4 Blood Pact Page 6

  “Where are you going?”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. “Not far. The walk-in closet in your mother’s room will make an adequate sanctuary. It will take very little to block the day.”

  “I’m going with you.” She swung her legs out of the bed and stood, ignoring the lack of light. Her mother had made no real changes in the room since she’d left—she’d have to be more than blind to lose her way.

  At the door, Henry’s cool fingers wrapped around her arm just above the elbow. She turned, knowing he could see her even though she could barely see the outline of his body.

  “Henry.” He moved closer as she reached out and laid her palm against his chest. “My mother . . .” The words wouldn’t come. She could feel him waiting and finally had to shake her head.

  His lips brushed very lightly against her hair.

  “You were right,” she said instead. “Sleep helped. But . . .” Her fingers twisted in his shirt and she yanked him slightly forward. “. . . don’t ever do that again.”

  His hand covered hers. “No promises,” he told her quietly.

  Yes, promises, she wanted to insist. I won’t have you messing with my head. But he messed with her head just by existing and under the circumstances, she wouldn’t believe any promises he made. “Get going.” She pushed him toward the door. “Even I can feel the sun.”

  Celluci lay stretched out on top of her mother’s bed, shoes off but otherwise dressed. She started, seeing him so suddenly appear in the glare of the overhead light and she had to stop herself from shaking him and demanding to know what he was doing there. On her mother’s bed. Except her mother wouldn’t be sleeping in it any more so what difference did it make?

  “He won’t wake,” Henry told her as she hesitated by the door. “Not until after I’m . . . asleep.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

  “Vicki.”

  The sound of her name pulled her forward until they stood only a whisper apart by the closet door.

  He reached up and gently caressed her cheek. “Michael Celluci has the day; I cannot share it with him. Don’t ask me to give him the night as well.”

  Vicki swallowed. His touch drew heated lines across her skin. “Have I ever asked that of you?”

  “No.” His expression twisted and slid a little into sadness. “You’ve never asked anything of me.”

  She wanted to protest that she had, but she knew what he meant. “Not now, Henry.”

  “You’re right.” He nodded and withdrew his hand. “Not now.”

  Fortunately, the closet had plenty of room for a not so tall man to lie safely hidden away from the sun.

  “I’ll block the door from the inside, so it can’t be opened accidentally, and I brought the blackout curtain you hung in my bedroom to wrap around me. I’ll be back with you this evening.”

  With memory’s eyes she could see him, rising with the darkness after a day spent . . . lifeless.

  “Henry.”

  He paused, half through the door.

  “My mother is dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll never die.”

  The four-hundred-and-fifty-year-old bastard son of Henry the VIII nodded. “I’ll never die,” he agreed.

  “Should I resent you for that?”

  “Should I resent you for the day?”

  Her brows snapped down and the movement pushed her glasses forward on her nose. “I hate it when you answer a question with a question.”

  “I know.”

  His smile held so many things that she couldn’t hope to understand them all before the closet door closed between them.

  “Vicki, you can’t possibly agree with what Fitzroy did!” When she suddenly became engrossed in sponging a bit of dirt off her good shoes, he realized she did, indeed, agree. “Vicki!”

  “What?”

  “He knocked me out, put me to sleep, violated my free will!”

  “He just wanted the same time alone that you’re getting now. Guaranteed free of interruption.”

  “I can’t believe you’re defending him!”

  “I’m not. Exactly. I just understand his reasons.”

  Celluci snorted and jammed his arms into the sleeves of his suit jacket. A few stitches popped in protest. “And what did the two of you do during that time alone free of interruption?”

  “He put me to sleep as well. Then sat and watched over me until dawn.”

  “That’s it?”

  Vicki turned to face him, both brows well above the upper edge of her glasses. “That’s it. Not that it’s any of your damned business.”

  “That won’t wash this time, Vicki.” He stepped forward, took the shoe from her hand, and dropped to one knee with it. “Fitzroy made it my business when he pulled that Prince of Darkness shit.”

  She sighed and let him guide her foot into the plain black pump. “Yeah, I suppose he did. I needed to sleep, Mike.” She reached down and brushed the long curl of hair back off his face. “I couldn’t have done it without him. He gave me the night to sleep when he could have taken it for himself.”

  “Very noble of him,” Celluci grunted, sliding her other foot into the second shoe. And it was very noble, he admitted to himself as he stood. Noble in the running roughshod I know best so don’t bother expressing an opinion sort of a way that went out with the fucking feudal system. Still, Fitzroy had acted in what he considered to be Vicki’s best interests. And he honestly didn’t think that he could have left them alone together—as Fitzroy had no choice but to do come morning. So I suppose I might have done the same thing under similar circumstances. Which doesn’t excuse his royal fucking undead highness one bit.

  What bothered him the most about it was how little Vicki seemed to care, how much she seemed to be operating on cruise control, and how little she seemed to be interacting with the world around her. He recognized the effects of grief and shock—he’d seen them both often enough over the years—but they were somehow harder to deal with because they were applied here and now to Vicki.

  He wanted to make it better for her.

  He knew he couldn’t.

  He hated having to accept that.

  All right, Fitzroy, you gave her sleep last night, I’ll give her support today. Maybe together we can get her through it.

  He got her to eat but eventually, when even trying to start an argument failed, he gave up trying to get her to talk.

  About noon, Mr. Delgado arrived to ask if Vicki needed a lift to the funeral home. She looked up from where she sat, silently rocking, and shook her head.

  “Humph,” he snorted, stepping back out into the hall and once again looking Celluci over. “You one of her friends from the police?”

  “Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci.”

  “Yeah. I thought so. You look like a cop. Louis Delgado.” His grip was still strong, his palm hard with a workman’s calluses. “What happened to the other guy?”

  “He sat up with her all night. He’s still sleeping.”

  “He’s not a cop.”

  “No.”

  To Celluci’s surprise the old man chuckled. “In my day two men fighting over one woman, there would have been blood on the street, let me tell you.”

  “What makes you think . . .”

  “You think maybe I shut my brain off when I retired? I saw the three of you together last night, remember?” His face grew suddenly somber. “Maybe it’s a good thing people got more civilized; she doesn’t need fighting around her right now. I saw her grow up. Watched her decide to be an adult when she should have been enjoying being a child. Tried to take care of her mother, insisted on taking care of herself.” He sighed. “She won’t bend, you know. Now that this terrible thing has happened, you and that other fellow, don’t you let her break.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “Humph.” He snorted again and swiped at his eyes with a snowy white handkerchief, his opinion of their best obviously not high.

  Ce
lluci watched him return to his own apartment, then quietly closed the door. “Mr. Delgado cares about you a great deal,” he said, crossing the room to stand by Vicki’s side.

  She shook her head. “He was very fond of my mother.”

  She didn’t speak again until they were in the car on the way to the funeral home.

  “Mike?”

  He glanced sideways. She wore her courtroom face. Not even the most diligent of defense attorneys could have found an opinion on it.

  “I didn’t call her. And when she called me, I didn’t answer. And then she died.”

  “You know there’s no connection.” He said it as gently as he could. He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t get one.

  There wasn’t anything else to say, so he reached down and covered her left hand with his. After a long moment, her fingers turned and she clutched at him with such force that he had to bite back an exclamation of pain. Only her hand moved. Her fingers were freezing.

  “It really is for your own good.” Catherine finished fastening the chest strap and lightly touched number nine on the shoulder. “I know you don’t like it, but we can’t take a chance on you jerking the needles free. That’s what happened to number six and we lost her.” She smiled down into the isolation box. “You’ve come so much farther than the rest, even if your kidneys aren’t working yet, that we’d hate to lose you, too.” Reaching behind his left ear, she jacked the computer hookup into the implanted plug, fingertips checking that the skin hadn’t pulled out from under the surgical steel collar clamped tight against scalp and skull.

  “Now then . . .” She shook her head over the shallow dents that marred the inner curve of the insulated lid. “You just lie quiet and I’ll open this up the moment your dialysis is over.”

  The box closed with a sigh of airtight seals and the metallic snick of an automatic latch.

  Frowning slightly, Catherine adjusted the amount of pure oxygen flowing through the air intake. Although he’d moved past the point where he needed it and he could have managed on just regular filtered air, she wanted him to have every opportunity to succeed. Later, when the muscle diagnostics were running, she’d give him a full body massage with the estrogen cream. His skin wasn’t looking good. In the meantime, she flicked the switch that would start the transmission through his net and moved to check on the other two boxes.

  Number eight had begun to fail. Not only were the joints becoming less responsive but the extremities had darkened and she suspected the liver had begun to putrefy, a sure sign that the bacteria had started to die.

  “Billions of them multiplying all over the world,” she said sadly, stroking the top of number eight’s box. “Why can’t we keep these alive long enough to do some good?”

  At the third box, recently vacated by the dissected number seven, she scanned one of a trio of computer monitors. Marjory Nelson’s brain wave patterns, recorded over the months just previous to her death, were being transmitted in a continuous loop through the newly installed neural net. They’d never had actual brain wave patterns before. All previous experiments, including numbers eight and nine, had only ever received generic alpha waves recorded from herself and Donald.

  “I’ve got great hopes for you, number ten. There’s no reason you . . .” A yawn split the thought in two and Catherine stumbled toward the door, suddenly exhausted. Donald had headed for his bed once the major surgery had been completed and Dr. Burke had left just before dawn. She didn’t mind finishing up on her own—she liked having the lab to herself, it gave her a chance to see that all the little extras got done—but if she wasn’t mistaken, she was rapidly approaching a day and a half on her feet and she needed to catch a nap. A couple of hours lying down and she should be good as new.

  Fingers on the light switch, she paused in the doorway, looked back over the lab, and called softly, “Pleasant dreams.”

  They weren’t dreams, nor were they quite memories but, outside the influence of the net, images stirred. A young woman’s face in close proximity, pale hair, pale eyes. Her voice was soothing in a world where too many lights were too bright and too many sounds only noise. Her smile was . . .

  Her smile was . . .

  Organic impulses moved turgidly along tattered neural pathways searching for the connection that would complete the thought.

  Her smile was . . .

  Kind.

  Number nine stirred under the restraints.

  Her smile was kind.

  “Ms. Nelson?”

  Vicki turned toward the voice, trying very hard not to scowl. Relatives and friends of her mother’s were milling about the reception room, all expecting her to be showing their definition of grief. If it hadn’t been for Celluci’s bulk at her back, she might have bolted—if it hadn’t been for his quick grip around her wrist she’d have definitely belted the cousin who, having driven in from Gananoque, remarked that earlier or later would have been a better time and he certainly hoped there’d be refreshments afterward. She didn’t know the heavyset man who’d called her name.

  He held out a beefy hand. “Ms. Nelson, I’m Reverend Crosbie. The Anglican minister who usually works with Hutchinson’s is a bit under the weather today, so they asked me to fill in.” His voice was a rough burr that rose and fell with an east coast cadence.

  A double chin almost hid the clerical collar but, given the firmness of his handshake, Vicki doubted that all of the bulk was fat. “My mother wasn’t a churchgoer,” she said.

  “That’s between her and God, Ms. Nelson.” His tone managed to be both matter-of-fact and sympathetic at the same time. “She wanted an Anglican service read to set her soul at peace and I’m here to do it for her. But,” bushy white brows drew slightly in, “as I didn’t know your mother, I’ve no intention of speaking as if I did. Are you going to be doing your own eulogy?”

  Was she going to get up in front of all these people and tell them about her mother? Was she going tell them how her mother had given up the life a young woman was entitled to in order to support them both? Tell them how her mother had tried to stop her from getting her first job because she thought childhood should last a little longer? Tell them about her mother, a visible beacon of pride, watching as she graduated from high school, then university, then the police college? Tell them how after her promotion her mother had peppered the phrase, “My daughter, the detective,” into every conversation? Tell them how, when she first got the diagnosis about her eyes, her mother had taken a train to Toronto and refused to hear the lies about being all right and not needing her there? Tell them about the nagging and the worrying and the way she always called during a shower? Tell them how her mother had needed to talk to her and she hadn’t answered the phone?

  Tell them her mother was dead?

  “No.” Vicki felt Celluci’s hand close over her shoulder and realized her voice had been less than clear. She coughed and scanned the room in a near panic. “There. The short woman in the khaki trench coat.” To point would expose the trembling. “That’s Dr. Burke. Mother worked for her for the last five years. Maybe she’ll say something.”

  Bright blue eyes focused just behind her for a second. Whatever Reverend Crosbie saw on Celluci’s face seemed to reassure him because he nodded and said quietly, “I’ll talk to Dr. Burke, then.” His warm hand engulfed hers again. “Maybe you and I’ll have a chance to talk later, eh?”

  “Maybe.”

  Celluci’s grip on her shoulder tightened as the minister walked away. “You all right?”

  “Sure. I’m fine.” But she didn’t expect him to believe her, so she supposed it wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “Vicki?”

  This was a voice she recognized and she turned almost eagerly to meet it. “Aunt Esther.” The tall, sparse woman opened her arms and Vicki allowed herself to be folded into them. Esther Thomas had been her mother’s closest friend. They’d grown up together, gone to school together, had been bride and bridesmaid, bridesmaid and bride. Esther had been teaching school in Otta
wa for as long as Vicki could remember, but living in different cities hadn’t dimmed the friendship.

  Esther’s cheeks were wet when they pulled apart. “I thought I wasn’t going to make it.” She sniffed and dug for a tissue. “I’m driving Richard’s six-cylinder tank, but they’re doing construction on highway fifteen. Can you believe it? It’s only April. They’re still likely to get snow. Damn, I . . . Thank you. You’re Mike Celluci, aren’t you? We met once, about three years ago, just after Christmas when you drove to Kingston to pick Vicki up.”

  “I remember.”

  “Vicki . . .” She blew her nose and started again. “Vicki, I have a favor to ask you. I’d . . . I’d like to see her one last time.”

  Vicki stepped back, trod on Celluci’s foot, and didn’t notice. “See her?”

  “Yes. To say good-bye.” Tears welled and ran and she swiped at them without making much impact. “I don’t think I’ll be able to believe Marjory’s actually dead unless I see her.”

  “But . . .”

  “I know it’s a closed coffin, but I thought you and I might be able to slip in now. Before things start.”

  Vicki had never understood the need to look at the dead. A corpse was a corpse and over the years she’d seen enough of them to know that they were all fundamentally alike. She didn’t want to remember her mother the way she’d been, stretched out on the table in the morgue, and she certainly didn’t want to remember her prepared like a manikin to go into the earth. But it was obviously something Esther needed.

  “I’ll have a word with Mr. Hutchinson,” she heard herself saying.

  A few moments later, the three of them were making their way down the center aisle of the chapel, shoes making no sound on the thick red carpet.

  “We did prepare for this eventuality,” Mr. Hutchinson said as they approached the coffin. “Very often when the casket is closed, friends and relatives still want to say one last good-bye to the deceased. I’m sure you’ll find your mother much as you remember her, Ms. Nelson.”