I move up the stairs slowly. My neck is sweating. I get to the top.
"In here, Agent Barrett."
I move into the bedroom, gun raised. What I see does what it is calculated to do: It freezes me with fear. Elaina is tied to the bed. She is naked, hands and feet bound. Bile rises in my throat as I see he has already cut on her. He has carved a game of tic-tac-toe into the skin of her stomach. He has slashed a line above her breasts. I look into her eyes and I'm relieved by what I see there. She's terrified, but she's still defiant. This means Hillstead hasn't gotten down to it yet. He hasn't broken her.
Peter sits at the foot of the bed, in a padded chair. Bonnie is on his lap. He's holding a knife at her jugular. She, too, is defiant, but her eyes contain something additional that Elaina's do not: hate. If she could kill this man who murdered her mother, she would.
"Deja vu, is it not, Agent Barrett? You'll notice I haven't touched Elaina's face yet." He chuckles. "I thought I'd incorporate various elements of your own pain and psychosis here. We have the destruction of something lovely, a recurring area of difficulty you seem to have. We have the scarring and disfigurement. And finally, perhaps best of all, we have your daughter Alexa, the human shield."
I bring up my gun, but he moves Bonnie's head to block his own. The knife tip presses harder and a dot of blood appears at her throat.
"Now, let's not be hasty," he says. "I have a chair for you too. Sit down. Take a load off, as they say." His face reappears, and he smiles. "It will be just like old times."
Crunch his bones! the dragon snarls.
Hush, I tell her. I need to concentrate.
I look around, see the chair he's indicated. It's facing him, of course. As he said, just like old times. I go over and sit down.
"Planning to analyze me some more, Peter?" I ask.
He laughs and shakes his head. "We're past that now, both of us. I have no more opinions to give you about yourself."
"So what do you want, then?"
His eyes twinkle. It's a hideous sight, in the context of the moment.
"I want to talk to you, Smoky. And then I want to see what happens."
I look at his knees. I could shoot them out, in the space of a single blink. Gun up, bam-bam, finish it with a shot to the head. Just breathe in and exhale, three squeezes, bye-bye, Peter.
I start the motion, even as I'm thinking it. The gun barrel rises, and I know that it's lined up right, know it in a visceral place. I know on a lessthan-conscious level how many pounds of pressure will be required to pull the trigger. I know how many inches I'll have to move the barrel after the first shot in order to shoot out the other knee. This is all non- thought, unconscious advanced calculus.
Except that it's not.
Because the hand that grips the gun . . . trembles. And then it doesn't just tremble--it shakes. I close my eyes and lower my hand. Peter laughs out loud.
"Smoky! Perhaps I spoke too soon! Perhaps we have therapy to do yet."
I feel panic coming. It's riding in, slow, like a dark wave on some night beach. I glance at Bonnie's face and am startled to see that she is looking right at me. Her eyes are filled with trust. I blink, and her face blurs. Blink again. She becomes Alexa. Angry eyes. No trust there.
Alexa knows better, after all.
My ears are filled with a faint ringing.
Ringing? No . . . I cock my head, listening. It's a voice. Too far away and faint to make out.
"Smoky? Are you with us?"
Hillstead's voice brings back Bonnie's face.
I realize with a shock that I am losing my mind. Right here, right now. Right when I'm needed most.
Dear God.
I clear my throat and force myself to speak. "You--you said you wanted to talk. So talk, then." It doesn't sound convincing, but at least it sounds sane.
I'm drenched in sweat.
He pauses. "Do you think," he starts, "that I regret the situation I find myself in? If you do, then you'd be wrong. My father, he taught me to hold to a standard. One of his favorite sayings was: 'It's not how long you live--it's how excellently you killed while you were alive.' " He squints at me. "Do you understand? Being true to my heritage, to the example of the Shadow Man, is not just about killing whores and taunting the FBI. It's about a certain . . . flair. It's about the character of murder, not just the act." His voice is proud. "We cut you with the finest silver and drink your blood from designer crystal. We strangle you with silk while dressed in Armani." He peeks out from behind Bonnie. "Any fool can murder. My ancestors and myself ? We make history. We become immortal."
Buy time, I think. Because I hear that faint voice in my head again, and I know--I know--that whatever it's saying is important.
"You don't have any children," I say. "So it stops with you. So much for immortality."
He shrugs. "These genes will surface again. Who's to say that he didn't cast his seed in other places? Who's to say I didn't?" He smiles. "I was not the first, I doubt I'll be the last. Our race will survive."
A single, terrible thought occurs to me. Is it possible that I don't want to save Bonnie? That some part of me thinks that that wouldn't be fair to Alexa?
My hand shakes in my lap, spasms around the gun butt. The voice in my head is still faint but has become more urgent. I frown at Hillstead. "Race? What race?"
"The original hunters. The predators who walk on two legs."
"Ah, right. That bullshit."
I miss a breath as his knuckles tighten on the knife at Bonnie's throat. But then they relax and he chuckles.
"The point of it all, Smoky-mine, is this: It doesn't matter that you caught me. In the end, I was true. That's all that counts. Far truer than my father--he never found his Abberline. And my acolytes?" I get the sense of a bird preening, self-satisfied. "That is a definite original." He peeks at me again. "Besides, I have an offer or two to make you. A little bit of final fun."
For the first time since my gun hand shook, the voice in my head goes quiet. Unease creeps in. "What kind of offer?"
"Some scars for a life, Smoky. I want to leave my mark on you and give you something in return."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"If I were to tell you, take your gun and shoot yourself and I'll let Bonnie and Elaina go, would you believe me?"
"Of course not."
"Yes. But--if I were to tell you, take a knife and cut your face and I'll let Elaina go . . . ?"
My unease increases. I start to sweat again.
"Ahhhhh . . . see? That's the fun part of dealing in these kinds of stakes, Smoky. You'd have to think about it, wouldn't you?" He laughs.
"The possibilities abound. Do nothing, continue as we are, perhaps you get them out of this, perhaps they both die. Cut yourself, perhaps I'm lying and we continue as we are . . . but then you'll only have cut yourself trying. Not exactly death, now, is it? Or cut yourself, and perhaps I do let her go--and the very chance of this happening means scenario number two is worth considering. Worse still, for you, it is possible that I'm telling the truth. It's believable that I'd trade Elaina for the joy of making you scar yourself further, isn't it? Particularly when I keep this little cutie as a shield?"
I still haven't replied. The unease has become nausea, a greasy roiling in my stomach. He's not wrong. I would think about it. Hillstead's made the stakes horrible but bearable. As with any gamble, I could lose, but the prize if I won . . . worth rolling the dice?