Undying (3 page)

He plucked the silly handkerchief from the man’s bloody suit jacket pocket. First, he wiped his mouth, then he wrapped the handkerchief around the blade. He slid the dagger into his leather jacket, stepped over the dead body and walked out into the dim light cast by the Acropolis high on the hill behind him.

“Looking for a party?” one of the whores called to him as he headed west, back toward the pulse of the city and the restaurant where the rest of the team would meet him later for a glass of wine.

“Nah,” Arlan answered in perfect Greek, Romano’s blood still on his breath. “Already had one tonight, sister.”

A
rlan was on his second glass of wine by the time Jimmy and Sean arrived at God’s Restaurant on Makrygianni Street. Both men took seats at the sidewalk table. Jimmy poured two glasses of wine and refilled Arlan’s.

“Task complete?” Jimmy lifted the tumbler to his lips to drink the bloodred house wine.

“Complete.”

Jimmy glanced at the fourth glass, still empty. “Regan?” He looked around.

Arlan swirled his wine, watching the way it climbed up the side of the glass before spinning in the center in a whirlpool. “A no-show.”

“Ah, Jezus,” Sean cursed under his breath. Like his father, he was a big man, and also like his father, the chief of police in their hometown, he still carried a slight Irish accent, even after all these centuries. It became especially pronounced for both father and son when they became emotional. “Yer shittin’ me.”

Arlan didn’t meet either of his companions’ gazes. He lifted the tumbler to his lips, sipped, and glanced up at the Acropolis, lit up and gleaming in the darkness. As the wine touched the tip of his tongue, he realized he could still taste Romano’s blood.

“And you went through with it anyway?” Jimmy’s voice was taut. Jimmy was the worrier of the team. Jimmy worried, Arlan teased, so that the others didn’t have to. “That’s not protocol. You should have aborted.”

“You get the kids?” Arlan asked. He was in a dark mood. Had been since his encounter with the dogs and Romano. Tonight he had almost lost control, almost given in to the animal inside him, and he didn’t like it. It scared him. After all these years he thought he had learned temperance. He thought he had become a better person. More human. Had he been kidding himself? He glanced at Jimmy.
“Did we get them?”
he repeated. “The kids?”

“Yeah, we got them. Both were still alive, seemed to be scared but…
unharmed,
” Jimmy said delicately.

Unmolested
was what he meant. Jimmy was a tenderhearted man. Emotional. Always had been, even after the fall from grace that had hardened many of the Kahills.

“And I got Romano, so all’s well that ends well.”

“We saw that play. Shakespeare.” Sean pointed at Arlan. “Like 1740 in London. Goodman’s Fields…or was it Drury Lane? You remember? The orange girls—”

Jimmy dropped his empty glass on the table. “Sean.”

“Sorry.” Sean reached for the carafe of wine and poured the last of it into his glass. He lifted the carafe to a waiter who was serving a table of tourists.

Jimmy looked back at Arlan. “You’re missing the point. Again. You don’t go it alone. You’re supposed to follow protocol. It’s what keeps you safe,” Jimmy said.

“What was I supposed to do?” Arlan turned his dark gaze on Jimmy. “Let that pervert, that murderer, walk?”

“Protocol is what keeps us
all
safe,” Jimmy insisted firmly. “This isn’t just about you. Or even us.” He drew his glass in a circle, indicating their tight knit group.

Arlan set his glass down and ran his fingers through his dark hair, still not making eye contact. “All right,” he said quietly. “You’re right. Next time, I follow protocol.”

“Sure you will.” Sean chuckled under his breath.

The men were silent as the waiter approached, bringing another carafe of wine. He took the empty one with him.

“So what do we do about Regan? He call in?” Jimmy asked when the waiter had gone.

Arlan plucked his cell phone from the pocket of his leather jacket and checked the screen. “He never called.”

Sean poured more wine for everyone. “We know where he is?”

Arlan shook his head. “Haven’t heard from him since the meeting in the airport two nights ago.” He shrugged. “Of course, I didn’t expect to see him until tonight unless there was a problem.”

“Well, we’ve got to find him.” Jimmy wrapped his fingers around his glass. “He could be in trouble.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is.” Sean plucked an olive from a tray on the table and sucked on it noisily.

“I’m serious.” Jimmy looked to Sean, then back at Arlan. “We have to find him.”

Arlan didn’t pick up his glass. Suddenly he no longer wanted wine. Or the company of his friends. The situation with Regan had been out of hand for some time. What if Regan really was in trouble this time and not just off binge drinking, whoring, and gambling—simply losing track of time, which was usually his excuse? It would be Arlan’s fault if something happened to Regan. Arlan was the one who had insisted that the rest of the team keep Regan’s nefarious activities to themselves.

“How you think we’re going to find him, Jimmy? We’re in a city of what, three million? Four?” He lifted his hand and let it fall. “Besides, protocol requires that we return to Clare Point. Immediately.”

Jimmy was quiet for a minute. Sean spat his olive pit into his hand and dropped it on a plate in front of him.

“You’re right,” Jimmy conceded. “It’s best if we go home. Regan will find his way. He always does.”

Arlan rose, tossing some euros on the table. “See you back at the ranch, partners.” He walked down the sidewalk, away from the lights of the restaurant, into the dark, feeling very alone.

Macy woke hot and sweaty, overwhelmed by a heavy sense of dread. As she showered and went through her morning ablutions, she tried not to think about the meaning of it, or the IM’s last night. How many times had she been through this? There was nothing she could do. Nothing last night. Nothing this morning. Except maybe make that dreaded call.

The call would make it real.

She dressed and poured a cup of black coffee in a travel mug. Her appointment today was just a pre-meet, but the assignment was a big one; five full-color pages of the exterior of a house and its garden, northeast of Richmond. She collected her laptop, some files and photographs from her desk, and the canvas backpack she always kept packed in her closet. She did not lock the door when she left.

Late morning, Macy met the homeowners, walked through their garden and made suggestions as to what could be done to improve the property aesthetically before it was photographed. Often, she took her own photos, but for this assignment, the magazine would be using their own photographer. Then, while waiting on the photographer assigned to her, Macy excused herself to check phone messages.

Instead of checking her voice mail, which was a pretty involved process, she made the call, punching in the extension she knew from memory.

“Special Agent Kahill.”

Macy hesitated. She always did at this point. Why did she torture herself this way? The FBI was no closer to finding him than they had been fourteen years ago. Why did she make the calls?

Because she had to.

Because it was her penance.

“Special Agent Kahill,” the female voice repeated.

“Fia, it’s me. Maggie.” Macy had picked the name. No last name, just Maggie for Magnolia. For her mother.

There was a pause. “How are you, Maggie?”

“Anything more on the McNaughton case?” Macy said softly. The McNaughton family had been the last to die.

A blue Toyota pulled into the driveway. The photographer. Macy would have to go.

“Not really, Maggie. I check on it from time to time. The agents are keeping the investigation active, but no significant changes.”

Macy ran her fingers through her fine, long blond hair. It was hot. She needed a band to pull it back into a ponytail.

“What can I do for you, Maggie?”

Macy exhaled. “He…” Her throat constricted. She stopped and started again. “You need to check the morning reports. Today. The next couple of days.”

She didn’t have to say any more. She and Special Agent Fia Kahill had an interesting relationship. The agent accepted Macy for what she could offer, what she would offer and what she would not. Other law enforcement agents might have pushed her until Macy completely disengaged and stopped calling. But Fia seemed to understand how brittle her informant was.

“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” the FBI agent whispered. “So soon after the last? This is unexpected.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Macy murmured. But the silence between them that followed made it evident that neither thought so. Not in their bones. Fia understood
knowing something in your bones.

The photographer had climbed out of her car. She had her hatchback up and was pulling bags from the trunk.

Macy turned her back to the car. “I…I’m at work so I can’t really talk. I don’t know anything, Fia, except that Teddy’s out there. He’s on the move. He’s going to do it again…if he hasn’t already.”

Fia sighed. Macy imagined her running her hand over her pretty face. They had never met in person, but Macy had seen Fia’s photograph in the news last year when she’d solved a string of murders in her own hometown. It was after that that Macy had contacted her. They talked about once a month but this would be the second time she made this kind of call. Last time, Macy had been right on the money. Upstate New York. Mother. Father. Two little girls and an infant boy.

“Where do you think he is?”

The photographer headed up the driveway toward the house, cameras swinging on both her shoulders. She waved to Macy, smiling. Macy waved back and turned away again, gripping the cell tighter in her hand.

“Listen, I have to go. Check it out. There was nothing on the news this morning, but you know how it goes. Sometimes it takes a few hours to find them.”
Once it had taken four days.

“Can I call you back, Maggie? After I look into it?”

Macy hesitated. She usually didn’t do things that way, but the cell only had a few minutes left on it. Then she would toss it. She already had a new one on the floor of the back of her car. She’d bought it at a Piggly Wiggly two days ago. “Sure, you can call me.”

“What’s the number?” Fia played it cool.

Macy almost smiled. She liked Fia Kahill. In another life, they might even have been friends. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Special Agent Kahill. You’re not going to find me. It’s a disposable, as always. I’m tossing it tonight whether I hear from you or not.”

“You’re good, Maggie-With-No-Last-Name.”

Macy gave her the number and hung up. She met the photographer at the wrought iron gate covered in crepe myrtle and shifted into work mode, setting Special Agent Kahill and Teddy aside for a few hours.

Arlan turned on his cell phone as the seat belt light on the overhead cabin went out. He checked the last missed calls. There was only one he cared about.

“Fee,” he said when she picked up the phone.

“Arlan.” She sounded stressed. “You’re home?” She was making a point to sound professional, maybe for the sake of someone near, but Arlan knew her, maybe better than she knew herself. She was upset.

“Just landed. Still on the tarmac.” Although the plane was still moving, passengers were beginning to get up and mill around in search of carry-ons and lost shoes.

“Your trip successful?”

“Yup.”

“This was a big one, Arlan.” She didn’t hide the pride in her voice.

“They all are, Fee. What’s going on?” She never called just to chat. She showed up on his porch in the middle of the night for that.

“Want to take a ride with me?”

The plane nosed into the terminal and passengers began moving toward the door. “Sure. Where we going?” He tried to sound light, but he sensed this wasn’t a pleasure trip. Neither he nor Fia were very good at telepathing long distance, but he knew from the tone of her voice that this was business. Ugly business, if he had to guess.

“Northeast Virginia. On the peninsula. I need—” she was quiet for a breath—“I need your perspective.”

“This an official case?”

“Does it matter?”

He smiled. “No.”

“I’m already on my way.”

He heard an elevator ding.

“Pick you up outside of baggage,” she said.

“I don’t have any baggage.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Right.”

Macy was done by midafternoon and made arrangements with the homeowners to return in a week. By then, she would have had time to look at the photographer’s prelim shots and have a better idea of exactly what she wanted her to take for the spread.

Ordinarily, Macy would have gone home. Home to read. Home to work. Instead, she drove east, not knowing where she was going or why. She wasn’t surprised when the disposable cell phone on the car seat beside her rang.

“Special Agent Kahill,” Macy said into the phone.

“You were expecting me.”

“I don’t give my number out to many people,” she said glibly.

“If you’d give me your permanent number, this would be a whole lot easier.”

“But it wouldn’t be as much fun, would it, Special Agent Kahill? You wouldn’t be able to spend all those hours contemplating who I am and why I picked you.”

“Good point,” Fia agreed.

They were both stalling. Macy could feel the dread again, creeping up with long, black claws. In the moment of silence, she knew Fia felt it, too.