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Chapter Eight

He sat up fast with a sharp intake of air, heart thumping, his right hand crossing to his left hip as though to draw a sword.

Old habits . . .

He listened in the cool confines of the dark room. He heard only Michael's soft breathing from the bed and the distant hum of the air conditioning.

What had awakened him? He concentrated and finally determined it had been nothing at all. He'd simply slept enough, and it was time to face the day, or what was left of it. His watch told him it was almost noon. It might have been midnight in this dim sanctuary.

He felt better. Getting up was not an effort. The aches in his body were gone, and he sensed his final restoration was complete . . . at least on the physical level.

Michael was exactly where Richard had left him. The covers were kicked off, but he still slept deeply. Maybe too deeply, but surely it would help, it would heal him, and God knew Michael needed healing. Richard replaced the bedspread, quietly chose fresh clothes, then left the boy alone, closing the door softly behind him.

In the living room, Richard dressed slowly. It was time to deal with responsibilities and he had no spirit for it. Going back to stand watch over the child in the easeful dark was more preferable than facing reality. He sat heavily at the desk, a bleak stare for the telephone as he put things off for one more minute. No matter how much he wanted to avoid this, he couldn't. Waiting would not make things better. He picked up the receiver and, since it was Saturday, punched in Bourland's home number. A woman answered, the live-in housekeeper, and at Richard's request went to fetch her employer.

"Hallo?"

Bourland's voice was polite yet puzzled. Richard had not said who he was, and few people had this particular number.

"Philip . . . it's Richard."

"Richard, how are you? It's been months. What on earth have you been up to?"

Such warmth in Bourland's drawled greeting. Richard could not make himself respond. The words stuck in his throat and an uncomfortable silence stretched over the lines.

"Hallo? Are you there? Is something wrong?"

Yes, my old friend, I'm about to put a knife in your heart and twist it. 

"Richard?"

"I have very bad news, Philip. Please sit down."

"What—" Bourland bit off the rest. Along with the ominous words, he'd have picked up on those subtleties of tone that indicate something truly serious had happened.

"I'm in Dallas."

"What is it? Is Stephanie—"

"I'm sorry, Philip." There was no way to make the news less brutal. Best just to say it, get it over with. "Stephanie is dead, and so are Elena and Seraphina."

A very small strangled sound came over the line, cut short. "What . . . what happened? An accident?"

"No. Not an accident. They were murdered."

There came a soft exhalation of breath, not quite a word, not quite a sigh, then a long silence, and Richard could sense his friend bowing under the sudden burden. He heard the scrape of wood against a bare floor. Bourland was sitting down. When he spoke, his voice was tight, stretched, hardly recognizable. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Yes, I'm sure. Dear Goddess, I'm sure. I saw the blood, the bullet holes, the awful gaping smile of their slit throats. He shook his head sharply, disrupting the image.

"But they . . . they . . . oh, God." Another long pause.

"Philip? I'm right here, Philip."

His response was a whisper thick with tears and pain. "Sorry . . . I—I can't. I'll call you b—back."

The disconnecting click was sharp, abrupt. Bourland would be completely devastated. Stephanie had been like a second daughter to him. He had loved her in that hopeless, helpless way that older men do when their own daughters have left the nest. He'd once confided his wish that Richard might marry her and give him surrogate grandchildren to dandle on his knee in his old age. He had eventually gotten them, but now that happiness was gone. Ripped away.

Richard sat by the phone, waiting until Bourland's first terrible rush of grief abated enough so he could talk again. His own anguish hovered close; he willed it away. Nothing would be served if he lost control now. A scant ten minutes passed when the sharp warble broke the silence. Richard picked up.

Bourland's voice was steel. "Was it Alejandro?"

"Yes."

"You saw him?"

"If I had he'd be dead."

"What about Michael? And Luis?"

"I don't know about Luis. Michael's alive and safe here with me. He's sleeping."

"Thank God, thank the dear God for that. Are you all right?"

"I'm . . . coping."

"What happened? Tell me everything."

Richard poured out the whole story from the first alarm call on his computer to walking into the too, too quiet house and finding the bodies. He gave the simple facts, carefully keeping out all emotional embroidery. It was the only way he could get through it.

"There must have been devices set all through the place," he said. "I smelled something odd under the propane, but didn't identify it as Semtex until it was almost too late. I think the gas was on to cover the smell and add to the damage. There was nothing I could do for them, so I ran. I got clear just as it went up, but something knocked me flat. Must have been flying debris. Didn't quite pass out, but I couldn't do anything for myself. It was like being drugged. Took hours before I was able to wake up enough to move."

"Hours? But the explosion must have drawn attention. Didn't anyone call it in?"

"The property's isolated, miles from everything, and the house is far from the road in a low spot in the land. That would muffle the blast and hide the flames. The smoke would have blended into the general darkness."

Bourland swore once. "Go on."

"I don't remember much. Just being thirsty. I crawled to the pump house for water and that's when I found Michael. He must have been hiding there the whole time, scared out of his wits."

"How is he?"

"Just some scratches and a bruise or two. He's asleep."

"You're hedging. How is he?"

"In some kind of shock."

"What do you mean?"

"He's not said a word since I found him. I'm hoping all he needs is rest—"

"He needs a doctor."

"I know a good one here; I'm taking him right over."

"Do. Keep me informed."

"Of course I will."

"What about Luis? Where the hell is he?"

"I've no idea. His car . . ." He trailed off into silence, his mind working rapidly.

"What is it? Richard? Do you know something?"

"Luis's car wasn't there when I arrived. Suppose he drove in after it was over, saw what happened, then fled."

"Without trying to find out if there were survivors?" Contempt seeped into Bourland's tone. But then he'd not seen the total destruction wrought by the blast.

"It was very bad, Philip. One look and you'd know how hopeless."

"But if he'd been there, then how did he miss spotting you?"

"He might not have gotten close enough. It was a fearful mess. He could still be alive, hiding somewhere." Richard's thoughts churned with a new realization. "Look, by the condition of the—of things, the murders took place in the morning. The killer had all day to set up the bombs. He was only waiting for Luis to come home from work and find what was left. That's the sort of retribution Alejandro would arrange. He would want Luis to see what he'd brought upon himself and his family for his betrayal."

"Damn him."

"When I got there the killer must have slipped out the back and hid, allowing me just enough time to find the bodies—or rather he meant it to be Luis. We're about the same build, and it was dark. He mistook me for Luis, detonated the bomb, then left me for dead. It would certainly explain the perfect timing."

"My God, then he really could still be alive."

Yes, they might yet salvage something from the disaster. "There's a chance of it."

"What about the police down there?"

"Sorry?"

"What are they doing about this?"

"I've not spoken to them."

"For God's sake, why not?"

"Philip, stop and think about it. If I bring them in, I won't be free to act in a manner I deem . . . appropriate."

Bourland caught on instantly. "I understand. I'm taking the next flight out."

"No, please, I need you exactly where you are."

"But—"

"I need help. Your kind of help."

A pause, as Bourland took in the implications. "Anything. Name it."

"Information. I need free access to the databases of the CIA, FBI, DEA, Interpol, and anyone else you can think of at the highest clearance you can manage. All the major law enforcement agencies, the local police, too, the airlines, Immigration. Get me their access codes."

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. "I don't know if I can."

"Philip, for Stephanie's sake you will. I must have them if I'm to find Alejandro."

That shot hit home. "I'll see what I can arrange . . . and Richard?"

"Yes?"

"Alejandro or whoever did the killing for him may well know Michael is alive. That child is in extreme danger."

Richard's gut lurched. Damnation, why hadn't he thought of that? Of course the killer knew the boy had gotten away. And would be looking for him. "He's safe, and I will keep him that way. I'm going to be on the move, so use my cell number. Just get me the information I need."

"Soon." Bourland hung up with no further comment.

Richard sank back in his chair, his gaze hard on the closed bedroom door.

Ah, Michael. Poor Michael. What would become of him? His family dead or missing, the absolute loss beyond his young comprehension, he might never wake from his withdrawal.

Across the room on a table Richard caught sight of a gold framed photo of his twin goddaughters. It was one of the few personal items he kept here. Elena and Seraphina had been seven at the time and laughed at the camera as they sat on their pony.

Oh, God, those poor girls. 

And suddenly the grief welled up in him once again. In a desperate stolen way, sweet Elena and Seraphina had been his daughters, his innocent, helpless children. It was mere technicality that Luis was their father. Had Richard not been there at their christenings, holding them tenderly, grinning into the camera with a parent's absurd doting pride? He always remembered their birthday, knew every tiny, immensely important event of their young lives. Photographs his cherished Stephanie had taken were in his wallet, creased with wear.

And now some bastard had murdered them all.

Richard had seen much over the long centuries and of necessity had learned to maintain a certain amount of emotional distance from those few and fragile souls that he loved. They died. He lived on. That was the way of things. He had had to pull back time and time again to survive the years with any sort of sanity intact. Yet now, with the events of the past twenty-four hours crowding upon him, he could not pull back far enough for this.

His sight blurred, his breath shortened. Great heavy sobs began to rack his body, and he did not fight them. He let them take him, for this was the only way to deal with the grief.

Try as he might, wish as he might, he would never be too old or too stony of heart not to weep.

Richard splashed cold water on his face, wishing he could as easily wash away the sorrow along with his tears. The grieving was not over, he was fully aware of that, but he'd vented enough to be able to push it to one side, allowing him to focus and function. He would give himself time to truly mourn only after he'd caught Alejandro.

He padded to the bedroom to check on Michael and was surprised to see the child seated cross-legged in front of the TV there. Michael stared, empty-eyed, at a dark screen, for it was not turned on.

Damn, damn, damn. He suppressed an inner groan, then got down on the floor to be in the boy's line of sight.

"Michael?"

No reaction.

"Michael, it's Uncle Richard. Will you look at me?"

Nothing.

He fought back a twinge of panic. The boy needed and would get professional help. Now. Richard donned his daylight coverings, gently gathered up Michael, and headed for the elevator.

Some thirty minutes later, child in arms, he bulled through the door of the Med-Mission Clinic, startling the patients in the waiting room. Helen Mesquita buzzed him straight through the second door and pointed. He'd called ahead on his cell phone to give Dr. Sam some warning, sketching out what was required. Richard found the examination room, and eased Michael down on the table there.

Helen came in, a clipboard in hand, dark eyes wide with unvoiced questions. "Well, who have we got here?" she asked, addressing Michael. His lack of response didn't seem to bother her, giving Richard to understand that she'd been primed about what to expect.

"This is Michael, my godson," Richard answered.

She wrote the name down on the form on the board. "Last name?"

"No paperwork for this one. Sam will confirm it."

This was unheard of. She started to object, but after a few seconds of eye contact Richard persuaded her to forget the matter. She put the form aside and turned to the child, smiling. "Hi, Michael, I'm glad to meet you. My name is Helen. We're just going to check you out and make sure everything's running fine. Is that okay with you?"

The boy's eyes moved, downward. It was the first sign he'd given of being aware of anything.

She glanced at Richard, taking in the mixed emotions on his face. "Sure it is."

Richard felt a hand on his arm and repressed an urge to flinch. It was Sam, only trying to push past. He murmured requests to Helen, and the two of them proceeded to make a swift and efficient examination of the boy.

"Who's his pediatrician?" asked Sam. "You might want to notify him."

"I don't know."

Sam gave him a sharp look, head-to-toe. "Richard, you look like hell."

"How's the boy?"

"Dehydrated, some scratches, bruises, needs food, a bath, and clean clothes. How'd he get this way?"

"I'll explain. Can you do all that here?"

"We can manage."

Helen smiled at Michael. "Yes, we're old friends now. I'll look after him if you tell Ruth to keep holding the fort out front for me."

Sam saw to it, then took Richard back to his office. Sunlight blasted harsh through the window, warming the place past the limits of the otherwise efficient air conditioning. Richard shut the blinds and dropped his long frame into the same chair as before.

Sam perched on the edge of his desk. "So . . . what is going on? What happened to that boy? Why come here instead of to an emergency room?"

"Because I can answer your questions; I wouldn't have been able to answer theirs."

"Don't tell me you've kidnapped him." Sam was only half serious, the other half was plainly alarmed.

"No, nothing like that, but any official notice of the child could put him in danger."

"Why is that? What's happened to him?"

"Yesterday morning he saw his mother and sisters murdered. The killer is still loose and probably looking for him."

That stopped Sam's questions for a very long minute. He shifted from the desk to his own chair, looking at Richard the whole time. "I think you know what I'll ask next, so please . . ." He gestured, palm up, for more information.

Richard kept his story short, the barest of bare bones. It was the only way he could get through it again.

"My God," Sam whispered. "I heard something on the radio when I drove in, but I never thought . . ." He glanced at his watch, then swiveled his chair so as to turn on a small black-and-white portable TV jammed onto a crowded bookshelf.

The picture was fuzzy, but served. The images and sound marched their slow way through the credits of a sports show and some ads, then the local carrier station news center broke in with the day's headlines. They gave a full thirty seconds to the mysterious explosion of a house in Addison. A helicopter view of the area was shown as the narrator spoke of arson.

Richard made himself look at the near obliteration of the house, made small by the screen, but still naked and awful in the daylight.

The TV voice continued, " . . . and an inside source has revealed that some type of powerful explosive was involved. Police, FBI, and BATF agents are searching the site for clues and bodies."

And if I don't come forward now and they discover I was there . . .  

But the likelihood of that was slim, very slim. Yes, the authorities would not be happy with him, but he couldn't allow himself to be restrained by the limits of the law, or allow Michael to be taken from his custody by well-meaning strangers who could get the boy killed for lack of security.

A commercial suddenly replaced the blackened wreckage on the screen.

Sam shut the thing off. "He was in that?"

"Not quite, but close."

"And the murders . . . they were killed just to make an example?" Sam shook his head. "I don't understand that kind of evil. I see it all the time, but his own brother? He would kill children?"

"Sam. Believe me, you don't want to understand it. This is the kind of corruption found in gangrenous limbs. Alejandro had his face rubbed in it when Luis turned on him, and he swore vengeance."

Sam shook his head. "Damn, but I try most of the time to forget how awful the world really is."

"With your line of work? With what you do here?"

"I've got a selective memory. It helps me get through some of the bad days." He sighed, frowning at his desk. "Now what?"

"Now I go after the man behind it."

"You? Why not the cops?"

Richard made no reply.

"Why? You're going to talk to them about this, aren't you?"

"The less you know, the better you'll sleep."

"Richard . . ."

"No. Anything I say about it will just upset you."

"But you're a security expert, not any sort of a sanctioned law officer. If you get in trouble with them what happens to Michael?"

"You don't need to worry about it." Richard held his gaze a moment, allowing his friend time to settle.

Dr. Sam relaxed infinitesimally; it was enough.

Richard continued. "Michael needs to drop out of sight for the present. As soon as you're done treating him, we're going elsewhere to safer ground."

Sam shook his head. "The kid's not a car you can just bring in for a tune-up then drive out again. For the kind of shock he's had, he will need round-the-clock help. You should get him to a hospital, find a good child psychologist—do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Yes, Sam, but I can't. The people behind this are professional killers. Michael is a witness. If they find him, they will murder him and anyone else with him. I'm taking a risk with your life bringing him here."

"Then get him police protection."

"No. I do not trust the police to be able to take care of him; there are too many ways his presence can be leaked to the wrong ears. The man responsible has money enough to buy kings, much less anyone else."

"Even when he murders children?"

Richard fixed him with a "what do you think?" look. "You said you don't understand that sort of evil."

"All right, I get the point, but just where do you plan to take him?"

Richard had no ready answer. He had some idea of calling on the local security man for Arhyn-Hill and taking it from there.

"You can't just leave the boy off at a day care center," Sam argued. "Not in his condition. Any good one would be the first to phone the authorities. Keep him here."

"I can't ask you to volunteer."

"No, but I will anyway. It's what I'm good at, remember? I'm Crusader Rabbit with a tongue depressor instead of a lance."

"You don't know anything about dodging bullets."

Sam snorted. "That wet-eared kid you rescued way back when has since picked up a few survival clues by osmosis, though I'm open to suggestions."

Richard hesitated, but no better option presented itself to him. And he could trust Sam and his staff to be bribe-proof. "All right, but you absolutely have to keep him out of sight, smuggle him home in a laundry bag if you must, but no one sees him."

"I think we can manage. How long will this take?"

"Not sure, but I'll be making arrangements to get him away from here in a day or so." Richard wrote out Bourland's name and number. "This man is your emergency guardian angel, should you need one. He's in Toronto, but he has a long reach. I'll see to it he knows who you are."

"Emergency, okay. How much can I tell Helen? I'll be needing her help."

"As much as you deem necessary. Tell her the boy is a witness to a crime and needs to disappear. I had my eyes open on the way over; I don't think I was followed, but the killer may know the connection between Arhyn-Hill Oil and this place and could come calling, just to be thorough."

"You're not exaggerating, are you?"

"Not one bit. I think once you're done here for the day you should close up as usual, then overnight elsewhere." Richard got his wallet out and peeled off half the bills in it, putting the stack of hundreds on the desk.

Sam's eyebrows jumped at the amount. "Come on, you don't have to pay me—"

"Operating expenses . . . and for the extra blood I need. Is it . . . ?"

"Yeah, in the fridge."

"Good. Have you a cell phone?"

"Helen has one. I have a pager."

"I'll want both numbers; you've still got mine? It's for emergencies only, though. And if it's that bad, then you call Bourland, too."

Sam had a short discussion with Helen, who had no objection to looking after Michael for the next few days. Details were settled out, then Richard went to see the boy again.

With the dirt off, Michael was several shades lighter than before, now dressed in a faded, but otherwise clean shirt and shorts that were more or less his size, rubber beach thongs on his feet. Apparently the clinic dealt with a number of children being brought in possessing only the clothes on their backs and kept a donation bin for such emergencies. Another bin held toys. Med-Mission was a thorough place.

Richard pulled a low stool over to the examination table and sat before Michael. "You're looking better. How are you?"

The boy would only stare at the floor.

With one finger, Richard slowly tilted Michael's head up so he could see his pale blue eyes. Empty eyes. He focused hard, trying to touch the mind behind them. Helen somberly stood close to one side, but he didn't think she'd notice what he was attempting. "Michael, it's all right. You're safe. No one will hurt you any more. You can speak now. You are safe."

God, he was so young, much too young for such a burden.

As if in response to the thought, Michael's chin crumpled a little.

"It's all right . . ." Richard concentrated, hardly daring to breathe. "I know what happened, but you're safe."

A tear seeped out and rolled down Michael's cheek, dropping cold on Richard's hand. With it, a feeling of overwhelming sadness came over him—so strong that it was physical, like a blow; he felt ready to weep anew himself.

"It's all right," he lied, fighting to keep his voice from cracking.

"Mommy." One word from the boy, whispered so soft as to barely be heard.

Helen shifted slightly in reaction.

"Yes, Michael, I know—"

"Mommy!" This time, he screamed it. He pushed violently away from Richard and threw himself at Helen, wailing uncontrollably. She caught and held him close like a baby, rocking him back and forth.

"He needs a little time," she told Richard, tears trailing down her face in sympathy. "This is good, what's happened. He just needs a little time."

He nodded, squeezed her shoulder, and backed off to where Sam stood in the doorway.

"Let's give them some space," said Sam, herding him out.

"I should be there for him."

"You already have been, but he's not ready for more. He's probably regressed a bit. He's a scared little boy who only wants his mother, and Helen is a close enough substitute. Let him have that for now."

Richard nodded acquiescence. Reluctantly. He could still hear Michael's sobbing.

Sam gave him another once-over. "You won't do him any good the state you're in. You need rest—or at least a time-out."

But Richard's phone warbled before he could reply. He fished it out.

Bourland was on the other end. "Get a pen," he said. "I've got some of those codes, and God help us both if you lose them. Only their own agents are supposed to have these."

It seemed best not to warn him about the cell phone. The risk was small that anyone was listening in; besides, agency access codes were always being changed. Richard found pen and paper, printing everything out carefully on one of Sam's prescription pads.

"That's for the FBI and DEA only," said Bourland. "I might be able to get more on Monday, but everyone I know that I can trust to keep quiet is off for the weekend."

"It's a start. Thank you, Philip. Can you filter it in to someone the possibility that Alejandro may be in this country? An alert sent out by the proper channels . . ."

"Already done, but it'll be a matter of pure luck if he's spotted. If he ever was in Texas, he's probably well gone by now."

Too true. Alejandro was a smart man. Not the sort to put himself at risk, according to his brother. Anyone else was fair game, though.

"What about Michael?" Bourland asked. "Have you—"

Richard filled him in on the boy's condition and change in situation, giving Bourland names and numbers. "Dr. George will look after him very well; he's in first-rate hands, I promise."

"I'm still coming down there. Monday."

"But—"

"I can pull strings from anyplace with a phone. I need to be there . . . to make arrangements. For them."

Poor Bourland. This was all he had left to give Stephanie, to take her and her daughters home for burial. "Yes, very well. Stay with me at New Karnak. I've plenty of room. I'll tell security to expect you and let you in."

"Won't Alejandro know about your penthouse?"

"At this point I don't know if he's even aware of my existence, but the place is listed as a corporate expense for Arhyn-Hill, and access is extremely limited. It's safe." Safe enough for me, old friend. Perhaps not for Michael, but that worry was off his shoulders for the time being. "Philip, what can you organize concerning Michael?"

"Organize?"

"I want to get him out of the country. He'll need a passport, won't he?" Richard's knowledge about international travel for children was hazy.

Bourland understood instantly. "Yes, I'll get right on that. Excellent idea."

They rang off. Richard folded the phone and tucked it away. He tore off several of the top sheets from the pad and tucked those away as well, shrugging an apology to Sam for the misuse of office supplies.

"You're not going to rest, are you?" asked Sam.

"Later. I've work to do."

"Meaning you'll be hunting this Alejandro?"

"Yes."

"You going to kill him?"

Richard thought a moment, realizing that only the truth would serve for his friend. "Yes. With great pleasure."

Sam nodded, apparently expecting just that answer. He wasn't happy with it, but knew better than to argue. "They've got a saying in this neighborhood about that sort of thing."

"Yes?"

"`Have fun . . . but don't get caught.'"

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Framed

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Chapter Eight

He sat up fast with a sharp intake of air, heart thumping, his right hand crossing to his left hip as though to draw a sword.

Old habits . . .

He listened in the cool confines of the dark room. He heard only Michael's soft breathing from the bed and the distant hum of the air conditioning.

What had awakened him? He concentrated and finally determined it had been nothing at all. He'd simply slept enough, and it was time to face the day, or what was left of it. His watch told him it was almost noon. It might have been midnight in this dim sanctuary.

He felt better. Getting up was not an effort. The aches in his body were gone, and he sensed his final restoration was complete . . . at least on the physical level.

Michael was exactly where Richard had left him. The covers were kicked off, but he still slept deeply. Maybe too deeply, but surely it would help, it would heal him, and God knew Michael needed healing. Richard replaced the bedspread, quietly chose fresh clothes, then left the boy alone, closing the door softly behind him.

In the living room, Richard dressed slowly. It was time to deal with responsibilities and he had no spirit for it. Going back to stand watch over the child in the easeful dark was more preferable than facing reality. He sat heavily at the desk, a bleak stare for the telephone as he put things off for one more minute. No matter how much he wanted to avoid this, he couldn't. Waiting would not make things better. He picked up the receiver and, since it was Saturday, punched in Bourland's home number. A woman answered, the live-in housekeeper, and at Richard's request went to fetch her employer.

"Hallo?"

Bourland's voice was polite yet puzzled. Richard had not said who he was, and few people had this particular number.

"Philip . . . it's Richard."

"Richard, how are you? It's been months. What on earth have you been up to?"

Such warmth in Bourland's drawled greeting. Richard could not make himself respond. The words stuck in his throat and an uncomfortable silence stretched over the lines.

"Hallo? Are you there? Is something wrong?"

Yes, my old friend, I'm about to put a knife in your heart and twist it. 

"Richard?"

"I have very bad news, Philip. Please sit down."

"What—" Bourland bit off the rest. Along with the ominous words, he'd have picked up on those subtleties of tone that indicate something truly serious had happened.

"I'm in Dallas."

"What is it? Is Stephanie—"

"I'm sorry, Philip." There was no way to make the news less brutal. Best just to say it, get it over with. "Stephanie is dead, and so are Elena and Seraphina."

A very small strangled sound came over the line, cut short. "What . . . what happened? An accident?"

"No. Not an accident. They were murdered."

There came a soft exhalation of breath, not quite a word, not quite a sigh, then a long silence, and Richard could sense his friend bowing under the sudden burden. He heard the scrape of wood against a bare floor. Bourland was sitting down. When he spoke, his voice was tight, stretched, hardly recognizable. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Yes, I'm sure. Dear Goddess, I'm sure. I saw the blood, the bullet holes, the awful gaping smile of their slit throats. He shook his head sharply, disrupting the image.

"But they . . . they . . . oh, God." Another long pause.

"Philip? I'm right here, Philip."

His response was a whisper thick with tears and pain. "Sorry . . . I—I can't. I'll call you b—back."

The disconnecting click was sharp, abrupt. Bourland would be completely devastated. Stephanie had been like a second daughter to him. He had loved her in that hopeless, helpless way that older men do when their own daughters have left the nest. He'd once confided his wish that Richard might marry her and give him surrogate grandchildren to dandle on his knee in his old age. He had eventually gotten them, but now that happiness was gone. Ripped away.

Richard sat by the phone, waiting until Bourland's first terrible rush of grief abated enough so he could talk again. His own anguish hovered close; he willed it away. Nothing would be served if he lost control now. A scant ten minutes passed when the sharp warble broke the silence. Richard picked up.

Bourland's voice was steel. "Was it Alejandro?"

"Yes."

"You saw him?"

"If I had he'd be dead."

"What about Michael? And Luis?"

"I don't know about Luis. Michael's alive and safe here with me. He's sleeping."

"Thank God, thank the dear God for that. Are you all right?"

"I'm . . . coping."

"What happened? Tell me everything."

Richard poured out the whole story from the first alarm call on his computer to walking into the too, too quiet house and finding the bodies. He gave the simple facts, carefully keeping out all emotional embroidery. It was the only way he could get through it.

"There must have been devices set all through the place," he said. "I smelled something odd under the propane, but didn't identify it as Semtex until it was almost too late. I think the gas was on to cover the smell and add to the damage. There was nothing I could do for them, so I ran. I got clear just as it went up, but something knocked me flat. Must have been flying debris. Didn't quite pass out, but I couldn't do anything for myself. It was like being drugged. Took hours before I was able to wake up enough to move."

"Hours? But the explosion must have drawn attention. Didn't anyone call it in?"

"The property's isolated, miles from everything, and the house is far from the road in a low spot in the land. That would muffle the blast and hide the flames. The smoke would have blended into the general darkness."

Bourland swore once. "Go on."

"I don't remember much. Just being thirsty. I crawled to the pump house for water and that's when I found Michael. He must have been hiding there the whole time, scared out of his wits."

"How is he?"

"Just some scratches and a bruise or two. He's asleep."

"You're hedging. How is he?"

"In some kind of shock."

"What do you mean?"

"He's not said a word since I found him. I'm hoping all he needs is rest—"

"He needs a doctor."

"I know a good one here; I'm taking him right over."

"Do. Keep me informed."

"Of course I will."

"What about Luis? Where the hell is he?"

"I've no idea. His car . . ." He trailed off into silence, his mind working rapidly.

"What is it? Richard? Do you know something?"

"Luis's car wasn't there when I arrived. Suppose he drove in after it was over, saw what happened, then fled."

"Without trying to find out if there were survivors?" Contempt seeped into Bourland's tone. But then he'd not seen the total destruction wrought by the blast.

"It was very bad, Philip. One look and you'd know how hopeless."

"But if he'd been there, then how did he miss spotting you?"

"He might not have gotten close enough. It was a fearful mess. He could still be alive, hiding somewhere." Richard's thoughts churned with a new realization. "Look, by the condition of the—of things, the murders took place in the morning. The killer had all day to set up the bombs. He was only waiting for Luis to come home from work and find what was left. That's the sort of retribution Alejandro would arrange. He would want Luis to see what he'd brought upon himself and his family for his betrayal."

"Damn him."

"When I got there the killer must have slipped out the back and hid, allowing me just enough time to find the bodies—or rather he meant it to be Luis. We're about the same build, and it was dark. He mistook me for Luis, detonated the bomb, then left me for dead. It would certainly explain the perfect timing."

"My God, then he really could still be alive."

Yes, they might yet salvage something from the disaster. "There's a chance of it."

"What about the police down there?"

"Sorry?"

"What are they doing about this?"

"I've not spoken to them."

"For God's sake, why not?"

"Philip, stop and think about it. If I bring them in, I won't be free to act in a manner I deem . . . appropriate."

Bourland caught on instantly. "I understand. I'm taking the next flight out."

"No, please, I need you exactly where you are."

"But—"

"I need help. Your kind of help."

A pause, as Bourland took in the implications. "Anything. Name it."

"Information. I need free access to the databases of the CIA, FBI, DEA, Interpol, and anyone else you can think of at the highest clearance you can manage. All the major law enforcement agencies, the local police, too, the airlines, Immigration. Get me their access codes."

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. "I don't know if I can."

"Philip, for Stephanie's sake you will. I must have them if I'm to find Alejandro."

That shot hit home. "I'll see what I can arrange . . . and Richard?"

"Yes?"

"Alejandro or whoever did the killing for him may well know Michael is alive. That child is in extreme danger."

Richard's gut lurched. Damnation, why hadn't he thought of that? Of course the killer knew the boy had gotten away. And would be looking for him. "He's safe, and I will keep him that way. I'm going to be on the move, so use my cell number. Just get me the information I need."

"Soon." Bourland hung up with no further comment.

Richard sank back in his chair, his gaze hard on the closed bedroom door.

Ah, Michael. Poor Michael. What would become of him? His family dead or missing, the absolute loss beyond his young comprehension, he might never wake from his withdrawal.

Across the room on a table Richard caught sight of a gold framed photo of his twin goddaughters. It was one of the few personal items he kept here. Elena and Seraphina had been seven at the time and laughed at the camera as they sat on their pony.

Oh, God, those poor girls. 

And suddenly the grief welled up in him once again. In a desperate stolen way, sweet Elena and Seraphina had been his daughters, his innocent, helpless children. It was mere technicality that Luis was their father. Had Richard not been there at their christenings, holding them tenderly, grinning into the camera with a parent's absurd doting pride? He always remembered their birthday, knew every tiny, immensely important event of their young lives. Photographs his cherished Stephanie had taken were in his wallet, creased with wear.

And now some bastard had murdered them all.

Richard had seen much over the long centuries and of necessity had learned to maintain a certain amount of emotional distance from those few and fragile souls that he loved. They died. He lived on. That was the way of things. He had had to pull back time and time again to survive the years with any sort of sanity intact. Yet now, with the events of the past twenty-four hours crowding upon him, he could not pull back far enough for this.

His sight blurred, his breath shortened. Great heavy sobs began to rack his body, and he did not fight them. He let them take him, for this was the only way to deal with the grief.

Try as he might, wish as he might, he would never be too old or too stony of heart not to weep.

Richard splashed cold water on his face, wishing he could as easily wash away the sorrow along with his tears. The grieving was not over, he was fully aware of that, but he'd vented enough to be able to push it to one side, allowing him to focus and function. He would give himself time to truly mourn only after he'd caught Alejandro.

He padded to the bedroom to check on Michael and was surprised to see the child seated cross-legged in front of the TV there. Michael stared, empty-eyed, at a dark screen, for it was not turned on.

Damn, damn, damn. He suppressed an inner groan, then got down on the floor to be in the boy's line of sight.

"Michael?"

No reaction.

"Michael, it's Uncle Richard. Will you look at me?"

Nothing.

He fought back a twinge of panic. The boy needed and would get professional help. Now. Richard donned his daylight coverings, gently gathered up Michael, and headed for the elevator.

Some thirty minutes later, child in arms, he bulled through the door of the Med-Mission Clinic, startling the patients in the waiting room. Helen Mesquita buzzed him straight through the second door and pointed. He'd called ahead on his cell phone to give Dr. Sam some warning, sketching out what was required. Richard found the examination room, and eased Michael down on the table there.

Helen came in, a clipboard in hand, dark eyes wide with unvoiced questions. "Well, who have we got here?" she asked, addressing Michael. His lack of response didn't seem to bother her, giving Richard to understand that she'd been primed about what to expect.

"This is Michael, my godson," Richard answered.

She wrote the name down on the form on the board. "Last name?"

"No paperwork for this one. Sam will confirm it."

This was unheard of. She started to object, but after a few seconds of eye contact Richard persuaded her to forget the matter. She put the form aside and turned to the child, smiling. "Hi, Michael, I'm glad to meet you. My name is Helen. We're just going to check you out and make sure everything's running fine. Is that okay with you?"

The boy's eyes moved, downward. It was the first sign he'd given of being aware of anything.

She glanced at Richard, taking in the mixed emotions on his face. "Sure it is."

Richard felt a hand on his arm and repressed an urge to flinch. It was Sam, only trying to push past. He murmured requests to Helen, and the two of them proceeded to make a swift and efficient examination of the boy.

"Who's his pediatrician?" asked Sam. "You might want to notify him."

"I don't know."

Sam gave him a sharp look, head-to-toe. "Richard, you look like hell."

"How's the boy?"

"Dehydrated, some scratches, bruises, needs food, a bath, and clean clothes. How'd he get this way?"

"I'll explain. Can you do all that here?"

"We can manage."

Helen smiled at Michael. "Yes, we're old friends now. I'll look after him if you tell Ruth to keep holding the fort out front for me."

Sam saw to it, then took Richard back to his office. Sunlight blasted harsh through the window, warming the place past the limits of the otherwise efficient air conditioning. Richard shut the blinds and dropped his long frame into the same chair as before.

Sam perched on the edge of his desk. "So . . . what is going on? What happened to that boy? Why come here instead of to an emergency room?"

"Because I can answer your questions; I wouldn't have been able to answer theirs."

"Don't tell me you've kidnapped him." Sam was only half serious, the other half was plainly alarmed.

"No, nothing like that, but any official notice of the child could put him in danger."

"Why is that? What's happened to him?"

"Yesterday morning he saw his mother and sisters murdered. The killer is still loose and probably looking for him."

That stopped Sam's questions for a very long minute. He shifted from the desk to his own chair, looking at Richard the whole time. "I think you know what I'll ask next, so please . . ." He gestured, palm up, for more information.

Richard kept his story short, the barest of bare bones. It was the only way he could get through it again.

"My God," Sam whispered. "I heard something on the radio when I drove in, but I never thought . . ." He glanced at his watch, then swiveled his chair so as to turn on a small black-and-white portable TV jammed onto a crowded bookshelf.

The picture was fuzzy, but served. The images and sound marched their slow way through the credits of a sports show and some ads, then the local carrier station news center broke in with the day's headlines. They gave a full thirty seconds to the mysterious explosion of a house in Addison. A helicopter view of the area was shown as the narrator spoke of arson.

Richard made himself look at the near obliteration of the house, made small by the screen, but still naked and awful in the daylight.

The TV voice continued, " . . . and an inside source has revealed that some type of powerful explosive was involved. Police, FBI, and BATF agents are searching the site for clues and bodies."

And if I don't come forward now and they discover I was there . . .  

But the likelihood of that was slim, very slim. Yes, the authorities would not be happy with him, but he couldn't allow himself to be restrained by the limits of the law, or allow Michael to be taken from his custody by well-meaning strangers who could get the boy killed for lack of security.

A commercial suddenly replaced the blackened wreckage on the screen.

Sam shut the thing off. "He was in that?"

"Not quite, but close."

"And the murders . . . they were killed just to make an example?" Sam shook his head. "I don't understand that kind of evil. I see it all the time, but his own brother? He would kill children?"

"Sam. Believe me, you don't want to understand it. This is the kind of corruption found in gangrenous limbs. Alejandro had his face rubbed in it when Luis turned on him, and he swore vengeance."

Sam shook his head. "Damn, but I try most of the time to forget how awful the world really is."

"With your line of work? With what you do here?"

"I've got a selective memory. It helps me get through some of the bad days." He sighed, frowning at his desk. "Now what?"

"Now I go after the man behind it."

"You? Why not the cops?"

Richard made no reply.

"Why? You're going to talk to them about this, aren't you?"

"The less you know, the better you'll sleep."

"Richard . . ."

"No. Anything I say about it will just upset you."

"But you're a security expert, not any sort of a sanctioned law officer. If you get in trouble with them what happens to Michael?"

"You don't need to worry about it." Richard held his gaze a moment, allowing his friend time to settle.

Dr. Sam relaxed infinitesimally; it was enough.

Richard continued. "Michael needs to drop out of sight for the present. As soon as you're done treating him, we're going elsewhere to safer ground."

Sam shook his head. "The kid's not a car you can just bring in for a tune-up then drive out again. For the kind of shock he's had, he will need round-the-clock help. You should get him to a hospital, find a good child psychologist—do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Yes, Sam, but I can't. The people behind this are professional killers. Michael is a witness. If they find him, they will murder him and anyone else with him. I'm taking a risk with your life bringing him here."

"Then get him police protection."

"No. I do not trust the police to be able to take care of him; there are too many ways his presence can be leaked to the wrong ears. The man responsible has money enough to buy kings, much less anyone else."

"Even when he murders children?"

Richard fixed him with a "what do you think?" look. "You said you don't understand that sort of evil."

"All right, I get the point, but just where do you plan to take him?"

Richard had no ready answer. He had some idea of calling on the local security man for Arhyn-Hill and taking it from there.

"You can't just leave the boy off at a day care center," Sam argued. "Not in his condition. Any good one would be the first to phone the authorities. Keep him here."

"I can't ask you to volunteer."

"No, but I will anyway. It's what I'm good at, remember? I'm Crusader Rabbit with a tongue depressor instead of a lance."

"You don't know anything about dodging bullets."

Sam snorted. "That wet-eared kid you rescued way back when has since picked up a few survival clues by osmosis, though I'm open to suggestions."

Richard hesitated, but no better option presented itself to him. And he could trust Sam and his staff to be bribe-proof. "All right, but you absolutely have to keep him out of sight, smuggle him home in a laundry bag if you must, but no one sees him."

"I think we can manage. How long will this take?"

"Not sure, but I'll be making arrangements to get him away from here in a day or so." Richard wrote out Bourland's name and number. "This man is your emergency guardian angel, should you need one. He's in Toronto, but he has a long reach. I'll see to it he knows who you are."

"Emergency, okay. How much can I tell Helen? I'll be needing her help."

"As much as you deem necessary. Tell her the boy is a witness to a crime and needs to disappear. I had my eyes open on the way over; I don't think I was followed, but the killer may know the connection between Arhyn-Hill Oil and this place and could come calling, just to be thorough."

"You're not exaggerating, are you?"

"Not one bit. I think once you're done here for the day you should close up as usual, then overnight elsewhere." Richard got his wallet out and peeled off half the bills in it, putting the stack of hundreds on the desk.

Sam's eyebrows jumped at the amount. "Come on, you don't have to pay me—"

"Operating expenses . . . and for the extra blood I need. Is it . . . ?"

"Yeah, in the fridge."

"Good. Have you a cell phone?"

"Helen has one. I have a pager."

"I'll want both numbers; you've still got mine? It's for emergencies only, though. And if it's that bad, then you call Bourland, too."

Sam had a short discussion with Helen, who had no objection to looking after Michael for the next few days. Details were settled out, then Richard went to see the boy again.

With the dirt off, Michael was several shades lighter than before, now dressed in a faded, but otherwise clean shirt and shorts that were more or less his size, rubber beach thongs on his feet. Apparently the clinic dealt with a number of children being brought in possessing only the clothes on their backs and kept a donation bin for such emergencies. Another bin held toys. Med-Mission was a thorough place.

Richard pulled a low stool over to the examination table and sat before Michael. "You're looking better. How are you?"

The boy would only stare at the floor.

With one finger, Richard slowly tilted Michael's head up so he could see his pale blue eyes. Empty eyes. He focused hard, trying to touch the mind behind them. Helen somberly stood close to one side, but he didn't think she'd notice what he was attempting. "Michael, it's all right. You're safe. No one will hurt you any more. You can speak now. You are safe."

God, he was so young, much too young for such a burden.

As if in response to the thought, Michael's chin crumpled a little.

"It's all right . . ." Richard concentrated, hardly daring to breathe. "I know what happened, but you're safe."

A tear seeped out and rolled down Michael's cheek, dropping cold on Richard's hand. With it, a feeling of overwhelming sadness came over him—so strong that it was physical, like a blow; he felt ready to weep anew himself.

"It's all right," he lied, fighting to keep his voice from cracking.

"Mommy." One word from the boy, whispered so soft as to barely be heard.

Helen shifted slightly in reaction.

"Yes, Michael, I know—"

"Mommy!" This time, he screamed it. He pushed violently away from Richard and threw himself at Helen, wailing uncontrollably. She caught and held him close like a baby, rocking him back and forth.

"He needs a little time," she told Richard, tears trailing down her face in sympathy. "This is good, what's happened. He just needs a little time."

He nodded, squeezed her shoulder, and backed off to where Sam stood in the doorway.

"Let's give them some space," said Sam, herding him out.

"I should be there for him."

"You already have been, but he's not ready for more. He's probably regressed a bit. He's a scared little boy who only wants his mother, and Helen is a close enough substitute. Let him have that for now."

Richard nodded acquiescence. Reluctantly. He could still hear Michael's sobbing.

Sam gave him another once-over. "You won't do him any good the state you're in. You need rest—or at least a time-out."

But Richard's phone warbled before he could reply. He fished it out.

Bourland was on the other end. "Get a pen," he said. "I've got some of those codes, and God help us both if you lose them. Only their own agents are supposed to have these."

It seemed best not to warn him about the cell phone. The risk was small that anyone was listening in; besides, agency access codes were always being changed. Richard found pen and paper, printing everything out carefully on one of Sam's prescription pads.

"That's for the FBI and DEA only," said Bourland. "I might be able to get more on Monday, but everyone I know that I can trust to keep quiet is off for the weekend."

"It's a start. Thank you, Philip. Can you filter it in to someone the possibility that Alejandro may be in this country? An alert sent out by the proper channels . . ."

"Already done, but it'll be a matter of pure luck if he's spotted. If he ever was in Texas, he's probably well gone by now."

Too true. Alejandro was a smart man. Not the sort to put himself at risk, according to his brother. Anyone else was fair game, though.

"What about Michael?" Bourland asked. "Have you—"

Richard filled him in on the boy's condition and change in situation, giving Bourland names and numbers. "Dr. George will look after him very well; he's in first-rate hands, I promise."

"I'm still coming down there. Monday."

"But—"

"I can pull strings from anyplace with a phone. I need to be there . . . to make arrangements. For them."

Poor Bourland. This was all he had left to give Stephanie, to take her and her daughters home for burial. "Yes, very well. Stay with me at New Karnak. I've plenty of room. I'll tell security to expect you and let you in."

"Won't Alejandro know about your penthouse?"

"At this point I don't know if he's even aware of my existence, but the place is listed as a corporate expense for Arhyn-Hill, and access is extremely limited. It's safe." Safe enough for me, old friend. Perhaps not for Michael, but that worry was off his shoulders for the time being. "Philip, what can you organize concerning Michael?"

"Organize?"

"I want to get him out of the country. He'll need a passport, won't he?" Richard's knowledge about international travel for children was hazy.

Bourland understood instantly. "Yes, I'll get right on that. Excellent idea."

They rang off. Richard folded the phone and tucked it away. He tore off several of the top sheets from the pad and tucked those away as well, shrugging an apology to Sam for the misuse of office supplies.

"You're not going to rest, are you?" asked Sam.

"Later. I've work to do."

"Meaning you'll be hunting this Alejandro?"

"Yes."

"You going to kill him?"

Richard thought a moment, realizing that only the truth would serve for his friend. "Yes. With great pleasure."

Sam nodded, apparently expecting just that answer. He wasn't happy with it, but knew better than to argue. "They've got a saying in this neighborhood about that sort of thing."

"Yes?"

"`Have fun . . . but don't get caught.'"

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