Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [140]
“Jesus,” I said, wondering how many people had followed him up there, and how many people he’d killed. What was he doing up here? Was this the result of some weird new sense, developed to make up for the lack of his eyesight, as he believed? It was a tantalizing thought; it made me wonder if I could develop it, too—or if any other vampire could, given the right set of circumstances. Not that I wanted to go blind in order to find out.
“I couldn’t save him,” he said.
I’d almost caught my breath. Almost found my footing. “I saw him, downstairs. There were two other guys hanging out in your room, but I took care of them.”
“Violently, I hope.” His voice was so cold it was brittle, and ready to snap.
I followed it, drawing myself through the shaded dark, hoping to reach him. Any minute. Any second. He was only a few feet in front of me—he couldn’t be any farther than that. Any moment my fingers would graze his shoulder, or maybe his knee. From the sound of the echo, I thought he might be sitting down on something.
“Ian?” I said, hoping I sounded sweet, innocent, harmless, and interested. “What’s going on?”
“They shouldn’t have taken Cal. He had nothing to do with this—not any of it. He was only a helper, not a conspirator. But there was nothing I could do. They surprised us. And I don’t understand … there’s so much I don’t understand.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“They took everything,” he told me, as if I hadn’t said a thing. “They destroyed everything.”
“Ian, Adrian, and I made it to Major Bruner’s office. We found more paperwork—more files. Much more than what I was able to give you from Adrian’s stash.”
The black fog held its breath. “Is that true?”
“Of course it’s true! I’ve got it in my bag. Let’s get downstairs and get the hell out of here. I’ll read it to you, start to finish. We’ll find someplace calm to sort this out.”
Dream-like, he said, “We can’t go downstairs. We can never go back there. They’ll try to take us away.”
“Not downstairs in the room. Downstairs outside. We’re meeting up at the Lincoln Memorial—”
“When?”
“As soon as I can talk you down off this ledge,” I said, though it seemed like an appalling choice of words and it no doubt was. “Please, Ian. Come with me. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go, and we can sort everything out somewhere else.”
“I should’ve left when Cal wanted me to leave. He’d been begging, insisting. But I stayed, because you wanted me to. You convinced me to.” The swirling above became more aggressive—more like a hurricane than a mere storm front.
“That’s true.” I still held out my hands, hoping to find him.
Where the hell was he? I felt like an idiot, sweeping around in the dark, hoping to knock up against him. “But I didn’t know it would come to this—you have to believe me. I was only trying to help, and now I know why they came after us. I know how they kept finding us.”
“It was my fault. I could’ve packed up and returned home at any time, but I did not. The fault lies with me.”
Yes and no, but this wasn’t the time to emphasize the “yes.” “Ian, the Canadian doctor you’ve been feeding information to—his name’s David, isn’t it? David Keene?”
Time ground to a halt. The barometric pressure changed, and the fog pulsed with something like rage, something like horror.
“David, yes.” His words were choked now.
“Ian, he was one of the original contacts for Project Bloodshot. He was either an investor or a researcher—we didn’t have time to read everything on the spot.”
“That … it can’t be!”
“Did you ever meet him in person?” I asked.
“No. We corresponded by phone and email.”
“You’ve been talking to him, since I’ve been on your case?”
A pause. A swallow. Then a protest. “Only a bit. Only to keep him abreast of progress, since he would be leaving the country soon.”
“You told him I was in Atlanta. Did you tell him I was looking for someone who’d stolen the files you wanted?”
More silence. Finally he said, “Not … not in so many words. But yes. I think. I certainly didn’t tell him our address, though—or give