Page 35 of Blood Game

He scraped the dishes off at the sink, then shoved them into the small under-counter dishwasher.

“It seemed the thing to do at the time.” He poured more coffee, his gaze moving past her to the wide-screen in the living area.

Images on the television, the sound muted off, pulled her back to the night before at the Blue Oyster. It was like a nightmare that kept playing over and over—the chaos, panic, terror, and the bodies.

“Whoever is doing this isn't going to stop, are they.” As much as she wanted to believe it, she knew better.

“No, they won't stop. The question is, what are you going to do about it?” Still shirtless, he headed for the hallway.

“I'm going to take a shower. Don't open the door for anyone.”

A door closed, then the unmistakable sound of the shower. She turned on the audio to the wide-screen.

She's seen it all earlier, but the images from the Blue Oyster were no less startling, making her want to look away at the same time it was impossible to look away.

It was much like the terrorist attacks in France over the past several months, the stunned expressions of patrons and employees, the glaring lights of emergency vehicles, military blockades set up on the street, emergency vehicles, helicopters overhead, and overall, the Sky News report.

A montage of live video and still-shots played across the screen, some taken by Sky News, and others obviously taken by bystanders with cell phones.

“In a statement released by Sky News, Ms. Halliday was following recent developments in the death of news correspondent and best-selling author Catherine Bennett Ross, who was killed in a tragic automobile accident in the French countryside.”

The segment then went to the now familiar footage from the accident, followed by an interview segment from two years earlier when Cate's last book had been released.

“This particular book met with quite a bit of controversy due to the storyline and your characterizations that closely mirroredwell-known political figures, and yet early sales figures indicate another best-seller. Can you comment on that?”

Kris smiled to herself, remembering the interview that was so typically Cate. Blunt, fearless. Honest.

“People will make their own conclusions, but the most important thing that I always strive for, whether it was in my reporting from the field or in my novels, is truth. You can cover it up, dress it up, or ignore it, but truth will always find its way, and people want that. They may not always like it, but they want the truth. I was raised on it. It was very much a part of my father's work.”

“Famed war-time photographer, Paul Bennett,” the interviewer had provided. “And his iconic photographs from a career that spanned over forty years.”

“In the early years, it was all black-and-white photographs,” Cate had replied. “Then color photography. He worked with that too, but he always came back to that earlier medium. He said there was more to be seen in the black-and-white photographs, that they forced people to take a longer look, to find the truth in each one.

“He was one of the best, right up there with earlier photographers Matthew Brady and Ansel Adams, in photographs that portrayed images people had never seen before, as well as Joe Rosenthal, and Margaret Bourke-White, who was a great friend, with their straight photography, and a handful of others whose images still evoke such strong emotions without manipulating the images that is so prevalent today,” Cate explained, against a background of her father's iconic photographs.

“Truth,” the interviewer wrapped up the segment. “At times controversial, always amazing—the hallmark of an award-winning career in journalism, and now as best-selling author, C. B. Ross. Ironically,” he added, “Brynn Halliday had struggledwith that very topic during her career. More coverage of the devastating attack last night in London at the noon hour.”

Kris turned off the wide-screen. But those last images were still there.

Firinn—truth.

She picked up her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts. The number came up, one of the last she'd called. It rang several times. Then Alec Cameron picked up.

“Bloody Christ!” he exclaimed on the other end of the call. “Where are you? Have you seen the news? What the hell happened?” Then, again, “Where are you? The old man has been taking calls from the media. New York called right after everything hit the news.” He took a breath. “Are you all right?”

She explained as much as she could.

“Yes, I know. I saw the news. I can't go into that now. I need your help, and no more questions.”

The call went silent for a few seconds. “All right.”

“I need information,” she replied. “And I need you to keep this just between the two of us.”

“Of course, but I hope you'll be able to explain everything, say over a drink, or supper?”

She smiled in spite of the fact that her face hurt. “Absolutely, but I need you to keep quiet about this. Not a word to anyone, especially not Jewel.” There was a pause at the other end of the call.

“How do you know about that?”