Blood Lust

by JE Gurley

“Joria,” I corrected her.

  She smiled. “It didn’t sound like you would murder her. It sounded more like you were in love with her.”

  I winced but said nothing. She got the message and turned away. I saw Captain Bledsoe through the glass door speaking with the uniformed guard. The guard nodded. Bledsoe burst into the room scowling. He pointed a finger at me like a gun and wagged it.

  “You really screwed the pooch on this one, Hardin. I suspect you had good reason to burn down the monastery but the Mayor and the city council is on a holy rampage. The parents of the dead girl are outraged that you burned her body.” At my look of incomprehension, he explained, “Firefighters found her remains. Now, where is Doctor Alvarez? She has disappeared from her hotel room. I assume she was with you.”

  I looked him in the eyes. “She’s missing?” I had last seen her sitting mutely beside me outside the monastery.

  “You know she’s missing. You went looking for her. Did you find her?”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced away and swore. “And now she’s disappeared again. Jesus, Hardin! You’re digging a hole so deep you’ll never climb out. What the hell happened?”

  “The creature took Joria to lure me back to the monastery. I found it, killed the last juvenile and Joria and I escaped. It looked like the Feds attempted to capture the creature. They failed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One of them didn’t make it out of the church,” I said.

  Bledsoe exploded. “Jesus, Hardin! You didn’t kill him too?”

  “No, the creature got him.”

  “Christ! Corpses everywhere. It’s like some damn slasher movie. Did you get them all?” He stared at me hopefully.

  I shifted uncomfortably in bed. “The adult got away, but the juveniles are dead, all three.”

  “Okay. Never mention them again. If word gets out there could be more of these things, people would panic.”

  “Where are the first two creatures I killed?”

  At first, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. He looked at me smugly. “The government has them, Homeland Security. Apparently they consider them a unique find.”

  I shook my head in dismay. More governmental cover up. At least I now knew for whom the two men in the black SUV worked. Captain Bledsoe turned away and began to pace the floor with his hand on his chin.

  “Hardin, the Mayor wants your ass but I need you. Right now, you’re all I’ve got who knows anything about this … this thing.” He looked at me but didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s likely it won’t leave you alone, so you’re in it whether I toss you to the dogs or not. The best thing I can do is put you back out there where I can keep an eye on you; use you as bait. Sidelining you didn’t do any good.” I tried to look properly chagrined. “If you screw up again, I’ve got a readymade patsy to pin it on.”

  He shifted tactics. “You’re a good detective, Hardin, but you’re a rogue. God knows how Atwood could put up with you. I’ll never find you another partner. Half the officers think you’re crazy and the other half are afraid of you. Bodies are dropping around you like pins in a bowling alley, only no one’s setting them up again.” He sighed. “The doctor will release you in a few days. Get back to work. Forget about the Alvarez woman. The Feds are looking for her.”

  He turned and stalked off. I wondered how much self-respect it cost him to allow me to stay on the case. Or had our Homeland Security friends had a chat with him? At least he had put finding the creature above sucking up to the Mayor. I was worried about Joria. Parts of her story didn’t gel. Now the Feds were after her. I had a few questions for her, but mainly I was concerned for her safety. If the Feds found her before I did, she might simply disappear for good. If the Chupacabra found her…

  My priority was to find the creature and end the grisly string of killings. First, though, I had to mend.

  15

  Clad Simmons sat opposite his boss, Tray Faber, in Faber’s office. Simmons was uncomfortable in Faber’s presence, especially under the circumstances. Two men, moreover two friends, were dead on his watch. Faber’s eyes refused to rest on him, increasing Simmons’ sense of unease. The open file on Faber’s desk bore photos of the burned monastery. He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Denny Pryce’s body trapped inside the collapsed building.

  Faber cleared his throat. “Hardin cost us our last chance to capture one of the creatures alive. The President was not pleased.” He stared hard at Simmons.

  Simmons knew what he wanted. He wiggled uncomfortably in his seat before speaking. “I’ll take the heat,” he volunteered. “The Twins are dead and it’s my fault. After Denny died, I was more concerned with getting us out of there alive than in capturing the creatures.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. “I didn’t even get that done. I’ll take the responsibility.”

  Faber shook his head. His eyes softened somewhat but did not lose all their heat. “No, it’s not your responsibility. I sent you in weaponless. We grossly underestimated the power of these creatures again. I thought Hardin was being overly melodramatic. Now I know he was not. You did the right thing. We lost track of Hardin and we paid the cost. I should have sent someone back out there immediately after you called in. I delayed.”

  Faber’s admission still did not lift the weighty burden of guilt from Simmons’ shoulders. “The tranks worked on the juvenile at a heavy dosage, but I don’t know if we killed it.”

  “From Hardin’s report to his superiors, you didn’t. Both adult and the juvenile were present when he entered the church. He is certain that he killed the juvenile but the adult escaped. It’s probably long gone by now. It seems our suspicions about Dr. Alvarez were well founded. She seems to have disappeared.”

  Simmons swore aloud. “Damn bitch! McAllister in Baltimore was a friend of mine. What was left of his body wasn’t even recognizable. I’m certain she had something to do with his death.”

  “I’m sure you are right but we could prove nothing. Now, however, we have enough evidence to detain her, perhaps deport her.” Faber nervously twisted a paperclip lying on his desk into a spiral. “Even Hardin is beginning to have doubts about her.”

  “Are we still in business?” Simmons asked.

  “The creature will resurface somewhere. We will be on the lookout for it.”

  Simmons smacked a fist into his palm. “I’d like another crack at it.”

  “We all would. We’ll keep a discrete eye on Hardin for a while just to play it safe, as well as search for Dr. Alvarez. Who knows? Hardin seems to be a lightning rod for these creatures. I doubt we’ve seen the last of them.”

  Simmons said nothing, but he knew he would do things a little differently if he got a second opportunity. If the creature could rejuvenate as quickly as the lab boys claimed, he wouldn’t have to be so gentle in its capture. He wouldn’t mind if things got a little messy. He also wouldn’t mind a talk with the good Dr. Alvarez.

  16

  My last day in the hospital was agonizing waiting on word from Joria but she never contacted me. I was itching to leave and find her but had to wait restless hours for the doctor to release me. I was given a cane to help ease my still sore ankle. Between my arm in a sling and a walking cane, I looked like an invalid when I clumsily tried to climb into the taxi. Home felt good as I walked through the door. I was anxious to get back to work, but knew I needed to heal first. I sat back on the sofa with my foot propped up, sipping a cold beer as I went over Joria’s notes, which I had asked a fellow detective to liberate from Joria’s hotel room before it became evidence or disappeared into the hands of the Feds.

  Reading between the lines, I could now see vague hints of her morbid fascination of the creature. Her professional desire to learn all she could about the creature had slowly changed to admiration when she learned of its intelligence. Twice, she had mentioned the possibility of the Chupacabra supplanting humans as the dominant species, stating her opinion that humanity had been given its opportunit
y and had failed. She intimated but made no direct mention of the creature’s ability to procreate. It was as if she desired this secret for herself, perhaps to reveal in her paper for the scientific journals, though I thought it odd that I found no mention of such a paper.

  She did mention the creatures’ periodic hibernations that allowed them to reset their internal clocks to aid in their longevity and their ability to rejuvenate. I feared the creature, its offspring destroyed, its lair discovered, might enter hibernation, making it impossible to locate. I had to kill it quickly, even if doing so meant an end to my career.

  I had misjudged Joria badly. I suppose it was my curse with women. My ex claimed I never understood her. I could but wonder how much of Joria’s affection for me was real and how much was a ploy to use me to capture the creature. I thought I had felt something between us, something more than just hot and heavy sex, but my record was less than perfect, marred as it was by a pair of failed marriages and numerous aborted relationships. I tried not to dwell on it.

  I wondered why she had simply vanished, leaving her clothes and her papers. Was it because of the Feds? Was there a connection between her and them? Or perhaps her close brush with death had quelled her desire to learn more of the creature. She might be wandering the city now, dazed and confused, though with the authorities searching for her, she couldn’t hide for long.

  I looked up and noticed it was time for the local news. I wondered how the press had handled the story. I quickly learned as I watched Ella Ramirez, pert Channel 6 WBBT news announcer. Her green eyes literally blazed with excitement as she spoke.

  “There is still no confirmation by local authorities that the so-called Midnight Monster may have been a victim himself two nights ago in an unusual fire at the old Jesuit monastery on the east side of the city. The 250-year old monastery, site of the abandoned St. Andrews church, is the location where Detective Thackery Hardin discovered the bodies of six young women; all supposed victims of the Monster. Detective Thackery Hardin, whose partner, Detective Lee Atwood, died at the hands of this serial killer, was found injured at the scene of the fire but has offered no explanation as to the cause of the fire, though Fire Chief Andrew Klegmann has tentatively ruled it as arson.

  “Brazilian Crytozoologist Doctor Joria Alvarez, who some say was aiding the authorities on the case, has disappeared under unusual circumstances. Has she become the Monster’s seventh victim or are the authorities, who are keeping particularly close-lipped about this case, keeping her under wraps, away from reporters. This reporter doubts the reports of the Midnight Monster’s demise. If you are a young woman, living alone on anything other than the ground floor of a building, I would keep my doors and windows locked tight and keep a light on.”

  I detested such blatant fear mongering by the media. She had said nothing about the hundreds of police blanketing the area or the long hours they were putting in to protect the citizens. I was almost surprised she wasn’t actively rooting for the Midnight Monster. Sensationalism sold. Thank God, there had so far been no leak about the juveniles. Bledsoe seemed to have kept good his promise to keep the two surviving women under wraps. The Sattersby girl had suddenly decided to take an Australian vacation to some undisclosed location. The other girl was still in protective custody. I knew that couldn’t last long.

  I spent most of one entire agonizing day dealing with my auto insurance company. They did not buy my story about a lunatic on the loose. I finally admitted that a perpetrator I had arrested had taken it for a destructive joy ride. This they believed and settled for full value. I took a taxi to Lee’s parents and offered my condolences for his death, then bought Lee’s Ford Explorer from them. I got a little emotional as I drove it home. The interior still smelled of Lee’s aftershave. We had been partners for five years. Now I had no one to watch my back. It was an empty feeling.

  By my third day home, I was growing restless. I felt well enough to return to work. My shoulder was working, albeit a little stiffly, and my ankle was back up to par. As I walked into the precinct, the stares I received were a mixture of admiration and fear. I was Detective Hardin, Monster Slayer, but no one wanted in on my glory; my sidekicks had a bad habit of dying. So far, no more missing girls had been reported. I tried to believe, like some of the others, that it was all over, but inside I knew it was not. I looked at the whiteboard with its six photos of the dead girls and more than ever wanted a chance at this creature.

  A second week passed uneventfully with no news of Joria’s whereabouts. The city sighed a collective breath of relief. People once again filled the streets after dark. Clubs filled with revelers. Alleyways overflowed with assorted scum. Reluctantly, I became involved in other cases. The captain was convinced the Chupacabra had left the city and was, as he put it, “Some other s.o.b.’s problem”. One of my new cases involved a drug smuggling operation and a murder. The DEA was technically in charge of the operation but one of the gang members had made the mistake of killing one of our precinct officers while in pursuit. That put it in my jurisdiction. I promised to cooperate with the DEA, at least until I spotted my boy, a gangbanger named ‘Chuey’.

  We staked out a warehouse on the east side of town down by the waterfront where a Latino gang regularly brought in shipping container loads of marijuana and cocaine. My second night on stakeout, Chuey showed up. I watched as the warehouse doors slid open just wide enough to allow Chuey’s Limo to enter. The place bristled with armed men. When his Limo stopped, his driver hopped out and opened Chuey’s door. Chuey stepped out like a king at court, dressed in an Armani suit that cost more than my entire wardrobe and wearing Italian loafers that were so polished they gleamed. I watched attentively as Chuey strutted his way to the office like he was safe at home. The guards posted on the roof and at various places around the warehouse probably made him feel secure. He didn’t know how badly I wanted him.

  Making my way into the warehouse undetected would be difficult. Getting out with Chuey would be next to impossible. The dope was in the warehouse or Chuey would not have made an appearance. The DEA men were waiting on the transfer vehicles to arrive for a clean sweep. My only concern was Chuey.

  Scanning the area for a way in, I spotted an old overhead conveyor running between buildings. The near end of the conveyor was not under the guards’ scrutiny. I slipped through the shadows until I reached the building, entered through a side door and climbed a ladder to the overhead conveyor. The guard on the roof couldn’t see me. A large fan on the roof of the warehouse blocked his line of sight. The guards on the ground weren’t bothering to look up.

  The conveyor was about forty feet above the ground and open to the air except for six-inch rails running along the side of the four-foot wide rubber belt. I was uncomfortable with heights. I was glad it was night so I couldn’t see the ground four stories below. I took a deep breath and crawled on my hands and knees, hoping the conveyor supports were not rusty. The structure groaned slightly but not loudly enough to give me away. I reached the far roof exhausted from the long crawl and glad to be on a solid surface.

  The guard was on the far side of the building taking a leak off the edge of the roof. I came up behind him quietly, grabbed him around the neck and hit him soundly on the side of his head with the butt of my .45. I didn’t kill him, but he would have one hell of a headache later. I gagged him with my handkerchief, cuffed his hands and legs and dragged him out of sight.

  I peered through a grimy skylight at the activities below. I didn’t see Chuey, but the others were busy transferring bales of pot and bags of coke from a shipping container to a fleet of white vans parked in the back of the warehouse. They transfer was already taking place. If the DEA didn’t act soon, they would have a dozen vans scattered throughout the city to follow. I would give them a heads up, but only after I located Chuey. He was going down for murder. I wasn’t going to let him plea bargain with the DEA on a drug charge for a slap on the wrist and a bus ride back to Mexico.

  I carefully climbed down the l
adder to an overhead walkway. Thankfully, the guards inside the warehouse were busy either watching the outside or helping in the transfer. No one bothered to look up. I guess they thought a single guard posted on the roof would suffice. A small, second story loft along one wall contained an enclosed building, possibly an office. The shades were pulled on the windows and a guard stood by the stairs. I was willing to bet my last dollar that Chuey was inside. Busting in after him cowboy style with guns blazing was out of the question. I was seriously outgunned. I would have to bring Chuey to me.

  I managed to reach the ground floor without being detected. Most of the guards and workers had already sampled their product and were less than attentive. Chuey’s car was parked next to one of the white vans. What I needed was a diversion that would entice Chuey back to his car. I crawled behind some crates until I reached one of the vans. Using my knife, I punched a small hole in the van’s gas tank, removed my tie and soaked it with gasoline. I uncapped the gas tank and stuffed my tie inside. Lighting the end of my homemade wick, I scrambled back to Chuey’s car and crawled into the back seat.

  It took about twenty seconds for the gas tank of the van to explode. The van did not somersault into the air like in the movies, nor did it explode into a million pieces, but it did burst into flames with a loud whump that shook the Limo. It was like stirring up an anthill. Men rushed over with fire extinguishers while others checked the other vans. As I had hoped, men began to spill out of the office. Among them was Chuey. I watched him race for his Limo as the doors of the warehouse slid open. There was no need to contact the DEA now. I assumed they had received my message.

  As the driver leaped into the car and started the engine, I rose and poked my .45 in the back of his neck. He looked at me in the mirror with dark, angry eyes. Chuey opened his door, saw the gun pointed at the driver and started to bolt. I aimed the gun at him. “Take the driver’s place.” The driver slipped out of the seat and began to back away from the Limo. I waved the gun at Chuey. He let out a string of expletives in Spanish but climbed behind the wheel. “Put it in gear and just drive.”