“YOU WERE RIGHT, Mr. Hogan,” Pete Wilkins said, patting the Leica thirty-five millimeter camera hanging by his side. “Miss Murphy brought some fella back to her apartment. I think he was sick…he didn’t walk too well.”
Mitch kept his face a blank. Wilkins had been glad enough to help him; the boy had ambitions to be a photographer for the Sentinel, and he would have done just about anything to obtain Mitch’s good word. But under no circumstances would Mitch allow the kid to see his true feelings, especially when they were caused by a woman.
“Did you get photographs?” he asked.
“Sure.” Wilkins hesitated. “I don’t know how well they came out, though. The guy had his head down most of the time.”
“I see.”
“I can go back, Mr. Hogan. The man didn’t leave the building. He’s probably still there, and—”
“I may need you again, Pete. That’s all for now.”
“Sure. Anytime.” He backed away and walked out of the city room.
Mitch turned and bent over his desk, shuffling papers with numb fingers. He finally had an idea of what had been making Gwen behave so oddly for the past two weeks, working like a demon during the day and vanishing every night. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that she’d been seeing another man; she could have no earthly reason for looking elsewhere when she had a devoted suitor—personable, respectable and comfortably situated—ready to marry her at a moment’s notice. And it wasn’t like her to sneak around. If she had fallen in love with someone else, she would have told him outright.
Would she? She hasn’t given you a straight answer to your proposal. You knew she was hiding something. Why should she tell the truth about this?
He crumpled a blank sheet of paper between his hands. Why had Gwen taken a sick man to her apartment? It certainly didn’t seem like a standard assignation. And for all his doubts, Mitch found it impossible to believe that she would casually share a bed with someone she couldn’t have known for very long.
It’s only recently that she’s been so distant. This is something new.
Something new, but surely not serious. And that meant that he still had an excellent chance of nipping the relationship, whatever it might be, in the bud. But he wouldn’t confront Gwen. Not yet. He would use Pete a little longer and see what else he could learn.
Everyone has something to hide, Guinevere…even your new friend. And when I find out who he is and what he’s afraid of, I’ll make sure he disappears from your life. And mine.
DORIAN LISTENED TO THE door close and opened his eyes.
Gwen had believed he was asleep, as he’d pretended to be for most of the previous day and night. They had hardly spoken since he’d caught her touching him, the memory of her bold actions suspended between them like a hangman’s noose.
Blushing and self-conscious, Gwen had made him a simple dinner and let him eat it alone. She’d retired to the living room to sleep on the sofa, as if that small distance would protect them both from a serious breach of propriety.
Not that he’d given her any reason to fear that he would return her advances. Quite the contrary. He had deliberately maintained his distance, pretending an indifference he didn’t feel while his body raged with need. His senses were stretched thin, attentive to her every movement. The slightest scent of her body made him harden, and all he could think of was taking her in this very bed.
Now she was gone, if only for the day, and the relief was overwhelming. He sat up, propped against the pillows, and flexed his arms. It had taken only twenty-four hours for him to recover, though he was still a little weak. Gwen’s blood had worked a miracle.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, noting the clothing she had laid out for him on the room’s single chair: a sandcolored fisherman’s sweater, a pair of flannel trousers, stockings and plain brown oxfords. It was the uniform of an ordinary man, no doubt purchased by Gwen at some local shop. Dorian hadn’t worn apparel even remotely like it since his youth, not in all the years since he’d started working for Raoul.
Slowly he pulled the sweater over his head and stepped into the trousers. Leaving the oxfords and stockings at the foot of the chair, he went into the living room. A pile of blankets lay heaped on the sofa. Against his will, Dorian walked to the couch and lifted one of the blankets, pressing it to his face. His cock came to instant attention.
He inhaled deeply, rubbing his cheek against the blanket. For months he’d lived rudderless, with no one to command him and no duty to consume his thoughts. Death had seemed better than such emptiness. But then Gwen had come into his life, and suddenly the hollow in his heart was filled.
He had never been as afraid as he was at this moment.
With another ragged breath, Dorian tossed the blanket back on the sofa. A folded piece of paper fell to the carpet. He picked it up and opened it. The lines were written in a strong cursive, as eloquent of Gwen as the scent of her hair.
Good morning, Dorian.
If you’re reading this, you’re up and about. Don’t push yourself. There’s more food in the kitchen. Take as much as you like. I’ll pick up more on my way back from the office.
Something I forgot to mention, and since you may be wondering: Walter is fine. I’ve set him up in a little boardinghouse where he’ll be around other people and the doctor can visit him occasionally. Considering his age, he’s in pretty good shape. I’ll take you to see him once you’re up to it.
Rest. I’ll be back by seven.
Gwen’s signature was a broad flourish, a confident sweep of the pen that belied her earlier unease. Dorian refolded the note and laid it on the sofa. He’d hardly thought of Walter once he’d committed himself to suicide, convinced that Gwen would see to the old man’s welfare. And she had. Even if Dorian feared what she’d done in saving his own life, he owed her greatly for saving Walter’s.
His thoughts in turmoil, Dorian wandered about the small apartment. The furniture was modest both in price and design, suitable for a woman who spent little time at home. There were only four rooms, including the bathroom, every one neat and well organized. The one exception was the secretary near the single window in the corner of the living room. It was scattered with manila folders and blotched with ink stains, though there were indications that Gwen had recently attempted to clean it. An antique typewriter took up the center space in front of the battered steno chair.
Also on the desk was a photograph of an older man holding a certificate, which on closer inspection proved to be a Pulitzer Prize in journalism. Dorian picked up the photograph. The man had graying auburn hair and lively eyes that forcefully reminded Dorian of Gwen. The name on the certificate was Eamon Murphy.
Dorian set down the photo and opened one of the folders. In it were several obituaries for Eamon Murphy and a number of newspaper articles written by him; the sheer volume of the stories and their prominence among the front pages suggested that he’d been a senior reporter at the Sentinel.
His interest fully aroused, Dorian continued to study the notes and clippings. At the bottom of the stack he found a torn sheet of newsprint, a page out of the Sentinel dated eight months previous. The page number indicated that the Murphy article, circled in red pencil, had held a lowly position at the back of the newspaper. But when Dorian began to read the headline, all the fine hairs at the base of his neck came erect.
Is Blood Cult Responsible for Recent Deaths?
He quickly scanned the columns. Murphy advanced the seemingly bizarre theory that several murders committed in the months before the paper’s date, attributed by police to mobs fighting over territory, had actually been perpetrated by a secret cult operating out of Manhattan, a cult that engaged in the unique practice of