Читать книгу Season Of Strangers - Kat Martin - Страница 8

Julie walked out of her office, heading toward the front door at the opposite end of the room.

“Always in a hurry.” Seated at his desk, Fred Thompkins chuckled. “I told you what my doctor said about that.”

She paused beside his chair and smiled down at him. “He said you have high cholesterol and a heart condition. That you had better learn to slow down. You said that also applies to me, that I should stop and smell the roses. I believe you’ve mentioned that, Fred.”

“Maybe I have…a couple of dozen times.” He was an overweight retired math professor who wore funny little paisley bow ties. He grinned above the starched white collar that cut into the folds on his neck. “Unfortunately, you never listen.”

“That’s because I don’t have high cholesterol and I’ve got bills to pay.” More next month, she thought grimly, when Dr. Heraldson’s psychiatric bill came in. She just hoped the sessions would be of some help to her sister.

“You still looking for Patrick?”

“I’m always looking for Patrick, for one thing or another. He hasn’t come in yet, has he?”

“He’s never here before noon. You know that as well as I do.”

“He said he’d work on the Rabinoff deal. We’ve got to get that escrow closed.”

“Shirl said he was driving out to Flintridge to see his dad. He’s supposed to be in later.”

Julie’s heart tugged painfully. “I hope Alex is feeling better. He looked pretty bad when I saw him last Saturday.” Patrick’s father was confined to a wheelchair, the left side of his body paralyzed by a stroke, his speech impaired, one side of his once-handsome face now drooping.

It was tough on a strong, imposing man like Alexander Donovan, and yet he would not give up. Instead, he’d had a therapy room installed in his lavish Mediterranean style mansion. Daily he worked with nurses and equipment to rebuild his aging, ravaged body into something that resembled the powerful figure he had once been.

“He’s a good man,” Fred said. “This place was really something back when Alex was running it. There wasn’t a real estate man in town who could shine his shoes.” He shook his head, the lamp on his desk gleaming on the bald spot in the center, fringed by his thinning gray hair. “This place hasn’t been the same since he’s been gone.”

It could be, Julie thought morosely, if Patrick would put as much effort into his work as he did getting laid. He was smart enough, and certainly he was savvy enough about business if he would only apply himself.

Instead he was driving the company further and further into debt. Several people on the sales staff had already quit. Babs and Fred would like to leave, but they stayed on for Alex’s sake, just as Julie did. She loved that old man. She wasn’t about to abandon him, no matter what kind of a jerk his son turned out to be.

“I’ve got to run, Fred.” Julie started walking.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Julie waved at him over one shoulder. “I’ll talk to you later.” And then she was out the door, heading off to Spago to meet Jane Whitelaw for lunch.

Evan Whitelaw, Jane’s husband, was a big-time movie producer. Six months earlier, he had listed his home on Burton Way and it had finally sold last week. Now his wife was ready to start searching for a larger place to live. An estate in Bel-Air, she’d said, but Julie knew better than to listen to what a client said they wanted. You had to listen past what they said, learn to look inside and discover their secret yearnings. That was how she’d made so many sales—listening for wishes, instead of just meeting needs.

She had just reached the outside wall of the restaurant when Patrick’s black Porsche pulled up to the curb. There was office parking in the rear of the building, but Patrick liked the valet to take care of it for him personally.

The pudgy youth opened the passenger door as Patrick unwound his tall frame from the driver’s side of the car, and a long-legged, willowy blonde stepped out on the sidewalk.

Julie’s chest went a little tight, but she forced herself to ignore it. It always bothered her to see him with a woman. Silly. Stupid, beyond belief. Yet she couldn’t seem to stop the twinge she always felt watching Patrick squire one of his many one-night stands.

Ignoring the woman, she stopped him before he reached the curb, which gave her the advantage of looking straight into his eyes, the brightest shade of blue she’d ever seen. “I’m sorry to bother you…I can see you’re busy…but I have to find out if the Rabinoff escrow is going to be closing on time. Were you able to get those documents drawn?”

Patrick smiled and looked over her head. “Julie Ferris meet Anna Braxston. Anna is a model with the Ford Agency. Julie is one of my top sales associates.”

Julie forced herself to smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Anna.” She returned her attention to Patrick, who looked rested for a change, his tan slacks and navy blue sport coat immaculate as always. “I have to know, Patrick. Will the escrow be able to close by the end of the month, the way it’s supposed to?”

He grinned, a slash of white in a suntanned face that would give Tom Cruise a run for the money. “Relax. I told you I’d take care of it. The docs will be ready on Friday. Get the Rabinoffs in to sign them, and the escrow can close exactly the way you planned.”

She sagged with relief. “Thank God.”

“You worry too much, you know that?”

“And you don’t worry enough.”

He frowned at her words and for a moment she wondered if he was more aware of his financial problems than he let on.

She smiled faintly at the woman. “Nice to meet you, Anna. Patrick, I’ve got to run.”

“I’ll see you back at the office,” he said. Julie waved and hurried off toward the posh, high-walled interior of her favorite lunching spot.

Sometimes she imagined he watched her, though why he would when he was with a woman as beautiful as the blonde she couldn’t guess. Sometimes she pretended he was different, that he was more like his father, more like the man twenty-year-old Julie Ferris had once believed he was.

He wasn’t. He never would be and both of them knew it. As always the thought made her sad.

Laura lay awake in the guest room of her sister’s Malibu beach house. The antique iron bed had been painted a dull brick red and an old-fashioned quilt served as a spread. Throw rugs covered the hardwood floors, and a wall of windows led out to a deck overlooking the sea. Before tonight, Laura had envied her sister this house on the beach, envied the privacy afforded by the hundreds of acres of the exclusive Mallory estate next door.

Now she leaned back against her pillow, thinking tonight she wished the house was sitting on a lot in the center of the city. That it was surrounded by dozens of people, that it was the middle of the day instead of so late in the evening.

A series of waves, loud as gunshots, crashed against the shore outside the window, but they couldn’t quite block the dense dull hum Laura could barely hear above the roar of the ocean, a noise that had settled like a weight around the two-story batten-board structure. She tried to tell herself it was only her imagination, tried to concentrate on the pounding of the surf and the old Kirk Douglas movie on the television screen, though the volume was turned so low she couldn’t really hear it.

It was three o’clock in the morning, dark outside, a cloudy night with no moon. She had always liked staying in Julie’s guest room, but tonight the ceiling seemed lower than it usually did, the walls a little closer, the sound of the waves more irritating than soothing. Her palms were sweating, her pulse beating faster than it should have.

“Julie’s right next door,” she told herself, speaking the words aloud. “All you have to do is call out and she’ll come running.” Perhaps her sister would come even without the call. If anything was wrong, Julie seemed to sense it. Her sister had a way of doing that. Julie would protect her. Just like she always did.

Then the television set went off and the night light on the wall near the bathroom dimmed and finally sputtered out. Laura swallowed against the fear that was building in her chest.

A whispering noise sifted down from somewhere above her. She tried to cry out, but the sound lodged tight in her throat. She tried to get up, tried to swing her legs to the side of the bed, but her body was rigid, completely unwilling to move.

It was dark in the room, but now the darkness lifted and a blinding light filled the bedroom. Laura’s eyes slammed closed against the stab of brightness shooting into her skull. Her muscles strained to move so hard she quivered all over and arched up off the bed.

Help me! Julie, help me! But the words remained locked in her throat and the silent scream never emerged. Then the light began to fade. She heard a noise on the stairs leading up to the deck. Small, scampering footfalls that paused outside the door.

A strangling sensation engulfed her, a terror so great it throbbed through her body in great tormenting waves. She tried to move, but only her eyes responded, rolling in their sockets, darting wildly around the room, then fixing on the door. They were coming for her. She could feel it in every nerve ending, every fiber and cell in her body. They would take her as they had done before, strip her naked, use their cold metal projectiles to invade her body. Until now she hadn’t remembered.

Help me! she silently screamed, thrashing like an animal caught in a trap, yet her body never moved on the bed. Julie, where are you? But maybe her sister was also ensnared, caught as readily as she. Fresh terror speared through her. She remembered the pain of before, the humiliation she had felt, and prayed it wouldn’t happen again. Prayed that if it did, she would be able to endure it.

The shuffling continued outside. They were coming, just as she had feared. When the door slowly opened and she saw them, her mouth formed a stark O of terror and the bile rose in her throat.

Seconds passed. She blinked and they appeared all around her, lining the sides of the bed. Her terror inched deeper, long thin tentacles reaching down into her belly. Circles of blackness whirled, clouding the edges of her mind, carrying her toward the safety of unconsciousness. Finally the darkness overtook her, freeing her from the fear, sealing her mind from what was to come. Laura welcomed the descent into oblivion.

A deep blue glow resonated up from the floor of the examining room, lighting the rounded girders along the curving walls behind his back. A bank of diodes, dials and gauges spread across the console down at one end, and air hissed through vents in a pulsing rhythm that matched the bleeps of the heart being monitored on the glowing blue screen.

Val Zarkazian stared down at the subjects lying on the table. Their scanty night clothes had been removed, and the younger woman had already been examined.

It was the second woman, the one with the dark red hair, who had brought him out from behind the monitors of his research laboratory down the hall.

He surveyed the nude figure tossing restlessly on the stark blue surface of the table, her small hands clenched so tightly the muscles in her forearms quivered. A tongue block had been inserted, but not before she had bitten into her bottom lip, leaving a slight trace of blood.

He studied her with the same objectivity he had used on a dozen subjects before, noting the woman was smaller than average but well-developed, and in healthy physical condition. She was a normal female, except that she was far more resistant to any sort of mental intrusion than most of the larger male specimens who had been brought in for study.

The woman shifted restlessly on the table, fighting the tests with the same fierce determination she had shown on her visit several weeks ago.

He glanced down at a short thin figure in dark blue protective covering, one of the lab technicians, who stood beside the table studying the subject with puzzlement and concern. Behind him, just outside the door, several soldiers milled about, members of the team who had brought the women aboard.

They were troubled by her reaction and rightly so. The first time the study had been done, she had resisted so strongly they thought they were going to lose her.

This time they had done only cursory testing, nothing intrusive into the body, and only the mental scanning that could be done without a probe. He looked at the monitor at the end of the table. The subject, a healthy female in her twenty-eighth year, had suffered normal childhood diseases—what was known here as measles, mumps and chicken pox; a broken wrist at the age of eight; minor scars and healed abrasions.

Her vital signs were strong, but just as before, they had begun to shut down the moment they started their assessment of the brain.

A row of symbols came across the glowing blue screen. Is it happening again? The message came from the viewing area where senior officers and staff watched the proceedings.

He confirmed it was so and watched the corresponding symbols pop up on the screen. The last similar case had occurred six months ago, an artist taken from the hills outside Santa Fe. Over the years, there had been quite a number, from a variety of different backgrounds. Neither race nor gender seemed to be a factor in the degree of resistance, which could result in the subject’s mental incapacitation or death.

More questions appeared on the screen, one in regard to the proceedings.

Yes, he replied, the tests have been stopped. We don’t want to lose another subject.

He turned to the short lab technician and ordered him to finalize the tests on the younger sibling, to complete the external examination of the older, and return them both to the point of origin.

The screen on the console began to flash another communication, countering his orders. You must proceed, Commander. We must discover the cause of the older sibling’s reaction. We cannot afford to let her go.

He had known his superiors would want to continue, no matter how dangerous it was. Probing the outer boundaries of scientific knowledge was the first directive of their mission, one of the reasons others had come here before. It was an accepted fact that furthering that knowledge inevitably demanded a percentage of casualties.

But Val wasn’t prepared to lose the woman, or any more subjects in the future.

He turned back to the screen. There is another, better way. We have the technology. Why should we not proceed?

The symbols flashed in rapid succession. Such an undertaking would be dangerous. Who would take the risk?

He logged in the reply he had thought long and hard about. I have been working on this project for years. I am the logical choice.

The Ansor cannot afford to lose its most valuable research officer.

All men are expendable in the name of science. It was a basic tenet of their work.

The screen went blank. He waited with less patience than he usually displayed and even a hint of anxiety.

The recommendation will be made to the council at our next session.

Relief filtered through him. He didn’t want to see the woman die, and ever since his arrival three years ago, he had hoped for a chance like this. I am grateful for your assistance.

A long line of symbols appeared. I hope you will still be grateful once you are confined in such an uncivilized environment.