So, cracking wide the door to the St. Francis Hospital Department of Surgery's palatial suite of offices was no BFD.
Slipping inside, he kept up the mhis that fogged out the security cameras and ensured that he was hidden from the few folks who were still in this administrative section of the complex.
Man… these were some seriously sweet digs. Big reception area, all stately and shit, with the wood-paneled walls and the Orientals. Couple of ancillary offices marked with-
Jane's office was right over there.
V went over and put his finger on the brass nameplate by the door. Etched into the polished surface was: JANE WHITCOMB, M.D., CHIEF OF TRAUMA DIVISION.
He put his head through the door. Her scent lingered in the air, and there was one of her white coats folded on top of a conference table. Her desk was covered with piles of paperwork and files and Post-it notes, the chair pushed back as if she'd left in a hurry on some kind of emergency. On the wall there were a number of diplomas and certificates, testament to her commitment to excellence.
He rubbed his sternum.
Hell, how was this going to work between them? She pulled long hours. He was limited to night visits. What if that wasn't enough?
Except it had to be. He wasn't about to ask her to leave a lifetime of work and discipline and success for him. That would be like her wanting him to bail on the Brotherhood.
When someone muttered something, he looked across the reception area to where a light glowed at the far end of the suite.
Time to take care of business with Dr. Manello.
Do not kill him, V told himself as he walked over to a half-open door. It would be a total buzz kill to have to call Jane and tell her that her boss was fertilizer.
V stopped and glanced around the jamb into the huge office beyond. The human male was seated behind a presidential-looking desk, going through papers even though it was two in the morning.
The guy frowned and looked up. "Who's there?"
Do not kill him. That shit would totally bum Jane out.
Oh, but V wanted to. All he could see was the guy on his knees, reaching out to Jane's face, and the image so did not improve his mood. When it came to someone else macking on their females, bonded males liked closure. Of the coffin-lid variety.
Vishous pushed open the door, reached into the doc's mind, and froze him up good like a side of beef. "You got pictures of my heart, Doc, and I need them back. Where are they?" He shot a suggestion into the man's mind.
The guy blinked. "Here… on my desk. Who… are you?"
The question was a surprise. Most of the time humans had no independent reasoning when they were put down like this.
V walked up and looked at the sea of paper. "Where on the desk?"
The man's eyes drifted to the left-hand corner. "Folder. There. Who… are you?"
Jane's motherfucking mate, my man, V wanted to say.
Hell, he wanted to tattoo the shit on the guy's forehead so Manello never forgot she was totally taken.
V found the folder and cracked it open. "Computer files. Where are they?"
"Gone. Who… are-"
"Never mind who I am." Damn, the SOB was tenacious. Then again, you didn't get to be the chairman of surgery 'cause you were a laid-back Barca-lounger kind of boy. "Who else knows about this picture?"
"Jane."
The sound of the name leaving the bastard's mouth did not put V into his happy place, but he let it slide. "Who else?"
"No one that I know of. Tried… to send it to Columbia. Didn't… go through. Who are you-"
"The boogeyman." V searched through the surgeon's mind, just in case. There was nothing really there. Time to go.
Except he needed to know one other thing.
"Tell me something, Doc. If a woman were married, would you hit on her?"
Jane's boss frowned, then shook his head slowly. "No."
"Well, what do you know. That's the right answer."
As V headed to the door, he wanted to lay down a minefield of triggers in the guy's brain, forge all sorts of neuropathways so that if the bastard thought of Jane sexually he'd feel dread or nausea or maybe burst into tears like a total sissy. After all, adverse impulse training was a godsend when it came to deprogramming. But V wasn't a symphath, so it would be hard to pull off without a serious time commitment, and besides, that kind of shit was likely to drive someone to madness. Especially someone who was as strong-minded as Manello.
He took one last look at his rival. The surgeon was staring up at him with confusion, but not fear, his dark brown eyes aggressive and intelligent. It was hard to admit, but in V's absence the man probably would have made a good mate for Jane.
The bastard.
Vishous was about to turn away when he got a vision so crisp and clear that it was like it had been before his premonitions had dried up.
Actually, it wasn't a vision. It was one word. That made no sense whatsoever.
Brother.
Weird.
V scrubbed the doctor good and clean and dematerialized.
Manny Manello put his elbows on his desk, rubbed his temples, and groaned. The pain in his head had its own heartbeat, and his skull seemed to have turned into an echo chamber. Just as bad, his brain's radio dial was spinning. Random thoughts bounced all around, a tossed salad of little importance: He had to take his car in for service, he needed to finish going through those residency applications, he was out of Sam Adams, his Monday-night b-ball game had been switched to Wednesday.
Funny, if he looked beyond the swarm of nothing special, he had the sense that all the activity was… hiding something.
For no particular reason he had an image of the mauve crocheted throw blanket that hung on the back of his mother's mauve couch in his mother's mauve living room. The damn thing was never used for warmth, and God help you if you tried to pull it off. The thing's sole purpose was to hide a stain from when his father had spilled a plate of Franco-American spaghetti all over the place. After all, there was only so far you could go with a spray bottle of Resolve, and that canned shit had red dye number five in it. Which was so not a look on a mauve canvas.
Just like that blanket, his scattered thoughts were obstructing some kind of stain in his brain, although damned if he knew what it was.
He rubbed his eyes and glanced at his Breitling. Past two A.M.
Time to go home.
As he packed up, the sense that he'd spaced on something important, and he kept looking at the left-hand corner of his desk. There was a paperless stretch there, the grained wood showing through in what was otherwise a snowbank of work.
The empty space was the size of a file folder.
Something had been taken from there. He knew it. He just couldn't figure out what, and the harder he tried the more his head pounded.
He walked over to the door.
On the way past his private bathroom, he popped in, found his trusty bottle of five-hundred-count Motrin and took two.
He really needed a vacation.
Chapter Forty-four
Maybe this wasn't the best idea, Phury thought as he stood in the doorway of the bedroom next to his at the Brotherhood's mansion. At least the household was otherwise occupied, so he hadn't had to deal with anyone yet. But man, things were looking rocky.
Crap.
Across the way, Cormia sat on the edge of the bed, that drape clutched at her breasts, her eyes like two marbles in a big glass jar. She was so rattled, he wanted to take her back to the Other Side, but what waited for her there was no better. He didn't want her to face the Directrix's firing squad.
Wasn't going to stand for that shit.
"If there's anything you need, I'm just next door." He leaned out and pointed to the left. "I figure you can stay here for a day or so and get some rest. Have a little time to yourself. Sound good?"