broker’s office is in a building that overlooks the portion of the airport where private planes land. Over Matt’s objection, Brutran insists on talking to the broker alone, or with Jolie by her side, which is pretty much the same thing. She seems hesitant to leave us alone with her daughter.

  “But we haven’t even picked out which plane we want,” he says.

  The words are hardly out of his mouth when Brutran whips out a sheet of paper listing the planes that are available and where they are parked. The woman is so damn efficient, it’s scary.

  “Check them out and tell me which one you want,” Brutran says.

  “Aren’t we doing things backwards?” Matt asks.

  Brutran smiles. “You may be the next Superman but you don’t know a thing about negotiating. I’ll talk to the broker half an hour before I’ll even begin to discuss our price range, or even what plane we want to buy.”

  Seymour, Matt, and I begin to search the aircraft parking spaces. It’s immediately apparent Matt is focused on purchasing a jet, but only three are available: a Gulfstream IV, a Phenom 100, and a Lear XL. With the cash we carry, the Lear is the only jet we can buy outright. The Gulfstream is almost new and carries a price tag of twenty million, and the Phenom is at least half that much.

  “A jet will limit the number of airports we can access,” I warn.

  “But it will more than double our speed,” Matt says. He effortlessly picks the lock of the Gulfstream and climbs into the cockpit. I remember when he rescued me from the Telar in the Swiss Alps, the Apache helicopter he showed up in. The boy likes his toys. I can see already he has his heart set on the Gulfstream.

  “Brutran withdrew the cash for a specific purpose,” I say. “She doesn’t want to have to access any of her private or IIC accounts. She’s afraid a bank wire can be traced.”

  “I never heard her say that,” Seymour remarks.

  “It doesn’t matter, I know the way she thinks,” I say. “And in this case she’s right. We should focus on the propeller planes. There’s a twin-engine Cessna in lot 13B that looks promising.”

  Matt frowns as he plays with the Gulfstream’s controls. “We can work on the broker’s brain if we have to,” he says.

  “I’d rather not screw with the man’s mind,” I say, thinking of the Denver cop and his wife I recently damaged with my fiery gaze. Matt is instantly alert to my concern. He has my same power. His might even be stronger.

  “You only had a problem because you were in Teri’s body,” he says.

  “The broker will have trouble explaining to the Gulfstream’s owner why he only got a fraction of the price he was asking,” I say.

  “The broker doesn’t have to call the owner until next week. By then it won’t matter.”

  “Why do we have to buy a jet?” Seymour asks. “Let’s rent one.”

  “No,” I say. “Brutran’s talking to the broker alone to make sure he understands we don’t want a paper trail. That’s another reason her cash is important.”

  Matt climbs out of the Gulfstream and tests the strength of the jet’s wings. “North Carolina’s on the other side of the country. That’s a lot of ground to cover. And I don’t just want speed because we’re in a hurry.”

  “You’re afraid someone might come after us,” I say.

  Matt nods. “Yes. This Gulfstream is our best bet right now.” He turns toward the broker’s building. “I’m going to help Brutran speed up the negotiations.”

  Without waiting for my approval Matt walks away. Seymour pats me on the back. “How does it feel to not be the boss?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Matt’s not stupid.”

  “He ignores your arguments. That’s got to bother you a little.”

  “It will only bother me if it turns out he’s wrong.”

  • • •

 
; An hour later we’re in the air, two hundred miles east of Las Vegas, flying at twenty thousand feet and a speed of five hundred miles an hour. Matt hasn’t told me about the details of his hypnotic session with the broker but has assured me our flight plan has been properly filed and no authority should question us as we cross the country. He has also pointed out that the Gulfstream will allow us to reach our destination without having to stop and refuel.

  “That was another reason I insisted on a jet,” he says.

  The two of us are alone in the pilot’s cabin, Matt in the driver’s seat, the others in the luxurious rear. The Gulfstream IV is the stuff of celebrity dreams. It has two wide-screen TVs, private sleeping quarters, a bar and kitchen, and probably the most comfortable leather seats that can be found in the air. Before we left Vegas, Brutran made sure it was stocked with plenty of food and drinks.

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I say.

  Matt shakes his head. “I should have let you vote on the matter.”

  “You know more about planes than I do.”

  “You know more about the world.”

  “Are you saying you want me to be the boss?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” he replies.

  “I don’t mind if you’re in charge.”

  He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I hope you’re not saying that because of what happened to Teri.”

  I hesitate. “Maybe I am.”

  “I don’t blame you for what happened to her.”

  I don’t respond. We both know he’s lying.

  “Look, what happened in the Rockies was a confusing time for me,” he continues. “First I learn you’ve injected Teri with your blood. It didn’t matter that it was to save her life. I’d long ago sworn that I wouldn’t do anything to keep her from having a normal life. And if that meant she died before her time then so be it.”

  “You’re stronger than me,” I say.

  “Who knows? I wasn’t there when you did it. Maybe I would have broken down and done the same thing. Anyway, I no sooner find out what you’ve done when that damn Cradle blasts my mind. The next thing I know you’re dead and Teri’s walking around in a daze. I had never seen my father make a vampire before. I had no idea how she was supposed to behave and I sure as hell had no idea that you were in her body.”