D.B.Reynolds Amerikai vámpírok sorozat angol nyelven Raphael 1

D.B.Reynolds Amerikai vámpírok sorozat angol nyelven

 

Raphael 1

 

 

Chapter Twenty-one

Paris, 1793

RAPHAEL ROAMED the bowels of the prison, breathing in the scent of human suffering, the heady fragrance of terror beneath the reek of expensive perfume. The cells were filled to overflowing with the pampered aristocrats of Paris, their fine clothing now tattered and torn, their soft skin covered with filth that no amount of perfume could conceal. The women’s cell blocks were his favorite. Oh, to be sure, the men were overwhelmed with rich despair, wondering if the next day would be their last, or perhaps the one after that. With every thump of the guillotine in the great courtyard, the fear soared that their own heads would be falling into the basket all too soon.

But the men, for the most part, were mewling cowards, huddling in the corners of their miserable cells, unable to believe such a fate had befallen them in the very heart of French high society. They had already surrendered their hearts and souls, if not their bodies.

But, the women! Fierce defenders of their lives and virtue, defiant until the moment the bright blade fell upon their delicate necks. Their terror was so much more vivid, their spirits so much more alive than the men, even in this hellish hole.

He walked freely through the dank halls, cloaked in shadow, in the anonymity of a forged uniform that declared him one of the victors . . . today. For the victors of today could easily become the victims of tomorrow. He’d seen empires and kings rise and fall too many times to believe anything about the human race would be permanent. The women in the cells looked up at him as he passed by, drawn to him in spite of the animal instinct that warned them to flee. He paused by a nearly empty chamber, eyeing its lone occupant. She was no longer young, but still comely, a woman of flesh which indicated wealth in this city, at this time. Her dazed eyes watched him warily as he opened the cell door.

“Have no fear, little one,” he soothed. “I will make it better.”

She fell easily under his spell, her body going slack in his arms as he bent to her fleshy neck. He grimaced at the taste of her blood, the disease tainting her life. It was all too common to find a fine woman so corrupted, infected by her own husband—a good upstanding member of society who fucked the whores on the docks, then brought their sickness home to his wife, filling her with death even as he filled her with life. Vive la revolution, he thought cynically. They deserved to be swept away by the great broom of history. He swallowed, fighting the urge to spit out the blood. The disease would not infect him and the blood nourished regardless.

From outside the cell, a young woman’s laughter caught his attention. He lifted his head, scenting the air. So familiar that sound, it tugged on his memory, calling to him . . .

He dropped the dying woman, remembering at the last moment to ease her to the ground before stepping into the corridor, his nostrils flaring. He stalked through the halls with new purpose, intent on finding the source of this disturbance, this thing that called forth a long dead emotion he could not even name.

Rounding a corner, he saw the pack of prison guards, their honest uniforms a sad imitation of his own forgery, their bodies no cleaner than the prisoners they watched over. They’d found some pitiful sport with one of the women; he’d seen it before, these scabrous street villains taking pleasure in the soft folds of a woman only a few months ago they’d never have dared even to gaze upon. They had this one backed into a corner, gathering around her like a pack of wolves. Her laughter danced over their heads and he frowned. Why would she—

One of the rapists made his move, the entire pack shifting as he made a grab for the unfortunate girl. Raphael heard a howl of pain, and the mood shifted as the guards drew back in fear, some of those closest to him, turning to run. There was blood. He could smell it, ripe and fresh. He pushed forward, the guards shrinking back from him, their faces dazed as if—

Impossible. Raphael pushed his way through the filthy pack, throwing men aside, heedless of their cries of pain, of fear. They were nothing to him. She, she was everything. She was . . . Sasha.

She stared up at him, her thick hair matted and dirty, her body reeking of the sweat and blood of too many men. The black eyes so like his own gave him a lazy glance, then sharpened in recognition, filling with disdain and something very like hatred. Her gore-filled mouth opened in a harsh laugh, revealing slender fangs.

“Well, well,” she mocked. “Look who’s come to party with us, gents. My own dear brother. Come finally to take what you lusted after all those years, Vadim?”

“Sasha!” he said, shocked as much by her words as her very existence.

“Sasha,” she mimicked cruelly. “No longer, Vadim. Such childish names are long behind me.” She shoved away the human in her arms and strode up to him, her eyes filled with anger as they took in his fine clothes and clean hands. “You left! You abandoned me to—”

“What is this, Alexandra?”

Raphael turned toward the oily voice, his lips drawing back in a snarl as a new vampire strolled into sight, his clothing as shabby and dirty as any prisoner’s, his mouth wet with blood. He grinned when he saw Raphael. “The pretty one!” he said with a bark of laughter. “Tell me, were you with our mistress when she died? I heard it was quite gruesome.” He shifted his gaze to Alexandra, calling her with a jerk of his head. She sidled closer to him, rubbing herself against his side with a whine of fear.

Raphael’s lip curled in disgust. “Alexandra,” he said sharply.

She didn’t even look at him. The vampire laughed. “She’s not yours anymore, boy.” He pulled her against him, one hand groping her breasts obscenely. “She’s all mine.” His fingers wrapped in her hair, jerking her head back to meet his gaze. “Aren’t you, sweetling?”

“Yes, Master,” she whimpered.

Raphael clenched his jaw against a rage that threatened to burn him alive. “Release her and live to see another night,” he growled, his voice a low rumble of sound.

The vampire sneered. “That’s not how this works, youngling. Our mistress is dead and you—” He sniffed in Raphael’s direction. “You are unclaimed . . . and doing well, it seems. I think a family reunion is in order.” His face hardened. “But it will be my will that rules, boy. Not yours.” He pushed Alexandra aside, drawing himself up in obvious challenge. Raphael laughed and let his power flow unfettered, relishing the other vampire’s look of shock . . . and fear.

“I think not,” Raphael said softly.

Alexandra fought him, fought for the life of her Sire who threw her into the fray in a desperate bid for his own escape, showing no concern for her safety. Raphael’s power swept over the fleeing vampire, crushing him to the ground, draining the life from him. Alexandra screamed, pounding ineffectually on Raphael’s broad back, her filthy nails reaching for his face until he finally subdued her, shielding her from her Sire’s death, claiming her for his own as the dead vampire crumbled to dust. She staggered against the wall, then slumped to the ground. Her whimpers tore at his heart as he wrapped her abused body in his cloak. He picked her up in his arms and strode down the fetid corridors into the fresh night air, unseen, unchallenged, hurrying through the violence-torn city, no longer hearing the screams of the dying or the raucous laughter of the killers.

Guilt overwhelmed him as he passed down the dark streets. He had thought her dead all these years. Had his mistress known Alexandra lived? Had she kept that from him? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Alexandra. She was with him again, and he would save her this time. He would save her for all eternity.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-two

CYNTHIA DRAGGED her ass out of the Land Rover, wondering if she had the energy to make it up the stairs to her third floor bedroom. The guest bedroom on the second floor had a perfectly comfortable bed. For that matter, the couch in the beach room was looking pretty damn comfortable too. She slid her key card through the reader and pushed open the heavy door, letting it go as she stumbled through.

An unexpected thump sounded from upstairs and she looked up sharply, her hand going out to catch the door before it could slam shut and announce her arrival. “Oh, give me a break,” she muttered.

She lowered her backpack to the floor and slipped out of her leather jacket, then pulled the Glock from its shoulder holster and started up the stairs. Forcing herself to move slowly, she hugged the wall, keeping her sight focused upward, spinning around quickly at the short landing to clear her exposure to the next level. She could hear voices, on the top floor, she thought. Her office. Damn. Moving faster now, she peeked over the ledge as her eyes came even with the second level, then hurried up the last few stairs.

There were no lights on, but there was definitely someone up there. They were making no attempt to conceal their presence and clearly hadn’t heard her return. As Cyn eased through the kitchen, she saw a key card lying on the island countertop. Great. Not just burglars, but incompetent burglars. She was too fucking tired to deal with this shit. She paused at the last flight of stairs, listening. Whatever they were after, they weren’t moving around much, not tossing her drawers or anything. In fact, they weren’t moving at all. Frowning, she leaned against the wall and slipped out of her heavy boots and socks, then eased her way upward.

“Jesus, Billy, what’s taking so long? She’ll be home soon. Her vampire boyfriend’s gotta be in his coffin by now.”

“I told you, they don’t sleep in coffins, you idiot. That’s stupid movie crap. They sleep in beds like everyone else.”

“Don’t call me an idiot! Who got us this far?”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Look, be quiet a minute, would you? I need to concentrate here. Are you sure the tape’s in there? She doesn’t like, lock it up or something?”

“This is locked up, dummy. And it’s not a tape, it’s a computer file. Christ, why am I messing with you anyway?”

“‘Cuz I’m the one whose cousin works for Fox, baby. They’ll pay us a bundle for this little home movie.”

“Yes,” Cynthia drawled. “And it’ll buy you the very nicest funeral after the vampires twist your heads off. But, hey, your parents will be so proud.”

Holly shrieked loud enough to hurt Cyn’s ears before dropping the flashlight she’d been holding. It rolled around on the floor, casting a haphazard light on the two shocked burglars. The male half of the duo, a youngish surfer-looking type whose name was apparently Billy, simply stood there staring at her with his mouth hanging open. He didn’t even try to conceal the lock picks dangling from the keyhole to her office.

“Geez, Cyndi, way to scare a person to death!”

Cynthia kept her gun trained on the two of them as she stepped over and flipped on the hall light. “What’s going on, Holly?”

“Well, it’s obvious isn’t it? You caught us. Boo hoo. So put the gun down and we’ll leave quietly.”

Cyn stared. “Just like that? No, ‘Gee, Cynthia, sorry for trying to break into your private office, but aren’t you glad we’re a couple of incompetent boobs?’ Not even an insincere apology, Holly?”

“You’re such a bitch sometimes. Really. I shouldn’t even have to break in. You should do the right thing and give me the disc, out these bloodsuckers once and for all. It’s your duty to the human race.”

Cynthia shook her head in disgust and slipped her gun back into its holster. “You’re unbelievable. Get the fuck out of my house and take Einstein here with you.”

Holly huffed indignantly and grabbed Billy’s arm, but he jerked away, stopping to gather his lock picking tools under Cyn’s scornful gaze. Following them through the kitchen, she shook her head in amazement as her sister scanned the countertop casually, even going so far as to do a quick check of the floor around the island.

“You looking for this, Holly?” She held up the key card her sister had left sitting on the kitchen counter after her skulking entry.

Holly made a grab for the card. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cyn said, pulling it out of her reach. “You should count yourself lucky I’m not calling the cops on you and your boyfriend here. By the way, does Chuck know about this one?”

“Who’s Chuck?” Billy said with a frown.

Holly tightened her mouth angrily, but Cyn laughed in disbelief. She followed them down the stairs and through the door, all the way out of the garage until they climbed into a battered Toyota sedan, presumably Billy’s. Leaning against the wall, she watched the car chug up the short incline to the highway and make its turn. Straightening tiredly, she had turned to walk back into the garage when a soft scrape of sound spun her around. A footstep? She scanned the surrounding area, straining to see. It was still dark, that sharp edge of time between night and sunrise, when the light was too dim to see clearly, and yet her brain was telling her the sun was coming, that she should be able to see. Shadows clung to the scrubby bushes on the hillside and around corners of the building. Her gaze swept over the dark garages and small parking lot and up to the highway, still mostly empty this late, or this early. A smudge of black moved in the distance, a long, low vehicle coming towards her. Something big, like . . .

Oh, no. Her heart began to pound once again. No more vampires! She jogged into the garage and hit the button, closing the big roll-down door, one more barrier between her and whoever was in that limo. Hurrying into the house, she slammed the security door and threw the locks, vowing not to answer, no matter who knocked. It’s too late for vampires! a voice cried plaintively inside her head. Go home!

 

Chapter Twenty-three

CYN LUXURIATED beneath the touch of clever hands, the stroke of cool fingers down her back and over the curve of her hip, dipping between her legs to . . . What? She jolted awake, cursing. That damn vampire again. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling like shit. A glance at the clock told her it was nearly noon. She’d taken an Ambien to get to sleep that morning, pissed off at Holly and totally stressed about a certain sexy vampire who was determined to ruin her life. Five hours of restless sleep and nothing to show for it but vague memories of a honeyed voice and an ache between her legs that wouldn’t go away.

After downing a suitably strong cup of coffee and indulging in one of the housekeeper’s sinful muffins, she reprogrammed the magnetic lock on the lower door. Even if Holly had somehow managed to make a copy of Cyn’s key card, it would no longer work. She made a couple of new cards for herself, tucking one in her wallet and the other in her bedside table right next to her spare Glock 9 mm.

That done, she made some calls to her old department. From what Judkins had been able to tell her, she was pretty sure this Kolinsky guy was Russian Mafia. L.A. had a large East European emigre community and since the collapse of communism in the old Soviet Union, the mob presence had grown exponentially. Cyn had a couple of friends in the department. Casual friends, work-type friends. The kind she could tap for information. Like Benita Carballo who worked mostly Latin and Black gangs, but might have heard something around the office. They’d gone to the Academy together and had been pretty close for awhile. Until Cyn left LAPD. Then they’d drifted apart, exchanging phone calls two or three times a year. Benita was one of those petite Latinas who was constantly trying to prove she was every bit as tough as the guys.

Then there was Dean Eckhoff. He’d been her training officer during her rookie year and had made detective right after that, eventually assigned to Homicide. Dean had twenty years in the department, and he was probably her best bet for information on a possible Kolinsky mob connection.

A phone call to Benita got a receptionist who took a message, but would give no further information. That meant her friend was on assignment, possibly undercover, and it could be anywhere from an hour to a month before Cyn heard back from her. On the other hand, Eckhoff was in his office when she called, and he told her to come on by.

Before stepping into the shower, she called Raphael. She didn’t want him going off on his own before she’d tapped her sources who were sure to be more discreet and less extreme than his. Thankful for the impersonal greeting on his voice mail, she waited for the beep. “Raphael, this is Cynthia Leighton. I’m checking with some people I know about Kolinsky, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t make any moves until you hear back from me. I’ll call you as soon as I have something. Probably later tonight. Um, okay. Talk to you later.”

What a lame ass message, Cynthia. Professional? No. Clever? Not. Christ, you sound like a fifteen-year-old. She sighed and hung up. Apparently the vampire’s system didn’t have the option of deleting embarrassing messages. Too bad.

She had stripped off her clothes and turned on the water when her doorbell rang. Her door bell. On the front door. It took her a moment to figure out what the noise was. No one ever used the front door. Most people didn’t even think there was a front door, since it was on the second level and around the side of her building. And besides, the door through the garage was so much more convenient. But she’d closed the garage door, hadn’t she? Damn. Well, with the sun in the sky, at least she knew it wasn’t a vampire.

Cyn threw on some sweats, then edged quietly onto her balcony and peered around the side of the building. She didn’t have a camera on the front door; that’s how little it was used. It was a sturdy, solid wood door with a deadbolt on a reinforced frame, and it was tied into the alarm system, but that was it. A local delivery guy stood on the small landing, looking bored and clearly wondering if anyone was home. She slipped silently back into her house, then hurried downstairs to pull open the door. He brightened immediately.

“I have a delivery for Cynthia Leighton?”

All sorts of snappy comebacks came to mind, but, hell, the guy was only trying to do his job. “I’m Cynthia. What is it?”

He indicated a brown, sixteen inch square carton sitting at his feet, then handed her one of those handheld computers for her signature. Cyn eyed the carton uncertainly. “Who’s it from?”

The driver took his computer back and pushed a couple of buttons. “Raphael Enterprises? Right here in Malibu. Call came in, wow, way early this morning!”

“Really.”

He gave her a cheerful nod.

Cynthia sighed. “Okay.” She took the proffered device and signed her name, then dug into her sweats for the twenty bucks she kept in a zippered pocket for when she went jogging. Poor guy deserved a tip. He probably had no idea he’d ventured into a bloodsucker’s nest this morning. And she didn’t even want to think what might be in that innocent looking carton.

“Thanks!” He tucked away the tip and picked up the box, handing it over to her.

“Sure.” She was already wondering what new horror Raphael was depositing on her doorstep. Walking over to the kitchen, she slid the carton onto the counter, then using her kitchen shears—which had never been used to shear anything tougher than paper—she sliced the tape on the top of the box.

The first thing she saw was an envelope with her name written on it in a flowing, archaic hand. Her heart skipped a couple of beats and she licked her lips nervously. The envelope proved to contain several documents, every one of which pertained to the late Scott Judkins. There was a copy of his life insurance policy, along with a check for the full benefit; a copy of his employment contract, with the death provisions highlighted, and another check in an amount large enough to make her eyes widen. The final document was Scott Judkins’ instructions for disposal of his remains in the event of his death. Cynthia skimmed it quickly, a sick feeling growing in her stomach the more she read. When she finished, she set the document carefully on the counter and lifted the cardboard packing square sitting inside.

“Shit! That goddamned, bloodsucking, motherfucking . . .”

Nestled inside the carton, tucked neatly into its own little niche, was a simple bronze urn. The cremains of Scott Judkins.

Apparently, guards in Raphael’s employ agreed that in the event of their untimely deaths, their bodies would be transported immediately to the appropriate funeral home and disposed of accordingly. No doubt the vision of vampires feasting on their dead flesh played into their willingness for expeditious disposal, but Cynthia had to wonder how Mrs. Judkins was going to take the news that not only was her husband dead, but he had already been cremated, and, oh by the way, here he is. Fucking Raphael was probably laughing in his undead sleep.

 

Chapter Twenty-four

THE JUDKINS PLACE turned out to be one of those cookie-cutter houses that had cropped up by the thousands on the formerly bare hillsides east of L.A. They stood one next to the other, exactly alike except for minor design variations that repeated themselves every four houses or so. There were no yards to speak of, and if you and your neighbor didn’t use window blinds scrupulously, you were treated to the intimate details of each other’s lives. The great American dream of home ownership.

The neighborhood was empty when Cyn parked her Land Rover out front. It was still early enough that kids were in school, and in most of these families, both parents probably worked. A stay at home mom was a luxury they couldn’t afford. Not and keep the house. Emily Judkins was apparently one of the exceptions. She answered the door when Cynthia rang, an average woman, with blond hair and tired eyes. Probably worried about her husband. Cyn sighed.

“Mrs. Judkins? Emily Judkins?”

“Yes.” The word came out a little shaky. She’d taken one look at Cynthia in her black, hand-tailored Armani and the Land Rover parked out front and figured Cyn wasn’t from the local Homeowners Association.

Cynthia held out her hand. “My name is Cynthia Leighton, Mrs. Judkins. I work for . . . Raphael Enterprises.” She came up with the name the driver had used this morning. “Could I come in for a moment?”

The tired eyes filled with tears as Mrs. Judkins shook Cynthia’s hand, holding on a little tighter and a little longer than absolutely polite. “Scott’s dead, isn’t he?” she whispered.

“If we could go inside,” Cynthia prompted.

“Please tell me! Is my husband dead?”

Cynthia regarded the woman solemnly. What difference did it make, after all, where she heard the news? “I’m sorry, Mrs. Judkins. Truly sorry.”

Emily covered her face, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs. When she turned away and wandered back into her house, Cynthia followed, closing the door. Cyn was not someone who easily or willingly hugged perfect strangers, or even people she knew only slightly. She was uncomfortable with excessive emotion of almost any kind, especially in front of others, having been raised in a virtual emotional vacuum herself. Still, she knew the expected forms and she really did feel sorry for Scott Judkins’ and his family. It wasn’t that she didn’t have feelings; she just wasn’t comfortable expressing them.

Cyn put an awkward arm around the smaller woman and guided her to the couch, then found the kitchen and got a glass of water. She wasn’t sure what the water was supposed to do, but everyone seemed to need a glass of water in a crisis of this sort. A box of Kleenex sat on the kitchen counter, so she snagged that on her way back.

Putting the water on the table, she held out the box. Judkins grabbed a couple of tissues in between sobs, which made Cynthia feel she’d done the right thing in bringing them. She patted the woman’s shoulder tentatively, and felt even more awkward, so settled for a quick comforting rub before reclaiming her hand and perching on the chair next to the couch. “Is there anyone I can call, Mrs. Judkins? Someone you’d like here with you?” She knew that much from her police training.

“No,” Judkins murmured. “No, I’ll be fine. I’m sorry.” She used a few more tissues and took a sip of water. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I guess I’ve always known it would come to this.”

Cynthia searched for something to say. “How did your husband come to work for, um, the company, Mrs. Judkins?”

“It’s all right,” she said with a watery smile. “I know what they were, what they are. Scott and I talked about it, whether it was the right thing to work for a vampire.” She blushed slightly. “I feel foolish even saying it. So many people don’t believe they’re real, or pretend not to.”

“It’s not exactly a secret.”

“No, but it’s not talked about either, is it? I suppose they want it that way.” She looked away, suddenly sad once again. “So, what happens now? I know Scott had . . .” Her lip trembled and she took another sip of water. “Do you know? That is. Do you know how he . . .”

“There was an attack on the estate. The attackers were well-armed and several guards were killed before anyone understood what was happening. The motivation is somewhat unclear at this point, although we are investigating.” A sudden thought occurred to Cyn. “We have reason to believe there may be some connection to organized crime. I don’t know how much Scott told you about what he did.”

“He hardly ever talked about it,” Emily said with a melancholy smile. “He said this was his refuge. This house, our daughter . . . me. But things slipped occasionally, you know how it is.” She looked at Cynthia. “You’re married, Ms. Leighton?”

“Uh, no. But I understand,” she lied. “Did he have any friends he talked to? Maybe even someone he worked with?”

“Not really. We lived so far away. Most of the others lived closer to the estate, so it was difficult. Lately, he’d been spending a lot of time with someone my cousin’s husband introduced him to. Barry something. I heard them talking a few times, but I never met him myself.”

“You said your cousin introduced them?”

“My cousin’s husband,” she corrected. “Ronnie. This Barry worked with him. Ronnie’s a truck driver. That used to be a good job, you know. Until they started recruiting over in Mexico. Now they bring in people who live ten to a room and work for half the price. So guys like Ronnie are out of luck. Anyway, he got this job at some warehouse over in East L.A., and it’s worked out really well for him. When he found out where Scott worked, he introduced him to this guy Barry. I guess Barry was looking for a security job. My husband never really talked to me about it.” She frowned thoughtfully, glancing at Cyn and away as if trying to decide whether to go on.

“Mrs. Judkins? Was there something you wanted to tell me about Barry?”

She made a face. “It’s just that Scott didn’t seem to like him very much, but they spent a lot time together anyway. That’s odd, don’t you think?”

“Did you ever hear them talk about work, anything—”

“Was Barry involved in this? Did he do something that got Scott killed?”

Cynthia regarded the other woman silently, feeling guilty at the idea of pumping a grieving widow for information. On the other hand, this might be her only chance. “It’s possible,” she admitted. “We do have reason to think Barry was involved.”

“But not Scott! You can’t believe that! Scott would never do something like that. He’s a good man . . .” Her voice faltered. “He was a good man. And he loved his job, Ms. Leighton.”

“What sorts of things did they talk about? Your husband and Barry. Did they talk here, or was it—”

“No! Scott never brought Barry here to the house. They talked on the phone mostly, or met at a local bar.” Her mouth tightened in disapproval. “I didn’t like that, Scott going to the bars so much.” Emily grew silent. Cyn was just about to say something to prompt her, when she started talking again. “Like I said, I didn’t hear much, but there was one thing that kind of stuck in my mind. A name, I think. I took a class last semester at the college. A night class, you know, for people who want to learn something interesting, or meet someone, I guess. There were an awful lot of single people there. Anyway, it was a poetry class, 19th century poetry, and that’s why the name stuck in my mind.”

Cynthia smiled encouragingly, wondering if the story was going anywhere.

“Pushkin,” Emily said, as if that explained everything.

“Pushkin? You mean the Russian poet?”

“Exactly. That’s the name I heard on a voice mail message. I picked up Scott’s messages by mistake and there was a message from Barry. Of course, as soon as I realized what I’d done, I hung up.”

Sure you did, honey, Cynthia thought to herself.

“But he said that name. Pushkin. Which I thought was odd.”

“Hmm. The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but it might to someone else. That might be helpful, Mrs. Judkins. Thank you.” Cynthia cleared her throat nervously and reached for her purse and the fresh envelope she’d prepared.

“Ah, I know this is difficult, Mrs. Judkins. But, well, I have some paperwork here that you need to see.”

Emily took the envelope hesitantly. She glanced up at Cyn, as if asking for permission, before gently lifting the flap. Her eyes filled with fresh tears when she saw the life insurance benefit statement, as if that single piece of paper brought home that her husband was really dead. By the time she got to the first check, and then the second, the tears were rolling unheeded down her face and her mouth was hanging open, stunned. “This is—”

“A lot of money. Yes. Raphael Enterprises takes its responsibilities very seriously. Your husband died doing his job, and the management doesn’t want you or your daughter to suffer because of it. That’s not enough to live forever.” She gestured at the two checks. “But if you manage it carefully, it’ll last awhile and maybe even put something away for your daughter’s college education. It doesn’t replace Scott, but—” She shrugged. “It’s something we can do.”

“Thank you,” Emily breathed. “I wouldn’t have known—”

“Mrs. Judkins, forgive me for intruding, but do you have family? Is there somewhere you could take your daughter, somewhere not in California?”

Emily looked at her in surprise, then alarm. “You think whoever killed Scott might try to harm us? To harm my daughter?”

“I don’t mean to frighten you, but these are very bad people. You’ve got the money there to build yourself a new life pretty much anywhere you want. It might be good for you, for your daughter, to get a fresh start.”

Emily clutched the envelope to her chest and stared at the house around her, as if cataloging the memories. “I have family in Wisconsin,” she whispered. “Maybe . . .”

“You don’t need to decide right now,” Cynthia hurried to say. “You don’t even need to let me know what you decide.” Please don’t tell me what you decide! she pleaded privately. “It’s just something to think about.” She stood and tugged her jacket straight. “I’m sure you want to call your family,” she said, thinking about the urn sitting in her truck. “I’ve uh, I’ve got—”

“Oh God, I have to call Scott’s parents.” Emily buried her face in her hands, drew a breath and looked up. “Thank you, Ms. Leighton, for coming to telling me. You’ve been very kind.”

I have? “It’s the least I could do. Your husband talked about you and your daughter, he thought about you all the time.”

“You knew Scott? You worked with him?”

“At the end. Yes. At the very end.” Cynthia made her way to the door, suddenly eager to get away from this comfortable home and its memories. “If you need anything further, if you have any questions, there’s a card in the envelope with a number you can call.”

She was already pulling open the door, steeling herself for her final, necessary act of delivery, when Emily called out from behind her. “What about Scott’s . . . remains.” The last word was a disbelieving whisper. “I know we agreed to cremation, but how is that . . .”

Cynthia blew out a breath, struggling to put some sort of dignified face on it. “I, uh . . . I have your husband’s urn in my car. I’m sorry, but I didn’t want—”

“Oh. Oh my God.”

“I’ll, um, I’ll get it for you. If that’s okay?”

“Of course. I . . .” Emily was crying again, hard, wracking sobs that collapsed her to the couch.

“Please let me call someone for you,” Cynthia said miserably.

“Helloooo!” Cynthia jumped as a voice called from outside the half-opened door. “Emily, you home?”

Cyn pulled open the door all the way to admit an older woman, stylishly but affordably dressed, old enough to be Judkins’ mother or aunt. Please let it be her mother or aunt!

“Emily, dearest, whatever . . .” The new arrival gave Cyn a suspicious look, then hurried over to comfort the grieving widow. Cynthia used the interruption to rush out to her truck and retrieve the brown box from the back seat. She’d thought about putting it all the way in the back, in the cargo compartment like she would have any other box, but it seemed too impersonal for someone’s ashes. On other hand, the front seat was way too creepy, so Scott had settled for the back seat. Still a people place, but not quite participatory.

Emily and her consoler had disappeared into the depths of the house by the time Cynthia returned, so she deposited the carton on the dining room table—again debating, floor or table, finally settling on the table since it probably didn’t get used that much anyway. She thought about calling out to say good-bye, but then figured Mrs. Judkins had probably heard pretty much everything she wanted to about, from or to Cynthia Leighton, so she closed the door quietly behind her, climbed into the Land Rover, and headed for the one man she thought could provide some answers. Who was Kolinsky and what did he have to do with a long-dead Russian poet?