Dark Hunger (7 page)

Trust no one. Suspect everyone.

The front door opened and he squared his shoulders, automatically moving one hand over the weapon inside his bomber jacket, bracing himself for attack.

The man who walked out was an inch taller than him, and Quinton was a big man. Vincent had black hair and eyes… eyes just like his own. Black. Cold. Emotionless.

Quinton forced a mental connection, but for a moment, his telepathy hit a brick wall. Then he saw darkness and pain. A soul struggling with inner demons just as he did himself. And an endless, bottomless pit beckoning him to plunge into its abyss.

Was this man a demon?

Then a woman appeared by the man’s side. Small, with long, curly russet-colored hair and a heart-shaped face. An expression akin to surprise flitted in her eyes, and then she smiled.

He mentally sifted through her thoughts, read relief that he had come. A deep love for the dark man by her side.

Then a sudden screech of lost souls screaming in her head.

He swallowed, adopting his expressionless mask although his pulse clamored at the horrific cries.

We shouldn’t have died.

A monster killed us.

There’s another demon in our midst.

Her gaze met his, the same pain and suffering reflected in her eyes. Finally the voices fell silent as if she’d shushed them in her head.

He studied her intently. She must be a medium.

“Welcome to our home, Quinton.” She nudged the man beside her, who was staring at Quinton, sizing him up. “Vincent, aren’t you going to invite your brother inside? It’s cold out, and he’s come a long way.”

Vincent strode toward Quinton, his movements as precise and controlled as Quinton’s. In spite of his skepticism and distrust, Quinton’s heart thundered in his chest.

His physical resemblance to this man was uncanny.

“Vincent Valtrez,” the man said as he extended his hand. “This is my wife, Clarissa. Come inside now. We have to talk.”

His voice was more a command than an invitation, and Quinton hesitated before he shook his hand. But the gesture opened a doorway into the man’s mind, and Quinton bit back a smile.

Vincent was just as distrustful of him as he was of the man.

Then, in a flash of darkness, he heard a war raging in the man’s head. Vincent thinking about making things explode with his hands. Killing animals.

Grief as he’d watched his mother die. Then Vincent as a boy driving a stake into a man’s heart.

No, not a man, a black shapeless beast.

One that was back now to spread his evil.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Dr. Sam Wynn smiled as he watched the blood drain from the corpse. So much blood. Steel pans were filled with the thick rich substance, the smell vile and coppery.

Adrenaline churned through his bloodstream. The autopsy was a fascinating process. First the Y incision to open the body cavity. Then the saws and scalpels.

Next the process of removing the organs. One by one. Weighing them. Holding them in his hands.

He smiled as he contemplated watching the fluids
gush
and stream from the lifeless body. He could feel the warm liquids
seep
through his fingertips as he dug inside the internal cavities. Could hear the bones shattering as he sawed his way through cartilage and tissue.

Ah, those lovely bones…

Brittle, filled with marrow, with the blood of a life that no longer existed.

Science was his calling. Slicing bodies to study the cause of death, his playing field.

Now he had so many decimated bodies to study. The ones from the mass bombing intrigued him. Flesh had literally been ripped from bones, muscle and tissue exposed. An arm here, a leg there, a headless body.

Like a puzzle, he’d spread the pieces out, labeled each one, run tests, and pieced them together to make the bodies whole again. Although for some it was too late to be put back together. The poor bastards.

But he would do what he could for them. Attach a name to them so families could be notified.

He pulled on his protective goggles, then narrowed his eyes as he spotted the jagged teeth marks etched into the woman’s femur. Like needle marks in a junkie’s arm, but these were jagged in places, more brutal.

The markings of a bird’s talons.

He grabbed his camera and snapped a photo. He had to add this bone to his collection.

After all, no one would ever miss it.

Quinton entered the log cabin, wary, alert for a trap.

On the surface, the small cabin looked homey, with soft leather couches, braided rugs, a wedding photo on a pine sofa table, a crocheted afghan in blue and red, and a fire roaring in the stone fireplace. A shepherd mix stood up and growled then moved to Clarissa’s side as if to protect her.

Before Clarissa or Vincent could quiet the dog, Quinton squatted down and held out his hand, soothing the animal’s fears with a silent command.

Clarissa’s eyes widened as if impressed, but Vincent simply studied him with narrowed eyes. Quinton tried to tap into Vincent’s mind again, but suddenly a wall slid up, shutting him out.

“His name is Wulf,” Clarissa said. “Let me take your coat.”

She reached for his jacket, and Vincent strode to the bar in the corner and poured two drinks. Scotch, an expensive brand that Quinton often purchased himself.

He accepted the highball glass, their gazes locking.

“You’re going to need that,” Vincent said.

“What I need is answers,” Quinton said. “And the truth about who you are and what I’m doing here.”

Vincent gestured toward the sofa but Quinton shook his head. He moved to the fireplace and claimed the wing chair facing the door and window, his training kicking in. He never placed his back to the door, never in the line of attack.

“You were in the military,” Vincent said. “And now you work with Homeland Security.”

Quinton gave a clipped nod, then took a small sip of the scotch and let it slide down his throat, warming him as he assessed Vincent. “And you?”

“FBI.” Vincent produced his identification, then handed him a folder.

Vincent said nothing else, simply waited while Quinton examined the file. Detailed notes and photos of past cases Vincent had worked on for the government filled the folder. His heart hammered at the most recent story—the serial killer who’d stalked and killed several women in Eerie.

Annabelle Armstrong had done a story on the case, although she hadn’t mentioned anyone by the name of Vincent Valtrez.

He glanced up at Vincent. The files looked legit and would be easy to check. “I heard about that serial killer case,” he said, “but a deputy named Bluster solved it. Your name wasn’t mentioned.”

“I don’t like the press.”

Quinton chewed the inside of his cheek. “So you work for the FBI,” Quinton said. “That’s how you found me.” Meaning his cover was definitely blown, and the Ghost unit might have to be disbanded for safety’s sake. He wasn’t their only agent.

Vincent nodded. “Trust me, your cover is safe. I didn’t call you about that.”

“Then what?”

“Like I said, we’re brothers.”

Quinton forced his voice to be calm. “What makes you think that?”

Vincent’s gaze remained steady. “My… our mother told me.”

Quinton drained the scotch, set the glass on the table with a thud, and stood. “Now I know you’re lying. My mother is dead.”

“I know,” Vincent said in a low voice. “But Clarissa is a medium, and she spoke with her from the grave.”

Quinton hesitated, then pivoted to study Clarissa. So he had read her mind correctly—there had been lost spirits crying out in her head.

Could she have communicated with his mother? And if so, was this man telling the truth—did he have a brother he’d never known about?

Annabelle’s hands shook as she entered the police station. She had to report the text message. Although she wished the messenger had given her more information to go on.

She’d tried to send a reply, but it bounced back. Apparently no address from the sender could be located.

A twenty-something blonde receptionist smiled at her as she stepped up to her desk. “How can I help you?”

“I need to speak to a detective.”

“Just a sec.”

She punched an intercom button, relayed the request, and five minutes later, a husky man in a baggy suit and flashy tie appeared through a steel door. He was scowling, his balding head shiny beneath the fluorescent lights.

“Detective Crawley, ma’am.” His head bobbed slightly. “You asked to speak to a detective?”

“Yes,” she said, then introduced herself. “I’m Annabelle Armstrong, CNN News.”

His bushy eyebrows rose. “Oh, yeah, I recognize you from TV. You come for a story about the bombing?”

“Actually, I was here on vacation and happened to be on River Street at the time of the explosion.” She gestured toward the back. “Can we talk?”

He shifted awkwardly, then led her through the door to a small interrogation room with a metal table and chairs. “Coffee?”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

He poured them each a cup, then straddled the chair across from her. “We already had a press conference, and I covered everything we have so far.”

She placed a photo of Quinton on the table. “Do you recognize this man?”

Detective Crawley nodded. “Yeah, Quinton Valtrez. He works for Homeland Security. He found bomb parts in the explosion and pointed them out to our CSI.”

So he was working with the police. Interesting.

She laid the photo of Vigontol on the desk next. “How about this man? Do you know who he is?”

He narrowed his eyes at the dead man’s picture. “No. Should I?”

“He was a suspected terrorist.”

“You think he had something to do with the bombing?”

“I’m not certain, but it’s possible.”

“You know where he is?”

She produced the second photo, the one of Vigontol lying in a pool of blood. “Dead. As of last night.”

His gaze lifted slowly to hers. “You know who killed him?”

“Again, I can’t say until I have proof.”

He grunted. “Well, if he was responsible for all those people’s deaths, then I say he got what he deserved.”

So he believed in meting out justice like Quinton. Annabelle clenched her teeth. “There’s something else.” She removed her PDA. “I received a disturbing text message that you should see.”

He unfolded reading glasses from his pocket, put them on, then read the small screen with a frown. “Who sent it?”

“I don’t know,” Annabelle said with a hint of frustration in her voice. “That’s why I’m here. We need to try and trace it.”

He pulled at his chin. “Don’t you think it’s probably just a prank?”

She rolled her shoulders. “That’s possible. But what if it’s not?”

“Why send it to you?”

“Because I’m a reporter,” she said, “and he’s seeking attention. He wants his five minutes of fame.”

He frowned. “It doesn’t say when or where the next one will strike, does it?”