Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [6]
Did I mention that already?
No? Well, it’s easy to sum up. I’m on three Most Wanted lists internationally … and on every single one I’m listed as a man known only as “Cheshire Red.” I’m not sure how this happened, or why.
I’m tallish for a woman, or shortish for a man. I’m slender, with breasts that are small enough to go unremarked. In the dark, at a glance, on a grainy security camera, I could pass for a young man. And far be it from me to argue with the feebs. If they want to keep on the lookout for a dude, so much the better for my career path and continued operation.
But anyway.
Ian Stott.
The number at the bottom of his summons wasn’t local, and I didn’t recognize the area code. Call me paranoid, but I had some reservations about dialing it up. I considered jaunting down to the nearest gas station and using the pay phone. Then I remembered that the bastard already knew where I lived, and I’d just be closing the barn door after the horse had run off. Hell, I was lucky he hadn’t shown up on my doorstep.
Come to think of it, I wondered why he hadn’t.
I wondered if he was watching me. I wondered if …
Okay. You would be right to call me paranoid, obviously, yes. But you don’t survive as long as I have by being sloppy and easily accessible. That’s a recipe for disaster. I’m much happier when I feel invisible.
I fondled the card between two fingers and tried to talk myself out of my phobic spiral.
He’d given me a name. Was it his real name? There was no telling. But he’d signed it properly, although I noted after looking again at the envelope, the signature didn’t match the chicken-scratch scrawl of the address. The signature was large and smooth, and easy to read. My address would’ve been more legible if it’d been composed in pickup sticks.
Okay, so he knew where I lived, but he was respecting my space. Apparently. Again I had an irritating flash of nervousness, wondering if he was right outside—or across the street, or downstairs, or hiding in a closet.
Because I couldn’t stop myself, I rushed to the hall closet and flung it open to make sure. Packed with shades of brown, black, and gray as usual, it was devoid of any two-legged lurkers. For about five seconds, I was relieved. Then I scanned the rest of the room with renewed frantic suspicion.
I grabbed a big black knife—my personal favorite, a carbon steel jobbie nearly a foot long—and I kicked in my own bathroom door. Empty. And now it also had a cracked tile on the wall where the knob had knocked it. Fantastic.
Too crazy to stop once I got myself started, I ran to the bedroom and checked that closet as well. More brown, black, and gray. No intruders.
Into the kitchen I burst. The walk-in pantry was secure.
The spare bedroom, of course! But it was likewise bereft of uninvited guests, as a mad crashing investigation shortly revealed.
Having exhausted my innate store of neurotic lunacy, I felt like an idiot. I really should’ve just called the number in the first place. I sat down on the arm of the couch, fished my phone out of my bag, took a deep breath, and dialed.
The phone at the other end only rang once before it was answered.
“Hello, Ms. Pendle,” said a smooth, low voice.
“Hello, Mr. Stott.” I tried to keep it dry and droll. No sense in letting him know he’d rattled me.
“Please, call me Ian. I thank you for responding to my message. I realize you’re a busy woman, and I am certain that your time is valuable, but I wish to state up front that I’m prepared to pay you handsomely for it.”
I listened hard and tried to get a good handle on the speaker. Another vampire, definitely. I’d known that much already, but hearing the preternatural, almost musical timbre in his words would’ve cinched it, regardless. He was well educated and calm, and American.
“That’s what you implied in your note, yes,” I said. “But as much as I love the money-is-no-object school of business, I still need to know what you’re after before I can name a price.”
“That’s quite reasonable,