Retribution (Anna Strong Chronicles #5)

Retribution (Anna Strong Chronicles #5) Page 41

THE JET CRUISES TO A STOP IN FRONT OF A LARGE hangar with the logo XJet. There's a limo parked to the side of the hangar, and a man stands beside it watching our approach. I assume this is Williams' friend.

When the engines have shut down, Shelby comes back to open the airstair door. "I see you have a car waiting."

I precede him down the short set of steps. We're being buffeted by a cold wind blowing, I presume, off the white-capped mountains to the west.

To the west. Even the mountains are in the wrong place here.

At the bottom, an XJet employee in jeans, a long-sleeved blue shirt and a Windbreaker welcomes me to Denver. He addresses me by name and with a deference I'm not used to. Avery must have paid well for that obsequiousness.

Shelby hands me a card. "Tom and I have rooms at the Clarion right down the street. Here is my cell number. When you 're ready to leave, call. We'll make sure the jet is ready whenever you are."

At the same time he's telling me this, I hear the limo engine crank up.

A private jet and a limo waiting at the airstrip-maybe I've been too hasty in refusing every perk of Avery's inheritance.

The limo pulls alongside the jet. The back door opens and the guy I saw watching a moment before steps out. He 's handsome, young and, as Williams mentioned, vampire. Which means although he looks twenty-five, he could be hundreds of years old. Lawson has joined Shelby at the foot of the stairs and the guy greets them in a way that makes it obvious he 's met them before. It also puts me on alert that if he was a friend of Avery's he may not be a friend of mine.

When the social niceties have been observed, he turns his attention to me. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Strong. I'm Joshua Turnbull."

With his slight southern accent, the name fits. He is making no attempt to probe my thoughts, allowing me to be frank in my appraisal. He is just under six feet, a little thicker through the middle than most vampires I've met. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He's dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a denim jacket. He's wearing well-worn boots with a stacked heel and a leather belt with a silver belt buckle. He looks like a cowboy. All that's missing is a pair of six-shooters on his hip.

Since I figure he's sizing me up, too, I let a moment go by before motioning to the car. "Shall we go?"

His smile is neither overly friendly nor solicitous. Still don't know if he's friend or foe. Doesn't matter. I need him for only one thing.

We get into the car. On the backseat there's a tan Stetson. Turnbull picks it up and places it on the seat opposite us, sliding in beside me. The hat adds to the impression that he's a cowboy, though I've never spent any time in Denver. Maybe everybody here wears cowboy hats.

We don't speak until the car has left the airport. "The driver has the address?" I ask then, itchy to get on with it.

"Yes. The address is in Cherry Hills. Very upscale. We might have trouble getting past security."

I look away, suppress a smile. We might have trouble getting past security? I don't intend to have any trouble at all.

Turnbull snatches the thought out of the air. He smiles, too. Williams said you were a bit of a hothead.

I turn back to Turnbull and frown. Good old Williams. Instead of the Williams -can-blow-himself reply I'd like to make, I say instead, I'm not a hothead. What I am is determined. You'd know that if he told you why I'm here.

He nods. I understand you have a personal stake in finding this woman.

Not as personal as my friend who is near death because of her. And she's not a woman. She's a witch. It's important you don't forget that.

He's projecting a smug cockiness that feels a lot like male chauvinism. He's making a big mistake if he thinks he can control the situation.

I have only one reason for being here. Find out everything I can from Sophie Deveraux. As far as I'm concerned, Turnbull's only function is as a vampire GPS system. That's it.

Turnbull is watching me, sifting through the thoughts I've purposefully left unguarded. After a moment, he looks away. He's not happy to be here.

So why is he?

To repay a debt to Williams? Or to keep an eye on me?

TURNBULL WAS NOT EXAGGERATING WHEN HE SAID Cherry Hills was upscale. There is a ten-foot stone wall stretching as far as I can see with a guardhouse at the entrance. Over the top of the fence peek the rooflines of two huge homes.

Turnbull raises an eyebrow. I hope you have a plan B.

We pull up to the gate. Before the driver can answer the guard's "May I help you," I've launched into the story-the story about just having arrived in town with my uncle Bull here from Georgia and how we're meeting a Realtor for a look at a property. Only we're late and she's going to be waiting for us at-I look at Uncle Bull-what was that address again?

Turnbull stammers Sophie Deveraux's address.

The guard smiles and makes small talk while he jots down the driver 's name and license number and the limo's license plate. Then he waves us through.

"You've done this before," Turnbull comments dryly when the gate swings open. His tone is more grudging than laudatory. "What would you have done if he decided to call the Deveraux house for confirmation?"

David and I have used the ruse more than once to get into high-security communities. Usually I'm the Realtor and David is the client. Left my supply of bogus realty cards at home, though, so I had to improvise.

To Turnbull, I reply, "Place like this isn't going to post for sale signs on the lawns. Most deals are made quietly. He'd have no reason to question us."

Turnbull is eyeing me. He thinks, Tricky bitch, then slips into silence, dropping the curtain on his thoughts.

Why do I get the impression he was hoping we would be denied admittance? Once again, I remind myself to be on the alert. He may owe Williams, but he's no friend of mine.

The exact address turns out to be a rambling, brick mansion surrounded by an iron fence. Behind the house are paddocks and a stable.

There's no guardhouse here but a buzzer and a security camera located to the left of the gate.

When the driver rings, there is a moment's delay before a female voice with a Hispanic accent asks, "Yes?"

I lean forward to be able to answer. "I'm looking for Sophie Deveraux."

"May I tell her who's calling?"

"Anna Strong."

"And your business with Ms. Deveraux?"

"Private."

The intercom clicks off. I settle back in the seat. The camera rotates to get a clear view of the car. The tinted windows will prevent whoever is watching from seeing in the back.

The disembodied voice returns with the message, "I'm sorry, Ms. Deveraux is not at home. Would you like to leave a message?"

"No. I'll try again later."

Turnbull looks relieved. He instructs the driver to turn around. Once we're back on the road, I tell the driver to pull over.

"Why are you telling him to stop?" Turnbull asks, voice tense with irritation.

I ignore him and instruct the driver. "Find the access road that runs behind the property."

Turnbull raises a hand. "Wait a minute. What makes you think there's an access road?"

"There's a stable in back. I didn't see anyway to get to it from the driveway so there 's bound to be another way in. A delivery entrance."

The driver looks to Turnbull, unsure how to proceed.

Frustration burns through me. "Look, one way or the other, I'm getting into that house. I'll get out right here and walk if I have to."

He glares at me a minute before waving the driver on.

"What the hell is it with you? I thought you were supposed to help me."

Turnbull's jaw is set, his shoulders bunched. "I have lived here since the beginning of the nineteenth century. I have roots that go deep in this community. I don't need trouble. I wasn't happy when Williams called, but I owed him a favor. I'm telling you now, I won't be a party to killing."

So Williams told him the purpose of my "visit." I understand Turnbull's reluctance to get involved. This is his home turf and we 're dragging him into a fight that could easily turn nasty.

"Look, I'll try to keep you out of it. You've gotten me this far. If you want to drop me off and leave, I'm sure I can find my way back to the airport."

His shoulders relax a little, but not his apprehension. I can taste it in the air. "We're here now," he says. "Let's get it over with."

Not a ringing endorsement of cooperation, but better than nothing. "This Sophie Deveraux, do you know anything about her?"

He shakes his head. "Not much. She's the last living relative of Jonathan Deveraux-a cousin five generations removed. Sole heir to his fortune, so the story goes. Deveraux was a vampire. A nasty bastard according to the stories. He was killed at his one hundred fiftieth birthday party. By his wife. She disappeared not long after. Rumor has it this Sophie had something to do with it, but there was never any proof. I think it's safe to assume she's dangerous."

"Is she a vampire?"

"Not that I know. There's been some talk that she may be a witch. One of her cousins was."

"A cousin?" My fingers touch the charm. "What was her name?"

"Sophie Burke. Best damned caterer in Denver. She died not too long ago."

Shit. If Sophie Burke is dead, what connection does Belinda have to Sophie Deveraux? There must be some reason she kept that telephone number.

Turnbull is rambling on, "Sophie's said to be a strange bird. Keeps to herself. Doesn 't get involved in the human or supernatural community. For inheriting such vast wealth, she's kept a remarkably low profile." His eyes hold mine, then slide away. "Gives you and Sophie something in common."

The usual rush to deny claiming any part of Avery's fortune is tempered by the reality that I just arrived in Avery's private jet. I focus on the scenery.

We're winding through tree-lined streets, past properties that must cost tens of millions of dollars. The silence in the car is oppressive.

Makes me think of how much I have to lose if this turns out to be another wild-goose chase. I turn to Turnbull. Even small talk is better than what I'm thinking.

"What about you? Williams said you've lived in Denver for over a hundred years. How have you managed it?"

He looks surprised by the question, but then he smiles and shrugs. "I 'kill' myself off in various ways every forty or fifty years and introduce a new heir. A few makeup tricks, a change in hair color and styles, colored contacts. " He pats his chest. "Padding to change body shape. It's not so hard really."

"And no one notices?"

"I have an entire gallery of 'family portraits' showing the remarkable Turnbull family resemblance."

"And do you also keep a low profile?"

"I'm a philanthropist. Made my fortune in mining. I manage a foundation, attend a few charity functions, but mostly I keep to myself. I have a ranch outside of Durango. My house here in Denver is closed most of the year."

"Sounds like you've made a good life for yourself."

My voice must have a wistful ring to it, because Turnbull raises an eyebrow. No reason why you can't do the same thing. A laugh bubbles up. Or not. Williams seems to think you have a death wish. Is that true? You really choose to live as a human?

"I think this is it, Mr. Turnbull."

The driver's voice saves me from either confirming or denying Williams' charge. Death wish? Seems to me I've had to defend my life more since becoming vampire than I ever did as a human.

The driver has pulled to a stop at the junction to an unpaved road that skirts the back of several of the larger properties. Sophie Deveraux's is one of them. I get out to take a look around.

The Deveraux property sits on about ten acres of rolling pastureland. I can just see the back of the stable from our vantage point. The same iron fence that surrounds the front of the house extends back this way.

Turnbull has gotten out, too, and comes to stand beside me.

"I'm going in," I tell him. "Give me fifteen minutes. If I'm not back, call Williams and tell him there was trouble."

Turnbull's expression darkens. "Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

No. I'm not. If this Sophie turns out to be another dead end, I've squandered more than time. I've squandered the remaining hours of Culebra's life.

"Fifteen minutes," I repeat. "Then call Williams."

If I don't come back by then, I'm most likely dead. Culebra and Frey are, too, if Williams can 't find a way to prevent it. The only consolation is that Ortiz' death has given Williams a personal stake in finding Burke. If I can't save them, I know he'll try.

It's a small comfort.

"We'll be right here," Turnbull adds, reading my thoughts but not commenting on them. "Be careful." His voice suddenly has an edge, an urgency, as if he understands.

I wonder if he now questions why I choose to live as a human.