Derek should, but he didn’t. He was saved a reply by Jager, who’d climbed on a chair and held his champagne flute high. “Gentlemen. And ladies. We’re here to celebrate. I know you all are tired at the end of a long convention, but it’s over and we did well. Every bit of our production of Behind Enemy Lines is committed. We have orders for every video game we can crank out the door. We’re sold out, yet again!”
The young people cheered, but Derek stayed silent.
“He sold out, all right,” Tony muttered.
“Tony,” Derek murmured. “Not here. Not the place or time.”
“When will be the place and time, Derek?” Tony demanded. “When we’re both Jager’s yes-men? Or am I the only one that has to worry about becoming a yes-man?” Shaking his head, Tony made his way through the crowded room and out the door.
Tony had always been dramatic, Derek knew. Passion often came hand in hand with artistic genius. Derek wasn’t sure he had passion anymore. Or genius. Or art.
“Of course you’ll all see a nice hefty reward for all those sales in your bonus checks,” Jager was saying and there were more cheers. “But for now, a sweet reward.” Two waiters rolled in a long rectangular table. On it sat a cake that was easily six feet wide and three feet long and had been decorated with the oRo logo-a golden dragon with a giant R on its chest. The dragon gripped two O’s, one in each claw.
He and Jager had chosen the logo with care. Derek had created the golden dragon, and Jager chose the company name. The letters o-R-o were symbolic, tied to Jager’s native Dutch. It had never bothered Derek the R was five times bigger than either of the O’s. But it bothered him now. Many things bothered Derek now. But, pasting a smile on his face for the benefit of the employees, he accepted a flute of champagne.
“We’re entering a new phase of oRo growth,” Jager said, “and to that end, we have some changes to announce. Derek Harrington is being promoted.”
Stunned, Derek straightened, staring at the smiling Jager. Quickly he re-pasted the smile, unwilling to be seen as out of the loop.
“Derek will now be executive art director.” There were more cheers and Derek nodded, his smile frozen. He now understood what Jager had done, and his expectation was confirmed with Jager’s next words. “And to recognize his incredible contribution to Behind Enemy Lines, Frasier Lewis is promoted to art director.”
The employees applauded as Derek’s heart sank to his toes.
“Frasier couldn’t be here tonight, but he sends his personal regards and good wishes for the next venture. He asked me to make this toast for him, and I quote: ‘Enemy Lines got us into orbit. May The Inquisitor launch oRo to the moon!’” Jager lifted his glass. “To oRo and to success!”
His hand shaking, Derek slipped from the room. There was so much cheering that nobody even noticed he’d gone. In the hall he leaned one shoulder against the wall, his stomach churning. The promotion was a lie. Derek hadn’t been promoted up. He’d been pushed aside. Frasier Lewis had brought riches and success to oRo, but his dark methods left Derek afraid. He’d tried to stop Jager, to keep oRo on the high road.
But now it was too late. He’d just been replaced by Jager’s yes-man.
Philadephia, Sunday, January 14, 5:00
P.M.
It was worse than she ever could have imagined. What had been excitement for a hunt when she’d first arrived had abruptly become cold dread when she’d looked on the face of the dead man. Her dread became colder as the afternoon waned. She continued to scan and tried to stop thinking about the markers she’d laid. Or the man they’d found. Someone had tortured and killed him. And others. How many others would there be?
Katherine had returned to examine the victim and she and Sophie had exchanged sober nods, but no words. There was an unnatural hush to the site, the small army of cops moving efficiently but quietly as they did their jobs.
Sophie tried to focus on recording the objects under the ground. But they weren’t objects. They were people, and they were dead. She tried not to think about that, taking refuge in the routine of the scan, of the precise placement of each stake.
Until she reached into her pocket and found it empty. She’d grabbed two packs from the equipment room before meeting Vito. A dozen to a pack. Twenty-four stakes. Six graves. She’d located six graves already. The grave the police had located before she got there made seven. And I’m not finished yet. My God. Seven people.
Her vision blurred and angrily she rubbed at the tears with the back of her hand. CSU would have something that she could use to mark more graves. She raised her eyes to look for Jen McFain, but a sound behind her made her body freeze. It was a zipper, amplified in the surreal hush. Slowly she met Katherine Bauer’s eyes over the body bag she’d just zipped shut, and was hurled back sixteen years. Katherine’s hair had been darker then, a little longer.
The body bag she’d zipped had been much smaller.
The hush faded. All Sophie could hear was the drum of her own pulse. Katherine’s eyes widened with horrified understanding. She’d looked just like that back then, too.
Sophie heard her name, but all she could see was the body on the gurney, as it had been that day. So very small. That day she’d been too late and could only stand in shock as they’d rolled her away. A wave of grief surged, powerful and sudden. Anger followed in its wake, bitter and cold. Elle was gone, and nothing could bring her back.
“Sophie.”
Sophie blinked at the sudden pinch on her chin. She focused on Katherine’s face, on the lines sixteen years had wrought and let out a shuddering breath. Remembering where she was, she closed her eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
The pressure on her chin intensified until she opened her eyes. Katherine was frowning up at her. “Go to my car, Sophie. You’re white as a sheet.”
Sophie pulled away. “I’m all right.” She glanced up to find Vito Ciccotelli standing next to the very large body bag, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched her. He’d thought her rude and insensitive before. Now he probably thought she was unstable, or even worse, weak. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, meeting his watchful stare with a flash of defiance. She’d rather be considered rude.
But he didn’t look away, just kept those dark eyes fastened to hers. Unsettled, Sophie shifted her gaze away from Vito and took a step back. “I’m all right. Really.”
“No,” Katherine murmured. “You’re not all right. You’ve done enough for today. I’ll have one of the officers drive you home.”
Sophie’s jaw tightened. “I finish what I start.” She bent to retrieve the GPR’s handle which had fallen from her hands as she’d taken her little skip down memory lane. “Unlike some people.” She started to turn, but Katherine grabbed her arm.
“It was an accident,” Katherine whispered, and Sophie knew the woman honestly believed that to be the truth. “I thought after all this time you’d have accepted that.”
Sophie shook her head. Her anger lingered, bubbling inside her and when she spoke, her voice was cold. “You were always too soft on her. I’m afraid I’m not that-”
“Forgiving?” Katherine interrupted sharply.
Sophie huffed a laugh, utterly mirthless. “Blind. I’ll finish the job you asked me to do.” She pulled away from Kath-erine’s grasp and shoved her hand in her empty pocket, then remembered. Stakes. She searched for Jen only to find the small army had gone largely still, watching with blatant curiosity as the scene between her and Katherine unfolded.
She wanted to scream for them to mind their own damn business, but controlled the impulse. She looked for Jen, but it was Vito Ciccotelli’s dark eyes she met once again. He’d never looked away. “I’ve run out of stakes. Do you have any markers?”