She shrugged, shouldered her pack and hooked her legs around the line, sliding hand over hand out above the grounds toward the tower. She couldn’t help the little twinge of fear rushing through her at the expectation of a bullet, but she held on to the fact that she was worth more alive than dead to Whitney.
Whitney was a man who liked answers and his adopted daughter was very much like him. Flame had hacked into Lily’s computer a couple of times and had I recognized the quick mind and the same driving love of science. Traitor. That was how Flame saw Lily. There had been so much favoritism on Whitney’s part, Lily had what he wanted, become his willing puppet, his accomplice, his doting daughter so he could continue his experiments.
What did Lily think happened to the rest of them? Did believe the bullshit stories in the computers? How could she when Dahlia had been locked in a sanitarium and a hit squad had destroyed everything she held dear? Lily would pay for that too. Flame would find a way. The Whitney money was an easy and obvious target, but Lily had too much, and hitting a few accounts here or there wasn’t going to make much difference.
As Flame began her hand-over-hand climb to the roof, she focused on finding the man stalking her. She was positive he was the same man she’d noticed at the gas station. He had been putting gas in the Jeep, but he had been back in the shadows, almost impossible to see, and something about him had had her warning radar shrieking. Several times on the way to Saunders’s estate, she’d had the eerie feeling she was being followed, but there was no sound and no headlights. He had to be one of Whitney’s experiments. She knew she wasn’t wrong.
She gained the roof without incident and stored her supplies in the pack just to the left of the skylight. Now, the biggest danger was that the hunter might follow her to the tower roof as well. She rigged the line to slip if he attempt to use it. He had to think she was going down the same way she’d come up. Flame made her way to the skylight, gliding with care so her footsteps couldn’t possibly betray her presence to anyone inside.
Saunders was hunched over his desk, glass of whiskey in hand. He looked pleased with himself. “Slimy little weasel sitting in your ivory tower thinking no one can get to you, but I’m going to take you down.” Flame sank down beside the skylight and lifted her face to the stars. She had to concentrate on the small things, the things she could do, the people to whom she could bring a little justice, not her past.
She couldn’t think about the rigorous training, the long days and nights locked in a cage like an animal, feeling deprived of all dignity, of company, of anything that mattered. In the end, she had triumphed because she’d learned to be what they’d wanted her to be and she was far better than any of them had ever discovered. She’d escaped. She smiled, thinking of the bogus trust fund in the computer all set up in her name. She’d made it real and the money came in handy on the run. She’d stolen it from the monster, just as she’d stolen the money for the others, and had it locked up in offshore accounts where the bastard couldn’t touch it. If she succeeded in finding the girls they would at least have money to start some kind of a life. Computer skills came in handy.
She should have left New Orleans the moment she realized she wasn’t going to find Dahlia, but she’d heard about a missing girl. Joy Chiasson. For some terrible reason she identified with the girl, was afraid someone like Whitney had her. It made no sense, but she thought she’d poke around a little and just make certain.
Her throat was sore from singing so much in the last couple of weeks. She’d done three sets in a small club just a half-mile from the station where she’d gassed up her motorcycle and her vocal cords were feeling the strain. The idea had been to see if anyone was abnormally interested in her because of her voice, but that idea had been sheer idiocy. Too many people followed her from club to club to know if someone was fixated on her the way they might have fixated on Joy.
Practically everything dirty in New Orleans led back to this place, this man. Kurt Saunders. He sold property and stole it back. He was behind most of the gambling, whores, and drug trafficking. His house was in the most elite part of the Garden District and he rubbed shoulders with politicians and celebrities. Men like Saunders didn’t come down easily, but it was just possible that while she was helping out a friend tonight, she might also stumble across something to do with Joy’s disappearance. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
Flame focused back on the stalker. She felt him. Knew he was somewhere close to her, but couldn’t pinpoint his location. He couldn’t have a scope on her; she wasn’t visible from the ground. He had to be the man from the gas station. He hadn’t shown any interest in her at all. She tipped her thigh with her index finger, replaying the small moment over and over in her mind. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him; he’d seemed to blend into the night. What made him memorable to her? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She sighed and rubbed at her temple. She was getting a killer headache, something that often happened when she used psychic talents for long periods of time.
The splash of lights and a sudden flurry of activity at the gate, accompanied by the ferocious barking of the dog, had her crawling across the tower roof to peer over the edge. The guards had arrived, guns in plain sight, as the gate swung open allowing a black town car to sweep onto the circular drive.
Flame narrowed her vision, studying the car. She’d seen it before. A photographic memory helped keep small details filed away until she needed them. She’d seen the car several times on the frontage road out by the houseboat where she was staying. She’d also seen it around several of the clubs where she sang. The car always had the same driver. He stayed out of sight except to open and close the door for his passenger, Emanuel Parsons. Parsons was an older man, whom Flame guessed to be some where in his sixties. He carried a silver-handled cane, but she doubted he really needed it. He seemed to like the distinguished look and the deference everyone gave him.
She made a face as the driver opened the door and Parsons emerged wearing a long coat, his silver hair gleaming in the lights flooding the entryway. It didn’t surprise her in the least that the man knew Saunders. Emanuel Parsons was the head investigator for the DEA and more than likely investigating Saunders for laundering money while playing friends with him. In the clubs he held himself aloof from everyone else, insisting on extra attention. He brought his grown son with him a couple of times, but most of the time he surrounded himself with other businessmen hardly deigning to notice most of the locals. He and his son had sent her a drink twice. And his son had dated Joy Chiasson. That alone put them on her radar screen.
She watched Parsons until he disappeared under the roof of the giant columned porch. With a little sigh she crawled back to the skylight. Why was it that in every town there were men who believed themselves above the law, men who had such a sense of entitlement? She didn’t get it, probably never would get it. Dr. Whitney, just as these men, was a respected professional. He had the ear of people in high places. He had trust and even high security clearance, yet he was a predator, ruthlessly destroying the lives of others to further his own cause. Saunders was also such a man, and she had no doubt, just by observing Parsons in the clubs, that he was the same, even though they were on different sides of the law.