They recognized me.
“Get her out of here,” the priests said.
Contrell flinched. He looked at me, then the priests, and back at me. As a New Catholic, his loyalty was torn between his faith and a fellow LEO. I wouldn't be getting any help from him.
“Remove the FBHS agent,” the priest said. “We don't want anyone to get the wrong idea.”
“Or the right one,” I said. “Like the notion that a lone mutt killed four vamps in one fell swoop?”
“An agent of Satan would never triumph over a minister of God's unadulterated glory.”
“Yeah, that sounds legit.”
“This is clearly the mark of the stigmata. Pure devotees of God have been known to miraculously experience the death wounds of Christ.”
“Really? I don't remember the Romans eating J.C.'s heart.”
“Detective Contrell, get this heathen out of here.”
I smiled. “Clearly you've heard of me. Don't suppose you'd mind introducing yourselves?”
They didn't.
“Guess I'll call the fat one Priest and the little one Priestette,” I told Contrell. He paled at my disrespect of clergy. His hand lifted to make the sign of the cross but paused mid-swipe.
Unexpectedly, the skinny acolyte sneezed.
“Would you look at that,” I said. “Tampering with a crime scene. Maybe your Holinesses should get out of here and let the good Detective Contrell do his job.”
“Vampires fall outside of the Detective's jurisdiction,” Priestette said. “This is war, agent, and I won't have you mucking the battlefield.”
“Who said anything about vampires, huh? I don't see any of those. Don't vampires have little teeth that go snit and pop out like so?”
I made finger-fangs and pulled a goofy face. Priest and Priestette were not impressed.
“Sorry to cut your day short, Detective and sidekick, but by the time you get back to the office, you'll find the case of the Desert Rose Saints is classified.”
“Sidekick?” I snorted. “Regardless of what the victims are or aren't, this is a mutt crime scene. As such, it falls under my jurisdiction. Ha! I win.”
“There is no winning against the Church.” Priest snapped his fingers. The van door opened and big, black-suited linebacker types came out.
“You're packing muscle, Priest? I could charge you for trying to intimidate a federal agent.”
“No one will ever see this story, Princess,” Priest said.
I recognized a news van arriving on scene. “Too late. That's Bernardo from CNN. He's annoying as hell but punctual. This is about to be plastered on the newsfeeds.”
“Really,” Priest said to Priestette, “do watch where you put your feet.”
“Huh?” I said.
Priestette staggered, arms whooping in great comical windmills, and he fell onto the main canopy support. Everything leaned. The muscle tried to 'help' the priest and succeeded in knocking over two more poles. The tent toppled. Contrell and I jumped out of the way.
Full Arizona sun struck the exposed vampires. Their frayed ends of tissue sizzled. Veins blackened. Denser parts oozed like tar and smoldered. Their skin turned white like the ashen exterior of spent charcoal. Lips eroded away from their pearly teeth. A strong breeze swept away the white crust and revealed more wet flesh, which quickly incinerated. Bones crumbled to a fine powder. The corpses became nothing more than drifts of ash.
“Oops,” Priestette said as the evidence blew away.
“Well played,” I admitted.
“Everything that may or may not have happened here is classified,” Priest reminded me. He narrowed his eyes at Contrell. “I consider you responsible for maintaining the confidentiality of this fiasco. The Church expects you to do the right thing and keep your mouth shut. I'd hate to see what might happen to you, should any of this leak to the press. We'll keep in touch. Don't worry; we know where to find you.” They went to spin a bullshit story about stigmata.
“You received a death threat from a priest,” I said. “Usually that's my thing.”
“Oh, Father in heaven,” Contrell said.
“Remember how you said this doesn't happen, the whole vampires-don't-get-killed idea? I think it actually happens a lot, only we never hear about it.”
“This is war,” he echoed, recalling the priest's words. “I bet that's precisely what it is.”
“How so?”
“If vampires are the emissary of God's will—if they're evidence of God's promise of eternal life—we can't have them dying off, can we? Especially at the hands of a devil's coven. Because then it would look like Satan is winning.”
This time, he did cross himself.
I rubbed my face. “People would panic if they knew. This might discredit the Revival, causing another religious upheaval within a decade of the last one. I don't know if the world could survive it.”
“We can't tell anyone about this. Not only would we sound crazy, but I'm guessing we'd be silenced quickly and permanently.”
“Maybe the Church doesn't want the public to know how to kill vampires. Could you imagine if the head-and-heart stuff hit the newsfeed? Vamps would be quaking in their blood-sucking booties.”
“Durant!”
“Yeah?”
“We can't tell anyone.”
“Sure. If you're not curious, I can be quiet. I mean, really, who cares? It's not like this is historical or even significant, for that matter. Mum's the word.”
“What can you tell me about the mutt?”
He couldn’t help it. He was a cop.
“Sizable bite, deep print. Hefty but not biggest I've seen, yet that also depends on skull shape. I'm guessing I rarely see the likes of him in the field. I respond to common sheds, a Joe-smoe who doesn't know how to be a wolf, so he sheds in a panic and rampages through the nearest victims. This murder scene is nothing like that. It looks like a goddamn hit, Contrell. Premeditated nature, controlled, deliberate execution. If this killer is discovered, he'll be classified a high risk potential. HRPs go to a different division. A Trigger like Mullen will be drafted to eliminate him.”
“Does age make a difference in the quality of a mutt? I mean, do you think this is an older lycanthrope? Or maybe it was a thug in its human life, and the homicidal quality carried over into its bestial existence.”
“Hard to say. We don't know much about the natural lifespan of this phenomena. We've seen some human characteristics which seem to be amplified by the disease. Apathetic people become sociopaths, impatient people become easily enraged, mean people become cruel and vicious monsters. It is possible this mutt was a killer when he was human, too, but not necessarily. Honesty, I don't know what age has to do with anything. Logic retention is a more telling measurement of power than age.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, last year we bagged a mutt who had been living in the new state wildlife reserve. He shed every month like clockwork. We bagged him when hikers saw the footprints, not because he went rabid. Never killed a soul.”
“That you know of. Regardless, evil is still evil.”
“Who can say?” I shrugged. “This murder was personal. Where do the tracks go? How did he get in and out?”
“Why are you convinced the perp is male?”
“A female would have finished eating. They're hungrier.”
“God, Durant! Disgusting. In any case, we think he went through there.”
He pointed to a dirty, rusty trap door behind a ridge.
“A cellar?” I said.
“An underground vamp tunnel. Aren't they clever? Can't tolerate in the sun, so they design a way to walk under the daylight. Guess where it leads: Red Sector!”
Also called Sordid Sector. Purgatory, by some. The Beautification of America Project pushed all strip joints, porn shops, sleazy bars, abortion centers, and the like into one dilapidated neighborhood. Thousands of people milled in and out like a giant block party. Cameras were constantly vandalized and foot traffic was imposs
ible to monitor. No proper Christian would step foot in the place. Cops patrolled the border but assumed anyone who went inside got what they deserved.
“This crime is dead in the water,” I said.
“Looks like.”
“Thanks for the field trip. It's been educational.” I toed the dirt with my boot, scattering a fluff of ashes. “You know, one of the vamps had a tattoo of Skippy the Pirate. Didn't that cartoon come out about four years ago? Which strikes me as pretty recent, right? I mean, maybe they were people within the last four years. Meaning, they might have a paper trail or something. Also means some vampire is making more creepy-crawlies. I thought they weren't supposed to convert anyone, except for the almighty chosen few.”
“Think you can remember their faces if you looked through missing persons?”
“What's the point? No bodies, no crime. I give up.”
I certainly wouldn’t risk Contrell’s life over this. What was I hoping to do, avenge the dead vamps? Vampires, like mutts, weren't really people, right? Federal Bureau of Human Safety is my job. Who would care if this crime went unsolved?
Truth had nothing to do with people, or religion, or politics, or...truth. Humans liked the word, sought the concept, and spurned the reality when it came knocking.
I sighed, exhausted at the struggle. We fight the priests to solve murders, fight the murderers to save the priests and children, and try to save the children from the priests. Cyclical. Depressing.
Something else dawned on me.
“Contrell?”
“Yes?”
“How did you find four bodies in the desert before the sun came up? I mean, that's quick work, isn't it?”
“Anonymous tip.”
“I hate those.”
“Me, too. Worse, I now think someone is trying to start a war. The killer, or someone who knew what the killer was up to, wanted us to find these bodies.”
I sighed again and went home to kill time on the treadmill.
When I drove through my gated community and parked in my yard, I saw, with some amazement, that my house had been egged. What was this, middle school? The gravel was upturned in several places, revealing footprints and tire tracks. The bastards had come onto my property to do this. I stomped over to Zelda's house, past her garden, shrubbery, and award-winning lantanas. Cats loitered everywhere. Under her porch. On the rails. In the plants. In the windows. On the roof. A colony of felines, all glaring at me and swishing their narcissist tails.
An orange tabby sauntered along the roof and crouched down to swipe at me. The little cretin's arm came three centimeters short of my forehead.
“Ha,” I said. He hissed. I knocked on the door before the tabby decided to pounce on my skull. “It's Kaidlyn.”
“Coming,” she chimed. The door swung wide open. “Welcome, Kaidlyn dear. I'm researching a sanctity charm to prevent more cross burnings.”
“A bit late for that. You didn't happen to see anyone egging my house?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“Dang hoodlums!”
“So you didn't see anything?”
“Sorry, sweetie, can't say I did.”
“Too bad your cats can't talk, hey? I bet one of them saw something.”
Zelda stilled. “Cats can't talk, sweetie.”
“Of course not. You're right. Seriously, though, you love cats, don't you? What's this, a feline conservatory?”
“I doubt the cats egged your house, if that's what you're getting at.”
“I wasn't actually. Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
I laughed. “Long day.”
“I suggest a nap, sweetheart. And maybe some strudel?”
“No, thanks. Not today.”
“Turning down food?”
“I have no appetite. I came from a weird scene.”
“Oh!” She paled and had nothing to say after that.
“Have a good night, Zelda. And lock your doors.”
Chapter 21
Juan sat at the bar. His sleek hair dripped blood onto his collar. Ms. Crowley slipped a coaster under his beer and offered me a cookie. Sarakas was trapped somewhere in the surrounding crowd, shouting at someone I couldn't see. People mobbed me, but I couldn't remember names. Most of them were mangled, not-so-human, and dead. My father shook his head in disappointment, turned his back, and disappeared behind the bar. His aging, brutish hand found a shotgun and the muzzle swung around.
Bad dreams.
It was going to be a rotten day.
I should stay home.
Ominous dreams had nothing to do with reality, so I dragged my ass out of bed and went to work.
Mullen stood near the water cooler with Vincent, simply two old buddies chatting about the game and the job. Both were scarier than sin and the devil it rode in on. I paused, only it was more like a startled jerk that ended with an indecisive freeze. Should I ask? Not ask? Maybe question someone less homicidal and misogynist?
“What?” Vincent said. He never met my eyes, and my answering rise of irritation gave me courage.
“Did either of you hunt before? You know, before the Revival.”
Vincent's eyes sprung up and nailed me. Neither man answered. Mullen smirked, pulled a soft pack of unfiltered cigarettes from his pocket, and popped one in his mouth. The no-smoking laws regarding public space didn't deter him. He lit and slowly inhaled.
“And the real question,” Mullen asked.
“Well, I was thinking about vampires and how some are really old, like older than Eden's dirt, and some were literally born yesterday. Is it the same with mutts? When it comes to werewolves: are there ancients?”
“How will this question make you better at your job?” Vincent said.
I crossed my arms. “I'm wondering if mutts will grow stronger, smarter, more controlled, and altogether harder to hunt over time.”
“Getting bored, Durant,” Mullen said in his bland, inquisitive tone. He pushed the bill of his baseball cap up with his thumb, then tucked the stinking tobacco stick back in his mouth.
I shrugged.
“You'll never quit,” he said. “'There is no hunting like the hunting of a man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.'”
Another reason Mullen scared the crap out of me: he liked murder and quoted Hemingway.
“What's the oldest lykos you've killed?” I said.
“A man doesn't kill and tell, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? The condescending, creepy title filled my stomach with tar-like dread.
“I suggest you kill them before they get ancient,” Vincent said.
“Right. Thanks. Ever so informative.” A snide tone sharpened my voice.
“Hey,” Vincent said. His jaw was cleanly shaven, he smelled of whiskey from three paces away. He crooked his finger. Every nerve in my body flared with aggravation. I didn't move. I didn't shoot him, either. Kudos for me.
I didn't care what he had to say; I was not going to obey that finger.
Mullen smiled. Vincent scowled. I went to my team office and slammed the door. That conversation had been a waste of time.
Big man Santi stopped by my desk and dropped an envelope the size of a greeting card in front of me. I had a bad feeling.
“Not my birthday,” I said.
“Thanks to your violent episode at the civic center, the press is spicing up their talk.”
“Violent episode? I was attacked. In fear of my life.”
“Nevertheless, words like 'questionable aggression' and 'unnecessary force' have been applied in regard to your behavior. Don't forget the pedestrian you punched at the gate and the priest you shoved on live newsfeed. Three different streams have requested permission to publish untouched photos.”
I resisted the urge to cover the scars on my neck.
“We need positive press, Durant. Maybe you fancy yourself a gunslinger, but John Wayne is dead. Now, Tad took gre
at pains to arrange this invitation for a benefit dinner, tonight, with an open bar. You're going. Plus one, if you've got it. Enjoy.”
“Uh, gosh, tonight is really busy.”
“Reschedule your other engagements. I won't tolerate undue sullying of this office's image.”
“Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pushy with a priest, but a skin-head knifes me and I have to do PR? That's fucking unfair. Sir.”
“Durant, you'll go if I have to hire someone to knock you unconscious and stuff you in a dress. In fact, Mullen isn't doing anything right now.”
“Jesus. No need to get nasty.”
“Make sure you shake hands with Chaz Greystone. He's a big donor. And Rachel Drisbey. Her dad owns the most active silver mine on the continent and the press loves her rose-scented-shit.”
“Two nice handshakes coming right up. Got it.”
“Don't even think about bailing early. Stay until dessert.”
“Like I would endure a pretentious dinner and then skip dessert? C'mon.”
“Don't embarrass the bureau.”
I wilted in my seat. He gave the distinct impression my job depended on two handshakes and dinner.
“Sit up straight, Durant. Have a bit of fun. Put your dress and limo on the charity charge account. Nothing more than twenty grand.”
Dress? Limo? Hell, no. I wasn't going to primp and powder the package so people can appreciate the merchandise. Stuffing this body into an undoubtedly awkward and revealing gown would be ridiculous. I had a perfectly good pantsuit at home. Maybe it was even clean.
“Behave yourself, Durant, and stop buying ungodly amounts of porn.”
“What is the godly amount?”
He didn't answer, of course.
I had two hours to get an outfit, ready myself, and show up. Groaning, I figured the night couldn't get worse.
It did. Sarakas didn't answer the phone and I had no one else to call. Literally, no one. I couldn't imagine a soul on earth I could sucker into this. I could order a rookie to go, but that would be all sorts of awkward and would make the night even more insufferable. Maybe I should take Mullen. He'd scare away everyone with his hard gaze and perpetual smoking. Then again, I couldn’t bear him either. Yoshino would go if I asked, but he'd take the invitation personally. I couldn't lead him on. I might find an escort service. Right, because showing up at a party with a hired lover would help my reputation. Santi would kill me.
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