Chapter 57

The Writing on the Wall

Intro Song: Writing on the Wall, Iron Maiden

The town car negotiated the busy streets smoothly, gliding silently over the potholes and around obstacles. Giles glanced in the side mirror and edged over to allow a yellow cab enough space to pass by on the driver's side. "Damn taxis," he complained to his companion. "If you don't make room for them, they'll take your side mirrors off without giving it a second thought."

Looking over at Mark Welch, he caught his passenger shaking his head, the gesture causing a shock of his black hair to fall forward over his forehead. The hand gripping the armrest was white-knuckled.

"What?!" Giles demanded.

"Hell, John, the streets in this city are impossible. Between the pedestrians, the parked cars, the street widths... I'm surprised there isn't a wreck on every block!"

"Oh, and Los Angeles is the mecca of smooth-moving traffic, is that it?"

"No," Mark retorted, "but at least it's built with enough room for the cars that drive there. You sure can't say that about this town. I've got a cramp in my leg from trying to push down on a brake pedal - and I'm on the passenger side! I'll take the L.A. traffic any day."

The older man grimaced. "Better you than me. I guess we both live on the right coasts then. And I don't mind saying, it's a good thing for us that you were in California."

"Were you surprised that Christophe put Domino on hold?" Mark was interested in his friend's take on the change in plans.

"It makes sense. If there is any chance that the attack on St. John put the vampires on alert, it's prudent to give them time to calm down before we start the big push. You don't try to drive a skittish herd of cattle into a canyon if they just watched a mountain lion jump one of them."

Welch guffawed. "Cattle? Seriously, John? Since when did you become a cowboy?! Cattle! Honestly..." His shoulders shook with laughter.

Giles took his hand off the steering wheel long enough to shoot up his middle finger in the universal 'go fuck yourself' gesture and wave it in the general direction of his friend.

After that exchange, they rode along in companionable silence for several minutes. The two men had been closeted together for most of the past two days, meeting with Durand, going over personnel lists, preparing a plan for dealing with the California vampire community…and studiously avoiding the topic of the now-deceased David McGowan.

They had known each other long enough to have a comfortable relationship, having worked together at a start-up private security company years before. Giles had been a vice-president in 1990, wondering what his next step would be if this venture didn't take off, while Welch, in his early twenties, was just beginning his career. The two had hit it off, beginning an unlikely friendship. Mark Welch had been a handsome young man, scholarly and well-educated, albeit somewhat lost as to what to do with his life, while Giles was tough and cynical, most of his education having come from the proverbial school of hard knocks. He had hired Welch on a hunch, his gut instinct telling him that this guy was worth taking a chance on. They had been friends ever since.

The security company venture had, indeed, failed, just as Giles had worried. By then, however, he had met up with Christophe Durand, who was hired as a consultant by Oasis, the security start-up. They had been tasked to work together to develop a business model for the security firm, and then come up with a sales plan to market it.

The charismatic man had quickly convinced Giles that, if Oasis failed, he should join Durand at the philanthropic organization he had just been recruited to head up. "John, CHOIR is something unique. A chance to make a real difference in the world. Come join me and you'll see."

CHOIR, which served not only as a philanthropy, but also as a testing ground for recruits into the secretive Crucis organization, was Giles' entry into Durand's real world. It was also where he met his wife. There were weeks when he felt like joining Crucis was the best decision he had ever made. But then, there were weeks like this...

"About what happened-" John began, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the crowded boulevard in front of him.

"God, I was hoping you would want to talk about it, but I was afraid to bring it up!" Mark broke in eagerly. "I was freaked out, man! He gutted the guy like a fish! With a letter opener! I've never seen anything like that. In his fucking office!" Once started, Welch couldn't seem to stop the stream of words, babbling sentences that all sounded as if they were punctuated with exclamation points. "Is he nuts?! That stuff only happens in the movies! Jesus! He scared me shitless, he's psycho! And now what are we? Eyewitnesses? Accessories to murder? Jesus!"
The torrent of words finally stopped, and Welch turned to the driver, his brown eyes huge behind trendy, tortoise-shell glasses. "Please tell me he's never done that before, John!"

"He's never done that before," Giles lied as calmly as he could. "At least, not that I know of." He put on his turn signal and pivoted efficiently onto the exit ramp for the airport. "I honestly didn't expect that. I mean, I figured McGowan was toast as far as the organization was concerned - Christophe was really pissed off about him using that ammunition and maybe giving the vamps a heads-up." He paused, then snorted. "I guess saying he was really pissed off is pretty much the understatement of the year, huh? But I didn't see it coming, not at all."

He glanced at Mark's pale face and added, wickedly, "Obviously, neither did McGowan huh?"

"Laugh all you want, funny man. I don't mind telling you, I was petrified. I've started to seriously question my career choices after that little scene."

Giles pulled into an empty parking spot on the narrow street and turned off the engine. He turned to face his friend with a frown. "If you're serious about that, I need to know it now."

"I- I'm honestly not sure what I think right now," Mark said hesitantly. "That really shook me up - I've never seen anyone killed before!" His eyes were wide and fearful as he continued. "When you first brought me into this - once I got over the shock of knowing that there really are vampires in the world, that is - I thought, this would be really cool! A chance to do something that would really make a difference in the world." He barked his infectious laugh. "I pictured myself as a real-life Van Helsing - without the bad-ass leather coats, of course. You know, rid the world of evil, save humanity... comic book stuff…with a great paycheck to boot," he finished.

John smiled sadly at his friend. The responsibility of having brought Welch into this organization weighed heavily on him at that moment. He had recruited him, encouraged him, indoctrinated him... it was his fault that Mark was in this situation. And, if something happens to him, you are responsible.

Mark frowned down at his hands, which shook slightly as they rested on his legs. "What we saw the other day, though... That wasn't a vampire being killed - or even a human that was a threat to anyone. Christophe killed him simply because he disobeyed. That's murder, John. Murder of one of us - and we are accessories to it." His last sentence was a choked whisper. Frightened, he pressed the palms of his hands down on his thighs to stop their shaking.

"Mark, you didn't know what was going to happen. Hell, I didn't even know and I'm with Durand all the time! You couldn't have stopped it!"

"No, but we helped cover it up, didn't we?" The other man's eyes were haunted, his voice insistent. "Didn't we, John?"

Giles nodded mutely, facing forward and running his hands along the steering wheel's cushioned leather surface. What the hell are we going to do?

His friend unknowingly echoed what he was thinking. "What the hell are we going to do, John? I mean, I don't know what to do! Do I quit? If I do, will he come after me next?!" Mark's voice trembled. "I didn't sign on for anything like this."

Durand's second-in-command sighed to himself. His friend had no idea that he had committed murders in the name of Crucis as well. He pictured the terrorized face of Sean Reynolds staring at the gun barrel as he pulled the trigger. Reynolds hadn't been the first, just the most recent. And probably the most innocent.

He had always successfully rationalized his actions as necessary in order to rid the world of an even greater evil. None of his killings had approached the ferocity and cruelty of Durand's actions in his office on Wednesday, though. That was cruelty for the sake of cruelty. But... Am I really any different than him? He shook his head to clear it.

"What do we do? We don't do anything for the time being, Mark. That's what. You keep your head down and execute the plan Christophe outlined. To the letter. I do the same thing here."

"But, what if-"

"You keep your head down," John repeated emphatically. Above all else, he didn't want the blood of his friend on his hands. "I'll watch Christophe, keep him under control." As if that's possible."We still have an important mission to rid the world of this scourge before they kill all of us – or worse yet, make us one of them."

"What if you can't? Keep him under control, I mean?" There was desperation in Welch's voice.

"Then I'll handle it." He looked over at Welch with what he hoped was a convincing smile as he restarted the car and pulled away from the curb once more. "I'm sure this was a one-time thing, Mark. We've been making our plans so carefully over the past couple of years and McGowan jeopardized them – not to mention the people we have in place. This mission has been Durand's life work for more years than we've been with Crucis. He knows better than any of us how important it is to humanity's survival. He just lost control when he thought it might all be in jeopardy." He paused while he navigated around a fender bender on the access road to the airport terminal, the drivers out of their cars and nose-to-nose, shouting over who was at fault.

Giles jerked his head toward the out-of-control men. "You know, sometimes I wonder if humanity is worth saving. Morons." He looked over at his passenger with a smile. "Look, the mission hasn't changed. We're still going to move ahead after we recover from this debacle, it just might set us back a month or two. We need you, Mark. Hell, you are a comic book hero!" He punched his friend playfully on one well-muscled arm. "I promise you, it's going to be all right."

Welch nodded, his face clearing. "Thanks, John," he said gratefully. "I trust you."

"Good." Giles pulled in at the terminal curb. "Now, go catch your plane. Have some fun this weekend and forget about all this. I'll talk to you in a couple of days." He watched Welch effortlessly hoist his carry-on bag and make his way into the terminal, then leaned his head back against the seat, and closed his eyes. Recalling the fates of David McGowan and Sean Reynolds, he was not at all sure that his friend's trust in him was warranted.

"It's set for seven? Good, good." Durand fiddled with his now-clean silver dagger as he listened. "No, I think that's perfect. I actually don't want her to be found right away anyway. Far better that our friend should stew in his own juices for a day or two."

After another long pause, he sighed. "I know. That group there couldn't find their asses with both hands and a flashlight. You'll probably have to put her on their doorstep... We're going to have to make some changes there. Well, just be sure, when the time comes, that they don't see you. You're my secret weapon, Adam, and I need to keep it that way."

He smiled as the man on the other end of the call reacted to his comments. "Well, I am going to put my money where my mouth is, as a matter of fact. There will be a hefty sum of money transferred to your account today - and I'll match it on Monday if this goes smoothly... You're welcome. You deserve it. There aren't many I can count on in this organization right now."

Durand hung up the heavy earpiece of his old-fashioned black desk phone and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. He looked around his immaculate office. Maintenance had done a good job, as usual. They'd rolled up the Persian rug and taken it out for cleaning, but had made it clear that they didn't hold out much hope that it could be repaired. Oh well, the cost of discipline… There was no sign that a man had been murdered here. Not murdered - executed. There's a difference.

Just as Rebecca Anderson would be executed, not murdered. Unfortunately for that woman, her only crime was being married to a man whose performance as of late had been less than stellar. It was important that this go well, so that the loss of a good operative would not be in vain.

He had confidence in Adam that the assassin would be able to accomplish his own particular brand of sleight-of-hand with Rebecca, assuring that she would be neatly killed, her body found by the appropriate individuals... and, most importantly, that her execution would be perceived as a vampire killing.

Now, his plan in motion, he had just to sit back and...Wait.

"So, what's this about, Logan?" Gabrielle strode along beside the much-taller vampire, taking two steps to every one of his.

"Ryder and I wanted to talk to you about something before you leave." Seeing her frown, he added hastily, "It's about some leads Mick was having us follow up on. Sorry, I didn't mean to sound mysterious."

Gabby suppressed a smile at the thought of Logan Griffen being labeled 'mysterious' by anyone, human or vampire. "It's okay. You have my interest, but I don't have a lot of time."

"We know."

Logan ushered her into a room she had not seen before - Josef's office when he was at the vineyard. One entire wall was taken up with banks of monitors and there were several high-power computers connected to multiple monitors at stations around the room.

Ryder England's head was barely visible over the top of one of the Mac desktop computers with a gigantic flat screen. When he heard the door open and close, he poked his head around the edge of the monitor to greet the two vampires.

"Hey, Gabby. I didn't want to say anything in front of Mick and get him laughing but…nice shirt!"

"She doesn't have a lot of time, Ryder, so let's get to it." Logan scowled at his fellow geek as the man openly leered at Gabrielle, still wearing the 'My Boyfriend Is A Vampire' sequined shirt.

Gabby moved around behind the computer, cuffing Ryder in the head as she did.

"Hey!" He rubbed the sore spot. "What was that for?!"

"Oh, you can probably figure it out if you think about it for a minute," she retorted sarcastically. "Now tell me what you boys have been up to." She crossed her arms across her chest, covering up as much of the offending shirt logo as possible.

"Well, after we finished getting the supplies your doc needed, Ryder and I didn't have much to do except sit around."

"But, Josef didn't want us to leave in case he needed us," England added. "So, we were bored, and I had the bright idea- "

"Excuse me, I had the bright idea," Logan broke in, bristling at the idea that his friend might be claiming more than his fair share of credit. "Anyway, Gabby, we both felt really bad about what happened to Mick, and we wanted to do something to help. So we thought maybe we could dig deeper into the leads he had us checking out about Sara Whitley's death."

"Murder," Gabrielle corrected softly.

"Huh? Yeah, okay...Sara's murder." Ryder flashed his toothy grin at her. "We figured when Mick woke up, he'd want to know what we'd been doing with ourselves while he was out of commission, so..." He shrugged. "Anyway, he didn't tell us that much about what went on in New York, but he was all over us about digging into what info he had on that nurse...I mean, that woman. We still aren't sure that her nursing license is legit."

"I know all that. Get to the point, Ryder," Gabby immediately felt ashamed for snapping. She was tired and irritable, attitudes she would normally work to keep in check. These guys were clearly trying to help, but England's ogling of her was getting on her last nerve...

Logan picked up the narrative, with a warning glance at Ryder. "So, we checked everything Mick gave us and what we could get from hacking into the Renaissance Home Health computer system. "Nursing license may or may not be legit. College transcripts are almost certainly bogus. Work references disappear as soon as she gets the job with Renaissance. Address on employee records is a fake."

"Mick said you checked that out, right?" England asked the petite woman.

Gabrielle thought back to her conversation with the Chinese shop owner whose address was used as a mail drop by the mystery woman.

"So, she paid you to have her mail delivered here."

"Handsomely, yes, Miss Sinclair. She paid me one hundred dollars every week. Crazy American woman!"

"Gabby?"

She came back to the present with a start. "Sorry, Logan. Um...yes. It was a dead end."

"Well, so was everything else we checked," Ryder retorted. "Including the airline tickets that were purchased for this 'Rebecca Bledsoe' for the day after the explosion that killed Sara Whitley. There were a bunch of them, all for different cities - and, none of them used, as far as we could tell."

Gabrielle frowned, confused. "So, what happened? Did she finally use one?"

"Sort of," Logan responded. "While we were sitting here with nothing to do, Ryder got the bright idea to cross-reference all this stuff - airline tickets with different addresses, different last names, everything."

"And you found something?" Gabby's pulse quickened and her small hands curled into fists. Please, give me a chance to get my hands on these bastards!

"Yeah. We did." Ryder grinned, pleased with himself. "Rebecca Bledsoe refunded one of the tickets - but Rebecca Anderson used the credit."

Gabby exploded. "Where, Ryder?! Where did she go?!"

"Chicago," the two computer hackers responded together.

The tall blond woman walked briskly toward her car, cursing as she rummaged in her purse for her keys. Whatever possessed her to carry everything she owned in the cavernous bag? For that matter, what possessed her to carry a bag this large at all?

"There you are," she crowed triumphantly, finally producing the elusive keys, just in time to stumble over a hole in the concrete. She went to her knees, the purse and keys skidding across the floor of the parking garage toward her car, sitting alone in the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescents. This late on a Friday night, the other occupants of the garage had long since fled to start their weekend. Rebecca let loose with a spectacular string of expletives. Obviously, the fates were conspiring against her being able to get to her hotel room and call her husband on time. She and John both looked forward to these calls when they could not be together, and she was determined not to disappoint him. "Real graceful there, Rebecca," she muttered aloud. At least no one was around to see that!

Fuming, she fished her keys out from under the back bumper of her car where, her bad luck continuing, they had landed in a pool of melting ice and coke, her hand coming back grimy and sticky from the beverage. Damn, when did I piss off Karma?

Shaking the keys to flip off the drops of soda, she froze, still on her knees, as a sudden thought struck her. Ice? It's got to be 90 degrees in this garage - how is that ice still melting?!

Frantically, she lunged for her bag, only to see a large boot come down on it. Shit! There was no getting to her gun now.

"Rebecca, what the hell are you doing down there?"

She pushed herself back onto her haunches, rubbing the grime on her palms onto her jeans as she squinted up at the tall young man. Brushing her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hands, she scowled. "You scared the bejeezus out of me!"

He laughed. "Bejeezus? Is that a southern term I hear coming out of a city girl?"

"Beats the things I could have said!" she sputtered. "Now, get your dirty foot off my good bag! Oh, and help me up, would you? I've gotta get out of here. I'm going be late calling John and he'll have a conniption fit – and yes, that's another southern term."

He leaned over to grab her right hand with his left, pulling her toward him. "Yeah, about that..." He swung a long, slender instrument expertly, almost casually, into her neck with his free hand, using her forward momentum to help pierce the carotid artery. Quickly, he jumped back to avoid being hit by the spray of blood that shot out.

As if in slow motion, the Crucis operative's hand moved up to her neck to feel the silver rod embedded there. Her eyes widened as she felt blood gushing over her hand, pulsing with each increasingly labored beat of her heart. The flow immediately soaked the front of her shirt and started seeping down onto the concrete. I'm dying, she thought. Here, on this filthy floor underneath the harsh lights, she was dying. No! Not this way!

More handsome than beautiful, Rebecca was still an attractive woman, with striking green eyes. Those eyes now looked up at her attacker in bewilderment. "Why?" she managed to whisper as black spots began drifting into her field of vision.

"It's not your fault, Rebecca. It's John's." His voice was calm, measured. He might have been discussing the latest weather forecast. "He's been fucking up a lot lately, you know, and Christophe wants him focused and...motivated...for Domino. When you're dead, I'll poke you again - that nifty little implement I had made makes it look like fang bites, so he'll think vampires did it. Then I'll put your body someplace where even these idiots here in the Chicago office can find it," He squatted down so that he was at eye level with her, taking care to stay back from the widening pool of blood around the kneeling woman. "I want you to know it's nothing personal, Christophe wants you to know it's nothing personal. You were a good operative. He really wanted you to know that," he repeated earnestly, as if that would somehow make his victim feel better.

Fuck you! Her lips twisted to form the words, but she did not have the strength left to push the words out. Her field of vision shrank until she could no longer see his face. Good riddance! As the strength left her body, she toppled over onto her back, striking her head hard against the concrete. There was no pain, however. No pain, John. She wished she could tell him, let him know, somehow, that she had not suffered - at least not physically. And she wished she could warn him that it was not vampires who had killed her. They had been worried about the wrong monsters...

As Rebecca lay on her back, the last of her life ebbing away, her breathing became shallower and she started, at last, to panic as she fought to draw air into lungs that no longer seemed to know what to do with it. No, not yet, I'm not ready! She wanted to tell Durand what she thought of him...wanted to tell John how much she loved him...but there was no air, no time. She had danced with the devil, and this was her reward.

The dying woman could only stare up into the harsh glare as the tunnel of vision became narrower and narrower until only a bright halo of light remained. I hate fluorescent lights. The idle thought drifted across her mind...

...and a moment later, Rebecca Anderson was dead.

End Song: Dancing With the Devil, Demi Lovato