they're freakishly strong. What happened to Helen after that?'
'None of the relatives wanted her, so she came back into government care. She was farmed out to a series of foster parents, but she never lasted in any of them. The records state she was classed a
'difficult' child and she ended up in this center.'
'And the second file?' Doyle asked, although he had a pretty good idea who that second file was about.
Russell glanced at him. 'Kirby Brown. She was never adopted, and there's no mention of why. She stayed in several long-term foster homes, but she always ended up back here.'
'Helen and Kirby were fostered out together at some point,' he said, wondering about the strong bond between the two of them. It went far deeper than mere friendship. If he were to believe her thoughts, it was almost as they'd been spiritually bonded—something that really only happened between twins.
Camille raised an eyebrow. 'From what I understand, that's not normal practice. Did she tell you this?'
He nodded. 'Yeah, but she hasn't really said much more about her past.' Which was odd, considering she kept accusing him of not being honest about himself.
'Then you'd better start questioning her, because I got a feeling the answers are locked in the past of these five.' Camille glanced back at Russell. 'Nothing else in those files? None of the other names on the list?'
'Not one.'
'Damn,' Camille commented. 'I was hoping this place might be the connection.'
'Nothing's ever that easy,' Doyle said. 'Do you want to continue checking the boxes?'
Camille shook her head. 'Waste of time now. If there was anything here, it'd be gone now that she knows we're looking.'
'It might also mean she'll speed up her killing schedule,' Russell said. 'Doesn't give us much time to find the remaining woman.'
'And doesn't explain why she's still going after Kirby.' He frowned. 'Have you found anything on that symbol she's carving in the doors?'
'I'm doing an on-line search through the Circle's library. It's going to take time.'
Problem was, time was running out. And with Kirby on the killer's list, he wanted this case solved and her safe, as soon as possible.
He glanced at his watch. Half an hour had passed. They wouldn't be able to reclaim the car just yet. 'Do you think it's safe for me to bring Kirby back in yet?'
Camille hesitated. 'I'd rather not take the chance. And to be honest, if the killer is concentrating on finding you and Kirby, then maybe Russell and I can catch her unawares.'
It was a good plan, but he wasn't happy about using Kirby as bait. Too many things could go wrong—like her running. He had to catch some sleep sometime, and sooner or later she would take advantage of it.
'What's your plan, then?'
'First we get our sunburned friend indoors and out of the light, then I'll continue searching for that symbol. You and Kirby can go on hunting for our final victim. If you have no luck, Russ can go out tonight.'
Doyle dug into his pocket and retrieved the camera. 'Photos of Rachel Grant.'
'Such a clever boy,' she murmured, patting his arm. 'Now, you'd better go find that girl of yours. She wandered off again.'
He frowned. 'No, she hasn't.'
Camille raised an eyebrow. 'Are you doubting the eyes of an old woman? She wasn't at the door when I drove up.'
'Maybe not, but she's close.'
'She has a pretty distinct smell if you can still catch it above the dust and decay in here,' Russell commented, eyeing him with amusement. 'Not a little smitten with the girl, are we?'
'Believe me, I'm not.' He was well past being smitten. 'I can read her thoughts, and I have no idea why.'
Russ raised his eyebrows. 'She telepathic?'
'No, and neither am I, as you know.'
Russ snorted. 'Yeah. It's easier to draw blood from a stone than it is to reach through your thick skull.'
He grinned. 'At least it stops you from putting improper thoughts in my head. Like the time you tried to get me—' 'Enough,' Camille said, frowning. 'What other talents has she got?'
'Energy,' he said. 'It races across her fingers like lightning, and she can cast it like a net.'
Camille's frown deepened. 'That sounds like elemental magic, which is damn rare.'
'Doesn't mean she can't have it,' Russ commented. 'And isn't a storm witch an elemental?'
'No. Completely different. Come on,' she added, her expression thoughtful. 'Let's get back to the office. Doyle, keep in regular contact.'
'I will.'
He followed them from the building. Camille opened the van's back doors. The van had been fully lined with sun blocking material. You could never be too careful when a vampire was part of your team.
Russell dove in and Camille slammed the door shut before he started to sizzle. 'I think I know what that symbol being carved on the door is,' she said. 'And if I'm right, we could be in real trouble. I'll call and let you know in a few hours. In the meantime, you keep that girl of yours safe.'
'I will, don't worry.'
She climbed into the van and drove off. He shoved his hands into his pockets and headed across to the third building to find Kirby.
Office furniture lined the walls where once there had been two long rows of beds. Kirby stopped in the middle of the dorm, her gaze going to the fourth window from the back wall. That was where her bed had been. Helen, when she'd finally arrived at the center, had slept next to her.
She frowned. Finally arrived? Up until now, she'd thought they'd always been together, but obviously that wasn't so. Damn it, why couldn't she remember this place, when everything else was so clear?
She sniffed, and the smell hit her—age and mustiness, mixed with the pungent scent of ammonia.
Memories stirred, as did fear. She retreated a step, then stopped. Running wasn't going to help anyone.
If something had happened in this room, she needed to remember it. The answer to why Helen was murdered could lie anywhere, even in something as innocuous as memories long locked away.
The whistling was coming from the back of the dorm, from what had once been the nurse's quarters. She took a few more steps forward then stopped. 'Hello?'
The whistling cut off abruptly, and a soft whirring filled the gloom. Two seconds later, a man in an electric wheelchair appeared in the doorway, his berry-brown face fixed into a scowl. 'And what would you be doing here, girlie?'
His voice was as flat and lifeless as his brown eyes, and sent a chill up her back. She knew that voice. In the past she had feared it.
She again resisted the impulse to run. 'I'm…' She hesitated, uncertain whether she should really be talking to this man. Surely if she'd once feared him, it had been for good reason. 'I stayed at this center for a while. I'm just trying to find a friend I met here.'
Why she lied, she wasn't entirely sure. She certainly wasn't going to get much in the way of answers about her past by inquiring about someone else, and yet instinct suggested it was better than mentioning who she was. Though she had no idea why this would be dangerous, she trusted her instincts. They'd saved her too often in the past to ignore them now.
The old man's gaze narrowed, and he rolled a little further into the room. He was rakish, with thick, steel gray hair that looked silver in the morning light. He had a clipboard on his lap, and his hands were long and thin. The hands of a piano player, she thought.
The hands of a molester.
Images hit her, thick and fast. Oh God , she thought, swallowing back the bile that rose in her throat as pictures and sounds swelled around her. Suddenly she was an eleven-year-old again, lying in bed, wide-eyed and fearful, listening to the sounds night after night. Cries of pain, odd grunting, the rough squeak of bedsprings. Not her. He'd never touched her. Didn't like her green eyes—they were fey, he'd once told her. Dangerous. But he'd touched Helen, and he'd touched others, here in the long nights of darkness.
