TWELVE HOURS LATER I turned my hybrid rental car down a winding gravel driveway. Main roads in pricey suburban Virginia ran alongside fenced and thickly wooded acres. The impression was of farms rather than residences. All the streets had Scottish names. I was leaving Braeburn Glen Lane for a private entry.
Autumn would turn the winding driveway ahead of me into a carnival of falling colored leaves. Now everything was green and lush. The rental car nosed around descending curves until a low, sprawling house came into view.
I parked in the circular driveway before the double-doored entry and got out, smoothing my narrow navy skirt.
A heavy dark cotton suit would make me swelter in Las Vegas this time of year. Here, the summer temperature was lower but humid. I felt the film of a nervous sweat.
I'd bought this vintage suit in Wichita because I loved the 1950s details: white piqu�� collar and matching cuffs, eight brass horse's-head buttons down the jacket front and a singleton at each short cuffed sleeve.
The silver familiar retained its discreet default mode: twin of the so-not-me silver hip chain I bought in the crazy rush of first romance with Ric. I figured the hidden familiar was too too tasteful to clash with my current outfit's brassy touches.
Tough. I'd chosen this suit for this mission, for what its color and cut would unconsciously imply to the people I wanted to see inside this pleasantly expensive house on the groomed and expansive grounds.
I even wore the Suit Era's regulation white, wrist-length gloves and carried a neat navy patent leather envelope-style pocketbook. I took a deep breath before ringing the small round doorbell button with one gloved forefinger. Avon lady calling.
I hoped they answered soon. My heart was beating like I was auditioning for the class play. A knob turned on the right-hand wood door, allowing me to glimpse the occupant as it opened slightly.
A woman. Good. She registered my gender and opened the door further. The handsome blonde looked forty-something but was probably a poster child for the Washington, D.C., "well-preserved" matron set. She eyed me quizzically.
"Is your husband at home as well?" I asked. "I have important news for you both."
My vintage apparel had subtly distracted her, causing a faint frown to materialize on her smooth forehead.
"Yes?"
She eyed my face again, hard, then silently stepped into the shadows behind her, swinging the door wide.
The entry area was paved in black marble, so the heels of my open-toed pumps made a military marching sound over the polished stone.
The living room was carpeted in deep shrimp plush wool, gorgeous and madly expensive to maintain. I almost wanted to step out of my shoes before I walked on it. Couldn't afford to lose one iota of authority, though.
Her husband was reading a thin newspaper in an easy chair, hair thinning on top to match, half-glasses perched on a strong Roman nose. Old-fashioned habits died hard in this house.
He looked up, glanced at her, then eyed me again, rising slowly.
"My name is Street," I said crisply. "I've come from Las Vegas with unwelcome news, but it's not dire."
"Ric," the woman breathed beside me.
The newspaper was flung aside, the man striding toward me.
"Who are you, young woman?"
"Street, Delilah Street. I'm a... professional partner of your... of Ric's."
"Partner?" he echoed dubiously.
"A private investigator. Sometimes we work the same cases."
"And your news?"
"He's under doctor's care but is doing fine."
"Doing fine from what?" the man asked.
I felt a hand on my bare forearm. The woman's fingers were icy. I fought a sudden, rare urge for tears. She loved Ric too.
"Our guest needs to sit down, and so do we, Philip," she told him. " Miss Street said the situation isn't dire. She's come all this way to spare us a shocking phone call. Let's not make an interrogation of this."
She ushered me to a love seat opposite her husband's chair and then paused. "I suppose we should hear the rough scenario first, then I'll get some coffee and we can relax a bit."
"No relaxing here," he grumbled, sitting again to brace sweatered forearms on his thighs and lean forward, eyeing me like a murder suspect.
The woman's sigh was almost inaudible but she sank down beside me.
"Ric was found," I began, "with many superficial wounds and one more severe... stab wound in the neck that wasn't fatal, although he'd lost a lot of blood."
The laundered account came tripping off my tongue with a few hesitations that, I hoped, would be taken for difficulty recounting the hard facts.
What I really had trouble doing was converting a gang vampire torture attack to something human. My instincts told me to go slowly. I had no idea what the Burnsides knew about Ric's consultancy work or even if they believed in the Millennium Revelation and the supernatural beings it had revealed. A lot of people still didn't.
"My God," Mrs. Burnside said.
She had a longer bio on Groggle than even her husband. A respected psychologist, her given name was Helena and her maiden name had been Troy. Luckily, she was beautiful enough to carry off that bit of parental hubris.
Her silky caftan's turquoise-and-purple floral print gleamed jewel-like against the yellow silk-upholstered sofa. Now I knew where Ric had acquired his polish and manners. Not a thing was out of place in this spacious formal room except for the crumpled tent of the tossed-aside Washington Post print edition.
"Which hospital is he in?" Mr. Burnside asked me.
"It's a... private facility, to keep his condition secret. We think... he fell into the hands of drug lords."
"It's his damn obsession with those endless Juarez murders!" Burnside told his wife, his eyes furious over the forgotten half-glasses. "What's the matter with the boy? He could have had a top FBI position here in D.C. He needs to stay out of Mexico."
Her faded blue eyes closed momentarily. "That's the problem, Philip. He needs to pursue old demons there."
I almost jumped. Did she mean "demons" literally?
"How badly was he injured?" she asked me.
"A lot of surface wounds on his chest and arms and face-"
"Cigarette burns," Philip Burnside spit out. "Bastards."
"And the stab wound in the neck."
"Probably happened when they captured him," he added.
"He's in a light coma and the doctors actually like that," I said. "It gives his system time to repair. It's not his physical condition I'm most worried about but his mental one."
Helena Troy Burnside was standing and nodding. " Miss Street is right. New torture is the last thing I'd want him to undergo. I've got to get out there," she told her husband. "The university jet-"
"I'll handle it." He reached for a cell phone on the end table.
"My work with Ric's case brought Georgetown a lot of good press, they'd be happy-"
"I'll handle it," he repeated. "You pack."
"Come with me, Miss Street," she said, turning to me. "You can tell me what to take for the current Nevada climate."
She was gone in a swirl of floral silk as I rushed to catch up to her. I didn't want to be left alone to answer any more questions from Ric's eagle-eyed "father."
Ric Montoya described himself as "adopted," but told me it'd never been made official. So. How should I regard this otherwise childless couple? I understood they wanted him to take pride in his heritage, not deny it after his ordeal. That's why Ric's "chosen" last name. Philip Burnside had rescued Ric as a "wild child" in a raid. Dr. Helena Troy Burnside had saved his sanity. Then they'd housed him through high school and college. Maybe they were just "the folks."
The stairs were steep but she had already vanished up them. I ran up after her, finding a bedroom with the door flung wide and her soft-sided suitcase already open on the bed.
She was used to sudden trips out of town.
"What?" she asked me. "Temps in the nineties in June?"
I nodded.
She paused to study me as sharply as her husband had.
"That ensemble would be murderously hot to wear in Las Vegas. It suited perfectly here, especially to make instant subconscious points with my ex-military husband. I see you're a clever young woman, Delilah Street. I'm glad you're a, an... associate of Ric's. You can take off the kid gloves now."
I blushed as I remembered my First Communion-style white cotton gloves. My outfit had been designed to imply military formality, of course, to ease me into the presence and confidence of an ex-officer.
But Mama was a high-ranking shrink, and she was even harder to bluff.
"You blush? I'm liking you more and more, my old-fashioned girl."
I hated the blush, but a Snow White complexion hides neither minor social shame nor the flush of major arousal. Ric liked my blushes too.
Helena was whipping out casual slacks and tops from her wall-long closet in quick succession. I nodded or shook my head just as fast, so she soon made an apt selection.
"I won't be able to stay long. I'll change and be right down. Philip should have arranged for the plane by now. Don't let him scare you. He's worried sick but can't show it. Needed to take some action."
I nodded and ran back down again to find her husband pacing in front of the fireplace.
"Oh, it's you. I'll drive you two to the airport."
"My rental car-"
"Papers in the glove compartment?"
I nodded.
"I'll see to it."
"I've got a return plane ticket-"
"Give it to me. I'll take care of it."
I pulled the ticket out of my purse, much easier to do without the gloves, which I stuck in the purse in the ticket's stead.
Burnside lowered his voice as I heard Helena 's footsteps on the stairs. "Ric's going to be okay, isn't he? He's a tough kid. Did he-?"
I knew what he needed to know by the furtive, haunted look in his eyes he didn't want his wife to see.
"He didn't tell them anything they wanted to know," I said with all the conviction I felt in my soul. "Not a word. No matter what."
He nodded, relieved and yet guilty about that. Then he left to fetch the car around before his wife could see his troubled expression.
Helena 's khaki slacks and azure silk-knit sweater set enhanced her similar coloring. It wasn't vanity, just habit. She looked cool and elegant and was watching me just as closely as I summed her up.
"How long have you gone without sleep, Delilah? That lovely pale complexion of yours looks as blue as skim milk under your eyes."
I blinked at her, too weary-and wary-to admit I was afraid of Ric's dreams.
"We'll talk on the plane," she told me. "It'll be more comfortable."
The endless drone of jet engines and those cramped rows of seats? I doubted it. Here it was so clean and peaceful I would have wanted to stay if I wasn't frantic about getting back to Ric.
At least I'd made it home to meet the parents.