This—this—was what came of reading too many fantasy novels.
“We were surprised these recent years produced few prospective wizards, but now I see someone was getting to the rest of them first,” Kincaid murmured.
She thought of the woman in Baltimore, the green dot that disappeared, and her inhalation turned into a sob. She had been sorelieved. But there were two reasons someone might disappear from the tracking system, and one was permanent.
Kincaid handed her a handkerchief and did her the favor of looking at something other than her bitter tears. “How did he convince you to put yourself in danger for his cause?”
The irony was so terrible, she almost couldn’t get the words out. “I thought I’d be saving lives.”
“Dr. Daggett—please realize I’m not blaming you.” He turned his gaze back to her, and the earnest expression in his eyes pierced her a few more times through the heart. “He would have understood your usefulness, once he saw what you could do. I’m certain he spent a great deal of effort gaining your trust.”
Seen that way, he did. He kept spending time with her when he didn’t have to. He declared himself smitten. He made her fall for him.
He must have seen that manipulating her feelings would blind her to every inconsistency.
She had an overpowering desire to be deposited in her bedroom (her original bedroom, back at her parents’ farm) and there remain for the rest of her life, where she could do no more harm. Hero, indeed. She’d been nothing but a rube, and Hartgrave had played her perfectly.
“In any case,” Kincaid said, grimacing,“Iam responsible for unleashing him upon the world. I must set things right.”
An eerie echo of Hartgrave, sitting next to her at Mexican Foo, saying, “It’s my bloody responsibility.” She shivered. In the light of new information, it sounded altogether different from the way she’d first taken it.
“I’m sure you can appreciate this is a crisis,” Kincaid said. “I must find him before it’s too late, and your help could prove critical. Is there anything else you would like to know to reassure yourself of my veracity?”
She tried to say no, to suggest they do what was necessary, and found she couldn’t get the words out. How could she have qualms about bringing Hartgrave to justice after what he’d done?
A question. She should think of a question. That used to be so easy.
“How did he make you think he was dead?”
“Ah.” Kincaid sighed. “A clever diversion. When I confronted him about the people he’d killed, he teleported to a cliff at Land’s End—south of here,” headded, waving a hand. “After I followed him there, he threw himself off head first. Now I realize it was only an illusion, but it looked real enough at the time. Particularly when he blinked out of existence on the tracking program.”
Kincaid shook his head at the memory. Then he added, “I’ve no idea how he found a way around the system.”
She could see the path before them. She would explain how Hartgrave managed this feat, and Kincaid would—no doubt—figure out how to recreate the effect. She’d lead him to the Inferno, his helpers in tow. She’d break through Hartgrave’s protections. And then—then—
Her stomach gave a horrible jerk.
“Please,” she gasped, launching out of the chair, book falling to the floor. “Bathroom.”
Kincaid swept from the office and opened the door next to it, the room from which Jack—ohGod—had exited before the fatal blow.
She did not, in the end, shift her semi-digested lunch into the toilet. She spent a minute heaving uselessly over the porcelain before slumping against the wall, physical and emotional distress unrelieved.
If only she had time to think—to cut through the haze of shock. But the longer they waited, the greater the possibility Hartgrave would flee his bolt-hole. It had already been, what, fifteen minutes at least? She glanced at her watch.
His watch.
Her stomach lurched again and her skin crawled. She grappled with the clasp, wanting it off. But as the watch slid from her wrist and hit the floor, something glinting on the back caught her eye. She picked it up, tilted the metal casing into the light and read:
JMH&LWH
5.8.1978
She frowned at it, then sucked in a breath as comprehension dawned. He’d given her his mother’s watch. A watch that seemed to be a gift—a wedding present?—from his father.
Even Kincaid had said Hartgrave deeply missed his parents. How could he give her such an important link to them if she was nothing but a weapon to him?
She could feel hope insinuating itself. If she didn’t want to be pulled back into his thrall, she had to ruthlessly stomp on it. The watch probably meant nothing—the only pre-microchip model close at hand.
