"I'll send for a set of scuba gear if I must," he told Meryl just before walking in the cave, "but this should get me in far enough to see what's back there."
Unable to recall another moment of the worst day in her life, Meryl picked up the phone and called the museum.
"Yes, Dr. Shaw?"
"Roy, I need lot two-forty taken out of storage and brought over to the house tomorrow," she said. "I'm having a small get-together for some museum board members and I'd like to set up a temporary display. Pack it the usual way and have it here by seven."
"I'd like to help you out, Dr. Shaw, but the head curator told us nothing was to be removed from storage until the inventory and cataloging was finished," the security guard said.
Meryl forced a laugh. "Roy, I own the museum and its contents. I'll take whatever I like out of it."
"That's something I've been meaning to talk about with you." Roy's tone changed. "The curator and I've been talking about things, and I asked him some questions. Lately I've been taking a lot of things out of here for you, so I wanted to cover myself. Just in case I was doing something that might get me in trouble."
Meryl's hand tightened on the receiver. "That's really none of your business."
"The curator set me straight about a bunch of things," Roy continued smoothly. "Things nobody around here seems to know. Like who really owns this place. You understand what I'm saying, Dr. Shaw?"
She understood that she'd been an idiot to trust a security guard with a ninth-grade education. "What do you want?"
"A little appreciation would be nice," the guard told her. "You could start showing it when I bring this lot over."
Meryl opened the second drawer to her desk. Inside was a strongbox with the cash she kept for household use. Next to the box was a .22, small enough to tuck under the fold of her lap blanket. "I'll have it waiting for you."
Chapter 8
The owners of the property bordering Jema Shaw's home had installed a very sophisticated alarm system on their mansion, one that prevented anyone from breaking into the house. They also had many conveniently located decorative trees among their artful landscaping. Once Thierry discovered how extensive the security system was, he selected a tree, climbed it, and broke off a suitable branch. When he allowed the branch to fall, it struck one of the windows on the side of the house; not enough to break the glass but with adequate force to set off the motion sensor attached to it.
Modern humans regarded drawbridges, guardhouses, and moats as archaic, but Thierry could not think of any that had ever been defeated by a mere stick.
Predictably, the police came two minutes after the branch struck the glass, followed by a truck from the security monitoring company. A technician in pristine overalls stayed at the gate while the police checked the house. Once they had determined the house had not been entered, the technician discovered the cause and reset the system.
"I'll call the Nelsons from the office; they're over in Australia until January," the tech told the two uniformed officers. "This kind of thing happens all the time."
Thierry, perched in another tree that concealed his presence and gave him an unobstructed view of the exterior alarm system control pad, waited until everyone had left before dropping down to the ground and entering the pass code to disarm the system.
That left entering the house. He was tempted to break the window, but shattered glass or a missing pane might be noticed by the groundskeepers or neighbors. Also, it would allow anyone else access to the mansion. Instead he climbed to the top of the house, where he found an attic vent large enough for him to squeeze through. Once inside, he replaced the grille, worked his way downstairs, and reset the alarm system.
The Nelsons had filled their home with modern, rather ugly furnishings, but they had thoughtfully kept the water as well as the electricity on. Thierry went first to the largest bath and spent an hour in the enormous shower, scrubbing himself clean.
The layers of dirt and dried blood on his body turned the water black, then brown, until it finally ran clear. The stab wounds on his torso had closed, but the areas were still tender to the touch. Also, the brief amount of effort breaking into the mansion had exhausted him.
He would have to hunt tonight.
Thierry dried off with one of the thick, salmon-colored towels left hanging in the bath chamber and walked naked into the next room. It apparently belonged to the lady of the house, who possessed an incredible amount of cosmetics, perfumes, and toiletries. Among them Thierry found a pair of sharp scissors and used them to trim the hair that had grown over his eyes. He didn't have the skill to give himself a proper haircut, so he trimmed the rest to what he considered a reasonable length and bound it back with an elastic band. Unless it grew suddenly, which it sometimes did without warning during the daylight hours, he would pass as a normal American male.
He was like most Darkyn and did not grow facial hair, so shaving was unnecessary. He was glad, because using the electric beard cutter the man of the house had left behind was beyond him.
Clothes presented the next problem. Thierry was not a small man, and Mr. Nelson, while almost the same height, obviously weighed fifty pounds less. After trying on several garments, Thierry found a pair of trousers with a pleated front that were not skintight on him, and a dress shirt that he could button up to the center of his chest. He covered these with one of Nelson's knee-length Armani coats. It was too tight across his shoulders, but with the colder temperatures no one would question it.
Half the day had passed by the time Thierry turned out the lights and stretched out on the too-soft bed in the Nelsons' master bedroom. He nearly jumped out of it when he saw his reflection staring down at him from the mirror fixed to the ceiling. Why the devil did they have that up there? Did they dress on their backs?
So they can watch themselves, my love, Angelica's ghost purred in his mind. Remember how much I wanted one? Seeing yourself while you're having sex is erotic.
Thierry rolled out of the bed and dragged the thick coverlet from it, laying it out on the floor well out of sight of the mirror. He needed to rest, not think of her. He had to plan how to get into Jema Shaw's house. There was no time to indulge his madness.
What will you do after you find the girl's attackers? Where will you go? Who would welcome a madman into their society?
Michael should have killed him while he was his captive. It would have put a proper end to this miserable life of his.
Thierry closed his eyes, curled his hand around his dagger, and thought of Jema Shaw. He knew nothing of her except what he had shared with her in the alley. She was wealthy, ill, and had befriended Luisa. That indicated she probably had a kind nature. The fact that he had already fed on her underscored the need to be very careful with her.
He could not take her blood again, under any circumstances.
At dusk he left the Nelsons' and walked to where he had hidden his stolen car, and drove back to the city in time to enter the museum. It had begun snowing outside, so Thierry did not remove his coat once inside. A young man sitting at a desk in the lobby was the only one to speak to him, and he simply asked for five dollars.
"You do not have your own money?" Thierry asked him, perplexed.
The clerk frowned. "It's the price of admission, sir."
One had to pay, of course. Thierry forgot this was one way in which humans made their living. Fortunately he had sorted out what money he had left back at the Nelsons', so he handed over one bill marked with a five.
"Thank you." He offered a folded paper, much like the one Thierry had found in the tourist kiosk. "We're closing in an hour, sir."
He examined the paper with interest. This one showed the layout of the interior. From the lobby he was evidently free to wander the open areas and special exhibit rooms.
"Is Miss Jema Shaw here?" he asked the clerk.
"No, this is Miss Shaw's night off." The young man gave him a tentative smile. "Can I call someone else to help you, sir?"
What an accommodating lad. Thierry shuddered to think of allowing him to guard his family and treasures, and then was overwhelmed by another realization. My family is lost to me. Jamys, Liliette, Marcel. All lost. "It isn't necessary."
Thierry was in no mood to admire six thousand years of sculptures, pots, and relics, but he had to admit the collection was as impressive as the museum that housed it. Only a man who appreciated the world's best classical art forms could have aspired to such a feat. Only a man with a great fortune could have made it happen. Shaw had indeed left behind a remarkable legacy for his daughter.
But will she live long enough to enjoy it? Thierry wondered. He knew almost nothing about diabetes, but had gleaned enough from television campaigns and newspapers to know that it was a scourge without a cure.
Ill, and I fed on her.
He noted the three security guards posted at various positions throughout the museum, and the cameras that tracked back and forth, sweeping the areas around the exhibits. Jema Shaw's office was not marked on the paper, but there was a notation about a lab, storage, and offices on the basement level that were not open to the public. An employee elevator was located near the lavatories, however, where there was only one security camera. When the lens turned away from him, he slipped around the corner and took the elevator to the basement.
The museum's lower level contrasted sharply with its upper exhibit rooms. Here everything smelled of dust, paper, and soil. The air was so dry Thierry could imagine himself back in Palestine, crossing an arid plane. No cameras here, either, something he thought rather stupid. There were as many treasures here as above, if not more. Why were they not better guarded?
He wandered through two rooms until he found a tiny office with Jema Shaw's name marked on the door. Inside he found a cramped, horrible space with a faint, unpleasant chemical odor and an exquisite little desk facing a wall.
Americans. They should be physically restrained from decorating a place of business. What sort of office was this? Why had she been given such a dismal corner? There was hardly enough room in this place for a cat. He could barely pick up her scent here.