“Give me your birth name, then.”
He looked away, but not before she’d caught the hint of anger in his eyes. “I was never given a name at birth. The names I have are ones I’ve collected over the years.”
“Give me a name, or I get up and walk away.”
His hesitation was briefer. “Call me Joe Black.”
“What are you, a funny man? Joe Black was the name Death gave himself, in that movie.”
He shrugged. “You asked for a name; I gave it to you. When you have no name of your own, you steal others that appeal. And that one appeals.”
“Okay, then, Mr. Black—”
“Joe,” he murmured.
“Mr. Black,” she continued, ignoring his almost bitter smile. “What do you know about Jake Cooper and Liam Haynes?”
He sipped at his coffee for a minute. “Both worked on the Penumbra project. And both worked on Generation 18.”
“What can you tell me about Generation 18?”
“Nothing that your partner doesn’t already know.”
He said the word partner like it was a curse. She raised her eyebrows slightly. “Why do you want him dead when you haven’t even met him?”
“That would take longer to explain than we have.”
She frowned. “And what makes you so certain Gabriel knows anything about Generation 18?”
“Because the logical step after the first three murders is to pick up and question the two remaining scientists. And Stern is nothing if not logical.”
“How do you know about the murders? And how do you know that there are two men remaining?”
“I’m a mystic, remember?”
“Yeah, right. Maybe you’d better accompany me downtown for some questioning.”
“Do not push me, Samantha.”
Though there was no threat in his voice, no threat in the way he sat, fear surged and Sam swallowed. This man could reach out and kill her without even moving. Could snuff out the flame of her existence with merely a thought. How she could be so certain about something like that, she couldn’t really say. But she was certain.
“If you wish to find some answers,” he continued, “look at the pin I gave you.”
The pin? The one he’d given her when he saved her life? She frowned, trying to remember where she’d put it. Somewhere in her desk drawers, she thought. “Do you mean answers to the murders, or answers about myself?”
“Perhaps it would be a start for both paths.” He drained his coffee in one gulp and rose.
“We shall meet again, soon,” he said. “In the meantime, be careful. Your abilities will not protect you from the kites if you get too close.”
“The kites? What do you know about them?”
A smile ghosted across his face. “I made them,” he said, then raised his arms to the sky. His body shimmered, then began to blur, briefly resembling putty being molded by unseen hands. Then he leapt skyward on black wings.
A crow. The harbinger of bad news. The messenger of death. An oddly fitting choice for the stranger.
Could he be believed when he said he’d made the kites? She’d sensed no lie in his words, and yet it hadn’t seemed the entire truth, either.
And that made a whole lot of sense, didn’t it?