Blood Born

by Matthew Warner

  It growled and released her. Margaret collapsed at its feet. She held her throat and sucked air.

  Now it was pulling Randall close. It used its free hand to rip open the neck of the detective’s white shirt, baring her shoulder. A bandage was taped there, and the monster ripped that aside as well. It licked the exposed wound; Margaret thought it was another bite mark, but it was hard to tell from here.

  Then it chuckled.

  Its enormous penis began to harden.

  Randall, her face turning blue, kicked feebly at its crotch and dug her fingers into the joint between the monster’s thumb and forefinger. But then her eyes rolled back, and she passed out.

  Margaret coughed and sucked in air. “R-Rand—”

  At that moment, Eric Gensler hurtled her and swung a shovel at the creature’s back. His big brother rushed in and cracked another shovel against its legs, sweeping them out from under it. The creature screeched as it went down, dropping Randall.

  But it came right back up again, bouncing to its feet in that weird way cats had. It swiped out at Eric and missed. Yelling, Shawn swung his shovel again, big muscles straining, and the creature barely dodged in time.

  Perhaps realizing it was outmatched, it leapt headfirst down the lake bank. It landed on the paved jogging trail, bounded once more on all fours, then stood up to face them.

  The parties stayed like that for a moment, sizing each other up. Margaret remained sitting, holding her sore throat, with the Genslers brandishing shovels at her side. Beside them, Randall moaned and coughed. Officer Heager lay face-down near the excavated tree trunk.

  Margaret now saw the crusted blood on the creature’s own shoulder and the abrasions on its manlike feet where the fur had worn thin. Lake water dripped from its leonine mane as it gave them an unmistakable look of hatred.

  It opened its mouth and howled.

  Then it ran away on its hocked back legs to disappear between the townhouses.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Fifteen minutes later, the lakeside area was a scene of pandemonium. But at least it wasn’t the crap-in-your-pants terror of before—and thank Christ for that, Margaret thought as she grimaced at the disgusting feeling in her panties. She was still shaking and nauseous from a belated rush of adrenaline.

  Kneeling beside her on the Genslers’ backyard, an EMT treated the shoulder bite and asked for a second time if she had any other injuries.

  “No, really, I’m fine,” she rasped. “The only reason I’m covered in blood is because I gave first aid to that officer who was taken away.”

  Saying that was easier than revealing she had a splitting headache and strained back muscles from being thrown into Detective Randall like a goddamned toy. And her throat was bruised and swelling up like it had the world’s biggest infection of acute laryngotracheobronchitis virus.

  Normally, she would have reported everything—she was after all a doctor who appreciated the value of a forthright patient—but the need to reach Daniella had returned with a particular viciousness. It was stronger than that fit of anxiety she’d experienced last night just before Officer Heager called with news of Daniella’s rape. Something was wrong with her daughter, and she needed to get over there right now. The feeling was so powerful, in fact, that she debated even whether to skip going home first to change out of her soiled underwear and bloodstained clothes.

  In clusters around the yard, the cops whom Randall had summoned interviewed the two Gensler boys separately and even the detective herself. Some of them carried enormous rifles and wore thick bulletproof vests.

  Margaret watched as Randall nodded at something an officer said to her. The chevron on the thin black man’s sleeve probably meant he was her boss. The young woman’s jaw clenched as if she were fighting not to cry, and she kept pulling the torn remnants of her shirt up onto her shoulder. A uniformed officer jogged up and handed her a fresh navy-blue T-shirt. Randall held it to her chest as if checking the size in a department store mirror, displaying its large Fairfax County Police insignia. She smiled and nodded.

  Another officer straightened from crouching by the water and grinned as he handed Randall’s dripping gun back to her. She reholstered it and said something Margaret couldn’t make out. Margaret wondered if the other cops—all of them men—would have been as helpful if Randall weren’t drop-dead gorgeous.

  Sighing, Margaret glanced at the EMT, who was repacking medical supplies into a kit. “Can I go yet? My daughter’s waiting for me.”

  Randall called from across the yard: “No, wait. You have to be interviewed first.” She left her comrades and strode forward. Margaret stood up, grimacing from her sore back.

  “You can stay seated if you’d like.”

  Setting her face, Margaret crossed her arms. She knew what was coming and frankly didn’t have time for it. The EMT cleared out, giving the two women a wide berth, and returned to the ambulance parked out front.

  “Mrs. Connolly,” Randall said, then leaned in. “Margaret. Just what in the fuck were you . . . no, I’m sorry. First, I should thank you for your quick thinking with Officer Heager. He’s lucky he had a doctor on hand.”

  “You’re welcome. Although I don’t know if he’s going to survive. That thing did a lot of damage to his throat.”

  “Regardless.” Randall rubbed her own throat and shook her head. Her face made another one of those strange contortions of emotion. Margaret guessed the creature’s attack had shaken her up quite a bit. As for herself . . .

  “I need to get to Daniella.”

  “I know you do. But first you’re going to tell me why you’re here. I can’t believe this was just a friendly visit to the Gensler household.”

  Margaret glanced at Eric, who was watching from a patio chair by his back door. Nearby, Shawn sat crosslegged on the ground, staring at the discarded shovels as if they contained the secrets of the universe. Those boys had saved her and Randall’s lives, so she felt bad for what she was about to say.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I wanted to confront the boy who raped my daughter.”

  Eric’s whine made him sound much younger than he was: “I told you. I didn’t do it. She got out of my car, and I drove off.”

  “But you did rip my daughter’s shirt, didn’t you?”

  Eric looked at his knees. “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. But I didn’t rape her.”

  Randall held up a hand, silencing him—and everyone else, for that matter, who stopped and stared.

  “I didn’t rape her,” Eric said, quieter this time.

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t believe you.” Margaret turned to Randall. “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  Pain exploded behind Margaret’s eyes. “What? Why else did you come here?”

  Randall sighed and spared a glance for the other officers, now returning to their business. “Look, there’s a lot more going on than you realize. . . .”

  And as the detective proceeded to fill her in on the events of the past week, Margaret’s bowels threatened to lose control once again. She cursed in disbelief at the initial revelations—among them that her daughter’s likely rapist was the same animal that had just tried to kill them. But soon, she stopped exclaiming because the Gensler brothers were on their feet and doing it for her.

  Chapter 7

  The most disconcerting part of being a detective, Randall often reflected, was the failure of people to follow expectations. After all, it was her job to understand human behavior and from that to reconstruct past events and predict future ones. For instance, the cat owner who threw the pet out of a second-story window on Randall’s first night as a cop hadn’t been the unshaven wife-beater she’d expected but an elementary school librarian who volunteered at a soup kitchen.

  Margaret Connolly was a case in point.

  Just look at her, Randall thought as she briefed the woman, who was old enough to be her mother. Damn near got killed, got covered in Heager’s blood trying to help him, but she’s still as hard-assed as ever.r />
  No, it wasn’t until Randall said there was a possibility Daniella could be pregnant with the monster’s child that Margaret’s knees buckled and she fainted.

  Randall was beside her in a flash as Margaret immediately rose back up onto her hands and knees. Three other cops stepped forward, but Randall waved them off. She steadied the other woman, who was now retching onto the grass.

  “You need help? I don’t think that ambulance has left yet.”

  Margaret shook her head and sat back on her haunches. She wiped her mouth. “I just . . . I haven’t had any breakfast.”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

  Randall again gestured at the other officers that everything was okay. Most of them were already leaving the scene to resume the chase anyway. Sergeant Lively, who had moments ago performed the unlikely task of reassuring her she’d done everything possible, stepped up and said, “I need to get back to C-and-C. Can I leave you in charge of this?”

  Margaret struggled to her feet. “Don’t worry about me—I’m going. Unless I’m under arrest or something.”

  “No, of course not,” Randall said, also standing. “You have my card. Let me know how Daniella’s doing.”

  Margaret nodded and turned to go. She paused to look at Eric Gensler as if about to say something—seemed to think better of it—then walked off.

  With eyebrows raised, Randall turned to Eric. But the boy only said, “I’m done.” He flashed a sarcastic smile that showed his artificially sharpened canine tooth, then disappeared into his house. His older brother glared at the cops before following him.

  “Shawn,” Randall said, and the young man paused at the door. “Thank you both for saving me. I’ll be in touch.”

  Shawn nodded and went inside. Randall wondered if he realized I’ll be in touch was a reference to her unfinished business with Eric. Despite his heroism just now, Eric could still be brought up on assault charges for getting rough with Daniella. It all depended on what else the girl had to say.

  Casting a final glance at the lake shore where the battle took place, Randall shuddered and accompanied Sergeant Lively to the parking lot. They arrived just in time to see Margaret Connolly speed off in that pukey green Isuzu. The only police cruisers remaining were Lively’s and Heager’s. Randall had taken Heager’s keys and weapons from him before the paramedics whisked him away, and she intended to return them to the station for safekeeping.

  As for her own weapon, she opened the trunk to Heager’s cruiser and rummaged until she found a bottle of Break-Free gun cleaner. Lively watched her back as she field stripped her wet SIG and sprayed all the parts with the fluid, which would protect the weapon from the rusting effects of the lake water until she could properly clean and dry it at the station. Afterward, she stowed the parts in a large evidence baggie to keep them together, then transferred Heager’s weapon to her holster, checking first that the clip was loaded.

  “Randall,” the sergeant said as she slammed the trunk closed. “Am I going to have to order you to get some rest before your shift tonight?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” Lively glanced up at the police helicopter passing overhead as he climbed into his car. “Wish us luck.”

  A moment later, he was gone.

  Settling into Heager’s vehicle, Randall thought, You almost bought it this time, Chrissy. Again, she surprised herself with the urge to cry.

  That had been goddamn embarrassing back there, breaking down in front of Lively. To his credit, though, he’d been understanding and supportive. They were all exhausted and hurting from this one, he said, and he was glad she hadn’t fired her weapon when Margaret Connolly was taken hostage. The only thing she shouldn’t have done was come here when she was supposed to be home asleep, but he wasn’t going to reprimand her for that. This time.

  She now debated what to do. Lively was right. Rest was clearly in order before the evening’s duty shift, which promised to be a long one. Even if they captured the creature by then, there would still be the media shitstorm to contend with. The likelihood of a press conference made her glad she leveled with Margaret. The woman would be learning the whole story soon anyway, and it was best she heard it right the first time.

  Randall put the car in gear and headed for the police station. As she turned out of the neighborhood, she passed two white vans with satellite dishes on their roofs speeding the other way toward the Gensler house. One of them had a Channel Four News logo emblazoned on the side.

  Too late, she thought, and smiled.

  She radioed in her status because she was too tired to use the CAD. The plan was to return Heager’s cruiser and belongings to the station, clean her handgun, and hitch a ride with a patrol officer back to the golf course to pick up her Hyundai. From there, she would go home to lick her wounds for a while.

  “Lick my wounds,” she muttered as she turned out of the subdivision—then stifled a sudden sob, remembering the revolting way the creature licked her bleeding shoulder. She wiped her eyes with one hand.

  Look at me, all emotional. What’s wrong with me? Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean you have to act like one—so stop it.

  Of course that wasn’t fair to the other females who served in the department—or to the rest of her gender—and she knew it. But there were still times when she wished she was a man. Men wouldn’t be counting back the days to their last period, as she was, and wondering how close they’d come to winding up like those wretched girls at the Inova Women’s Center.

  Which raised an interesting question. . . .

  Randall blinked and gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to focus.

  Would I have been raped if Eric Gensler hadn’t rescued me?

  The creature’s arousal last night and at the Gensler house certainly made it appear so. And there was no question of its disdain for Margaret, who was likely past her reproductive years.

  She remembered how the creature had bitten all of its victims—Valarie Thompson, Sandy Giddes, Daniella Connolly, Jan Lee, and now Margaret and herself. Margaret was the only one whose taste it disliked.

  That meant the purpose of the bite must have been to locate fertile—and ovulating—women.

  So that answered the question of how it was selecting its victims: a woman’s blood chemistry must change somehow at the time of ovulation—Dr. Bowen at the Women’s Center would know the details—and the creature was taste-testing for it. But this didn’t explain why the women who were raped received a second bite. She would still take this small victory of deduction, however.

  Randall smiled as she stopped at a red light prior to turning onto a ramp to the Capital Beltway.

  Then she frowned.

  I’m not ovulating. I can’t be.

  She started her last period only a couple days ago. Conventional wisdom said her ovaries weren’t supposed to drop an egg for another two weeks. That’s when she would be fertile. And of course if the egg wasn’t fertilized—which please God was ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time—then two weeks after that she would menstruate, discharging the comfy mattress of tissue her uterus had built up that month to receive a fertilized egg.

  But could she be sure of anything these days regarding her body? Although it cramped her so bad that she could hardly walk, her period had seemed to last only twenty-four hours and had generated hardly more than a red stain in her panty liner. She hadn’t even needed a tampon. Her previous period was at least six weeks prior and similarly thin. Crampy as hell, but not messy. In fact, her most concrete sign that she was still a normal female—and not receiving her occasional wish to be a man—was that her breasts often became so sore and sensitive that she couldn’t even wear a bulletproof vest when out in the field like she was supposed to.

  The traffic light hadn’t changed, so Randall rested her forehead against the steering wheel. Maybe Dr. Bowen would have some theories. She would ask him tonight.

  For now, she needed to go home and recuperate. She had a brain-ripping h
eadache. Maybe after a decent meal and a few hours sleep she would think more clearly. If there was time, she would even practice some Tae Kwon Do escape techniques in case the monster ever got its paws on her again.

  As the light turned green and she started forward, the radio dispatcher came on the air:

  “Units respond: signal 36, code 2. Inova Fairfax Hospital. Go to the woods by the employee parking lot off Woodburn Road. Possible signal 24, 24D.”

  Randall did a double take at the radio. Signal 36 meant “homicide.” Someone most likely had found a body since the code was only for a “semi-emergency, no lights or siren.” But the signal 24 business meant it could also be an animal mauling. And maybe that animal had thick brown body hair and a very unusual penis.

  Hurriedly pulling over to the shoulder, she picked up her transmitter. What the hell. “415 dispatch: does the victim show throat damage? Over.”

  A pause. “I’ll ask. Standby.”

  She knew some people listening to the channel would raise their eyebrows at the question, and she immediately regretted the query. For one, she wasn’t even a homicide detective anymore, and now she was potentially encouraging a witness to contaminate a crime scene. Furthermore, nobody was supposed to discuss forensic details over the air because of curiosity-seekers with police scanners. Indeed, that was one of the reasons for codes and signals to begin with.

  But she wanted to know, quickly, if her instincts were correct. If they were, then this one wasn’t going to the courts anyway.

  “Affirmative, 415,” the dispatcher said. “The caller sees severe throat injuries. Female victim. Over.”

  Randall closed her eyes and exhaled. The hospital was less than three miles away. Just go home and rest, she told herself.

  But she wouldn’t. She needed to see this thing through to the end.

  She put the police cruiser into gear.

  ✽ ✽ ✽