Beneath the Skin

4 ANOTHER VERSION OF THE TRUTH

SEATTLE, WA

March 25

GILLESPIE WALKED INTO HIS darkened living room, cell phone held tight against his ear. “Sounds like your coordinates are way off,” he said, tossing his keys onto the mail-cluttered going-out table. He shut the front door and twisted both dead bolts into place. “Recheck your data. What you’re saying’s impossible.” He switched on the lamp.

“I’ve triple-checked the coordinates, sir,” the surveillance tech said, her words cool and precise.

“Check again. Run it until it’s right. Then call me back.”

“Yes, sir.” A hint of frustration sharpened the tech’s words.

Gillespie hit the END button, then tossed his cell onto the coffee table. The phone smeared a clean spot amid all the dust layering the oak table’s lacquered surface. He hadn’t cleaned once in the six months since Lynda had split, leaving him a note and a half-empty closet and a strange sense of unbalance. And, though he kept nagging at himself, he still hadn’t gotten around to doing chores.

Maybe this weekend. Could even run the vacuum over the carpet while he was at it. Air the place out. It stank of mildew, musty carpet, and of something ripening in the kitchen trash.

Unzipping his jacket, he pulled it off, the Gore-Tex rustling, and draped it across an arm of the pale green sofa. Gillespie stood in the middle of the silent room, thoughts racing, his muscles kinked up so tight he felt like one touch would catapult him through the wall.

He smoothed a hand over his head, scrubbing beads of rain into his scalp. Thibodaux and Goodnight hadn’t bought the enhanced vamp line. His lie hadn’t taken root and he was pretty damned sure they’d known he was lying. He sighed. Dropping his hand to his side, he walked into the kitchen, Special Ops Director Underwood’s words kiting through his mind.

The truth will distract them and possibly get them killed.

With all due respect, ma’am, so will a lie.

You’d know, Sam. Still blaming yourself? After all these years?

Yes, until the end of time. But those had been words he’d kept to himself.

His muscles kinked one notch tighter.

The white refrigerator was a pale ghost in the predawn gloom veiling the kitchen. Gillespie yanked the door open and surveyed the contents—a package of American cheese slices, a quart of milk past the expiration date, a Jell-O dark chocolate pudding cup, and two six-packs of Pacifico beer.

Maybe he’d add grocery shopping to that mythical household task list for that mythical weekend.

Gillespie pulled a beer free, shouldered the refrigerator door shut, then pried off the beer cap. Flipping the cap into the stinky, garbage-bag-lined can—tally another chore for the weekend—beside the refrigerator, he walked back into the living room.

He plopped onto the sofa. Tipped the cold bottle against his lips and took a long swallow. Chilled and sharp, the beer tasted like amber liquid heaven, but did nothing to sluice away the dark thoughts rampaging through his mind like a grizzly through a tent full of steaks.

Goodnight and Thibodaux weren’t the only ones lied to.

He was pretty damned fucking sure he’d been lied to also.

We have no idea what went wrong, Gillespie, but we have a situation that needs immediate cleanup.

Not true. They’d known exactly what had gone wrong. Maybe they hadn’t been expecting it, but what had happened had been no mystery.

An FBI agent had been murdered and two other feds—both with stellar careers, one a hero—seemed to be involved in that death. Prejean had been in town with his band, Inferno. According to Underwood, he and his band had spent the night before Rodriguez’s murder at SA Wallace’s place.

Prejean—a True Blood.

In Gillespie’s twenty-one years of law enforcement, the last ten with the SB, he’d never encountered a True Blood. Of course, he hadn’t even been aware of the existence of vampires until the SB had recruited him from the FBI. Then he’d learned that not only did vamps exist, but they were an active part of the country’s infrastructure.

That fact had never rested easy with him, not even when he worked with dedicated vamp agents like Goodnight.

Just what was project Bad Seed? And how the hell had a True Blood become part of a joint special ops program, anyway? From what Gillespie had heard, True Blood vamps were rare and elusive beings. If Prejean was a tagged and observed subject in a study devoted to sociopaths, why in God’s name had he been allowed to remain loose?

Just how many things were wrong with this picture?

Underwood’s words replayed through Gillespie’s mind.

If Goodnight is told that Prejean is a True Blood, she might hesitate at a crucial moment and allow him to escape.

The SB is her life, ma’am. She’s a dedicated agent.

So was Wallace. And Lyons. Until they met Prejean.

Since Prejean seems to have such a strong effect on humans, ma’am, it sounds like Thibodaux, not Goodnight, might be in more danger of letting Prejean slip away. If I warned them—

No. Prejean’s status is classified. Your agents only need to know that they are to capture a dangerous killer—make him an enhanced one, given his speed—and two corrupted feds.

Ma’am, I’d prefer to tell my agents the truth—

Underwood laughs, the sound as warm as flannel on a cold day. Amused. When she speaks again, her voice remains warm: The last time you disregarded instructions, three agents died. I’m sure you don’t want to add to that tally.

Tension ratcheted his muscles another turn tighter. Gillespie wasn’t sure who he was angrier with—Underwood for rubbing his face in a big, steaming pile of shame, or himself for creating that big, steaming pile in the first place.

Gillespie downed his beer, then went to the kitchen and fetched two more. He paused by his desk long enough to scoop up his laptop. Time to do a little research on one Dante Prejean, SB classified subject, rock front man, and sociopath. He wondered what the feds and local Louisiana law had on the bloodsucking bastard.

Just as he slouched back down onto the sofa, one cold, moist bottle in hand, the other bottle on the coffee table creating a new ring in the dust, the laptop resting against his thighs, his cell phone trilled.

Snatching it up, Gillespie hit the TALK button and said, “Gillespie.”

“Sam?”

Gillespie sat up straight, his heart kicking his ribs, pulse thundering in his ears. Even though her voice sounded sleep-fogged, he couldn’t imagine her calling at this hour unless … “Is something wrong? The kids?”

“No, no, I had a dream, and … Are you okay?”

Gillespie closed his eyes and pressed the cold beer bottle against his forehead. “I’m fine.” He wanted to ask her about the dream, wondered what it meant that she still dreamed about him and cared enough to risk waking him to make sure he was all right.

“Since you answered on the first ring, you must be up already,” Lynda said with a soft sigh. “Or maybe you haven’t been to bed yet. You drinking, Sam?”

“Nah, just up early. Busy day today.”

“Well, if you’re okay—”

“Hey, I made an appointment with that therapist your sister recommended,” Gillespie said on reflex, looking for a way to keep her on the phone, a way to keep her sleepy, warm voice in his ear. He hoped she didn’t hear the lie in his voice.

“Great, that’s, uh, good news. I hope it works out. It wasn’t your fault—”

Gillespie’s phone clicked, interrupting Lynda’s words. He opened his eyes and lowered the beer bottle to the cushion beside him. Call waiting. With a low groan, he said, “Babe, I gotta go. Got another call.”

“That’s fine. I gotta go too. Bye.”

The relief in Lynda’s voice curdled his thoughts, and for an instant he caught a flash of what he must look like to her: a man eaten so lean by guilt that guilt was all that held him together—sinew and tendons. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He switched to the incoming call.

“Sir?” The surveillance tech’s voice curled into his ear. “I’ve run the coordinates two more times and the result was the same both times.”

“Send me the images.” Gillespie placed the beer bottle beside its mate on the coffee table.

“Downloading now, sir. The first image is from two hours ago. The second one is from five minutes ago.”

Gillespie lowered the phone from his ear and watched the monitor. The first image showed two houses from above, the main building and a guest cottage, tucked into a clearing surrounded by pine and evergreens. Several vehicles were parked in the driveway: a Dodge Ram truck, Wallace’s Trans Am, a Saturn sedan, and a tarp-covered vehicle.

The phone beeped as the next image was received. Gillespie stared at the screen, heart lurching into high gear. The guest cottage remained in place nestled into forest shadows, but now a huge hole in the earth yawned up at the sky where the main house had been. A black mouth ringed with what looked like statues—some capped like the standing stones at Stonehenge.

No main house. No vehicles.

Cold fear looped around Gillespie’s guts, twisted.

“Sir?” The tech’s voice sounded small and faraway. “Instructions?”

“Code 54,” Gillespie managed to say, his mouth dry. “Seal it up.”

“Code 54,” the tech repeated. “Roger, sir.”

Gillespie thumbed the END button. He picked up his condensation-slick bottle and drained it in several throat-stretching and painful gulps. Staring at the impossible image on the cell’s screen, he set the empty bottle on the coffee table. It fell over with a muted tunk, then rolled back and forth for a few seconds in an ever-diminishing arc.

Gillespie stood and paced the floor, his cell clenched tight against his palm.

The house was gone.

Possibilities whirled through his mind. Earthquake. Sinkhole. Some unknown disaster. But none of those possibilities accounted for the figures—the statues—surrounding the hole.

The house was gone.

What had he sent Thibodaux, Goodnight, and the Portland agents into? It was bad enough he’d been ordered to keep the truth from them. He needed to pull his agents back until the danger level at the Wells/Lyons compound had been reassessed.

He needed to call Underwood. Gillespie stopped pacing, grabbed up the unopened beer from the table, and pried off the cap. He poured a long, frosty swallow down his throat, but his heart refused to ease off the throttle.

As though preparing to take a high dive into a pool, Gillespie took several deep breaths, then tapped Underwood’s button on the speed dial.

She answered on the first ring. “Good morning, Chief Gillespie,” she said. “I hope you have good news for me. Are the subjects in custody?”

“No ma’am, not yet. The agents should be arriving in Oregon any moment. But I’d like permission to recall them. We have an … unexpected … problem.”

“I’m listening.”

“The house is gone.”

A long pause, then, “Are you drunk?”

“Not yet, ma’am,” Gillespie said. “I’m sending you the satellite scans that the surveillance tech sent me. The first one is from 4 a.m. PST, the second is five, eight minutes old.” He thumbed the SEND button. A moment later he heard a sharp intake of breath thousands of miles away in D.C. and knew the second image had arrived.

“Good God,” Underwood breathed.

“I’ve already issued a containment code, ma’am. May I recall my agents?”

“No. They can ascertain what has taken place and whether or not the subjects are still there.”

Gillespie resumed pacing, his fingers white-knuckling around the beer bottle. “The subjects may be dead, ma’am,” he grated. “I’d rather call back my agents, or at least let them know what to expect.”

“Those are statues circling the … pit. Someone had to place them there. So someone’s alive. You may call your agents and warn them, but under no circumstances are you to recall them or tell them to wait. In fact, I want you on the next plane to Portland to join them.”

Gillespie stopped pacing. “Understood, ma’am.”

“Be sure to arrive sober, Sam. Call me when you’ve secured the scene.”

The line went dead. Underwood’s typical I’m-not-happy-with-you-and-you-are-on-thin-ice-asshole sign-off.

Gillespie studied the framed Moulin Rouge poster Lynda had hung on the wall several years ago. He tipped the Pacifico bottle against his lips and drained the rapidly warming beer. Then he tapped in Thibodaux’s number and listened to it ring.