Twilight Prophecy. Maggie Shayne
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for reasons of national security, Matt,” he said, as if speaking to a slow student who didn’t quite get the point. “As demented as poor Mr. Folsom was, we can’t ignore the fact that he did indeed work as a covert agent, and in that capacity, he was privy to massive amounts of sensitive information.”
“Apparently enough to get him shot,” the newsman replied.
“No one has proven that the murder had anything to do with—”
“Don’t give me that,” Matthew interrupted. “A guy’s about to release a tell-all, an exposé, about his work as a covert op, and he gets blown away, execution-style, on the eve of that. Do I look like I was born yesterday?”
“Matt, you’re not giving me a chance to explain—”
“There are sources, Mr. Jenner, who say Folsom’s work involved the paranormal. The unknown. Some of the blogs are claiming he was about to reveal the actual existence of a race of vampires. How do you respond to that?”
The guest made a face. “Anyone can post anything on the internet. You know that. No right-minded person would believe—”
“We might know what to believe if the storm troopers hadn’t raided every book distribution center in the country, destroying every copy in existence so none of us could read for ourselves …”
“You’d be reading fiction. With just enough real information thrown in to cause serious problems.”
“Are you concerned at all about rumors that there were a handful of advance copies floating around? That WikiLeaks has published what they claim are actual excerpts from the Folsom manuscript on their website?”
The bureaucrat measured his words. “As far as we know, we’ve managed to find every copy.”
“It’s for sure you got all of Folsom’s. And his notes, and everything else he had in his house in the Caribbean. Relatives claim soldiers gutted the place.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“They say you stripped it to the bare walls. Even rolled up the carpets.”
“Well, I wasn’t a part of that team, and I’m sure the family’s feeling very violated, and perhaps, in their grief, might just be blowing things a tiny bit out of pro—”
“Tell me this, Mr. Jenner. Is there, or has there ever been, a secret division of the CIA devoted to investigating cases involving the paranormal?”
Jenner looked Matthew Christopher right in the eye, leaning slightly forward in his seat. “Absolutely not.”
“Who shot Lester Folsom, Mr. Jenner?”
“We don’t know. But believe me, the murder of a CIA operative, even a retired one like Folsom, is something we take very seriously. We’ve put every resource we have on this, and we will not rest until Lester Folsom’s murderer is—”
Brigit clicked the remote control, accidentally hitting the channel selector rather than the off button. The riot taking place on the TV screen held her riveted. Flames were licking at the early morning sky, devouring what looked like a brownstone. The tagline on the bottom read Riots Break Out in Brooklyn. The reporter was saying that a gang of self-proclaimed vigilantes apparently believed the residents of the two-family building were vampires, and so they’d set the place on fire and burned them alive.
She hit the remote again, turning the TV off, and closed her eyes. Where are you, big brother? The world is going insane, and it’s not safe out there for you.
He spoke to her mentally. I’ve got the professor.
You rescued her alone?
They let her go. Planted a chip, but I tossed it. We’re on our way.
Not here, Brigit replied, her lips moving as if to give more emphasis to her words. It’s not safe. Word’s out. Vigilante vampire hunters just murdered two families in Brooklyn. As soon as the sun sets, I’m taking Aunt Rhi and getting out of here.
Go to the Byram house, her brother told her. They think we abandoned it long ago.
Good idea.
Be careful, Bridge.
I will, bro. You, too. See you in Byram. Wait till after dark.
See you there, he assured her.
Brigit closed the channels of her mind, just in case there might be anyone around trying to pick up on mental transmissions. God, if the mortal world truly knew they existed … then they’d be lucky if any of them managed to survive.
She must have slept all day, Lucy thought as she came slowly awake. The sun was gone, having set beyond the distant horizon sometime before she lifted her head to stare through the car’s windshield.
They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, driving along a narrow, twisting, dark road without a painted line or a streetlight in sight. The pavement was cracked and littered with potholes, and the edges were disintegrating chunks of broken asphalt. Forests stood clothed in a misty purple haze in the distance, and just as she was about to ask where in the name of creation they were, they rounded a hairpin curve and she saw a mansion straight out of an old Saturday afternoon creature feature.
It rose, gothic and dark, with countless sharp spires stabbing into the deepening twilight sky. A few of its arched windows were lit, but most remained black, like sad, vacant eyes. And the wrought-iron fence that rose tall around the outside leaned lazily this way and that, as if its spearlike points were tired of standing guard.
To Lucy’s horror, James turned into the twisting dirt path that passed for a driveway, passing in through the open gate and driving nearer the house she was sure must have been the setting for a plethora of Vincent Price films.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t panic, okay? I know it’s scary looking, but it’s just a house, and it’s one of the few where they won’t be looking for us.”
“They aren’t looking for us. They’re looking for you. They let me go, remember?”
“This is just a stop along the way.”
“Where the hell are we? Why did I sleep so long?”
“We’re in Connecticut.” He stopped the car, shut off the engine. “And you slept so long because you were drugged last night, and … and because I told you to.”
“You told me to.” She looked at him as if he were insane.
“The power of suggestion is … it’s another of my …”
“Finally!” The driver’s door was yanked open, and a pair of female arms wrapped themselves around James before he could get out. The newcomer’s blond hair was barely visible from within the car, but her swimsuit-model bosom was level with Lucy’s line of sight as the woman released James to kiss his face, then squeezed him again. Lucy relaxed as she realized that it was just his sister, Brigit. Not that she cared. She was angry, she reminded herself. Which, by the way, was unlike her. She didn’t get angry. She negotiated; she talked things out with reason and with logic. She avoided conflict.
Until she’d been shot down in a Manhattan street and dragged into some kind of intrigue that had nothing to do with her.
“You said you would take me home,” Lucy accused James’s back.
“You said I would take you home. I just didn’t correct you.” His voice was muffled by the hug, until his twin finally released him and straightened away.
“Aunt Rhi and I have been worried sick. You took much longer than we expected. You should have checked in.” She peeked around him, smiled and bent down a little to wave her fingers at Lucy. “How are you doing, Professor?”
“I just want to go home.”
“Yeah,