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Part 1

The blow came from above. It was relatively painless, at first, more a physical shock than pain. Pain came later; right on the heels of it, actually, as if my head needed a moment to accept it was being assaulted. I was not totally surprised by the attack; I had been warned after all.

As the pavement rose toward my face, all I could think was, “Well, hell.”



The call came on a Saturday, around 11:30. I had just finished my last set and was in my dressing room removing my make-up when the phone rang. I paused, washcloth to my chin. No one knew that number except my agent, Tommy, and the owner of the club. I had just seen Tommy not ten minutes before, and Derek was on the floor. I looked into the mirror and met my own eyes. The anxiety might never pass. Several years prior, I had been... involved in a drug running case while passing through New Orleans. It had not been a good time in the Big Easy, and despite constant reassurances from the agent in charge of the case, I had been fairly certain I would end up dead or in prison. If only he had actually told me everything that was going on, I might have been better prepared. I might not have been abducted and tossed onto a boat that I thought would soon be taking me out to the Gulf, to be tossed overboard with my hands tied. That, too, had started with a phone call.

I shook my head. No, it’s a wrong number! I told myself. Vaguely reassured, and feeling rather sheepish for being afraid, I tossed down the washcloth and managed to grab the phone on the fourth ring.

“Sorry, you’ve got a wrong number, darlin.’” I drawled, preparing to drop the phone back into the cradle.

“No, I’m rather afraid I don’t.”

The skin on my neck began to crawl. I knew that voice! There was no mistaking that smooth, bourbon on the rocks drawl. Had I summoned him by thinking of him?

“Who are you trying to reach?” I said, somewhat subdued.

“Why, you, Marilyn. Or have you changed your stage name again?” I could hear him turning pages in the background. He must have been sitting at his desk. “It is Agent Pendergast.”

I paused, contemplated telling him he had the wrong number. I had changed my stage name, after all. I could honestly say I was not Marilyn anymore.

“There is no need to hesitate,” he said. “I do recognize your voice.”

Pendergast. There was a name I was in no hurry to hear ever again, at least not at the end of a sentence that began “I am Special Agent.” In my mind, an image began to form—a tall, lean man, ascetic in his dark suit and white shirt; pale beyond pale, and those silver blue eyes that seem to see right through the back of your head. I had spent a month living in a back room of his New Orleans townhouse—it was the only way to keep me safe, he said. In actuality, it was the only way for him to gain entre to the rather closed world I had slipped sideways into. While I thought I was in hiding, he had been insinuating to all and sundry that I was his mistress. Well, it had opened doors for him, and God knows I had no reputation to protect at the time. Not that the notion had distressed me overly; he was not hard to look at, incredibly intelligent and rich as Gates, to boot. But I could not forget how he had willfully kept me in the dark about what was really going on, and how I had thought I was going to die. Later, he said my terror had to look real and that’s why he hadn’t told me. Instead of slapping him, as I had desperately wanted to, I simply walked away without a word, neither accepting nor denying his apology. Not that the bastard had cared. He was as icy as his skin implied; cold, cold, cold.

“What do you want?” I asked flatly. “We hardly have any old times to reminisce about.”

He cleared his throat. “Well. It is a matter of our... past, which has unfortunately surfaced.” Another pause. “Actually, it is more a matter of my past.”

I sat back against the cool wood of my chair. “Oh, this oughtta be good,” I said. Clamping the phone between my ear and shoulder, I crossed my arms under my breasts. “So, what great and terrible secret has surfaced from your past that could possibly affect me? Particularly considering how little I meant to you?”

Another silence on the line, this time lasting longer. “Gwen,” he said, using my given name. “It is not a question of what was or what wasn’t, but what seemed to be.” I heard him draw in a deep breath. “I have a brother,” he said slowly, hesitantly. “This brother is intent upon harming people from my past, people I would be very... displeased to see harmed. Innocent people.” His voice became softer. “Like you.”

I snorted. “The last time anyone called me ‘innocent’, I was in pigtails.” I started to look over my nails in a nonchalant gesture wasted on my mirror. “Why would he ever come after me?”

“I don’t take witnesses into my home on a regular basis, Gwen.” Pendergast said briskly. “You were special, whether you believe that or not.” I heard a tapping over the line, and wasn’t sure if it was him tapping a pen on his desk or the popping of static. “Unfortunately, my brother knows this. And he will use you to get at me. This is not something I would want for you to suffer.” He cleared his throat again. “My brother is rather creative, in certain unpleasant ways.”

I stacked my bare heels on the corner of my dressing table and examined the toe nail polish for chips. I didn’t know what was up, but I trusted Pendergast about like I trusted a large cat. It could be staring at you intently because it was curious about the tailoring of your blouse, or it could be staring at you intently because it couldn’t decide if the first bite should be to the neck or the belly. “Never say he’s as smart as you in the ways of sadism.” I snipped at him, sarcastically.

“More so.” He said, quite seriously. For the first time in the conversation, I began to believe him.

“OK, so what do you think I suggest I do?” I said, not quite as seriously as he was speaking, but less angry than before. “And why would he believe a lie you told four years ago to a bunch of drug dealers? Drug dealers, I might add,” I put my feet on the floor and straightened up, “that you later got put away on very serious charges.” I grabbed the phone from my shoulder, and looked rather earnestly at myself in the mirror. “What makes you even think he knows where I am?” I glanced around the rather dingy dressing room in a small, second string, Mississippi River-rat bar. Who would ever come looking for Gwen Marsden, former hooker and inadvertent pawn in a drug war that never was, in this town?

“I suggest you stay where you are until Agent Wessex arrives in an hour or so.” He said. “And whether or not I lied about us being lovers is immaterial. He’s killed a childhood friend and a mentor from my youth. To save your life, I kept you closer to me than any other witness. I doubt my brother cares if we were actually lovers; he’s striking out at anyone that was ever close to me, in any way.”

I went still. “I can’t stay here for an hour.” I looked over at the clock. It was already midnight. “I’m leaving town in the morning; I have to get to my hotel.”

“You will be leaving town, with Agent Wessex. He will guard you until I can make arrangements to take you out of my brother’s sphere of activity.” Shuffling noises began on his end again. “I am not at liberty at present to move freely, but if I were I would not do anything differently. Wessex is much closer to you, he can get there sooner. You do recall what he looks like?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, waving my hand around. “Tell you what, Pendergast, I’ll go back to my hotel and Wessex can stand guard at my door. There’s only one hotel in town, room 325. By the ice machine.” I stood up. “I really have to go, so unless you’ve got something else to say, I’ll say good-bye.” I could hear him begin to say something as I dropped the phone back into its cradle. I wasn’t sure what game Agent Pendergast was playing, but that bit of melodrama at the end had decided it for me. Whatever he and his brother were playing at, surely I was not a part of it.

And that’s what I told myself as I changed from my long red gown to a light sundress, finished taking off my stage make-up, said my good-byes to the band. Unlike most singers, I didn’t travel with my own, I used the house bands. Which is why I was leaving the club by the back door alone when the sky fell like a ton of bricks on the back of my head.



I never really lost consciousness, nor did I hit the ground. A pair of very strong arms grabbed me at the last possible second, and pulled me back up and into them. I was so stunned, I couldn’t hold my head up or move, so I didn’t even get a look at the person who had hit me, even though I was getting an excellent view of the alley walls. I closed my eyes as my captor swung me around to put me into the backseat of a car that was idling silently at the end of the alley. I kept my eyes closed, but I could feel his breath on my face for a brief second, then he rolled me onto my side, and a pillow was put under my head. I felt hands smoothing the seatbelts snugly around my body so that I was firmly strapped to the back of the seat. The belts were run twice around my upper arms, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out of the belts before my captor could stop and really tie me up. The door closed, and I lay there unable to move, the pain in my head so great I could barely think. I knew, from a rather misspent youth, that the nausea would follow after I recovered, so I savored the mostly numb sensation. I could have done without the blinding pain in my head.

“A most excellent choice, frater, most excellent.” A soft voice came over the front seat. Whoever had me was definitely male, but the voice was almost mincing in precision; very soft and rather high for a man, but still a male voice.

I could feel the car being put into gear and smoothly rolling along the roads. I gave into the desire to simply allow myself to float mentally—it helped me ignore the pain—but out of habit I found myself counting the turns and measuring it out on the map of the town I had in my head. I don’t know how long we drove, but I was fairly certain we stopped somewhere in the manufacturing district of town; mostly derelict, but many of the factories and warehouses still stood. Some were in use, but not many.

The car stopped for a moment, rolled forward and stopped a final time. My captor got out of the car. For a few minutes, I was alone in the back seat, and I risked opening my eyes. Black interior. Huh, I thought, must be Pendergast’s brother if the car is black.

The door at my feet opened. I hastily closed my eyes, and heard a chuckle. “Playing possum, little one?” I felt two cool hands sliding up my legs. One squeezed behind my knee, which I flexed upward reflexively. “That’s alright. There will be plenty of time to become acquainted once my brother arrives.”

The hands slid over my body, removing straps and smoothing my clothes along my body, until he got a grip on my waist. He slid me along the car seat and swung me upright, using both hands to press me against his body. I was still stunned, so I could barely raise my hands to push him away. If I had pushed him away, which was unlikely, considering the little power behind my push, but if I had, I would have hit the floor. He knew it and I knew it. He anchored my stomach against his with one arm around my waist, and the other gently cupped the back of my head, feeling the bump that I knew was growing back there, prodding gently. I saw stars when his fingers found the bruise. Gasping, I opened my eyes wide.

I could see the resemblance to Agent Pendergast, there was something about the angles of the face, but this man was very different. For one thing, he was not as pale, with auburn hair and a trim mustache and beard. His eyes, though... . One was a hazel, and the other looked dead. I was shocked by the dead eye. His fingers were still probing the back of my head.

He smiled down at me, almost sweetly, as his finger again pushed on my wound. My eyes rolled back in reaction to the almost ice-cold pain that shot down my neck, and my skin began to tingle all along my body where I was pressed against him. I sucked in a deep breath and hissed it out between my teeth.

He lowered his head until his lips brushed my ear and whispered, “I am very good at what I do, my sweet. Your skull is not broken, although it could have been, if I had wished. You will recover well in time to die.” He chuckled, breath warm against my neck. “I always liked that turn of phrase.” He pulled back and gazed at me sideways, as if trying to see from behind a blindfold. “They would never hang a man who was sick, did you know that?” With one swift, powerful move, he swung me up into his arms. “One of life’s little ironies that I’ve always found amusing.” I rested my head against his shoulder, almost under his chin, as he turned from the car and began to walk further into what I could now see was a warehouse. In the gloom, I could see a chair; something small and antique-looking, it would have barely come up to my ribcage if I were standing behind it. There was a small table beside it, and on the table a lone lamp that put out a weak light. Further on, deeper in the shadows, I could see what looked like a massive box. As we approached it, I could see it was actually a four-poster bed—another antique. It was huge, and had curtains that could be closed to conceal what or whoever was in the bed. He laid me gently against the pillows, on top of the sheets. There was a duvet folded up at the foot of the bed, and he gently tucked me in. Then he pulled my hand out from under the duvet, and raised it to rest on the pillow next to my head. I turned my head just enough to see the steel ring bolted into the massively carved oaken headboard, as he swung one end of a pair of handcuffs around my wrist and the other into the ring. He reached into his pocket and removed a silk scarf which he wound around the metal bangle of the cuff, cushioning it against my skin. The silk was warm with his body heat and oddly reassuring. He reached out and stroked my forehead with his long fingers, almost soothingly.

“We only need one cuff at present. Perhaps later, we’ll graduate to two.” He adjusted the top of the duvet, fussing over me like a mother over a sick child. “The scarf is to prevent untimely bruising.” He smiled again, not so sweetly this time. “There will, of course, be timely bruising later. But not too much later.” He brushed a soft kiss along my forehead, and then he was gone.

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