In The Dark Of Dreams Part 5

Les, she thought instantly. Not Maurice. He might have access to the cold locker, but the old man had not been near the lab today. He had spent the afternoon fis.h.i.+ng and babysitting Ismail. Les was the one she had seen coming out of the cold locker.

Les had touched the body.

It wasn't a crime, and it shouldn't have bothered Jenny. But it did. She attempted to arrange her hand as Les might have, trying to understand what he had been doing. It wasn't a simple touch-like some kid poking a dead bird to see if it moved. The angle was wrong for that. It was as though he had been trying to turn her head.

Jenny began to do just that-and heard a scratching sound behind her. She flinched, heart in her throat, and whirled around.

It was Maurice, peering at her through the gla.s.s in the locker door. Brow furrowed, eyes narrow with concern. A moment later she heard a beep, and the lock opened.

"I was looking for you," he said, walking in and shutting the door behind him. "When you weren't in your room, I got worried."

"Worried."

"I had a bad dream," Maurice said vaguely, but Jenny straightened, giving him a questioning look. He made a disgusted sound and waved his hand through the air. "No, I don't know what it meant. Made no sense. Just . . . water. And you, drowning."

"Not a premonition, then."

"Didn't say that." He gave her a hard look. "I've had an uneasy sense of things for days now, sweet pea. Got worse today after you came back from that long dive of yours."

Jenny tried to smile, but both the headache and the dead woman conspired against her. She swallowed hard, and muttered, "I found something that won't make you feel better. Look what I pulled out of the woman."

She handed him the plastic bag, and the old man held it beneath the light, staring hard at the bullet. He said nothing for a long time.

"SPP1M," he finally muttered.

"Four shots to the left of her stomach."

"She was murdered, then." Maurice drew in a ragged breath. "The fishermen-"

"Makes no sense. You'll agree if you think about it."

He went quiet again, but after several minutes-during which time Jenny leaned against the cold wall, trying not to pa.s.s out from her headache-he nodded slowly. "Theories?"

Jenny forced her jaw to relax. "There's a reason why these creatures are considered myth. They're impossible to find. So what would it take to get close enough to shoot one? Let alone cut one up?"

"The Consortium is the only group I know of that hunts nonhumans. But they usually want their targets alive." Maurice fingered the bullet through the plastic bag. "I need to check our guns."

The same thought had crossed her mind. "Les was in here earlier. Unless you've got a thing for corpses now, I think he was handling the body." She felt dirty saying the words, like she was a kid tattling tales.

Maurice gazed down at the woman's face. His hand, again, traced the sign of the cross over his chest. "That doesn't sit well with you."

"No. I don't know why. I trust him."

"As much as you trust anyone." Maurice smiled humorlessly. "He told me you rejected him. Again."

Jenny blew out her breath. "Les needs to keep his mouth shut."

"Won't argue with that." The old man flashed her a crooked, far more genuine, smile-though it faded quickly. "He was in my dream, too."

"Yeah?" Jenny closed her eyes, bowing her head to rub her neck. She felt something warm and slippery. When she drew back her hand, there was blood on her fingers.

She swayed. Maurice hissed between his teeth, and spun her around.

"f.u.c.k," he said.

"W-what?" Jenny asked, dazed.

"There's blood running down your neck. I can't see . . ." His fingers pushed roughly into her hair at the base of her skull. And froze.

"Oh, my G.o.d," he whispered.

"Maurice," she rasped, and then winced as the pain suddenly changed-feeling more like teeth digging into her skull rather than some vague vascular ache.

"There's something attached to you," he said, and dragged her toward the door. In moments he had her out in the lab. Drawers began sliding open before he even approached the workstation, and a tweezers and scalpel floated upward, jerkily-as though caught on invisible fis.h.i.+ng lines. Maurice s.n.a.t.c.hed them out of the air, muttering to himself.

"Uh, no," Jenny said, pointing to the blade.

"You didn't see what I just did."

"Then give me a mirror." When he didn't move fast enough, Jenny blew past him out of the lab, racing down the hall toward her cabin. She slammed into her bathroom, nearly yanking the drawer entirely out of the cabinet as she pawed through Band-Aids, lotions, tampons-down to the bottom, where she kept the makeup she sometimes wore when she went ash.o.r.e. She snapped open a compact and twisted around, trying to make out the back of her head reflected in the larger wall mirror.

Hard, at first. Her hair was thick, tangled. All she could see was blood, trickling down her neck. But then Maurice loomed over her, and reached around to part her hair in the back. His hands were rough, trembling, and his breath smelled like beer.

She saw the color green, first-and thought it must be her imagination. Not just any green, but a pale sea-green turquoise that reminded her of the clear waters in some island lagoon. She reached around, fumbling, and touched the thing. It was the size of her thumbnail, flat, hard as sh.e.l.l-smooth, even slick-and hot to the touch.

Jenny swayed and took a deep breath. "It looks . . . it looks like an echinoderm. A sand dollar. It has . . . it has a similar rigid external skeleton."

"Looks like it's sucking your blood," Maurice muttered, and turned her around. "Makes it a parasite to me."

Jenny normally resisted cla.s.sifying anything without a detailed a.n.a.lysis, but in this case she was willing to make an exception-of the oh-s.h.i.+t variety. She could really feel its teeth now-digging deeper into her.

"When I was in the water . . . I thought something touched the back of my neck. I told myself it was my imagination. I didn't feel a bite, or anything. Just . . . a headache. I've had a headache ever since."

Maurice didn't say a word. He tilted the back of her head toward the light. He did not need to tell her to hold still.

He tried the tweezers first. Jenny felt him trying to angle them under the organism, but she could tell without looking that there was no s.p.a.ce between the edges and her flesh.

"You're going to have to cut it out," she snapped, knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the counter. But all he did was mutter angrily, forcing her head down. She felt the moment he finally managed to pierce her skin and get a grip on the thing-but the pain that hit her seconds later felt like an explosion consuming the entire length of her spine. She seized, breath stolen, unable to scream, her vision wiped out in a cloud of white light.

When Jenny could finally see again, the world was twisted, upside down. Wrong angles.

She was on the floor, her cheek pressed to the tile. Maurice crouched beside her, holding something soft against the back of her neck. There was a ringing sound in her ears, and her entire spine-and skull-throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

She exhaled slowly. Wiggled her toes and fingers. Swallowed, and opened and closed her eyes. Not paralyzed, then. But it felt as though she should be.

"Maurice," she breathed.

"You need a hospital," he murmured raggedly. "I thought . . . I thought it would come right off like a tick, but when I yanked I saw . . . tendrils of something . . . linking it to your body. Your reaction-"

"Still attached?" interrupted Jenny hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yeah. I even tried using this old thing"-he tapped his brow-"but it's embedded too deep. I could feel it, sweet pea. Burrowed all the way down to your spinal cord. And I think it's still . . . growing."

She managed to roll over enough to look into his eyes. "You're f.u.c.king kidding me."

Maurice's face looked terrible, as though ten minutes had aged him ten years. He didn't have a decade to spare. Jenny tried to sit up, and he helped, still compressing the back of her neck. He guided her hand until she touched a towel.

"Hold that," he growled, raking her over with his bloodshot gaze. "I'm gonna get Les to sit with you, then I'm steering us for the nearest port. The office should be able to send a helicopter from Singapore for a medevac."

Jenny wanted to protest but forced herself to stay quiet and nod. She had never seen anything like this creature. Never mind the poisons it could be pumping into her bloodstream-the fact that trying to remove it had felt rather close to killing her was enough to scare Jenny s.h.i.+tless.

Maurice left at a run, shouting for Les. She didn't hear a response, and the boat wasn't so large that voices wouldn't travel. He kept calling for the other man, until suddenly, abruptly, he went silent. She waited, listening hard. Heard nothing else.

Jenny managed to stand, swaying as her vision briefly blurred. After several steps everything cleared. She could walk.

She left her quarters. The door to Les's room was open, but he wasn't there. Neither was Ismail. She pushed onward, heading for the stairs that led to the bridge. She had to pa.s.s the main deck, at the back of which was the only access point to the interior of the s.h.i.+p. Given their proximity to the Strait of Malacca and other known pirate territory, that door was kept locked at night. Always.

It was standing wide open.

"Maurice?" Jenny called up the stairs, but the old man didn't answer from the bridge. Unease p.r.i.c.kled through her. She walked through the galley and salon, stopping briefly to crouch by one of the love seats. She tossed the b.l.o.o.d.y towel to the floor and fumbled behind the chair until her fingers. .h.i.t a loose panel. She removed it, one-handed. Found a pistol.

Fully loaded, ready to fire. Weapons were hidden all over the s.h.i.+p. It was illegal to carry firearms into the ocean territories of most countries, but random searches from customs agents had never found their caches.

Holding the gun in a solid two-handed grip, Jenny ignored the open door and made her way to the stairs leading up to the bridge. There was another door on that level that could be locked from the inside as a secondary barrier in case of an emergency. She, Maurice, and Les had run through the plan a hundred times, in about as many different variations. Control of the s.h.i.+p and radio had to be maintained at all costs. Even a hint of trouble-that was where they would meet.

Her head hurt like h.e.l.l, but she kept her breathing steady and clicked the safety off the gun. A freighter had been hijacked a week ago, less than one hundred miles from here-crew thrown overboard and cargo stolen. The same had happened to a pleasure cruise near Indonesia, but the couple who had arranged the tour was less fortunate. Held for ransom, she'd heard. Same group of pirates, or different-it didn't matter. Theft, kidnapping, and death had become big business, and the larger the haul, the more powerful the criminal organization behind it.

The Calypso Star was worth millions. And so were Jenny and her crew.

Opportunists, she told herself, edging up the stairs. Nothing more than that. No one knows who you are. If the s.h.i.+p was boarded, then it's by men with guns and a motorboat, thinking you're easy pickings. No conspiracy. No betrayal. Just bad luck.

Bad luck that the outer door was open, and Maurice hadn't answered her call. Bad luck that Les and Ismail weren't in their cabin. Bad luck there was a parasite of unknown species attached to her neck, and a murdered mermaid in the cold locker.

Right. Jenny was f.u.c.ked.

She reached the top of the stairs. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. Her palms were sweaty as she tightened her grip on the gun.

Go, she told herself. Go, go, go.

So she did, keeping low as she spun around the top of the stairs, searching for Maurice, Les-anyone.

All she saw was a fist driving toward her face.

Then, darkness.

She was on the beach again. Down by the big house in Maine. She could see it in the distance, a hulking gray shadow on the golden sand, embedded beside the water instead of on the hill. Waves pulsed around the porch, breaking against the eastern wall. The windows were broken and dark, and there was blood on the porch. She could see that even from where she stood, which felt miles away and too close. The blood was wet. She smelled it on the wind. Like poison.

Someone stood beside her. She could not see him, but she had a sense of his size, and he was quite tall. Tall and warm. His hand was huge, gentle, as it scooped up hers in a loose grip. She knew him before he spoke, and began to tremble, weak in the knees with relief.

"Dreams are odd," he said quietly, in a voice so familiar she wanted to weep. "I never know what's real. Except for what I feel. I tell myself that can't be a lie."

"You were always an optimist," she whispered.

"Only with you." His lips brushed against the top of her head, and she closed her eyes, sagging against that hard, strong shoulder.

"It's been a long time," she said, wondering why it mattered. This was just a dream. He was only a dream.

Such a long time since she had dreamed of him.

"Eight years," he murmured, with a hint of wonderment. "I went eight years without you in my sleep. And now . . ."

He stopped. She heard a roaring sound and turned to face the ocean. A wave was bearing down on them, so large it threatened to block the sun.

And then it did.

It was too close to escape. No chance in h.e.l.l. But the man grabbed her tight, spinning them around in a stumbling run. His arm was strong around her waist, and he was yelling something she couldn't understand. She felt a breath of cold damp air against her neck, and the man slammed her in front of him, dropping into a crouch over her body. His mouth pressed hard against the back of her neck.

"Breathe," he whispered, just as the tsunami hit them.

The impact was immense. No pain, just an all-encompa.s.sing, dizzying pressure that was so intense she felt as though she were being squeezed to death inside a giant shaking fist. A scream jerked loose, and her mouth filled with water. She struggled, fighting to salvage what breath was left in her lungs, but the sea poured in and in and in, and there was no end to the hole that her body formed. She could not breathe. She was drowning.

And those arms around her were gone.

She heard shouts in the water. A man, screaming in rage. Not her dream man-the dream boy who had become her dream man-but someone else, whose voice she knew but could not name. Just that it was close.

So close, she woke up.

No delay, no grogginess. Jenny snapped to consciousness riding a rush of adrenaline that left her gasping for air, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. The pressure on her body wasn't gone, though-just displaced. Someone was sitting on her back, tying her hands.

Jenny pushed her forehead into the ground and twisted with all her strength, dragging up her leg to give herself enough leverage to turn over and knock aside the person holding her down. In theory, anyway. She managed to surprise her a.s.sailant enough that he loosened his grip on her hands and slid partially off her. Jenny tried to roll away, but the man grabbed her waist and shoulder, slamming her down so hard the side of her face bounced with bruising force against the deck. The impact stunned her into a moment's stillness-long enough for him to finish tying her hands.

She was outside. It was still night. That was all she could tell. Something covered her eyes. Her sweats.h.i.+rt-she had never taken it off, and at some point the oversized hood had flopped over her head. Sweat trickled, and a solid throbbing ache traveled from the base of her skull down her spine in nauseating waves.

The man tying her did not make a sound. When he finally stepped away, she tried to roll over. This time no one stopped her. She tilted her head, peering from beneath the hood.

Ismail stood over her.

His gla.s.ses were gone, but he was wearing his paper-pusher clothes from earlier: slacks, loose white dress s.h.i.+rt; unb.u.t.toned and untucked, revealing a rock-hard body that looked as though it should belong to a soldier instead of a pseudo-desk jockey. He was barefoot. Blood spattered his clothes and chest. His eyes were . . . so cold. So cold she wanted to look away and scream though she kept her gaze locked on his and bore the fear.

"I knew about the sleeping pills," he said quietly. "Maurice was not careful enough."

Jenny said nothing. Ismail crouched, graceful and silent, and rapped the deck in front of her face with his knuckles. Sharp, loud, staccato. She saw a gun holstered beneath his s.h.i.+rt. She remembered that he had come on board with a duffel bag. Extra clothes, he had said. Money for the fishermen.

Do you know who I work for?" he asked. "Answer me. I want to hear you say it."

Go to h.e.l.l, thought Jenny, afraid of what her voice would sound like if she unclenched her jaw.

Ismail's eyes narrowed. He touched her face, brus.h.i.+ng his fingers over her split lip. He smelled like blood. Jenny wrenched her head away, and he grabbed a fistful of her hair, pinning her down with all his weight. He wasn't much larger than her, but he was all muscle-and untied. Her ear felt crushed against the salt-encrusted deck.