Blood Pact

There were lights up ahead.
    She, the real she, the kind one, was where there were lights.

    "There! Coming around that building!”

    "Are you sure?”

    "For chrissakes, Cathy, how many dead people are walking around this city tonight? Get over there!”

    The van hadn't quite stopped when Donald threw himself out onto the road. He stumbled, picked himself up, and raced toward the shambling figure just emerging from the shadows.

    He ignored the sound of screaming rising from behind the building. Catching sight of number nine's face under the streetlights, he figured he could pretty much guess what had caused it. Some of the sutures holding the scalp in place had torn and a grayish-yellow curve of skull was exposed above a flapping triangle of skin.

    Dr. Burke's going to have my balls on a plate! He skidded to a stop, took a deep, steadying breath, and, as calmly as he was able, said, "Follow.”

    Follow.

    He knew that word.

    "Donald, I can hear screaming. And a car horn."

    "Look, don't worry about it. Number nine's in, so just drive.”

    "Well, we should check to see if he's all right. They might have hurt him.”

    "Not now , Cathy. He's safe for the moment, but number ten isn't. We've got to find her. It.”

    Catherine glanced back over her shoulder at number nine lying strapped in place, nodded reluctantly, and pulled out into the street. "You're right. First we find number ten. Where to?”

    Donald sank back against the passenger seat, sighed, and spread his hands. "How the hell should I know?”

    Marjory Nelson had not been in the university's medical morgue; not in whole nor in part. Motionless beside the trunk of an ancient maple, ridding himself of the scent of preserved death, Henry considered how best to spend the remainder of the night. The city's two large hospitals were close. If he checked both their morgues before dawn, and he saw no reason why he shouldn't be able to, it would leave him available to . . . to . . . to what?

    Over the last year, he'd learned that private investigators spent most of their time pulling together bits of apparently unconnected information into something they hoped would resemble a coherent whole, a little like first doing a scavenger hunt for jigsaw puzzle pieces and then constructing it with no idea of the final picture. They were more likely to spend time in libraries than in car chases and results were about equally dependent on training, talent, and luck. Not to mention an obstinate determination to get to the bottom of things that bordered on obsession.

    Obsession. Vicki's obsession with finding her mother's body blocked the grief she should be feeling, blocked getting on with the rest of her life. Henry leaned back against the tree and wondered how long he was going to let it continue. He knew he could break through it, but at what cost. Could he do it without breaking her? Without losing her? Without leaving Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci to pick up the pieces?

    Suddenly he smiled, the moon-white crescent of his teeth flashing in the darkness. You measure your life in centuries, he chided himself. Give her some time to work through this. It's only been a couple of days. Too much of the twentieth century's preoccupation with getting through unpleasantness as quickly and as tidily as possible had rubbed off on his thinking. Granted, repressing emotions was unhealthy but . . . two days hardly deserves to be called an obsession. It was, he realized, the presence of Michael Celluci that had made it seem so much longer. He can do no more for her than you can. Trust in her strength, her common sense, and the knowledge that as much as she is able, she loves you.

    Both , added a small voice.

    Shut up, he told it savagely.

    Straightening, he stepped away from the tree, and froze, the hair rising on the back of his neck. A second later, the screaming started.

    The sound echoed around the close-packed buildings, making it difficult for him to locate its source. After chasing down a number of false leads, he arrived at the small secluded parking lot just as the campus police screeched to a stop, their headlights illuminating a terrified teenage girl backing away from a rust-edged car and the body of an equally young man sprawled half out of it onto the pavement. The boy had obviously been dead when the car door was opened, only the dead fall with such boneless disregard for the landing.

    Eyes narrowed against the intrusive glare, Henry slid into a patch of