Dr. Gryphon. He certainly fit the profile.
He needed to find out exactly what he was up to. He found the business card he’d given Annabelle lying on the end table and dialed the man’s number.
“Dr. Gryphon speaking.”
“It’s Agent Valtrez. I talked to Miss Armstrong and she’s reconsidering your offer of help. Is there a clinic nearby where I could observe your work in progress?”
Dr. Gryphon hesitated. “I can’t compromise my patients’ confidentiality.”
“I understand. But if you want to help Mr. Armstrong, and clear yourself of any suspicion, you’ll give me a tour. Once you’ve been eliminated as a suspect, you might be able to assist us in finding the person behind these attacks.”
A reluctant sigh. “All right. Meet me in an hour.”
Quinton jotted down the address, then hung up and tried to call Shayla Larue to go with him. If she truly was a demon slayer, he could use her as backup.
But she didn’t answer so he left a message.
He started to knock on Annabelle’s door to tell her where he was going. But she’d said she was going to get some sleep, so he didn’t disturb her. If her father regained consciousness, the doctor would call him.
Until then, he’d try to solve this case. Finding the Death Angel and destroying him was the only way to keep Annabelle safe.
The sound of a tree branch slapping the window woke Annabelle a few hours later, hazy evening shadows streaking the room, the sun having faded.
A vulture pecked at the window incessantly, the scratching giving her the creeps as memories of the night before assaulted her. The ballroom, her father’s gaunt lifeless eyes, the bomb.
The near explosion that Quinton had stopped by using his power. Quinton holding her, comforting her, making love to her.
Then the conversation she’d overheard. She’d been ready to accept that he was part demon, but he’d used sex to keep her from revealing his secret.
He didn’t care about her at all.
She rolled over, aching for him again, but the bed was empty. His masculine scent lingered on the pillows and the sheets.
Sighing in frustration, she sat up and dropped her head into her hands, willing herself to forget.
But reality crashed back with a vengeance. Her father was in the hospital, disoriented and confused.
The reporters would already have outlined the story for the world to know. And they’d hound her for the truth.
Her phone rang and she checked the number. Her boss, Roland. He was obviously wondering when he was going to get her story.
She had no idea what to tell him, so she ignored the call. She couldn’t talk to him yet. Not until she decided how to handle the things she’d learned about Quinton.
Maybe Roland would be satisfied with human-interest pieces on the victims. And she could offer some follow-up pieces on post-traumatic stress syndrome.
Still, she had to find out who’d turned her father into a killer and clear his name.
But if Quinton was right, and it was a demon, what would she report?
Her phone trilled again, and she frowned, expecting it to be Roland, probably calling back to leave a caustic message. But the hospital’s number flashed on the display. Her palms began to sweat as she snatched up the phone and connected the call.
“Annabelle Armstrong.”
“Miss Armstrong, this is Dr. Andradre at the hospital. I hate to tell you this, but your father didn’t make it.”
Annabelle’s stomach knotted as grief filled her. “What?”
“I’m sorry. The medical examiner is going to do an autopsy, and we’ll notify you of the results.”
No… She doubled over in grief. He couldn’t be dead. He’d squeezed her hand, sent her a message.
She had to see him for herself. “I’ll be right there.”
She disconnected the call and glanced at the closed doorway between her room and Quinton’s. She wanted to go to him, ask him to come with her.
But he’d made a fool out of her, and she refused to beg for his help. She’d call a taxi and go on her own.
She wanted to say good-bye to her father in private.
Quinton studied Gryphon, his mind struggling to read the doctor’s thoughts.
The research hospital where Dr. Gryphon was conducting his experiments wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d imagined hearing tortured cries and screams from the end of a corridor of dark hallways and locked doors. Instead, the facility appeared normal, quiet, a working medical environment staffed with professionals who would draw no suspicion.
Or was it a cover?
Gryphon settled his wiry frame back in the chair. “How are Miss Armstrong and her father doing?”
“Naturally, she’s upset about her father. I phoned the hospital on the way over, and Mr. Armstrong’s condition hasn’t changed.”
His brows furrowed together with his frown. “In cases like these, it’s hard to predict how long it will take for the patient to recover, or if he ever fully will.”
Quinton tensed slightly. Was that a warning? “I’m sure Annabelle will see that he receives the best medical care available.”
Gryphon’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward in his seat. “And you obviously don’t think that’s me. So why are you really here, Agent Valtrez?”
“We know you conferred online with the first two bombers, who were homeless men. We have agents studying those posts to determine if they might have hinted at their plans.”
“We’ve been over this, and I found no signs of suicidal thoughts or hidden agendas.” Gryphon drummed his fingers on the mahogany desk and sighed. “It’s a shame that some prey on the homeless and aging. That’s one reason I decided to focus on geriatrics and am working on treating memory disorders.”
“You’re making progress?”
He gestured toward several files on his desk, then his computer. “Some, but not as fast as I’d like. Medicine has helped increase our life span, but that fact also has its downside. Many elderly are left alone with no one to care for them. And more diseases result from the aging process, especially dementia and Alzheimer’s.” A self-deprecating smile tilted his lips. “Then again, you didn’t come for a sermon on my personal mission.”
Quinton studied the nuances of his words, his expressions, his silent thoughts, but everything seemed… sincere.
“It’s doubtful these homeless men created this plan on their own,” Quinton said. “Someone else masterminded the attacks.”
Gryphon steepled his fingers. “Do you think a terrorist cell is behind the bombings?”
“The FBI is investigating that theory. But I have another one.”
“Care to share it?”
Quinton shrugged. “I think someone may be drugging or hypnotizing these men, exerting mind control, if you will. I mentioned this to you before.”
Gryphon frowned. “Yes, you did. And I suppose that’s possible.”
“With your expertise and research experiments, have you conducted mind-control experiments?”
A second passed, then a wary look flashed across Gryphon’s features. “Are you asking if I know of a drug that could make that possible, or if I’ve been experimenting with mind control?”
“That is what you’re doing here, isn’t it?”
Gryphon leaned back in his chair with a dismissive shrug. “I can give you a list of drugs that physicians use in therapy, ones that would assist in hypnosis, but I won’t acknowledge your implication with a response.” He quickly clicked a few keys on his computer, hit Print, then handed Quinton the list.
“How about the names of other doctors you think might be conducting experiments with mind control?”
“If I suspected any of my colleagues were doing anything inappropriate, Mr. Valtrez, I would report them to the police.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, please leave. I have patients to see.”
“I came here to observe your work,” Quinton said. “You agreed to give me a tour of your facility.”
Gryphon hesitated as if weighing his decision. Then Quinton read his thoughts.
Why not? He had nothing to hide.
Quinton gestured for him to lead the way. Gryphon seemed resigned as he stood and started down the hall. He showed Quinton two of the treatment rooms that he used for relaxation therapy and hypnosis, introduced him to two of the nurses on staff, then they walked down the hall housing the patients.
No electric shock treatments or anything that looked illicit. No demonic stench from Dr. Gryphon or the patients.
“Most of my patients are admitted on an outpatient basis,” he said. “But I have rooms available for the patients taking part in my current research project.”
Gryphon escorted him into a solarium where he spotted two men playing chess, an amputee in a wheelchair reading the
Wall Street Journal
, an elderly gray-haired man nodding off in a lounge chair, and a fourth younger guy staring out the window.
Quinton greeted the men playing chess, but they barely acknowledged him. He touched their shoulders and sensed they were troubled, but detected nothing odd about their skin coloring or scent. He walked over to the guy in the wheelchair and noticed he was reading about the stock market.
“I may be in this chair,” the man said, “but I still have to manage my investments.”
“Right.” Quinton forced a smile, then went to the young guy staring out the window. He seemed the most depressed, but when he looked up at Quinton, he realized the guy was blind.
“I like to feel the sun on my face,” he said quietly.
“I understand,” Quinton said and placed his hand on the guy’s shoulder, reading his thoughts. He felt trapped, was suffering from flashbacks of the explosion that had caused his sight loss. But he was determined to get his life back.
No suicidal or homicidal thoughts.
Quinton’s cell phone buzzed, and he quickly checked it, hoping for a lead.
He had a text.
His nerves instantly sprang to alert.
More fireworks on the way. A private show—just for you. Watch Annabelle die.
The scent of death and formaldehyde suffused Annabelle as she exited the elevator in the hospital basement and walked down the hall toward the morgue. She inhaled, trying to settle the nausea in her stomach as images of her father taunted her. What had gone wrong? Why hadn’t he held on?
The cabdriver had wanted to talk about the near bombing the night before, and had tuned the radio to a discussion of its disastrous effects on a city that had already seen enough trauma for a lifetime, while she’d wanted to hear anything except the news.
Her hands were sweating as she pushed open the door to the front office. A drawing of the human body and skeletal system hung on a faded chipped wall. A sickly smell greeted her as a doctor appeared, ripping off a pair of plastic gloves and tossing them into a bin designated for biohazardous material. The room felt icy cold, the smell sickening.
The doctor smiled, an odd smile revealing jagged front teeth. “Hello, Annabelle. Welcome to the morgue.”
“Dr. Andradre, phoned and said my father died,” Annabelle said, her heart in her throat. “Is he here?”
In a flash, he closed razor-sharp nails around her wrists, then a sharp sting pierced her arm and the world spun in a drunken rush.
She clawed for control, for something to hold on to, but a world of black drew her into its terrifying abyss.
Quinton phoned Annabelle as soon as his feet hit the pavement outside Gryphon’s office. Five rings later, and her voice mail picked up. He left a frantic message warning her that the killer might be after her and to call him back, then jumped in his car and drove to the hotel to see if she was there but just avoiding him.
After the way he’d left her, he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t even want to speak to him.
He honked his horn and sped around slower traffic, careening into the hotel parking lot on two wheels, then jumped out and ran to the entrance.
His pulse pounding, he raced inside. But Annabelle wasn’t in the room.
He punched in her cell number again, but was once more connected to voice mail. Sweat beaded on his brow and neck as he ran back to the car. She must have gone to the hospital to see her father.
She was safe. She had to be.
Vultures soared above the car as if they were dogging him as he raced toward the hospital. Partygoers already clogged the streets in the evening hour as dark descended, embracing the charm and culture New Orleans offered. He wove through the throng, wondering where the Death Angel would strike.
If he had Annabelle, where would he take her?
Gears ground and his tires screeched as he drove into the hospital parking lot and jumped out. Again, he hit the ground at a dead run, racing past nurses and orderlies, shoving past a medicine cart to reach the elevator. Perspiration trickled down his forehead as he took the elevator.
When the elevator door dinged open, he jogged to Armstrong’s room. The older man lay in the bed, still unconscious, but Annabelle wasn’t inside.
Grinding his teeth, he rushed outside to the nurses’ station. “Have either of you seen or heard from Miss Armstrong this afternoon or evening?”