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PROLOGUE
Unlike her more glamorous sister to the south, the city of Providence slept-- or at least gave a damn good impression of it.
Staid brick buildings huddled together against the winter chill, and the white dome of the state house gleamed like the bald pate of a dozing sphinx. The entire Waterfront area, the showcase of the former mayor’s Renaissance City, looked as tidy and upscale as it had the day the mayor went to jail. The second time, not the first.
Charming yet colorful, historic and historically corrupt, Providence was home to an Ivy League college and more strip clubs per capita than any city in the country. It was, in short, a town that tolerated, and occasionally embraced, its multiple realities.
Tonight was such a time. Despite its somnolent mien, the city was watchful, expectant. There was a voiceless murmur in the air, an uneasy sense of shadows hiding in the darkness.
Midnight had come and gone. A bitter wind whipped across the circular basin that concluded the Waterfront walk, sending a shudder across the dark water and forcing bare-branched saplings into a brittle dance. Two burly figures shouldered their way through the gale. They climbed the broad stairs leading up the hill between the brew pub and the steak house, and turned down an otherwise empty street.
Tom Yoland, the smaller of the two, was a thick-bodied man just short of six feet. His black knit cap was pulled down over hair nearly as red as his wind-burned cheeks. He had the look of fisherman who didn’t like his job and didn’t particularly care who knew about it. His companion was Latino and at least three inches taller, a big man with an aggressive swagger and the type of muscularity that indicated serious time in the weight room. Both men walked with shoulders hunched against the cold, but their coats were left open and their ungloved hands held loose and light at their sides.
The big man drew in a long breath. “Smells like snow tonight.”
“Snow doesn’t smell like anything,” Yoland said dismissively. “You’ve got ice on your mustache, that’s all.”
“No, man. It’s not the same thing.”
“It’s all frozen water, and who the hell cares?”
They walked in silence for a few steps. Then, “A little snow would be good, it being Solstice and all.”
“How’s that?”
“Solstice. The beginning of winter, the longest night of the year. It’s the darkest night, too, what with the new moon.”
Yoland sent his companion an incredulous glare. “What are you, the Farmers’ fucking Almanac?”
A gust of wind sent a small flurry of city trash scuttling toward them, mostly paper cups discarded by people too hopped up on designer caffeine and self-importance to concern themselves with trash cans. Moniz absently kicked aside a vat-sized cup.
“It’s just that Teresa talks about this shit sometimes. How far we are from the cycles of the earth, how we've lost the ability to see things all around us. Like this star that's supposed to be visible during the day. We could see it if we looked, but we don’t.”
“And you mention this because?”
“Teresa might be right. I don’t like thinking about what I might be missing.”
“Then don’t.” Yoland sent a meaningful look at the shoulder harness faintly visible under the big man’s coat. “We’ve got more important things going. How about you keep your head in?”
“Just talking. Passing time, you know?”
“And you know what? It’ll pass all by itself, without the New Age bullshit to help it along. No offense to Teresa.”
Moniz acknowledged this with a shrug. They continued in silence for several blocks to a narrow side street and into a small parking lot filled with high-ticket cars. On the far side of the lot, on the back side of a multi-story building, was a plain wooden door. A discrete sign welcomed them to Winston’s.
A blast of dance music hit them as they edged into the narrow entrance hall. Two very blond bouncers, one male and one female, blocked the way like a pair of matching Aryan pit bulls. Both wore unrelieved black, and their white-blond hair was cut short and slicked back. Someone’s idea of designer muscle.
The female bouncer looked the two men up and down, a pointed and practiced gesture that quickly summed them up and dismissed them. “This is a private club,” she announced. Her blue-eyed gaze was icily superior, and her tone suggested that membership was not an honor to which they could aspire.
Yoland stared her down, unimpressed. He swept off his woolen cap, the gesture of a man who intends to stay a while. The movement, not coincidentally, opened his coat enough to show off the gun in his shoulder holster.
“Yoland and Moniz,” he said curtly, indicating himself and his companion. “Mr. Leone told us to come by. He’s expecting us.”
That name wilted the bouncers’ smug expressions. “Oh, right,” the man said quickly, his tone much more cordial than his partner’s had been. “Amy here will take care of you.”
“Sounds good to me,” Moniz murmured, treating the woman to a variation of her insulting up-and-down scrutiny.
Yoland added a smirk. “Amy? Not Gretchen? Or Brunhilda?”
She sent them both a scalding glare and led the way into the club. The throbbing music enveloped them as they inched their way through the gyrating throng.
Glitzy place, Yoland noted. The bar was a vast expanse of carved mahogany, the small tables along the walls had fancy tile inlays. At the far end of the room, three sleek young women, dressed for holiday clubbing in festively skimpy red or green dresses, danced on a raised stage. They were dancers, not strippers, which would have been too obvious for this crowd.
The club drew a young and obviously overpaid clientele. The air crackled with that brittle, frantic energy of people who grimly determined to have fun. Yoland was willing to bet that none of these post-yuppies would leave until at least one deal was made – a pocketful of phone numbers for future reference, a hit of Ecstasy in the ladies’ room, a private dance or a party for two (or three) in one of the discrete back rooms.
The music softened, shifting to a slower, sensual dance that pulsed through the crowd like a collective heartbeat. Dancers fused into pairs. Yoland predicted that the back rooms would fill up before the number finished.
Sure enough, the crowd started to thin. Their escort picked up the pace. They moved briskly up a flight of stairs and through a VIP area that wouldn’t have looked too out of place in an old-school men’s club--gleaming dark wood, comfortable leather chairs.
Amy strode to a door on the back wall, rapped twice, and opened it. She stood aside to let them enter.
Inside, all pretence of respectability had been abandoned. Three very large bodyguards stood against the far wall, arms crossed, flat eyes assessing the newcomers. All wore guns at their belts, as well as coldly confident expressions that, for intimidation purposes, probably worked nearly as well as the hardware.
Tiger Leone, the club owner, was a huge man who carried a lot of muscle and even more fat. He was of mixed race, from the looks of him mostly Asian and Black, with just enough Narragansett blood in the mix to earn him a portion of the state’s legitimate gambling revenue. He was seated in a huge armchair of purple velvet that must have been custom made to accommodate his bulk, and the expression in his narrow black eyes was that of a medieval despot holding court. Tiger wore an enormous black silk shirt and cream colored pants, way too much gold, and a pair of teenaged girls.
An aerobicized Black girl in skimpy workout gear draped herself over his shoulders, and a bottle blond who out-siliconed Pamela Anderson was perched on his lap. The blond wore pink shorts and tee shirt, both very bright and very brief. A third girl, a slim, feline brunette, curled up on the floor beside an ottoman that matched Tiger’s throne. She was dressed in a strapless front-laced bodice of purple suede and a matching leather skirt, so short and so daringly slit on the sides that it was little more than a loincloth. Purple makeup encircled her catlike eyes and made her full lips look like a very ripe plum. With one long, purple nail she traced a circle around the handgun lying on the ottoman. The girl was definitely representing – all she was missing was a big gold necklace reading “Badass Fashion Accessory.” Subtle, Tiger wasn’t, but the overall effect – a modern day sultan, a vice lord in his sleazy little palace – came across just fine.
The huge man nodded to the newcomers. “Right on time. I like that. You want a drink?”
Yoland shifted his gaze from the brunette. “Maybe after.”
“Have yourselves a private dance, too. Consider it part of the deal.”
He nodded his thanks. “We’re short on time tonight, so someone’s gonna have to tell us which girls are working and which ones just came to play.”
The implication pleased Tiger. “No one can tell the customers from the whores just by looking,” he boasted. “And some people never know, not even after they’ve paid and played.”
Odd as that sounded, Yoland knew it to be true. Winston’s had a quiet rep as a safe place to get high quality recreational drugs, particularly those offering an erotic boost, as well as an attractive variety of like-minded, short-term friends. A few couples came to the club to spice things up, but most of the clients were young singles looking for an evening of fun.
The formula was simple: buy pretty girls or guys their drug of choice, drop a few bills for one the private rooms available for discrete hire, go home with a smile on your face and a phone number in your pocket. Some of these encounters led to “second dates” –- at the club, of course. For employees, there was never a third date. House rules. The working girls and guys were rotated from club to club so that even some of the hardcore regulars didn’t catch on to the hustle. Others probably figured it out but didn’t want to let on, even to themselves. Winston’s was the kind of place where people who “would never pay for sex” could count on getting laid. For a price. It was the sort of distinction this crowd could rationalize.
“Since you’re short on time. . . ” Tiger prompted. He removed his massive hand from the blond’s rump and pointed to the cat-eyed girl at his feet. “Give the delivery to GiGi.”
Yoland peeled back his coat and reached into an inside pocket, moving slowly so that the watchful guards wouldn’t think he was reaching for his gun. He took out an amber vial and tossed it onto the ottoman. The girl picked it up and opened the lid. She spilled the contents into her hand. After a moment’s study, she looked up at Tiger and nodded.
“You want to count them?” Yoland offered. “Seeing as how you’re paying per pill.”
“We’ve been doing business for what? Eight, nine months? I got no reason to doubt your word. But GiGi, she doesn’t have a trusting heart, and she likes to look out for them who do. Sing for me, baby,” he demanded. His leer added a dimension to the remark that Yoland didn’t want contemplate and refused to envision.
“Thirty pills, just like they said,” she announced. Her voice was low and just a little bit husky, a been-there alto that sounded far too old for the rest of her. A street waif version of Lauren Bacal, wasting time on this big-ass Bogart. The thought didn’t sit well with Yoland.
Tiger shot a look at one of the henchmen. “Pay them.”
Before the man could comply, a muffled, tinny rendition of – of all things -- “Amazing Grace” came from the general vicinity of the blond girl’s bosom. Tiger’s leer returned. He reached into the girl’s preternatural cleavage and produced a small cell phone.
His smile faded as he listened. His eyes flicked to the brunette, who had just finished putting the pills back into the vial. In response to her boss’s unspoken command, she reached for the gun on the ottoman and trained it on Yoland. With one smooth motion she was on her feet, never taking her eyes from his.
Tiger's other girls were not quite as loyal. Both leaped up and fled shrieking to the far side of the room. His men drew their weapons and circled behind Yoland and Moniz.
“This,” Tiger brandished the cell phone, “was a friend of mine.” His voice was quiet, but it shimmered with suppressed violence. “He just finished doing time for possession. He says he knows you two – knows you from a ‘sale’ pretty much like the one you hoped was going down here.” His eyes shifted to GiGi. “These assholes are cops. Get rid of them, make sure they don’t get found.”
The cat girl clicked off the safety on her gun. In the heavy silence, the sound seemed as explosive as the shot to come. Then she spun and put the gun to Tiger’s head.
Yoland wished he could laugh at the slack astonishment on Tiger Leone’s face, but that didn’t seem smart, seeing that he and Moniz were outnumbered. Still, the sight was highly gratifying.
“Tell your boys to throw down,” the girl said calmly, “and we’ll all wait quietly until backup arrives.”
Tiger sputtered for a while before he managed to form words. “Backup? But you’re... You’re not—”
“Sure I am,” she affirmed. “Gellman, Lieutenant Gwen. GiGi to people who think they’re my friends.”
She turned a steel-edged smile toward the bodyguards, who were frozen in furious indecision. Slowly she slid the gun down Tiger’s jowls and under his chins. A quick little shove forced his head up and back, giving her a nice angle toward the back of his head. A clean, killing shot.
“Do it,” Tiger grunted. As the power shift took place, his massive shoulders rose and fell in a resigned sigh. He rolled his eyes toward the undercover cop.
“I don’t fucking believe this,” he mourned. “You were my girl -- my best girl.”
A hard, humorless smile lifted one side of her lips, but she didn’t offer any comment.
A sliver of light appeared on the paneled wall behind Tiger’s throne, a slim vertical beam from no discernible source. Before Yoland could absorb the implications of this, two of the panels flew apart, slamming into the wood on either side with a sound like gunshot.
Three thugs pounded into the room. One of the bodyguards lunged for Yoland’s gun.
The cop shoulder-slammed him out of the way, shot him, and sighted down one of the onrushing men.
Moniz fired at about the same time, and two of the thugs went down. Before either cop could squeeze off a second shot, Tiger’s remaining two bodyguards jumped Moniz. The three men went down in a tangle of flailing fists. A knife rose and fell, more than once.
Yoland saw all of this as if it were a movie played in slow speed, almost one frame at a time. He saw Tiger’s two girls flee through the escape route, their frantic pace appearing almost leisurely. He fired again, hitting the last of the thugs in the shoulder. The man staggered, but didn’t go down.
Another shot came from the floor beside him. One of the bodyguards rolled off Moniz, screaming, both hands clamped to the pumping wound on his neck. Yoland kicked the third bodyguard off his partner and put a bullet in him to make sure he stayed off.
Moniz lay flat on his back, his gun held in both hands. The triumphant gleam in his eyes was icing over, and blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. A knife was sunk hilt-deep between his ribs, deep into his lung.
A glance told Yoland the whole tale. His partner would drown in his own blood and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do but break the news to pretty, witchy little Teresa. The thought occurred to him that, somehow, Teresa already knew she was a widow.
Someone punched Yoland in the gut – a mystery, since no one was within arm’s reach of him. That wasn’t good, but at the moment he couldn’t remember why.
The thumping music from the club below abruptly stopped. A murmur of many voices took its place, a sound that rose swiftly in volume and indignation. Then police sirens sounded outside the club, and pique turned to panic. Screams and scuffles came from the dance floor as those who had reason to avoid the police – which probably included most of the employees and half the customers -- remembered urgent business elsewhere.
With a furious roar, Tiger surged out of his chair, taking the female cop with him and slamming her against the wall. They grappled, and for a moment she was lost to sight behind his bulk. The gun reported, and Tiger reared back, screaming. Her second shot sent him stumbling to his knees. The third, to the floor.
Somehow Yoland found himself at eye level with Tiger, staring into the huge man’s empty black eyes. He was glad that Tiger was dead, but vaguely puzzled by his own proximity to the man’s body.
Then the pain came -- a white fire kindling in his gut. He realized that he was shot, and down.
The chaos downstairs, the battle in the room – it was all fading into a dreamlike haze. Yoland was dimly aware of the door flinging open, and more of Tiger’s men pouring into the room. They charged toward Gwen.
Three shots, Yoland realized. At best, she had three shots left, and that wouldn’t be enough. The thought filled him with something very close to sorrow. She’d been his best girl, too, if only for a week or so, and they’d been partners for a lot longer.
Then the lights died, pitching the room into darkness. Gunfire exploded again and again, overlapping like the finale of a high-budget Fourth of July display.
Yoland’s fading awareness suddenly snapped into focus, captured by a strange, soft glow. It was faintly blue, and it clung to Gwen like the light on a mist-shrouded streetlamp. Strange as that was, weirder still was the fact that no one, not even Gwen, seemed to notice its existence.
She made her way through the darkness, sure-footed, picking her shots as she went. By the time she reached the door, the gunfire had stopped. She stumbled out into the hall, shouting for backup, unaware that she only one left standing. Unaware of the light surrounding her like a Madonna’s halo.
Yoland remembered what Moniz had said not an hour before: They’d all been missing things. Important things. The truth of this flooded him, along with a sense of profound loss.
The light surrounding Gwen began to fade, and the room with it. Yoland took some comfort in the knowledge that at least he’d been able to see her, really see her, before the darkness came for good.
* * * * *
In an unlit room, in a once-stately home poised on the hills overlooking downtown Providence, a tall, black-haired man stood by the window. He stared out over the quiet winter vista with eyes that saw what others did not.
His slender frame was draped in a robe of dark silk. Beneath the robe he was naked and barefoot, and his watch and ring lay on a nearby table. There could be no metal to disrupt the flow of power, no leather to provide an unwanted link to the creature whose hide it once had been. Not on the Convergence, a time of uncommon power, a rare event that occurred when the moon and star cycles aligned.
“The shortest day, the darkest night,” he murmured in quiet exultation.
The ebb and flow of the moontides sang in his blood, and the pull of the year’s turning wheel drew his Qualities more fully into the mundane world. All of his kind could do as much, but never had he felt the flow of power so keenly. Surely now he could finally claim the gift that was rightfully his, as the last member of his clan and bloodline!
He listened to the silent crescendo of starsong, waiting for the precise moment of the Solstice. When it was upon him, he reached for the blue gem on the table – the final link to his ancient birthright.
Power surged through him with a force that lifted him from his feet and hurled him backward. He hit the wall hard, his arms flung out wide. The gem fell from his benumbed hand and rolled away.
He slid down along the cracked plaster wall and slumped to the floor, staring with astonishment at the faint blue glow in the gem’s heart. The pain of impact was forgotten, rendered irrelevant by the disturbing truth before him:
The clan’s greatest gift had been claimed – and not by him.
That could mean only one thing: he was not, as he had so fondly believed, the last of his line.
But never in his family’s long history had an heir come into the clan’s power without the assistance of the gem. Whoever had usurped his hard-won place was a creature of considerable power – or at least, considerable potential. Someone who walked beneath these stars, someone whose name and face he did not know, had the power to Remember.
The thought filled him with fear, an emotion he had seldom experienced and nearly forgotten. He pushed himself to his feet and stalked over to a table that held a cut glass decanter and a large crystal snifter. He poured enough brandy to take the coppery taste of fear from his mouth, and settled down by the fireplace to compose himself.
By his third brandy, he had forgotten why this new development had seemed so troubling.
This would not, after all, be the first time he had killed a fellow elf.
CHAPTER ONE
A cold spring rain pelted the city as Gwen Gellman maneuvered her battered blue Toyota up the hill north of Benefit Street. As she negotiated the maze of the narrow, one-way streets that characterized much of Providence’s East Side, the brick buildings of Brown University and the art school gave way to old three-story frame houses, many of which had small shops or cafes in the bottom floor. She pulled into an empty spot across the street from a small Thai eatery, happy to have found a parking place so close to her destination. Tap-dancing through April showers was not her idea of a good time.
Gwen dashed across the street, dodging rain-filled potholes, and climbed the stairs leading up the side of the building. Once on the landing, she took quick stock of her appearance. A quick swipe of fingers under one eye assured her that her water-proof mascara was living up to its claims. She brushed off some of the raindrops beading the shoulders of her leather jacket and ran both hands through her short dark-chestnut hair, not sure whether this would tame her hair or spike it, and not particularly caring which outcome occurred.
A tall young woman, barefoot and semi-dressed in a navy blue sports bra and Capri-length bike pants, answered Gwen’s knock and gazed at her uncertainly.
Gwen couldn’t fault the girl. Sometimes she tried for a traditionally professional image, but today wasn’t one of those days. She wore jeans so snug they looked as if they’d been spray-painted on, a sleeveless black shirt that stopped a couple of inches north of her pierced navel, a leather jacket she’d bought second-hand during the Reagan administration, slim-heeled ankle boots, and far too much makeup. Her eyes, which were wide and very blue and slightly tilted at the corners, tended to remind people of Siamese cats. Gwen liked to play down the feline aspect with a few layers of judiciously applied paint, which had the added benefit of making her look older. Or at least, it made her look like a high school kid who was trying to look older.
“Rachel York?” she asked.
”Yes . . . ”
“I’m Gwen Gellman. Lauren’s mother asked me to talk to you. She said you’d be home and expecting me.”
The girl’s brown eyes widened. “You’re the private investigator?”
“That’s right.” Gwen waited a beat, then glanced over her shoulder at the rain.
Chagrin replaced incredulity on the young woman’s face. “Oh. Sorry.” She moved aside to let Gwen into the apartment.
Unlike most student apartments, this wasn’t furnished with parental castoffs and Salvation Army specials. The couch was a new-looking futon with a burgundy cover and a dark oak frame. The matching coffee and lamp tables had the square, clunky look Gwen’s friend Marcy called “mission style.” The walls were painted a shade of orange that somehow managed to look cozy and inviting. An area rug covered the floor with geometric shapes in colors that brought to mind citrus and spice. A large abstract canvas in similar hues dominated one wall. Two small-paned windows faced the street, and between them stood a large vase--hand-thrown pottery, no doubt--that held a sheaf of willow branches covered with soft gray catkins. The painting and the vase boasted a stylized signature, the letters “LTS” entwined in curving lines. Lauren Simpson had talent, as her mother had claimed.
Gwen turned back to the roommate, who was studying her with open skepticism. She lifted one eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
It was a familiar question, one that got more irritating with each repetition. Still, she managed a thin smile. “Let’s put it this way: In two years, I can legally sleep with guys half my age.”
Rachel looked puzzled for a moment, then years of math classes kicked in and her eyes widened. She looked Gwen up and down, taking in the mall-rat outfit and, if she was like most people, probably pegging her for about seventeen. “Thirty-four? How is that possible?”
“It’s not so hard,” Gwen said dryly, “especially considering that after thirty, it’s all downhill.”
The girl looked unconvinced, but she chuckled a little. Probably because she was young enough to take Gwen’s assessment of life after thirty at face value.
“Now, about Lauren,” Gwen said. “Here’s what her mother told me. One of Lauren’s art teachers had an opening at a small gallery downtown. Lauren went to the opening alone, planning to make a quick appearance then go to an early movie with friends.”
“That would be me and our friend Deb,” Rachel put in. “Lauren was supposed to meet us at the theatre in the mall. When she didn’t show up, we went ahead without her.”
“After you got home, the gallery called. They’d found Lauren’s purse after closing. You got worried and called her parents. Her mother, after asking around a bit, called me. What can you add?”
Rachel spread her hands, palms up, indicating that she was coming up empty.
“Does Lauren have any boyfriends?”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“Girlfriends?”
“No! I mean, she has friends, but she’s not . . .”
“Yeah, whatever. My point is, is there anyone she was likely to meet up with, someone she’d maybe take off with on the spur of the moment?”
The girl shook her head in adamant denial. “Lauren’s very reliable. She wouldn’t just ditch us.”
“But you went to the movies without her, so you weren’t too worried.”
“We already had tickets,” Rachel said defensively. “Hhow were we supposed to know something was wrong? Anyone can run into a delay.”
“True enough. Do you know if anything was bothering her? Maybe she’s the sort of person who needs to go off alone to think things through?”
Again Rachel shook her head. “Lauren’s very open. If she had something on her mind, she’d tell me. And she puts a lot of emotion into her art. If she was feeling low, she would work it out with clay or paint or whatever. And she’s really a people person. The only way Lauren would go off somewhere on her own was if the light was good and she could take along a sketchpad.”
All of this agreed with the rather frantic recital of Lauren’s habits and virtues Gwen had heard from Mrs. Simpson late last night. None of it helped her in the slightest. She took a deep breath and prepared to take a much-dreaded shortcut.
“I’m going to need something of Lauren’s.”
Rachel’s face lit up. “Oh yeah. You need, like, a hairbrush or something? For DNA,” she added, speaking with the certainty peculiar to those who watch a lot of television.
“That would work.” Which was true, up to a point. It would keep the roommate thinking along familiar lines: detective series, pop science, logical conclusions. What Gwen needed was not genetic code, but memories. For that, she needed something Lauren had had with her when she’d disappeared.
“I’d also like to have a look at her purse. There might be something in it that’ll suggest where she went. A phone number, a flyer advertising a restaurant or club -- like that.”
“Sure. It’s in her room. I picked it up from the gallery right after they called.” Rachel trotted off, clearly relieved to be able to do something to help.
Gwen picked up a framed photo from a small wall shelf. It was a casual shot, probably taken by a friend, showing Rachel and Lauren in pricy ski clothes. They were mugging for the camera, standing cheek to cheek and grinning. Lauren was a pretty girl – beautiful coffee-with-cream complexion, great cheekbones, perfect teeth displayed in a Julia Roberts smile, thick waves of black hair, shoulder length and partially covered by a fuzzy pink headband. Her cheeks were faintly flushed with a combination of outdoor exercise, youth, and high spirits.
Rachel returned in moments with a small leather purse and an immaculate brush. She noted the photo in Gwen’s hand.
“You can take that. Lauren looks pretty much the same as she does in that picture, only her hair is a little longer. She had it in a French braid last night. And she was wearing . . .” She trailed off, bit her lip, thought for a moment. “Navy slacks and a cream-colored blouse. Navy coat. Pearls, I think. Yeah, definitely pearls, a necklace and earrings. She wears them a lot, because they look really good with her skin tone. She likes lots of color around her, but her clothes and jewelry are usually very simple. Classic stuff.”
“Thanks. That helps.”
Gwen took a large plastic bag from her pocket and held it out for the items. She didn’t want to touch Lauren’s purse until she was alone, just in case the answers she sought came too fast and too powerfully. That could be tough to explain to onlookers.
She thanked the girl again, promised to keep her informed, and dashed through the rain to her car. She slammed the door and dumped the contents of the plastic bag onto the passenger’s seat.
For a moment she hesitated. For two days now, Gwen had felt. . . open, as if a layer of skin had been peeled away, leaving her exposed to every passing breeze. Judging from past experience, she was due for what she privately called Freak Week: a few days filled with odd moments of psychic clarity and capricious visions.
She hated it. She’d spent the first half of her life hiding it. But her first partner had taught her to trust her instincts – all of them. This had been no easy task, considering how much time and trouble a god-fearing foster family had invested in beating them out of her.
Gwen set her shoulders, grasped Lauren Simpson’s purse in both hands, and took a deep breath.
Memories flooded her -- Lauren’s memories, indistinct as an almost-forgotten dream. Gwen forced away a stab of panic, willed herself to sink into another woman’s mind.
The rain-mottled view beyond the windshield blurred, as if the world was a watercolor painting left out in the rain. The limpid colors swam and spun, and began to take the shape of two male faces. Something about them was familiar, but the vision was too hazy for Gwen to decipher. Then a third face emerged from the mist, a woman’s face, surrounded by a halo of very curly red hair.
An icy shiver crackled down Gwen’s spine, inspired by a memory that was very much her own. She pushed her own emotions aside and moved deeper into the missing girl’s memories.
The woman held out a goblet of white wine, offering it with a friendly smile. Swirling through the pale gold liquid was a ghostly image, a white tablet that had long since dissolved – a memory within a memory. The pill tumbled lazily, and Gwen caught a glimpse of the engraving on it: on one side, the word “ROCHE;” on the other, a circle surrounding the number two.
Image gave way to sensation – an intense wash of sensuality that shivered down her spine and pooled low and hot in her body. Sensation became desire, desire became an aching compulsion. A wonderful languor began to steal over her, a silky-smoky feeling that did nothing to detract from the kindling flame. It was incredible, unexpected, compelling. Overwhelming.
Familiar.
A tendril of memory, this one entirely her own, crept into Gwen’s mind and entwined with Lauren’s last night.
Her scream of rage shattered the twin nightmares and flung her back into the present moment. She tossed the purse aside with shaking hands.
“No time, no time,” she muttered as she stabbed the key into the ignition.
She’d almost been dragged under by Lauren’s drug-induced sensations, in a way she never would have been had she been in Lauren’s place. Gwen’s metabolism let her chow down like a farmhand without gaining an ounce and drink men twice her body weight under the table – a trick that had come in handy more than once in the men’s club that was police work. The down side to this was that medicines didn’t work very well: aspirin barely touched her headaches, Motrin was useless on the occasional sprain. Unless Lauren Simpson also had the metabolism of a fruit fly, she was in very serious trouble.
A trio of predators, people Gwen knew all too well, had mixed Lauren's wine with a double dose of Pohypnol, more commonly known as the date rape drug.
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