Chapter 60

Aftermath

Author's note: I hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas. With everything going on with family, I am sending this chapter without any song recommendations so that I can get it to you. Hope you enjoy. Merry Christmas!

Josef awoke with a start, quickly orienting himself to the familiar surroundings of his freezer. "It can't be evening," he muttered, pushing up the heavy lid effortlessly. When he sat up, mist swirled up around his well-muscled chest as the frigid air merged with the warmer atmosphere of the room.

Squinting at the blank-faced, gold-and-black Movado clock on the stand next to the freezer, Josef shook his head. One o'clock! He could tell, just by the feeling of tiredness pressing down on him, that it was not one A.M. "Shit!" he exclaimed to the room. The upheaval to his schedule of the past several days, coupled with his worry over Mick - and the implications for the rest of the vampire community - had conspired to make it almost impossible for him to get much rest.

Fortunately for Josef Kostan, the longer vampires lived, the less sleep and freezer time they seemed to require. While not optimal, a couple of hours in the cold would allow him to function without the debilitating effects that would be felt by a much younger vampire, like Mick, if he were deprived of a freezer for extended periods of time.

Kostan had often wondered about this difference. Was it truly a function of longevity? Or was it because vampires as old as he had started their undead life without the benefit of modern appliances like freezers, instead, scrounging for whatever coolness they could find in caves or underground? Perhaps it was cause and effect. Maybe some vampires just needed less sleep and cold - and were, thus, better equipped to survive. Given the solitary nature of vampires, and the lack of scientific studies, it was doubtful he would ever know for sure. Josef being Josef, he preferred to believe it was because of superior genes on his part.

Maybe a good 'fuck and feed' with Simone would help him to relax and go back to sleep. Uh-uh, Kostan. His conscience continued to bug him about the kiss with Gabrielle while Simone was still here at the vineyard, doing her best to help. Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to use her in that way until he resolved his feelings about all this. A guilty conscience – a novel concept to him. Damn, what's wrong with you?!

With a groan, he heaved himself out of the freezer and strode naked over to the antique armoire on one wall. Grabbing one of the thick terrycloth robes hanging there, he belted it as he headed back to his adjoining library and the stash of freshie blood there.

Simone wasn't the only person his new-found conscience was nagging him about.

He had tried, unsuccessfully, to reach Victoria before retiring, leaving her several messages to apologize for what had appeared to be his abandonment of her and her... predicament... in New York. He thanked her over and over again for arranging to have Dr. Spector and Gabrielle come to their aid.

"I know I haven't been the best of friends to you lately, Victoria, and I apologize for my behavior. I have reasons - good reasons - for being so skittish, but that still doesn't excuse me." After a long pause, he had added before hanging up, "Let me know how the council meeting goes tonight."

So preoccupied was he with replaying that message in his head, that he accidentally allowed the sleeve of his white robe to touch the stream of blood pouring into a tall glass. "Dammit!" he exclaimed as the absorbent material soaked up the thick, red liquid. "Great. Just great." The fastidious billionaire stomped off to swap his soiled robe for a clean one before finally sitting down with the glass of blood. Sipping the life-sustaining liquid - a delicious offering from a very tasty redhead - he did not take the pleasure in the beverage that he normally would. He knew why.

Before she left Temecula, Gabrielle had confided in him that Victoria was worried about placing too much faith in the witness 'procured' during the failed attempt on Durin Scanlin's life. She was not sure his testimony would be sufficient to sway the Council, especially given the fact that significant torture had been utilized to obtain that attestation. Josef had to admit that, were he sitting on the Council, he would have had similar doubts. Confessions derived from torture were notoriously unreliable.

"Without an organized defense, Victoria thinks we may all be in danger of annihilation."

Annihilation. Gabrielle's words echoed in his head. He was all too familiar with that word when applied to vampires. Older than any of them, he had lived through horrors that had killed off thousands of vampires - and left him with nightmares he did his best to ignore. No, he wanted no part of fighting, of war, or of whatever the hell was going on in New York. Despite that hasty retreat from New York, however, it appeared that 'it' had found him here in California anyway. Victoria needed his support - and he felt obligated to provide it. He sighed heavily as he finished the now-tasteless blood and got up to get dressed. He knew what he should do... he just didn't like it.

Man, having a conscience was a bitch!

Beth had wandered restlessly all day from the cold room to check on Mick, to the study to look for largely unavailable company, to the terrace, and back again. At Simone's urging, she had even tried, unsuccessfully, to take a nap. Now, as the sun rested lower in the western sky, she found herself standing outside the door to the freezer room once more.

So far, she had successfully fought her impulse to wake Mick on each trip to his side. She didn't expect to find him awake this time either - in fact, she hoped he wasn't, given the amount of pain he was still in. Yet, she couldn't seem to sit still without seeing him. You are a basket case, Turner. With a sigh of acknowledgement, she gathered up her coat and mittens from the floor outside the door, where she had begun to unceremoniously dump them. If Josef's housekeeper didn't like it, well... "She can just bite me," Beth muttered irritably as she shrugged them on, ignoring the irony of attributing the action to one of the few in the household who didn't, in point of fact, 'bite'.

As soon as she shoved open the door and inhaled the air, so cold and crisp it made her teeth ache, she felt better. The only sounds were the quiet, slow inhalations and exhalations coming from the figure on the bench. She approached the sleeping vampire quietly and sat down on the bench below his with a sigh. It was all she could do to keep from touching him, kissing him... her mind wanted to go further, even as her conscience rebelled. Exasperated with herself, she blurted out, "Get a grip!" with more force - and volume - than she had intended.

With a start, Mick opened his eyes. "Beth?" he asked hoarsely, unable to see her from his prone position.

"I'm here, Mick." She jumped up, silently cursing herself for awakening him from his much-needed rest. "I'm so sorry I woke you up. I'll leave."

"Don't be silly. Stay with me a while." There was such intensity and longing in those silver eyes, and still-rough voice, that she couldn't refuse him.

"Of course I will." Beth bent over to kiss him gently on the cheek, but Mick had other ideas. He turned his mouth to hers and raised his hand to the back of her head, her blond hair dropping down around them. The kiss that followed was anything but chaste.

When he finally released her, Mick grinned at her expression. "Hey, I'm hurt, not dead!" His voice, while still raspy, was stronger than it had been even that morning. "I'm also slightly stoned, thanks to Dr. Spector and his magic drugs." He gestured up at the swinging IV apparatus, the bag shrouded, as they all had been, to prevent freezing in the extreme cold of the room.

Beth's eyes followed his movement. Studying the clear fluid flowing steadily into the drip chamber below the bag, she asked, "No pain?"

"Nope, not now. Flyin' high. Haven't felt like this since the forties. Chest itches though."

Beth laughed at his slurred words, vapor billowing from her mouth as her warm breath collided with the frigid air. "I think I like the 'stoned' Mick. A new side of you."

"Seems like you saw lots of sides of me this week." Mick's drug-induced haze didn't keep him from worrying about her. He studied her much-loved face, searching for signs that she had had enough, that the vampire world was too much for her. He feared it, dreaded it...expected it.

"Well, I can certainly say I know the inside of you, if that's what you mean." Beth grimaced as she stripped off her mitten to touch his cheek gently with the backs of her fingers. "Mick, if you had died..." She couldn't finish. Her mind flew back to her conversation with Josef. Revenge! Even though Mick had survived, that was a dish she was still hungry for. Every time she looked into his silvered eyes, saw a grimace of pain on his face, or glanced at the raw, red line drawn down his body, she had to swallow her fury and outrage.

Then and there, she decided to go back to the ADA's office. She needed to know if Talbot had any part in the ambush - and, if he did... He'll pay! The thought popped, unbidden, into her mind. Uneasily, she decided not to pursue, for the moment, just what 'paying' might entail - though her prior experience with Josef Kostan's methods gave her a pretty good idea. It occurred to her that she might not be a vampire, but she was certainly starting to think like one.

Mick's hand on hers brought her back from her dark thoughts.

"It's okay, Beth. Don't worry. I'm not going to die." He smiled up at her. "We have to go back to Babe and Ricky's, remember? Miss Mickey will kill me if I don't bring you back there." Abruptly, another picture filled his mind. Mama Laura, the woman who gave Babe and Ricky's its heart, standing on a street in a frightening grey world, surrounded by a swirling storm of red flecks, scolding him. "Hear dat? It's love callin' ya, boy. What are you waitin' fo'? Now git! You got livin' to do!" He screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head to clear it of the image.

"Mick, are you all right?" Beth's concerned face hovered over his when he opened his eyes.

"Yeah. I just keep having these weird-" He hesitated, not quite sure how to describe what was going on. "I- I guess I'd call them... visions. I don't know if they are things that actually happened, or something I dreamed...or maybe it's the morphine." He shook his head in frustration. "Just keep having them at odd moments." The last fifty-plus years as a vampire had not prepared him for any of this.

"Dr. Spector said that one of the drugs he gave you so that he could operate on you could cause hallucinations - and that sometimes they are about God, for some strange reason. You did seem to be having a lot of..." She hesitated, unsure herself of what to call them. "...nightmares, I guess I'd say... before you woke up. Is it anything like that?" She smoothed his forehead and massaged his scalp gently as she had when he was in such agony in the kitchen, her fingertips already turning pale from the cold. There's still blood in his hair...

He frowned, his brow creasing as he tried to recapture what he had seen with his mind's eye. "Don't know, exactly. I know I saw people I haven't seen for years, people who've been dead a long time. Even my parents and my brother."

She smiled tenderly down at him, continuing to stroke his hair almost without thinking. "I didn't know you have a brother, Mick!"

"Had a brother. Michael's been gone a long time." His eyes were sad as he croaked, "He would have loved you."

"Oh yeah? Would I have loved him?" she teased, tracing the outline of his mouth with her fingertip.

"He would have told you -" He paused, his eyes weakly filling with tears that he blinked away with difficulty, silently cursing his loss of control. "He would have told you that you picked the wrong brother... and he'd have probably been right."

"No," Beth said quietly. "He wouldn't have been." To emphasize her point, she leaned in to kiss him again, her lips teasing his with the promise of more to come. When you're well...

Reflexively, Mick inhaled her fragrance. Improbably, her hair smelled of sunshine - the scent so distinct, he could almost feel the sun on his face when she bent over him.

"I love you, Beth."

Instinctively knowing what he needed, she pulled her mitten back on over her icy fingers and settled down beside him on the bench, gingerly lifting his head onto her lap. Taking his hand in hers, she said, "Now, tell me about Michael..."

Thank god this day is over.

Ben Talbot stared out the sliding glass door to the tiny balcony of his second story condo, watching with mild interest the traffic hum down San Vicente Boulevard like a horde of mechanized fireflies. When he had first moved in, the condo seemed spacious, but tonight, with the media hounding him and a Monday morning meeting with his boss hanging over his head, it felt almost claustrophobic

Taking a sip of the latest dirty martini he had mixed, he scanned his condo, suddenly seized by a need to take stock, as if some deeper assessment of the space and inventorying of its contents would somehow help him bring order to his life.

The condo's furnishings were relatively simple, representing a style that could perhaps best be described as Asian-influenced Ethan Allen. Both furniture and flooring displayed simple dark woods and clean lines. Nothing ostentatious or out of place. The environment was stylishly utilitarian… and, he sadly noted, lacking in warmth or personality.

He didn't own the apartment or its furnishings. Hell, he didn't own his car either. It was a leased vehicle - the only way he could afford the type of transportation his mentor had insisted he needed to be seen in.

"You have to look the part, son. Part of success is about what you do, but another big chunk of it is how you present yourself."

When the opportunity came up to move to the Los Angeles district attorney's office, Garfield had gone to work. His mentor had pulled in some favors to come up with the opportunity to sub-lease the space - at much less than the going rate for a place like this. When Ben had expressed his gratitude for yet another kindness bestowed, Edward had brushed it off.

"I've spent a lifetime building these contacts, Ben - and I'll introduce you to all of them. We just need to build your resume first, get you in a position where you can give favors as well as receive them. That's the key. Now, take the money I just saved you and go buy yourself a new suit or two - designer labels only. No skimping. You're in L.A. now and appearances are even more important there."

Talbot had obeyed, making a lonely shopping trip to outfit himself. Thinking of that solo expedition as he looked down at the fine suit he was wearing, he thought, not for the first time, that his life could stand a woman's touch. Almost immediately though, he shook his head vigorously. The last thing he needed right now was the complication of a girlfriend. Someone to whine when he worked late or pout when he needed to closet himself with his mentor. No, this wasn't the time or place to entertain such notions. Plenty of time later to find an appropriate life partner. His career was paramount – and, right now, it was in serious need of some life support.

"That's if I even still have a career after Monday," he muttered out loud, tossing back the rest of his drink. The upcoming meeting with his boss had his stomach churning. Or, maybe it's the three martinis you've had...

In times like these, that's when he felt it - the old insecurities of being a boy from modest means, who wanted the good life that his father, God bless his good intentions, could never provide for him and his mother.

Turning from the window, he mixed a fresh drink at the small bar in a corner of his living room, then plopped down on the couch, discouraged. His father. He had sworn many times to himself that he would be more successful, more respected, than his father.

How many times, over the years, had he wished Edward had been his father instead of the man fate had dealt him? He still had the good grace to feel disloyal when he entertained the thought. It was a mystery to him how his father and Edward, two such seemingly different men, could even be friends. They must have had more in common, been more alike, early in their lives. How had Edward managed to be so successful, while his father had floundered?

Just the thought of his old family friend, and mentor, gave him a glimmer of hope. Edward Garfield was the embodiment of his aspirations, proof that someone like him could succeed with enough hard work, determination, grit, political savvy, and a pinch of luck.

Garfield had always been the type of person who could sell the Pope a double bed - or tell you to go fuck yourself, and have you look forward to the experience. People liked him, regardless of what side of the political aisle they sat on. Even people who hated the state's governor, liked and respected his special liaison.

Ben smiled broadly as he thought back to when Garfield had received the appointment. He had proudly stood there with him – at Edward's invitation - as if he were the man's son. Dammit! The truth was, Garfield was the father he wished he had - the kind of man who helped make connections, networked to get him internships with the right people, introduced him to the governor and other power players, made his current assignment at the Los Angeles' District Attorney's office a reality.

Edward had friends in all the right places - correction, in all the needed places. As Garfield had taught him, sometimes you had to make Faustian deals to get what you needed. Ben knew his mentor had big plans for him – plans he had placed in jeopardy because of the way he was fumbling the handling of the San Diego case.

He stared down into his drink, swirling the skewered olive marinating in the alcohol before popping it into his mouth. He had thought he was following Garfield's lead, executing a Machiavellian move by bringing St. John into this case. He did not like the man, but there was no denying he was good – really good. By pairing him with Carl Davis, he had hoped to bring the case to a quick close – and at the same time, collect information that would help solve the enigma of Mick St. John. There was something not right about the man, something that made Talbot want desperately to exit whatever room he was in. How could he explain to Edward, in any way that made sense, how the hairs on the back of his neck stood up when St. John entered a room…?

No, despite what had happened, he still felt that bringing the private investigator into the case had been the right thing to do. Teamed with Davis, who himself was an excellent officer, those two were the best choice to work that case. And while he had not wished any misfortune to fall on St. John, he was more upset about the repercussions of the incident, the fallout caused by everything going so horribly wrong.
Earlier that evening, when he'd talked to his mentor, Edward had made it clear that there was only so much that could be planned. The rest was up to fate, who he described as "a fickle cunt with permanent PMS."

"But that doesn't mean you have to sit around and let her bitch slap you, Ben. The difference between successful men and those that aren't is how you respond when she shows up. Because, lemme tell you, she always shows up."

Talbot emptied his glass, grinning to himself. Damn, the man could always make him laugh, even at a time like this. He played out the remainder of the conversation in his mind, knowing that his moment of truth had arrived.

As Edward had so bluntly put it, "Time for your cherry busting, son. Happens to everyone in your position at some point. We all get fucked - but it's up to you to decide if you're going to be on the top or the bottom. And I get the sense you are down there in that condo, moping around and ruminating on how this may destroy your career. Oh, and doing it with cheap liquor too. Am I right?"

"Yeah," he'd grudgingly agreed. Why lie to the man? Edward knew him too well.

Garfield had grunted, "Thought so. Look, Ben. There's a fix for this - there's a fix for everything. That's the first thing you need to grab hold of. The second thing you need to grab are your damn car keys in the morning. Get yourself up here and spend the weekend with Donna and me." He laughed. "Mostly me. We'll sort this out. Listen to some good music. Eat good food. And the most important thing… drink good liquor. What do you say?"

The beleaguered ADA hadn't needed much prompting. He couldn't stand the thought of holing up in his condo all weekend, and he hadn't made any real friends in Los Angeles.

"I choose to take that silence as a yes. Get some sleep, because I want you to pack your stuff & be up here in time for lunch at two."

Ben walked into his utilitarian, all-white kitchen, and put the glass in the sink, momentarily saddened that the thought that at least he used to be able to grab an occasional drink with Davis. I don't think he'd drink with me now. Another potential friendship lost. And then, there was the… unpleasantness… with St. John, who was, no doubt, dead by now. A tendril of shame snaked through him at the fact that he was more concerned about losing a drinking buddy than about another man losing his life as a result of his actions.

What about Beth? Focusing on her misfortunes would not change anything, it would only cloud his focus. Beth was tough, she would survive, just as she had when Josh died. That's an asshole thought. He shook his head again. What was the saying he and Josh used to laugh over? Life's a bitch and then you die… A morbid, but appropriate, thought.

A weekend with Garfield. That was what he needed. Under his specific tutelage, Ben was certain he could come up with a plan of action that would allow him to navigate this situation. For all parties involved, the best thing was for him to clear his head, and prepare for Monday. And, as for St. John… no news was good news. No point in mourning someone until you were sure he was dead. Let the dead bury the dead...

His decision made, Talbot dimmed the lights and headed off to bed, staggering only slightly under the influence of multiple martinis. The hour wasn't late, but he needed time to sleep off his mini-binge if he was going to get up to Sacramento by two. This could prove to be a busy and enlightening weekend.

Giles had begun pacing, glancing at the clock every time his stride took him to the corner of his living room where he could see the accursed implement hanging on the wall in the tiny kitchen. Rebecca had wanted to ditch the landline, but he hadn't been ready to let go of it just yet. It was a vestige of his boyhood that he wanted to keep around. Now, it seemed to mock him with its silence.

His wife, in addition to being such a neat freak that their cozy apartment fairly shone, was obsessive about being on time. Everything about her life was an orderly example of an efficiency expert - or an OCD personality, he had wryly pointed out in the early stages of their relationship. There was no give to her in that aspect of her personality, however - you adapted to her style or there was the door, thank you very much.

John did not share the same fanaticism toward neatness and punctuality, but he adored Rebecca and he had made the necessary changes to fit into her life and her routines, even though there was a part of him that, at times, longed to strew the Sunday Times around the living room or leave a random sock on the bedroom floor. So inured had he become to her lifestyle, however, that even now, when she had been gone for well over a week, the apartment was still almost painfully neat and clean.

These traits made her being so late for their standing Friday evening call all the more worrisome.

When they were first married, they had sworn to one another that they would not fall into that trap shared by so many couples - becoming complacent with one another, growing isolated and apart as real life pushed its way into the relationship. Friday nights were theirs - for dates and adventures, romance and passion.

When the Crucis jobs they ardently pursued interfered with that plan, they had long, intimate phone conversations to tide them over until they could be together again.

The tradition was sacred to them both, even after all these years together - or perhaps, especially because of all these years together... and now, she was late. Very late.

He threw himself down on the pale tangerine-colored leather couch and pulled out his cell phone again, knowing, without looking, that there had been no call. "Dammit!"

Well, he couldn't - wouldn't - wait any longer. Bracing himself for a lecture, he dialed Christophe's private line. Durand picked up on the second ring with an impatient "Hello?!"

"Christophe, it's John. I'm sorry to bother you but-"

"Yes, yes. what is it, John? I have company." Durand's tone, while impatient, was not unkind.

A small miracle, Giles thought to himself. Wonder who his company is to put him in a good mood... Shaking off the thought, he plunged ahead, determined to take advantage of his superior's rare equanimity.

"Christophe, you know I never bother you with questions about operations that don't involve me - but, I haven't heard from Rebecca this evening and that's not like her. We always talk at this time on Friday evenings - and you know how fanatical she is about being punctual-"

"Yes I do," Durand interrupted. "One of the many things I admire about your wife." There was a genuine note of admiration in his voice.

And regret? Giles shoved the thought away. "I was getting concerned and I just wondered if there was anything going on in Chicago that I should be aware of. Something that Rebecca might have been involved in that would tie her up?"

Oh, she's tied up all right. Durand struggled to keep a note of amusement from creeping into his voice, to inject just the right note of sincere concern...

"No, nothing that I have ordered, John. As you know, the plan is proceeding in Chicago as it was in New York - identify and pick off some key movers and shakers in the vampire community there, take advantage of the opportunity to kill off some stragglers from the herd, that sort of thing. No major operations yet."

"You're sure?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Giles wanted to recall them.

"I believe my instructions to the team there have been quite clear," Durand responded icily, "and I think everyone in the organization probably knows by now how I handle people who do not adhere to the plan. If I recall, I believe you saw it firsthand. I would hope you have not already forgotten that lesson."

"Yes - I mean, no, I have not forgotten, Christophe," Giles hastened to assure the Crucis leader. As if I could forget. He could still see the shocking spray of blood and viscera from the doomed detective whenever he shut his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to question you. I'm just worried. This is not like Rebecca. She would never be late if she could help it – and she always lets me know."

Durand's tone softened. "We are in the midst of a dangerous endeavor, so I do understand, John. The major strike is still on hold in Chicago, just as it is in New York, while we let the dust settle from the tempest that idiot McGowan stirred up in California. Have you spoken to anyone in the Chicago office?"

"No, I wanted to talk to you first." A note of anguish crept into Giles' voice. "You don't think anything could have happened to her, do you Christophe?"

"I'm sure everything is fine," Durand assured his second-in-command smoothly. "I would hope that those idiots up there would know enough to alert me if something had happened." He sighed theatrically for Giles' benefit. "You know my concerns about that field office though, John. They are imbeciles, which is part of the reason I sent Rebecca there. But feel free to check in with them if it will make you feel better."

"You are okay with that?" Giles' voice was hesitant. Despite his worry over his wife, he was loathe to do anything that would raise the ire of his increasingly volatile - and unpredictable - superior.

"I am, indeed. And, if you feel the need to go up there and rattle a few cages, feel free. I'm sure you'll hear from Rebecca soon, though. In the meantime, just keep me posted. Call me anytime, day or night."

"Thank you, Christophe." The moment Giles disconnected the call, he jumped to his laptop to look up the contact information for the head of the Chicago office. He hoped Durand was right, but he had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. His hands were shaking slightly as he punched in the number.

"Gerry? It's John Giles. I need to talk to you about Rebecca..."

In his luxurious apartment on the other side of the city, Christophe Durand poured a fresh drink for himself and his guest. Carrying the brandy snifters over to the couch, he sat down with a smile and handed one off.

"Adam, this is going like clockwork." He reached over to touch glasses with his protege, then raised his glass in toast. "In hoc signo crucis vinces!"

"In this sign you will conquer," Adam Durand translated, smiling at his father.