There has to be an answer somewhere, said the voice in his head. Don’t give up. Look. Look again.
He couldn’t wish for better results than Maddox delivered. That she went far out of bounds in getting romantic with Cohen was indisputable, at least from the standards of the FBI. Even though he signed off on everything she did after the fact, Hauser had to worry about her emotional state. Either Maddox hid a heart of stone under that innocent face, or things had gotten away from her and all this would probably tear her up inside.
This isn’t a normal investigation. We have to take risks. We can’t follow every rule. Sacrifices must be made.
Hauser glanced over her reports, but he returned once more to the fight in the bus tunnel and, in a second window, the explanation Cohen gave her. He read and re-read, wishing he knew how to get any of the prisoners to talk about Rachel. She seemed like the key. She stayed aloof, but when Carlisle was in danger, she came to the rescue… and, according to Cohen, there was a pattern there. An obligation. Something.
Rachel faced down a mob of vampires and werewolves and kicked ass. Maddox saw it. She’d have died there without that intervention.
She’d do it again, wouldn’t she? Hauser thought. She didn’t protect Carlisle from us, but we’re not monsters… maybe that’s the difference?
He stared at the report, waiting for it to come to him.
Look higher. Scroll up.
Hauser followed the silent advice, moving back on the report to the part before Rachel appeared. He read and re-read Carlisle’s exchanges with the vampires. Their posturing. Their declarations. The tension Maddox saw between them, and her sense that they shared some obligation avenge Kanatova.
They have to kill Carlisle, or their social compact breaks down, something told Hauser without ever being heard. They have to kill him.
He considered explaining that to Carlisle-and maybe even Lorelei. Maybe that would be enough leverage to pry their mouths open.
A second, unbidden thought overrode the first: Rachel must protect Carlisle. They must kill him… and she cannot allow that.
We must take risks. Sacrifices must be made.
The room grew dark as he stared at the screen. The words repeated in his head over and over, drowning out other thoughts and objections until the unthinkable seemed rational, and even necessary:
We must take risks. Sacrifices must be made.
Hauser blinked and rubbed his eyes, looked out the window and then checked the clock. He closed his laptop, stood, and opened up the cabinet that served as the team’s improvised evidence locker. Personal belongings confiscated from Carlisle, Jones and the rest sat in marked bins.
One particular bin held a leather jacket, a roll of cash, a pair of axes light enough for throwing, some old Nordic jewelry, and a partially dismantled cell phone. Hauser pulled out the latter, put the pieces back together and reactivated it.
Potentially, the owner’s friends had enough connections that they could track the phone as soon as it turned back on. It seemed unlikely, though; while they weren’t Luddites, they didn’t catch on quickly to all the opportunities of modern technology. The organization and minimal usage of the phone in Hauser’s hand testified to that. It did, however, have a mapping application.
Hauser scrolled through the contacts list. Few of the names meant anything to him. One name stood out for him, though he didn’t think too much as to why.
Hauser opened up a text message to Unferth. He inserted a link to the mapping application… and paused.
Everyone knows the risks. Sacrifices must be made.
He hit the send button and then turned off the phone.
The angel speaking at his ear stepped back. Donald’s hands slipped off Hauser’s. His shoulders sagged as he experienced a bout of weariness normally unknown to his kind.
Guardian angels offered suggestions and guidance to their charges all the time. It required imagination and finesse, but little effort. Direct manipulation such as this-something Donald had never attempted before-drained him much more than he expected.
It would be worth it, though. It was all for the greater good.
* * *
Bellevue offered a number of posh houses, but even this one wasn’t remotely as opulent as Wentworth’s Manhattan home. The area likely boasted grander lodgings, but as in any matter of travel as this, one had to weigh stealth and discretion over comfort. Claim too great a home and the neighbors and friends of the owners might notice the changes in their behavior. The less wealthy the resident, typically, the easier it was for new occupants to go unnoticed… but Wentworth had his standards.
Wentworth awoke shortly after sunset, moving swiftly from oblivion to full awareness as he usually did. In his breathing days, he would shift and stretch and groan about the earliness of the hour or whatever noises his servants made. Now his eyes simply snapped open, suddenly marking him as an animate corpse rather than an ordinary dead body in a bed.
He found the lady of the house and her adult daughter kneeling before his bed-no longer the mother’s or her husband’s in his mind-dressed in nightgowns just as he had instructed. They waited for him to drink from them, happy to be made of such use. Any vampire could bestow pain and terror or addictive, mind-bending euphoria through their bite. To Wentworth, the latter seemed the obvious choice. Terrorized servants always harbored thoughts of escape or rebellion, both of which bred inefficiency. Well-rewarded slaves, like his host family, gladly opened their homes and threw familial obligations to the wind in hopes of enjoying the brief ecstasy of his fangs.
Wentworth fed lightly upon them both, leaving them on the bed in a state of bliss while the man of the house dressed him. Satisfied, he ventured out of the bedroom to check on his staff and allies. His mortal servants from New York would have been up through the day, monitoring events in his home city and the local news here in the northwest. One waited outside his door to hand him a copy of the New York Times as he walked through the halls.
His eyes stayed on the paper as he moved, but his mind wandered. Tonight would see a final meeting of his allies and an assessment of their quest for justice. If he could not demonstrate his ability to find Carlisle again, the coalition would fray. All understood the need to kill the boy. Regardless of Anastacia’s fate, Carlisle’s existence was simply intolerable after what he had said and what he did to Cornelius. But first he had to be found, and clearly his guardian presented a formidable problem. Wentworth counseled patience and recovery as his allies licked their wounds, but he worried that inaction would weaken his position of leadership.
He descended the stairs as he read the headlines. Rounded the landing and shuffled down the hall. Reconsidered his support of a candidate for mayor. Pushed open the door to the kitchen. Passed by the sliding glass door and the deck overlooking the backyard. Glanced up at the gaggle of strangers staring at him from the other side of the glass. Crossed the kitchen to the dining room to double-check seating plans for the meeting tonight.
Stopped. Turned. Looked again.
A collection of roadside trash stood on the deck, all looking into the kitchen. A man and woman wore the denim and leather chaps of bikers. Two or three of the others, dressed in ordinary faded jeans and t-shirts, immediately struck Wentworth as truckers. The tall woman at the front of the group with her hair cut down to a short brown stubble looked like some hippie hoping to hitch a ride on the freeway… except for the intensity in her eyes and the cocky attitude of her grin.