Blood Retribution

by Aimée Thurlo

  “Good evening,” Lee said smoothly, introducing himself and Diane. The woman introduced herself simply as Marie, and the young man at her side, who had already checked out Diane twice before they reached the table, went by the name of Raymus. A waiter appeared, taking their orders for drinks. Lee and Diane had coffee, but the others ordered bottles of the finest wines on the list. Lee wondered if the state police or the FBI would be picking up the tab. He’d choose the deeper pockets of the Bureau, of course.

  Diane began immediately. Details of their original plan had been altered after their encounter with Tsosie, but they were still on track. “My partner has already told you that we’d like to do business with whoever is providing you with those magnificent stones. We’d also be open to making a deal directly with you. You could buy extra inventory from your supplier and then sell the merchandise to us for, say, ten percent less than your regular wholesale price. In turn, we won’t attempt to contact your current customers or try to undercut your prices.”

  “Why should we sell to you when we can market our merchandise directly to our own clients for ten percent more?” Raymus grumbled. Marie glanced at the young man. Something in her eyes got his attention. He shut up immediately and became totally absorbed in the menu.

  “What do we have to gain by doing business with you?” Marie asked softly. Her voice was compelling, and even Stump switched from his constant survey of the restaurant’s guests to look at her.

  Lee kept his voice low, firm, and unemotional. “Think of us as your new biggest customer. Well take as much of your inventory as you can deliver, pay you your costs plus a percentage to be agreed upon, then kick back an additional percentage of our profits when we sell them to other jobbers, wholesalers, and silversmiths throughout the Southwest. The increased volume will easily make up the difference in your selling price to us.”

  Nobody spoke as their dinners were ordered. Then, while Raymus was pouring more wine for Marie, Diane reinforced what Lee had said. “We have connections with virtually every big supplier in the West. Basically, you can keep your customers and sell them what you want. Well double or triple your sales without any work on your part. All we need is the stuff you provide.”

  Diane reached into her purse, slowly because she was aware that she had Stump’s undivided attention. She brought out a folded sheet of paper—a typed list of the jewelry supplies they were interested in obtaining, along with estimates on the number of stones and supplies they could sell. The list had been constructed to insure a high demand for merchandise they knew or suspected had been smuggled in from Mexico, such as the turquoise with the spider-web matrix.

  “Well have to see if our sources can handle the increased traffic—–if we come to an agreement,” Marie said after examining the list for less than a minute. She waited a while longer before adding, “Well send word to you.”

  The rest of the dinner was almost cordial, though the simple exchanges were mainly about the food. Stump ate quickly, his eyes moving about constantly. He was obviously serving as Marie’s bodyguard. Raymus fawned over the older woman. Whatever his function in their organization, he was also Marie’s boy toy. She was definitely in charge—the alpha bitch of the pack. There was no question in his mind that they were all skinwalkers. Navajo witches never associated with other Navajos for long. The risk of being discovered was too great, especially at night, when their animal instincts became harder to control.

  Lee hadn’t mentioned Angela’s absence, but he really hadn’t expected her to be present for a business meeting. She’d only been with Silver Eagle a short time and undoubtedly was below Stump in the pecking order.

  Once dinner was over, and with no other business to conduct, Lee sent for the bill. As he complimented Marie on the craftsmanship of a Zia-style bracelet composed of dozens of hand-set teardrop-shaped turquoise, she reached out and held his hand with an unexpectedly strong grip.

  “No discussion of what is legal or illegal has taken place here tonight, and that was wise of you, Hosteen Nelson,” she said, using the Navajo term for “mister.” “But if all of a sudden we start having problems of any kind with the police, I will hold you personally responsible. I promise that you and your beautiful señorita will pay with your lives, and that your deaths will be neither quick nor peaceful. We deal with those who become our enemies in ways you can’t imagine.”

  Lee, having seen the work of skinwalkers too many times already, imagined the worst quite well.

  Marie released his hand and stood, revealing that she was quite tall for a Navajo, probably six-one or -two. She looked very fit for someone her age, and there was no doubt in Lee’s mind that when shape-shifted, she’d be a formidable predator.

  Marie turned to Diane, her voice still low enough not to be heard by other guests, but clear and cold. “Maybe I should have given the warning to you instead. There’s a lot more to you than your soft voice. Watch over your partner and yourself by never letting me regret this meeting.”

  The three skinwalkers left without another word.

  When they had disappeared outside the gate of the restaurant’s courtyard, Diane turned to Lee. “Guess who’s not getting a thank-you note and fruit basket?”

  CHAPTER 10

  en minutes later, they were on 1-25 heading south. They’d exit farther south to the west, then get back on again and head north, exiting east. With Diane keeping watch, any potential tail would be lost. Her apartment had to stay secure.

  Finally they were off the freeway and on their way to her apartment. “I don’t know how skinwalker packs operate. Is that Raymus character her lover, her assistant, or her son?” Diane asked, still watching for familiar vehicles behind them.

  “Maybe all three, as unpleasant as that may sound. But my gut tells me to watch out for him if it ever comes to a showdown. Stump is the obvious threat, but I believe Raymus was playing mind games with us pretending to be a lackey. He’s not their leader, but I’d put him at the top of the list of suspects when it comes to cold-blooded cop-killing.”

  “Really? I’d have put him in the pussy-whipped category the way she cowed him with just a look. What makes you so sure he was putting on an act?” Diane asked.

  “Did you notice his hands when he was pouring the wine?

  “No, but I guess I would have expected to see manicured nails and a gold watch.”

  “Just the opposite. No watch or rings and his knuckles were scarred and callused. He’s been in a lot of fights, and probably won most of them. His face looks like nobody has ever laid a hand on him,” Lee said.

  “I did notice he was wearing a shoulder holster but, to tell you the truth, I was more concerned about the big guy, Stump. Do you think you could take him on?”

  “Yeah, but it would be bloody.”

  Diane said nothing for several moments, then finally broke the silence. “We’re liable to get chewed out via E-mail for not taking the wineglasses so our guys could lift prints. Knowing the real identities of that group would have been an asset. But I agree with you. If we’re going to have to take them out eventually, it would be better not to give the Bureau and your department more info that might just complicate matters in the long run.”

  Lee turned north onto the side street where the apartment complex was located. “Let’s use this excuse: We suspected that there might be another member or two of the group watching us after they left to see if we started acting like cops.”

  “You think they might have really done that?”

  “Another Indian man and woman arrived after we did, and were still there when we left. They had a clear view of us the whole time. I don’t think they were Navajo, but they could have been, I suppose.” Lee turned left at the entrance to the apartment complex.

  “I know who you mean. The good-looking guy who never took off his hat, and the woman in the velvet jumpsuit with the expensive gold necklace. Either she didn’t like him very much, or they’d just had an argument. Or, like you say, maybe they were there by arrange
ment.”

  Together, Diane leading the way by two steps, they climbed up the stairs to the apartment.

  Bridget looked around to make sure she was alone in the hall, then quickly examined the mailboxes. It was a quiet building, and only a few of the apartments she’d passed had on their television sets or music, but what noise was there would be enough to mask her movements.

  Secure in the knowledge that her keen hearing would pick up the sound of approaching footsteps, Bridget picked the lock of his mailbox and took out what appeared to be a personal card. A little intel on the guy she was targeting might help her now. She then hurried down the hall and worked the lock on the door to his apartment. Her hands started shaking, but concentrating on the payoff helped her fight the sudden attack of nerves.

  Twenty seconds later the mechanism snapped open. Bridget stepped back and took one last look at the door. Something was stuck between the door and the jamb at the top, probably a paper match. Hawk had undoubtedly put it there to let him know if anyone, like a snoopy landlord, had come in while he was gone. It was an old trick, one she’d used herself on occasion.

  Using a spot on the ceiling as a marker and future reference point, Bridget opened the door. “Anybody home?” she called out as she stepped inside the darkened apartment with her plastic bucket of cleaning supplies. Below the rags and containers were the meat cleaver and pistol. She was wearing puke green scrub pants and a blouse with big pockets. They were the same color and pattern she’d seen earlier that day while watching a cleaning lady scrubbing out a newly vacated apartment.

  She propped the door open with her cleaning bucket, then took a quick look around to insure that the place was really empty. Lastly, Bridget picked the match up from the hall carpet, set it back in its place and closed the door, taking the bucket with her.

  It was darker inside than out this time of night, but that was no problem. She put on thin latex gloves, took her pistol out from beneath the cleansers, attached the makeshift silencer, then stuck the weapon into her pocket, just in case the man arrived unexpectedly.

  Bridget looked around the apartment and found that there was a thin layer of dust over everything. Either he wasn’t very domestic or he hadn’t been here for a few days. A look in his fridge revealed no fresh meats or produce inside, which was unfortunate, because she was hungry. Contrary to common lore, vampires ate a lot because of their high metabolism. She smelled the milk in the carton; it was going bad. In the freezer was a plastic jar of what looked like tomato juice. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed. It was calf’s blood. Maybe she’d take it with her for quick energy later. Moving a frozen dessert, she discovered a box in a plastic wrapper. It contained .45-caliber rounds.

  Bridget wished she could use a .45 against the Navajo vampire, but their earlier tests had shown that the improvised silencers wouldn’t work nearly as well on a caliber above .380 or for any round that went supersonic. At least Elka had trained her with target practice in the dark. Bridget knew she could hit any head-sized target at twenty feet with nearly one hundred percent certainty.

  Hoping to take the edge off her growing anxiety at the thought of actually killing someone, she looked through his desk, but there were no photos or private papers stashed inside, just a box labeled TAXES containing receipts and rental agreements.

  She’d learned from Elka that smart vampires didn’t keep many things that could be used against them or that couldn’t be left behind if they had to disappear in a hurry.

  According to Elka, Hawk—whose real name had been Lee Nez—had been a vampire since 1945. He was the same age as Bridget’s grandparents. Bridget wondered what he looked like—all she had was a description sent to Elka by Hans before he’d been killed. The Navajo cop who’d taken out three members of Elka’s family was obviously either lucky or very adept at staying alive.

  Remembering the card that had been in his mailbox, she opened it up and found a brief handwritten note with an address and little else. It was signed “Diane.”

  Instinct told her that this was critical information. If Nez failed to show up here, she was sure she’d be able to track him down through FBI agent Diane Lopez’s new address. Lopez would become an optional target then.

  An hour had passed. Bridget found herself fidgeting and pacing, taking out her pistol every five minutes and checking to make sure the safety was off and a bullet was in the chamber. The latex gloves were getting sweaty now, so she pulled them off, dropping them into the bucket.

  Suddenly there was a faint scraping sound just outside in the hall, and Bridget’s heart stopped. She’d forgotten to lock the door! Hawk would know someone was waiting for him.

  A man who looked Native American slipped into the room just as Bridget turned toward the entrance. The beam of a flashlight blinded her for a few seconds as the door snapped shut.

  “Hey, who are you? Ah, you must be the entertainment.” The flashlight beam lowered to her breasts. “Nice body!”

  Bridget saw that Nez was holding a large pocketknife in his hand, the blade pointed toward her. He was so close she barely needed to aim. Quickly she raised the .380 and shot the cop just to the right of his nose. The pistol jerked in her hand four more times as she continued to fire. Hawk’s face erupted into a mess of blood, but he managed a step forward before sagging onto the carpet with a heavy thump. When he hit the floor, the knife fell from his hand and slid across the carpet, coming to rest by her foot.

  Bridget’s heart started beating again, so loud she could hear it thumping against the wall of her chest. In a panic, afraid he’d somehow get right back up, she slipped the pistol down into the mop bucket and reached for the cleaver, cutting her fingertip in the process.

  “Aw, hell.” Bridget licked the blood off her finger, then walked quickly over to the body. She took a step sideways to get into better position, then crouched down, raising the cleaver up as she took aim at the exposed neck. Hawk was facedown, blood oozing out onto the carpet.

  Bridget took a deep breath and, shaking life a leaf, swung the heavy blade. There was a sickening crunch and hollow thud as a warm spray of blood flew up into her face. The cleaver wedged itself into the wooden subflooring and Bridget had to yank the bloody tool loose with a twisting motion.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Bridget whispered, resisting the impulse to wipe away the blood. Her hand was soaked, dripping everywhere now. Standing up slowly, she looked at the ruined head; severed completely, sitting there four inches from the neck. The body was twitching slightly, probably from some nerve or muscle spasm. Suddenly she was aware of the foul taste in her mouth.

  Bridget ran into the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet bowl on her knees before she threw up. Undigested food came up in torrents that stung her throat. She could barely catch her breath when another spasm shook her. It felt as if her insides were being pulled from her body, dissolving in the acidic bile. After a few minutes in agony, her stomach was completely empty. Feeling shaky and cold, she grabbed a towel, wiped her face, then rinsed out her mouth and washed her hands.

  Her stomach still hurt as she walked back into the living room, and stood for a second staring down at the body. Something was wrong. A big prybar and screwdriver were tucked in his belt—and those were burglar tools. “You’re supposed to be a highway patrolman. Why aren’t you in uniform?” she mumbled. “And where are your pistol, handcuffs, and radio?”

  Bridget took a deep breath, stepped back, then remembered her latex gloves. Putting them back on again, she reached into the dead man’s hip pocket and took out his wallet. Instead of a police badge or ID card, there was a New Mexico driver’s license belonging to a twenty-three-year-old man named Clarence Atso from Rattlesnake, wherever the hell that was. The photo on the ID was a reasonable likeness of the way Clarence Atso used to look before his face had become a mass of bloody tissue riddled with holes.

  “Oh, you unlucky shit. You must be the guy from the van. What the hell are you doing in Hawk’s apartment?” Bridget thought for a m
oment, then walked around the body and locked the door. She had to wipe away any fingerprints she might have left behind, change clothes, then get as far away as possible before Officer Hawk returned. There was no way she was going to be able to surprise him now—at least not the way she’d intended.

  Elka Pfeiffer sat in the restaurant of Los Alamos’s Anasazi Inn, finishing her rainbow trout, eggplant, and fresh tomatoes. The fare was at least palatable, which was in stark contrast to the Southwest breakfast she’d had thismorning. Someone had stuffed diced potatoes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and green chile into a rolled-up flat piece of fried bread called a tortilla, then melted cheese all over the gooey log. The waitress had said it was their specialty, but the entire meal had been just too hot and spicy for her stomach. At least they had bottled water and decent coffee here, and the fried bread was light and flaky, reminding her of beignets.

  Just then Paul Rogers walked in with another man, probably a low-level bureaucrat from the local labs, judging from the cheap suit and security badge hanging from the lanyard around his neck. Rogers’s companion didn’t appear to be carrying a handgun, though Rogers, the CIA case officer who’d “hired” her family months earlier, was known to wear a pistol at the small of his back, inside his jacket. Hans had seen it once and told the family it was a small revolver, probably a .38.

  Elka realized he was still packing when she noticed him fidget and grimace slightly when he sat down at the table across the room. Rogers was a heavy man with a big ass, probably nurtured by the habit of getting some fool to do his dirty work for him while he sat behind a desk, nice and safe. That explained why he was still alive. A quick draw would have been impossible for a man who’d have to extract his pistol from his butt blubber first.