Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by Jagger, R. J.

  The day had also been strange.

  Paul Kwak called shortly before five and said, “It was blood all right—human blood, not hers. I repeat—not hers. It looks like we got an honest-to-God vampire on our hands.”

  “Not hers?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’d bet my split-window on it,” Kwak said, referring to his ’63 Corvette.

  “Well that’s interesting.”

  “Very.”

  “Human blood, huh?”

  “Right,” Kwak said. “As in a species other than yours.”

  Teffinger chuckled and said, “Do me a favor and call the coroner. Have him check the victim’s stomach to see if she drank any of it. For all we know, someone just planted it in her purse. If that’s the case, this same someone may have killed someone else too, besides Cameron Leigh.”

  “Well that’s optimistic,” Kwak said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, the first thought that enters my head is that she killed someone to get it,” Kwak said. “For all we know, there’s a body lying out there somewhere with bite marks in the neck. Maybe that’s why she’s dead—revenge.”

  THAT WAS EARLIER TODAY. Now, thunder cracked overhead. Teffinger laid down on his back on the bench, in the same position that Cameron Leigh had been found, and pictured the death process. The wooden stake would shatter her ribs and sternum, causing unimaginable pain. Then it would penetrate her heart and immediately stop the functioning of that organ.

  Blood would stop flowing through her body.

  The dying process would be slow.

  Her brain wouldn’t shut down right away.

  Maybe the stake clipped a lung and filled it with blood.

  And maybe it lodged against a nerve.

  What was he—or they—doing the whole time?

  Shinning a flashlight in her eyes?

  Taunting her?

  Now Teffinger knew why he had come here. He needed to go through the dying process with the victim. He needed a calm moment that wasn’t jammed up with the hustle and bustle and the thousand little thoughts that came during a crime scene investigation. He needed an imprint in his mind—and more importantly in his heart—of what had actually happened here, and how horrible it had been.

  Now he had it.

  He sat up.

  Then said, “I promise.”

  And went home.

  Chapter Six

  Day One—April 12

  Tuesday Night

  ______________

  FRENCH WOMEN UNDERSTOOD THEIR SENSUALITY. It was always there, in the way they walked and tossed their hair and parted their sexy little lips. They had an intuitive animalistic underpinning that didn’t exist anywhere else.

  They ran hot.

  They understood lust.

  They weren’t afraid of it.

  Or embarrassed by it.

  Tripp cruised the edgier streets of Paris where the whores walked, pulled up to a petite blond in a short black skirt, and powered down the passenger side glass.

  She leaned in.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked.

  She did.

  Very well, in fact.

  “How long have you been out tonight?”

  “I just started, why?”

  “Where were you beforehand?”

  “Getting ready.”

  “I mean before that.”

  “Sleeping, why?”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I’m your first customer?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m squeaky clean, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rozeen.”

  Tripp smiled.

  Rozeen.

  HE PAID HER UP-FRONT IN CASH for the whole night. She was hungry, so he took her to Le Tambour on rue Montmartre, a chatty place with a vintage transportation-chic style, slatted wooden banquettes and bus stop sign barstools. They ended up in a long room that had a retro city map on the wall.

  “No one’s ever taken me out to eat before,” she said. “On the clock, I mean.”

  Tripp shrugged.

  “Their loss. Tell me about Rozeen,” he said. “Who is this beautiful woman I’m with?”

  She turned out to be an art student, on her own since age seventeen, who lived alone on the west side.

  Tripp liked her.

  He liked her face.

  The way she moved.

  The way she talked.

  “Do you feel like getting crazy?” she asked.

  He did.

  She took him to Rex, a high-energy nightclub on bd Poissonniere. They inhaled drinks and she teased him on the dance floor to pounding music until they were both covered in sweat. Then she took him back to her place—a small apartment without much.

  No WC.

  That was at the end of the hall.

  She gave him the best blowjob of his life.

  Then passed out.

  At dawn, she woke up and crawled on top.

  And stayed there until she came twice.

  Before Tripp left he said, “What time did I pick you up last night?”

  She shrugged.

  “I don’t know, 10:30, maybe.”

  He opened his wallet, pulled out a thousand dollars in American money and handed it to her.

  “Actually, I think we were together since about 7:30, in case anyone ever asks. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She took the money and smiled.

  “Yes, it was 7:30. I remember clearly now.”

  Tripp took a picture of her with his cell phone, programmed her number into the phone’s memory, and called to make sure her phone rang. It did. He promised he’d be back again someday and kissed her goodbye.

  Then headed out the door.

  Chapter Seven

  Day One—April 12

  Tuesday Night

  ______________

  RAVE LIT A JOINT, took a deep drag and passed it to the Jamaican woman sitting next to her on the couch. “Columbian,” Rave said.

  Good stuff.

  Grabbing Rave’s brain almost immediately.

  Highlighting the exotic edges of Billie Holiday’s voice.

  London took a hit and said, “I shouldn’t be doing this. I need to stay sharp.”

  “Right, for the slayers,” Rave said.

  “Let me ask you something,” London said. “Do you have any powers?”

  Rave laughed.

  “You mean vampire powers?”

  London nodded, obviously serious. She wore jeans and an aqua T-shirt that played well against her light-brown skin. The gun sat in her lap. “Right, vampire powers,” she said. “Lots of the descendents have them, watered down of course—way watered down, in fact.”

  “How so?”

  “The most common is a dislike for the sun,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong. Everyone can tolerate the sun. We don’t spontaneously burst into flames or anything like that. But some of us just don’t like the sun.”

  Rave considered it.

  “I like the night better than the day, but that’s probably because I’m a singer and that’s when all my fun happens,” she said.

  “But you don’t mind the sun?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You don’t need to wear sunglasses?”

  Rave shook her head.

  “Not really.”

  “Me either,” London said. “Maybe ‘powers’ is the wrong word—‘symptoms’ might be a better one. How about strength? How would you classify your strength? Were you a track star or gymnast or anything like that?”

  Rave chuckled.

  “No, but ever since I was about three, I’ve been able to turn into a bat and fly. Did I mention that?”

  London punched her in the arm and said, “Come on. I’m serious.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s what scares me.”

  Lightning exploded
outside.

  Immediately followed by the slap of thunder.

  Rave took a deep drag on the joint and said, “I’m not a vampire. I don’t have any powers or symptoms or whatever you call them. I’m just a normal person.”

  London studied her and said, “I wouldn’t say that. Look at you. You’re stunning.”

  Rave chuckled, waved the fire tip and said, “No more of this for you.”

  She had never thought of herself in terms of stunning, but had to admit that she had a sexy, sultry face and a nice, solid body. Thick blond hair cascaded down her back—a pain to wash and keep untangled, but worth it. Her manager, Tim Pepper, called her a “man-melter.”

  London asked, “Have you ever come back from the dead?”

  The words shocked Rave.

  Not because of the question.

  But because of the answer.

  “THAT’S A STRANGE QUESTION because there actually was an incident when I was small,” she said. “God, I haven’t thought about it in years. When I was about eight, living in Florida, a hurricane blew in one night. Afterwards, in the morning, after everything calmed down and we were all outside checking out the damage, I waded into a ditch that was filled with water. It turned out that a high voltage line had come down into it. I immediately stiffened and fell. Everyone in my family said I died. They said I wasn’t breathing and my pulse wasn’t beating and that they had actually gotten to the point where they had given up trying to save me. Then all of a sudden I opened my eyes and stood up.”

  The joint was short and about to burn her fingertips.

  She mashed the tip in an ashtray.

  “Freaky,” London said.

  “Like I said, I don’t remember it,” Rave said. “It could be that I just got knocked out for a while and everyone overreacted.” She chuckled. “It was just one of those things. Trust me, it’s not because I have any latent vampire powers.”

  London retreated in thought.

  Then she put the gun in Rave’s hands.

  “Have you ever fired one of these before?” she asked.

  “No, are you crazy?”

  “This is the safety, right here,” London said. “You got to flick it like this to get it off.”

  They listened to music and chatted for a long time.

  Then the buzz of the wine and pot wore off and their eyelids got heavy. Rave left London to sleep on the couch. Then she staggered into the bedroom, closed the door and flopped onto the mattress without even taking her clothes off.

  The world went away.

  AT SOME POINT LATER—it could have been ten minutes or three hours—something pulled her out of a deep sleep.

  A noise.

  The storm?

  She let herself wake up just enough to study it.

  Yes—the storm.

  Beating on the roof and windows.

  She rolled to her other side and was almost out when a crash came from the living room, something like a lamp falling. She opened her eyes and held her breath.

  There!

  Again!

  Something was happening in the other room.

  She ran to the door and opened it. Two black shapes were in a desperate struggle on the floor. She flipped the wall switch. The room burst into light. London’s face was wild and covered in blood. The other person was a white man with a shaved head and lots of tattoos. Blood poured from his nose.

  Rave stood there.

  Frozen.

  Then the man sprang up and charged her.

  She knew she should move.

  Run.

  Do something.

  But she didn’t.

  The man’s fist swung and caught her on the side of the face. Her left eye exploded in pain and closed shut. Then more hurt came, from her abdomen—so severe that vomit shot into her mouth. She doubled up and dropped to the ground.

  London hit the man in the back and he swung around.

  He punched her in the face.

  And she fell to the ground.

  It was then that Rave spotted the gun on the floor not more than two feet away. She suddenly had it in her hand, a cold steel object. She wrapped her fingers around the grip and got her index finger on the trigger.

  Then she stood up and pointed it at the man.

  He didn’t notice.

  And when he finally did, he froze. Then he got up slowly and said, “Give that to me.”

  Rave suddenly remembered the safety.

  And flicked it off.

  “Stay back!”

  Then something caught her eye—a wooden stake and a wooden mallet, lying on the floor near the edge of the couch. When she focused back on the skinhead, he was a step closer.

  “Stay back I said!”

  Suddenly the man lunged.

  And Rave pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Eight

  Day Two—April 13

  Wednesday Morning

  ______________

  WEDNESDAY MORNING, Teffinger pulled himself out of bed before dawn, popped in his contacts, and jogged three miles up and down the Green Mountain streets through a black chilly rain. The storm fingered its way into his clothes and into his eyes. As soon as he got home it stopped, naturally, because that’s the way his life worked. He showered, dressed, and ate a bowl of cereal in the Tundra as he cruised east on the 6th Avenue freeway to headquarters.

  The sun broke over the horizon and hung there as Teffinger came up on Wadsworth, blinding him as best it could.

  He didn’t care.

  The Denver motor-heads were already making their maniac moves.

  He didn’t care.

  He punched the radio buttons and couldn’t get a song to save his life.

  He didn’t care.

  This morning he would search Cameron Leigh’s house.

  And get some answers.

  BEING THE FIRST ONE TO WORK, as usual, he kick-started the coffee machine and then called Dr. Leigh Sandt, the FBI profiler from Quantico, Virginia, while the pot gurgled. She answered on the second ring. He pulled up an image of a classy woman, about fifty, with the best legs on the planet.

  “Hey, it’s me,” he said. “I got something bizarre. Someone pounded a wooden stake into a young woman’s heart, as if she was a vampire. Have you heard of anything like that happening anywhere else?”

  A pause.

  “Who is this?”

  He grunted.

  “Not funny,” he said.

  “What is it about that Rocky Mountain air? You get the most bizarre stuff out there, I swear.”

  “No disagreement,” he said. “So do vampires ring any bells or what?”

  No.

  Not even close.

  But she’d check around and get back to him.

  “How are the women treating you?” she asked.

  He grunted.

  “They aren’t.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m in a dry spell like you can’t believe.”

  “You?”

  “Think Sahara,” he said. “Even the dogs in my neighborhood are scared to walk the streets alone.” He paused and when she didn’t say anything he added, “You’re actually pulling up a visual.”

  “Yes I am and it isn’t pretty.”

  SYDNEY WALKED INTO THE ROOM at 7:00, nicely dressed in a white pantsuit, wearing a sleepy, pre-caffeine face. She saw one cup of coffee left in the pot and headed straight for it, as if Teffinger would grab it if she let him get half a step.

  Teffinger stayed in his chair and said, “I saved that for you.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Then sprinkled creamer into a disposable cup, drained what was left in the pot on top and took a long noisy slurp.

  Ah.

  Good stuff.

  “So what’s the plan?” she asked.

  “I’m heading over to Cameron Leigh’s house,” he said. “You want to come?”

  She chuckled.

  “Let me put it this way,” she said. “Anyone who carries human blood around in
their purse has my attention.”

  “So you heard?”

  “Everyone heard.”

  “That reminds me,” he said. “Sometime today, I need you to get in touch with the hospitals and see if any of their red stuff has turned up missing.”

  They made a fresh pot of coffee.

  Filled a thermos.

  And headed out.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, they arrived at the victim’s house, which turned out to be a 50-year-old brick box on Race Street, with no driveway or garage. Teffinger circled the area for five minutes before finally finding a street slot big enough for the Tundra, two blocks over.

  He felt good.

  The coffee had entered his bloodstream.

  The few clouds remaining from this morning’s rain were already burning off.

  They entered the house using a copy of the key obtained from Cameron Leigh’s purse. When they opened the front door, a solid-white cat trotted over and rubbed against Teffinger’s leg.

  He picked it up.

  And couldn’t believe what he saw.

  The animal had one blue eye and one green one.

  Just like him.

  Sydney noticed it and said, “This is too freaky. It’s like a little, furry you.”

  Teffinger put the animal in her hands.

  Not amused.

  And headed for the refrigerator.

  “No blood in here,” he said.

  “Check the freezer.”

  He did.

  None there either.

  Nor were there any plastic bags in the kitchen trash. “There’s no evidence that our mystery blood came from a hospital,” he said.

  “You still want me to call around?”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, it’s too important not to.”

  Ten seconds later she said, “Hey, over here.”

  She was standing at the living room wall to the right of the fireplace, a wall crammed with books, hundreds of them, on sagging wooden shelves dubiously stretched between cinder blocks.

  “The mother lode,” Sydney said.

  Teffinger scanned the spines.

  “Vampire books,” he said.

  “That’s an understatement,” she said. “I mean, look at all these things. I had no idea they even had books about vampires, much less billions of them.”