In Search of the Dove Page 13

  “Pull the gun and you’re a dead man, Rome,” another voice advised. “We have you boxed in.”

  He was still too blinded to see them, but somehow he doubted his adversaries were bluffing.

  “Toss your piece on the ground—nice and easy—and put your hands up,” Lonnie ordered.

  Under the circumstances there seemed no alternative. “I’ll surrender if you turn off the spots.”

  “You don’t have a choice.” But someone cut all but a dim light.

  That gave him a chance, at least. Maybe, when his vision cleared, he could fight them off and rescue Xavier, if the chemist were still alive. With a sigh of resignation, Michael tossed the gun onto the ground and raised his hands. Immediately one of the thugs behind him aimed a kick at the small of his back. He pitched forward, unable to see the ground, yet he was able to break his fall with the palms of his hands.

  “That’s something on account for what I owe you,” Lonnie grated.

  Michael groaned. Let them think he’d been hurt.

  Lonnie’s foot kicked him in the ribs, turning him over. It was all Michael could do to keep from grabbing the bastard’s leg and sending him sprawling. But his vision was coming back. He could see five or six men around him. Two looked like bouncers. In any case, as soon as the bright spots cleared, he was going to attack.

  In the background, Xavier found his voice; but it was half an octave higher than it had been two minutes ago. “What are you going to do to us?” he quavered.

  “You’re going back to continue your vacation on Royale Verde. The narc’s going to have a quiet rest here.”

  Michael didn’t like the sound of that. If he were going to be dead either way, he might as well go down fighting. As one of the bouncers leaned down toward him, his body tensed. Grabbing the man’s massive shoulders, he flipped him over in such a way that the thug landed between him and the rest of the group.

  In the darkness Lonnie cursed. “Cut out the fun and games, Rome,” he advised.

  The man Michael had surprised came back to life. In the next moment they were wrestling on the ground. Others circled the adversaries, ready to take Michael on if he emerged victorious. He didn’t get a chance to find out how many challenges he could have withstood.

  “Hold him still for a second, Jack,” a voice commanded. The bouncer redoubled his efforts, pinning Michael to the ground. He was getting ready to throw off the hold when he heard a whooshing sound and felt a sharp stinging pain in his hip. His body went limp and, almost simultaneously, his senses dulled. It was an effort to hold on to consciousness.

  In the next moment Lonnie was squatting beside him. Reaching down, he took Michael’s slack jaw in his hand and jerked his face up. “You’re going to die, Rome. But it’s going to be slow. You’ll have a lot of time to think about what you got yourself involved in down here.”

  Michael’s vision swam. They had given him some sort of powerful paralytic. When he tried to squeeze his fingers into a fist, they remained lifeless at his side.

  “We’re going to give you a proper New Orleans-style burial. But it won’t be in the vault we came out of. That one’s too nice and dry and airy because it’s been a drug drop for the last year. No, we’re going to put you in a real crypt in the old part of the graveyard.”

  Lonnie snarled out an order and the other bouncer picked Michael up like a sack of grain and slung him over his shoulder. His head banged against the man’s back with every step, but he didn’t have enough strength in his neck to stop the motion. The helplessness brought a feeling of panic. They were going to bury him alive, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Finally he was deposited roughly on the ground. When Lonnie leaned down again, Michael could only stare back blankly. “How do you feel now, Mr. DEA hot shot? In case you’re wondering, you’ve had a low dose of phenodryl. It will start to wear off in a couple of hours so you can enjoy all the sensations of suffocating. Pleasant dreams.”

  Michael felt himself hoisted up again. Though his senses were dulled, he could tell that he had been set down on a cold slab. The clouds had dissipated so that he could see the open dark sky. The points of light were like comets with tails. Though he strained to see more clearly, they slowly faded from his vision. Then abruptly the stars were gone and he felt suffocating dankness close in around him. Stone grated against stone just before he was encased in total blackness. He tried to curse, but nothing came out of his mouth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jessica threw down the science fiction novel she’d been staring at for the past fifteen minutes. She couldn’t concentrate on slug invaders from Titan when she was worried about Michael.

  It was very possible that he’d called her early. At least the phone had been ringing when she’d come up the steps around five-thirty with a heavy bag of groceries. By the time she’d unlocked the door and made it into the kitchen, there was nothing on the other end of the line but a dial tone.

  After wasting ten minutes debating whether she should bother him, she fished his number out of her pocketbook and dialed. There was no answer, and the woman at the desk finally volunteered that Mr. Rome had left in a hurry just minutes before. He might have been keeping an urgent appointment at the university. But somehow Jessica didn’t think so.

  Two hours later she couldn’t shake the conviction that Michael was in some sort of trouble. Was she operating on intuition or raw emotion? she asked herself. And why should her emotions be tied up with Michael Rome’s safety? She barely knew the man. Yet when fate had catapulted her into his arms, he had kept her from falling into the abyss. Though neither one of them had been able to acknowledge it, the experience had forged a bond between them. He’d cared about what happened to her that night, and she cared very strongly about what happened to him now.

  She’d been closer to him than she had to most other human beings. Did that give her some sort of special access to his consciousness? Could she conjure up a vision of where he’d gone? Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and cleared the screen of her mind. When it was blank, she brought a picture of Michael into focus and watched as he closed the door of his hotel room and walked down the curved staircase to the lobby. She could see him getting into his car and driving away. But the images had no reality. She knew she was simply manufacturing them from her own imagination. For a moment she admitted defeat. She was about to get up and try the phone again when a feeling of helpless terror so powerful swept over her that she gasped and clutched the arms of her chair as if to anchor herself to the here and now.

  The room around her swirled into blackness. Her skin grew clammy, and her sense of fear increased. It was as if damp, suffocating walls were closing in around her. For a moment it was a struggle simply to draw air into her lungs. She might have screamed if she hadn’t been panting for breath. Then as quickly as it had come over her, the terrible sensation was gone. The room snapped back into focus. Disoriented, Jessica looked around. She felt drained, shaken, and frustrated. What she had just experienced had not been a product of her own imagination. Somehow it was connected to Michael. She was as sure of that as she’d been sure the image of his getting into the car came from her own mind. Dread surged through her. He was in trouble and she had to go to him. Quickly—if she could only figure out where he was.

  Her head was throbbing as she tried to think about what to do. Would Michael have gone off on a dangerous mission without informing anyone? She couldn’t imagine that he’d be that remiss. But who would he tell? The question brought to mind Lieutenant Devine. She got up and pulled a phone book from one of the lower kitchen cabinets. But after she’d located the precinct number, her hand hesitated over the dial, as she thought about opening herself up to the kind of ridicule she’d experienced twelve years ago? Yet, she had to do it for Michael.

  The lieutenant was still at his desk when the phone rang.

  “Devine speaking,” he answered.

  “This is Jessica Duval, Michael Rome’s associate.”
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br />   “Oh, yes, Ms. Duval. Has Michael checked in with you?”

  “Actually, I think I missed his call. But I’m worried about him.”

  “Did he leave you a message about the old Lafayette Cemetery?”

  Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced her voice to remain calm. “He told me to call you if he didn’t get back to me,” she improvised.

  “Yes, well, his message said the informant he’s meeting there is nervous. He wants me to stay out of it.”

  Jessica closed her eyes for a second. “Lieutenant, I’m sure Michael is in trouble. We have to go over there.”

  “Now wait a minute. He was very clear on that. He said to wait until ten-thirty.”

  “That will be too late!”

  “Really, Ms. Duval, I don’t have to tell you Michael Rome is a very competent agent. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Jessica fought down a wave of nausea. “Lieutenant, did Michael tell you why he was working with me on this case?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She had to force out the words. “I’m a psychic. I provided him with some important leads. Tonight I had a feeling of being closed in, suffocating. I know it was coming from Michael. If you won’t help, I’m going over there alone.”

  “To a graveyard? Alone? At night?”

  “Yes.”

  Devine sighed. He’d been looking forward to going home to a Hungry Man TV dinner and a bag of microwave popcorn. He’d been too busy to pay much attention to Ms. Duval when they’d met before. He wished he had. Right now, on the face of it, she sounded like a nut—but a sincere nut, he had to admit. So she claimed to be a psychic. He’d never worked with one. But what he’d told her about Michael Rome was still true. The man was a seasoned professional, and if he’d gotten some leads from Jessica Duval, maybe she knew something that he didn’t.

  “Okay, give me your address,” he said. “I’ll be right over to pick you up.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Fifteen minutes later Hugh Devine pulled up in front of the house. Jessica, who had been waiting on the steps, stood up and looked uncertainly at the black-and-white police car. The last time he’d seen her, her outfit had projected a professional image.

  This evening her appearance told another story. She was wearing jeans and a dark turtleneck. With her tousled hair and pale face, she seemed very young and vulnerable. She’d told him she was in a hurry, yet her feet seemed to be weighted down with lead as she approached the police car.

  He was definitely getting mixed signals from her. Had she changed her mind after all? Or maybe she felt uncomfortable working with the police. Many people did. When she opened the door, she hesitated for a moment and then slid onto the vinyl seat and closed the door.

  “I think we’d better stop by Michael’s hotel room,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

  “I thought you were in a hurry to get to the cemetery?”

  “I am. But I have the feeling we should stop at his place first to look for—to look for...” She glanced down at the hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “I don’t know exactly for what. But I know it’s there.”

  “Do you have Rome’s address?”

  She supplied it but didn’t say anything else on the drive to the hotel.

  Devine debated asking her what was wrong or maybe chucking the whole thing. But he was curious, and Ms. Duval’s obvious anxiety had aroused his detective’s instincts.

  Jessica was glad Devine was with her to speak to the woman at the desk. His voice and manner conveyed gruff authority. In surprisingly short order, they were standing in the middle of Michael’s suite. Jessica peered around, feeling foolish that she didn’t know what she was searching for and yet confident that she would find it.

  When her gaze collided with the cockscomb on the dresser, she drew in her breath sharply.

  “Another voodoo charm?” the lieutenant questioned, following the direction of her eyes.

  Jessica nodded and tiptoed over. Like the other talisman, this one fairly radiated a sense of evil. She didn’t want to touch it, but she knew she must.

  “Lieutenant,” she said, “I have to ask a favor.”

  “Yeah?” He was prepared for almost anything now.

  She sat down on the Victorian couch. “I know this is going to sound strange, but could you pick up the charm and put it in my hand?”

  “Why?”

  “I had a reaction to the last one. I’d rather be sitting down.”

  Devine shrugged. Jessica forgot to breathe as he carried the talisman toward her. Silently she opened her hand, palm up. This time there was no burning sensation. But the moment the shriveled piece of animal tissue touched her flesh, her senses began to swirl and she slumped sideways on the couch.

  Devine had been watching her with guarded interest. Now he sprang reflexively into action. “What?” he snapped, trying to snatch the charm away. But her fingers closed tightly around the grisly artifact. She didn’t feel her body jerk convulsively as the thorn embedded in the cockscomb pierced her flesh. All she knew was that her body and mind were somehow being torn apart. She was here on the couch but she was also in a dark, musty enclosed place at the old Lafayette Cemetery, her limp form resting heavily on a cold slab of stone. A tomb—she was in a tomb. The smell of death made her retch. But then she was also somewhere else. In a dimly lit hospital room, the hot humid air weighing down on her immobile limbs, her mind screaming silently for help.

  Another man, not Michael. Jed. The name came to her. He was in grave danger. But he was too far away for her to reach. Michael was here. In the musty, smothering darkness. She had to focus on that.

  “For God’s sake. Ms. Duval—Jessica. For God’s sake, snap out of it.” Devine’s urgent voice drifted toward her as though from a dream.

  Her mind refused to acknowledge the interruption. She had to concentrate on where Michael was. Not the enclosed place. The exterior. She must look for some landmark to tell her where he was. Doggedly she tried to bring the total scene into focus the way she had with the bookstore, or with Harley’s. But the graveyard was dark and shadowy. She could see rows and rows of little buildings that all looked the same except for a few obscure architectural details. But in front of one an onyx stone angel was sitting pensively with its chin resting on her hand. It was near Michael.

  Michael. She was brought back more sharply to him again. He was trapped, suffocating, the charnel house all around him. She had to get to him before the black angel carried him away.

  Her eyes snapped open, and the anxious face of Lieutenant Devine swam into her vision.

  “What in hell happened to you?” he demanded, uncurling her fingers from around the cockscomb. A drop of blood glistened in her palm.

  “Don’t worry about me.” Her voice was gritty. “He’s the one that’s dying,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  “Jed. No, Michael.” Why was a man named Jed mixed up in this?

  Devine stared at her chalky face. “Let me get something for your hand.”

  She squeezed the injury, bringing fresh blood to the surface to cleanse the wound. “This will have to do. Please, Lieutenant. Don’t you understand? We’ve got to get to the cemetery right now.”

  * * *

  IN HIS DANK PRISON Michael’s senses returned slowly. His arms and legs had the pins-and-needles feeling of having been asleep. Only he felt as if they’d been moribund for a hundred years. It took intense concentration to even move his fingers.

  Lonnie had told him what drug they’d injected him with. Phenodryl. He recognized the name. It was a powerful animal tranquilizer. Illegal. Used by poachers who stole stock for zoos. A large dose would keep a water buffalo quiet for hours or reduce a man to a near comatose state. It must have slowed down his metabolism. But the fact that he was beginning to think clearly again meant they hadn’t given him very much. The recovery process, however, was unpredictable. It still might be hours before he got back the use of his large muscles.r />
  His sense of smell and touch hadn’t been totally obliterated. Now they returned. He didn’t know about his hearing or vision. His eyes strained against the darkness. Either he was blind or not a sliver of light was getting into the vault. If the latter were true, that probably meant no air was getting in either.

  He could feel cold and dampness seeping up from beneath the stone platform on which he lay. His mind served up a piece of information he’d rather not have remembered. These old sepulchers were designed to be used over and over. When the tomb was needed again, the previous body was simply pushed to the back where it fell into a pit. That probably explained the fetid smell rising from below him.

  If he could have vomited, he probably would have. If he thought any more about his desperate situation, he would go crazy. Was there any hope that he might be rescued? Certainly not from the Peregrine Connection. He hadn’t even told the Falcon where he was going.

  How ironic that he should die in a crypt in New Orleans, of all places. He’d parachuted behind enemy lines and crawled through tunnels in Southeast Asia, survived days in a rubber boat in shark-infested waters when drug smugglers had blown up his craft off the Florida Keys... But then he’d been able to take some action to save himself. Now he could only lie here like a corpse on a slab in the morgue.

  Devine would probably show up after ten-thirty, but he would go to plot 105, find the dope warehouse, and assume they’d taken him somewhere else. That left Jessica. Until the voodoo charm had burned her hand, he’d scoffed at her psychic ability. Now his mind clung to the tenuous hope that it might save him.

  The image of her that came to him was not from the last time he’d seen her. He wanted to escape from this vault. The only route was through his imagination. He remembered the way she’d looked that morning when he’d awakened next to her. The covers had slipped down, exposing her creamy shoulders and the tops of her high, firm breasts. Even as he’d admired her beauty, he’d noted the innocence and exhaustion that mingled on her sleeping features. A feeling of protectiveness had welled up inside his chest at the same time he’d acknowledged that the lower part of his body was hardening with a more basic response. He’d had to climb out of bed to keep from pulling her into his arms. Since then his emotions and his intellect had been at war. Keeping her at a distance was imperative for his own peace of mind. But so was bringing her close—and never more than at this moment.