Touch of Madness (3 page)

Unfortunately, the old girl is beginning to show her age, and while they are working hard on the restoration project, it’s hard to ignore the scaffolding and plastic sheeting that drapes sections of the second floor where the trial was being held.

I was being sued—along with everybody else involved in Samantha Greeley’s project. Well, everyone except Samantha herself. She is missing. Since the Supreme Court had recently ruled that anyone under the control of a Thrall is not considered in their right mind, she probably wouldn’t be found culpable even if the cops could find her. So the plaintiffs, being the family of the late videographer, Mason Watts, had decided not to wait to find her. And in a freak of scheduling that had more to do with the notoriety of the case than justice, we were on the docket and in front of the judge a mere three months after the incident. Not long after this ended I was scheduled to appear in criminal court on charges of destruction of hospital property.

I was seriously hoping that I wasn’t going to get paint or something on my suit. It was brand-new, and expensive as hell. I probably wouldn’t have bought it if Tom hadn’t talked me into it. I’m not much of a clotheshorse, and the coral designer suit had a jacket cut to emphasize my athletic build, with a skirt short enough to make me worry every time I crossed my legs. I had bought pumps and a bag and had them dyed a shade of peach that exactly matched the silk blouse I wore. The outfit had cost more than the rest of my entire wardrobe combined. Thank God for gift certificates and the after-Christmas sales. Still, the look on Tom’s face every time he saw me in it was worth the price. I’d also left my long red-gold hair down, loose except for a pair of small gold combs that pulled the front sections away from my face. None of it was practical for fighting, but I really didn’t expect a pitched battle in the halls of justice. I glanced over at the man holding my hand. Tom Bishop is gorgeous. We’re talking calendar model, stop in the middle of the street and gawk at him gorgeous. He has hair that shade of dark brown that isn’t quite black, and even though he keeps it fairly short it falls in soft curls that I can’t resist running my fingers through. His eyes are the warm brown of good milk chocolate and shine with intelligence and good humor. I still can’t quite believe my good luck to have hooked up with him.

He’d shown up on my doorstep this morning, dressed in the gray pin-striped suit he’d had on the first day I met him and told me he’d taken the week off to be with me during the trial. I hadn’t asked him to. He’d just done it. He’s like that—kind, thoughtful, supportive.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he whispered into my left ear after we were seated behind the table in the courtroom. The acoustics are such that sound carries clearly, not only from the witness stand, but frequently from the audience as well. The judge had made it very clear that he wasn’t going to put up with any interruptions from the spectators, and that included snide remarks.

At the moment, though, we were just sitting waiting as the plaintiff’s attorney and his assistant set up equipment for everyone to watch the videotape that had just been put into evidence.

“I’m wishing I was back home in bed,” I whispered back.

Tom gave me his most lascivious grin, flashing bright teeth and deep dimples. I blushed. I hadn’t exactly meant that the way he’d taken it. Not that I minded, but the relationship was still new enough that I kept waiting for something to go wrong. I have always had a very bad history with relationships. I mean, my first serious boyfriend left me to become a priest. The second one cheated on me with a woman I had thought was my best friend and tried to help turn me into a queen vampire. To say I have trust issues is like calling the Grand Canyon a pothole. The lights in the courtroom dimmed, and the screen in the front left corner that had been angled to maximize the viewing of the jury, judge, and spectators lit up. Silence settled heavily over the audience, until the only audible sound was of people breathing.

The attorney’s voice carried clearly through the courtroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, the video you are about to see contains graphic violence. Anyone in the courtroom and not of the jury who has a delicate constitution should consider leaving now.”

Nobody rose to leave. If anything there was a collective gasp of excitement and the room took on the same kind of energy you find just before the showing of a much-anticipated horror movie.

The attorney began speaking again, listing the people who would be appearing on screen. My name was among the first: defendant, Mary Kathleen Reilly. When he finished there was silence except for the shifting of people in their seats and the running of the equipment.

Dr. Samantha Greeley appeared on the video screen. She wore the same white lab coat over traditional business clothes. The beautiful face I remembered had been transformed by rage, her blue eyes blazed with fury.

“They’re idiots. Superstitious idiots, all of them.” She let out her breath in a long, irritated sigh. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to the camera. “Come along, Mason. You might as well get a good look at what it is that has them so terrified. It’s feeding time anyway.”

“Hang on, let me get the camera onto the tripod.”

The picture jiggled slightly, then settled.

People shifted in their seats in the dim courtroom. When the image steadied, we had a good view of the laboratory. Microscopes and test tubes adorned a black counter that ran the length of the far wall. Underneath were cabinets. But dominating the room, in the center of the screen, was a huge glass incubation case. Tubes ran to and from a pair of pumps to the case, one pumping clear fluid, the other a red fluid I knew was blood. I heard the click of latches, saw her lift the top of the plastic case an inch or two. “Help me with the lid,” Greeley ordered.

“Is that a good idea?” A handsome young black man joined Greeley onscreen. He kept his distance. His body language screamed reluctance and suspicion.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid, too!” Greeley sounded utterly exasperated.

“Of course not.” Her words had pricked his vanity, which was probably exactly what she’d intended. He took a pair of steps toward her, but stopped short of the case. Her hand snaked out in a lightning fast move to grab his arm and jerk him toward her.

He jumped backward, his eyes wide, but she had his arm in a vise-like grip.

“What in the hell!” He struggled, managing to pull loose. Stumbling over a stool, he tried to feel his way to the door of the lab without ever taking his eyes from her.

She lunged for him, but he dived out of reach. She hissed then, and it was not a human sound. When he shrieked, I closed my eyes, covering my face with my hands, unable to watch any further. I knew how the story ended. She’d caught him, and ripped his throat out. A dozen or more of the hatchlings had escaped and fed, and then crawled into the doctor’s willing mouth while we watched, frozen and horrified for the brief moment it took. All hundred would have gotten loose if it hadn’t been for Brooks. We’d burst in together, but it was Brooks who had risked everything to close the incubator. I’d been too busy fighting the good doctor—fighting, and losing. Because of me, she’d escaped down the hospital hall, leaving the door to the lab unlocked. I heard Brooks stomping on the hatchlings that had escaped before he stooped to check on me.

“I’m fine!” My voice from the video was choked with pain. “GO, catch her!”

There was the slamming of a door, and the thud of footfalls retreating in the distance. In the courtroom Tom put his arm around me, holding me close. “It’s all right.” He murmured the words in my ear. “You did your best.”

It wasn’t all right. The boy in the video was dead. But so were most of the hatchlings. I straightened up, opened my eyes and forced myself to watch the screen where I saw myself using the counter to haul my body up from the floor. I dragged myself across the room, my left leg useless from the kick she’d used to dislocate my knee. Wearing heels today had probably been a bad idea, since it might give the jury the impression I was faking just how much pain I was in every day.

I watched myself grab a lab stool and throw it through the glass window of MacDougal’s adjoining private office. There was the sound of me rummaging through various drawers. When I came back on screen I was carrying a large bottle of single malt scotch. Without hesitation I limped over to the case, disconnected the blood bag, and poured the amber liquid from the bottle to make its way through the pumping system. It was obvious when it did, because the hatchlings began to writhe and shrivel. Onscreen I dropped the empty bottle to slam both palms against my ears before I collapsed to the floor with an agonized scream.

Somewhere in the courtroom a woman, probably Mason’s mother, was quietly weeping. A gagging sound came from the jury box. I leaned into Tom’s body, and took slow deep breaths while counting to a hundred. The sound of movement drew my attention back to the picture. I looked up at the screen in time to watch Henri Tané and Miles MacDougal stride into the room. Kneeling beside the fallen boy, Miles tried to find a pulse in a throat that was mostly ravaged meat. He closed his eyes, muttering what looked like a quick prayer, before grabbing the phone and calling in a Code Blue.

The judge called for a break. It wasn’t quite time for lunch, but several of the jurors were looking more than a little bit sick. I doubted that anybody was hungry. I certainly wouldn’t be able to eat. My head was pounding and I was nauseous from the rage of a thousand Thrall that had watched the event through my eyes—another side effect of being connected.

Once upon a time my life had been relatively normal and my thoughts had been my own. Now I was reviled in the press and facing a wrongful death suit, even though I hadn’t been responsible for Mason’s death. And suing me, or taking money from my insurance company, wasn’t going to bring the Watts’ son back to them. I’d let my insurance company talk to them, but the lawyer for the Watts family had wanted more money than the insurance company had been willing to pay. So, I was here in civil court, defending myself. I’d be back in front of a judge again in a few weeks facing criminal charges of destruction of property and vandalism because of my actions in the lab. Oh fucking goody.

I stood and gathered up my coat and purse from the seat beside me, then followed Tom behind the retreating backs of people filing from the courtroom. I hadn’t seen Brooks here. That surprised me a little. As one of the other defendants, I would’ve expected him to be present. I considered asking my attorney about it, but changed my mind. He was in the middle of an animated debate with opposing counsel.

“Kate…Kate, wait.” I recognized the voice calling behind me as my hand touched the brass guard plate of the courtroom door. Miles MacDougal hadn’t spoken a civil word to me since that morning in the lab. Joe said Miles blamed me for what happened, which didn’t make sense to my mind. But emotions frequently don’t make sense, and Miles had lost the woman he loved that morning. Samantha Greeley wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t Samantha any more either, and God alone knew where she was. Even the collective didn’t seem to have knowledge of her. Or, if they did, they were hiding it from me.

I made sure to keep my expression completely neutral as I turned to face him. I liked Miles. His anger had hurt me more than I’d care to admit. I’d tried to hide my pain by acting pissed. It hadn’t fooled Tom or my brother. They were both being very gentle with me at the moment because I still wasn’t completely over it. But I wanted to be. I wanted things to be right so that I could have my friend back.

Miles approached carefully. He looked older than he had a few weeks ago. There was gray in the bushy moustache, and in the thinning hair. But more than that, the shoulders beneath the navy suit slumped, and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.

“I’ll meet you outside.” Tom gave me a quick peck on the cheek and ducked out the doors that led to the hallway. He was giving us privacy, and I appreciated it. A lot of the guys I know wouldn’t have been able to suppress their protective instincts. My brother Joe, for example, would’ve hovered, glowering. Fortunately for me he was out of town at a conference.

“Miles.” I kept my voice steady and neutral.

Miles MacDougal straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath to gather his courage. His gaze locked with mine with no flinching. “I owe you an apology.” His eyes were red with suppressed tears, but his voice was strong. “I needed someone to blame. It was easier than blaming myself. This wasn’t your fault.”

“No,” I agreed.

“It was mine.”

“No. You’re wrong.” I spoke firmly. “It wasn’t. It was her mistake. She underestimated them. Most people do. They don’t look threatening. They’re small, not physically imposing, so people let their guards down.”

He shook his head, sadly. “Thank you for saying that. But you’re wrong. I…I had misgivings about the project from the beginning, but Samantha was so enthusiastic. She wanted it so very badly. I let her talk me into it—helped her get funding and volunteers. She wouldn’t have been able to get hospital approval without my backing the project.”

I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t know what to say. He’d made a horrible, tragic mistake. He obviously had been in love with the woman, hell, still was. People in love do stupid things all the time. His mistake had just had tragic consequences.

“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and I knew it the moment the words passed my lips. But nothing I said was really going to matter. Miles blamed himself. It didn’t matter if anyone else blamed him, or what they might say. This was his very own, personal hell.

Miles gave me a weak smile, and held out his hand. Instead of shaking it, I pulled him into a hug. It was awkward. I’m not really the “huggy” kind and I didn’t think he was either. But he needed comfort and it was the best I could do for him.

“You’d better get out of here. Tom’s waiting.” He pulled back slowly. I let him go.

“Are you going to be okay?” I caught his gaze and kept it.

He didn’t dignify the question with a response, just gave me a sad smile and a gentle shove toward the door. I went, both because he wanted me to and because I was too awkward and chicken to know how to deal with such raw emotions.