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Parrish did place an immediate phone call, but it was to Conrad instead of the police department. “Ms. St. John just called my office,” he said smoothly, pleasure and exhilaration in his voice. “Doubtless she only wanted to know if I am here, and she would have expected Annalise to answer the phone. Get to our source with the phone company immediately and find out where that call came from.” He glanced at his Rolex. “The call came in to me at twelve twenty-three.”
He hung up without waiting for Conrad’s reply, if he had intended to make one. Parrish leaned back in his massive leather chair, breathing hard from the excitement pouring like water through him. Grace! After six damnably frustrating months, in which she had seemed simply to disappear from Chicago, who would have thought she would make contact herself?
Conrad was sure he’d found where she’d been working in Chicago, at an Italian dump where most of the employees were paid under the table. The woman had been thinner but she had sometimes carried a small case, had kept to herself, and had a blond, frizzy hairdo. The blond frizz job had also been reported involved in a peculiar altercation outside the Newberry Library. The Newberry happened to be one of the foremost research libraries in the country, something Grace would know, and a resource she would need. Parrish knew by that she was working on the papers, and Grace was very good at her work. She would have a very good idea of why he wanted the papers.
But then she’d vanished again, simply not returning to the restaurant, and no one there had known where she lived. Conrad had checked the bus lines, the trains, airlines, but no one had noticed a woman with frizzy blond hair carrying a computer case. She had disappeared, and not even Conrad had been able to find a trace of her.
Where was she now? In Minneapolis, or hiding in some backwater? Why had she called? She hadn’t said anything but he was almost positive, just from that one tiny betraying gasp, that she was the caller.
Soon he would know, if not her present location, at least where she’d been when she made the call. The police had to have a court order to access those kinds of records at the phone company, but he wasn’t hindered by their ridiculous regulations. Conrad would at least know where to begin searching for her, and his pride was at stake now; he was still smarting from letting a little nobody like Grace St. John escape from him.
Why would she want to know if he was in the office? He laughed softly to himself. Was little Grace planning some sort of revenge? What did she think she could do, walk into his office and point a pistol at him? She knew the security of the building, knew she wouldn’t get past the lobby.
Perhaps he should let her, though, draw her to him. He could overpower her easily enough, and the
n he’d have her.
He could work late; the building would be deserted, and she would feel more confident. He could arrange for the guards to be looking conveniently the other way, but not make it so easy that she became suspicious. He would wait by the door for her, ready to disarm her of whatever weapon she carried; he wouldn’t want to give her an opportunity for a lucky shot.
Perhaps he wouldn’t wait for a more comfortable, convenient place in which to take her. Perhaps he would have her right on the desk, stretched across the glassy surface. She would struggle and kick and he would soothe her, whisper to her, and kiss her astonishingly carnal mouth. She would feel so soft beneath him, so helpless.
He was fully aroused, almost panting. Once wouldn’t be enough, he knew that now. He wanted to come in her mouth, and he wanted to feel her come. He wanted to hear her cry out his name in pleasure.
Then he would kill her. What a waste, but it had to be done.
* * *
“She called from a pay phone at a McDonald’s in Roseville,” Conrad reported. “No one noticed her, but the only other calls received around that time originated from legitimate contacts.”
“Roseville.” Parrish considered the location. It was a suburb just northeast of downtown. “Do you have men watching the place in case she returns?”
“Yes.” Conrad had taken care of that detail immediately. People were generally creatures of habit, adhering to the same routine for months, years. Grace had shown herself to be unusually unpredictable, but he couldn’t afford to assume she would immediately take off for parts unknown. If she remained in the city, sooner or later she would at least pass by that McDonald’s—if not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then perhaps on this same day next week. He was a patient man; he would wait.
“So she came back here,” Parrish mused. “Gutsy of her, don’t you think? I never would have expected it. Do you think she’s going to try to kill me?”
“Yes,” Conrad said impassively. Otherwise, there was no logical reason for her to return to Minneapolis. The danger was too great.
“Perhaps we should let her try.” Parrish smiled, his eyes bright with anticipation. “Let her come to us, Conrad. We’ll be ready.”
Chapter 13
“NIALL, I DREAMED ABOUT YOU AGAIN LAST NIGHT. FOR ONCE, you weren’t either fighting or having sex, just sitting quietly in front of a fire, cleaning your sword. You looked—not sad, but grim, as if you carried a burden that would break most men. What were you thinking about? What makes you so alone? Do you think about the Templars, all the friends who died, or is there something else that made you so hard? Do you resent being a renegade, when your brother is a king?”
Grace lifted her hands from the keys, disturbed by what she had just typed. Dreaming about him was one thing, writing to him was another. It was unsettling, the way she felt as if she were truly communicating with him, as if he would read her words and reply. She knew the constant stress of the past eight months had taken a toll on her, but she hoped she hadn’t totally flipped out.
She had tried to resume writing in her electronic journal, but somehow her brain refused to seize on the everyday detail that she had recorded before. For one thing, she had no routine life, and without a routine there couldn’t be anythingunroutine. She would stare at the empty screen, her fingers poised over the keys, but in the end she had no comment to make about the day. She had no appointments to keep, no news to share, no one to share it with in any case. She went through the days silent and numb, coming alive only with hatred for Parrish or when she was translating the papers.
But however illusory Niall was, he was far more vivid than anything else in the grayness of her life. He seemed real, as if he were just on the other side of the door, unseen but undeniably there. His myth, his history, was her one bit of color. Through him, she still lived, still felt the hot rush of vitality and passion. She could talk to him as she would never again be able to talk to anyone living. The division between before and now was too deep, too drastic; there was too little left of the shy, bookish, rather innocent woman she had been. In her own way, she was as unreal as Niall.
She felt her aloneness all the way to the bone. Not loneliness; she didn’t pine for company, for a sympathetic ear, for gossip and chatter and laughter. She was alone in a way she’d never before imagined, as solitary as if she were an astronaut come untethered from the mother ship, drifting unnoticed in an emptiness so vast it was beyond comprehension. She had found a whisper of companionship with Harmony Johnson, but remaining would have been too dangerous to Harmony, and during the six months she’d been back in Minneapolis she hadn’t truly talked with anyone. She woke up alone, she worked in mental if not physical isolation, and she went to sleep alone. Alone. What a desolate, empty word.
In her dream, Niall had been alone. Alone inside, as she was. He could be surrounded by people and still be alone, because there was something untouchable in him, something no one else even knew existed. The golden glow of the fire had outlined the hard, pure lines of his face, shadowed the deep-set eyes and high cheekbones. His movements had been deft as he saw to the cleaning and repair of his weapon, his long fingers tracing over the razor edge to find any chips that dulled its effectiveness. His manner had been absorbed, deliberate, remote.
Once his head had lifted and he sat very still, as if listening for or to something that hadn’t registered in the dream. Black mane flowing over his broad shoulders, his black eyes narrowed, he had been the picture of animal alertness, on guard and wary. No threat had materialized and gradually he had relaxed, but she had the impression of a man who could never truly ease his vigilance. He was the Guardian.
She had wanted to touch his shoulder, and sit silently beside him by the fire while he tended his tools of war, giving him the comfort of her warmth and presence so that he knew he wasn’t alone after all—and perhaps, in doing so, she too would find comfort and companionship. But in this dream she had been locked into the role of observer, unable to go closer, and in the end she had awakened without touching him.
“If I were with you…”
