Over time, through the incredible digging and persistence of Trent Tripp, they uncovered more victims of the vampires.
—Kennedy Pinehurst, a radio personality from Chicago.
—Samantha Stevens, a New York socialite.
—Tristan Knox, a Los Angeles model.
—Destiny Moon, the lead singer of a female rock group called Le Femme, out of Seattle.
A pattern emerged.
The targets were always women of stature, fame, fortune or money—important women, strong women, the kinds of women who got their names and faces on billboards, TVs and radios. In each case, the woman was kept alive for a number of days, probably so that her blood could be sucked or drained over a period of time.
VANDEVENTER, ABBOTT AND TRIPP MET to refine their goals. It wasn’t their plan to randomly kill or slay anyone or everyone who might be a member of the vampire group. In fact, they only knew of two persons who were conclusively involved, namely their two target men.
Their goal was to find out the identity of these two men.
And kill them.
If they discovered other vampires along the way who were implicated in the slaying of women, then the three of them would meet and discuss what to do before proceeding. That situation, however, had not materialized to date.
VANDEVENTER ACTUALLY THOUGHT HE SAW one of the two targets once—the one who looked like Indiana Jones—in San Francisco. He followed the man north of the city and saw that he slowed near an ocean estate. VanDeventer did the same, to see what the man had been looking at. He spotted surveillance cameras at the gate. Later that day he discovered that the house belonged to Barbara Rocker, the daughter of a wealthy man from San Francisco.
VanDeventer realized that she was a likely target.
And that the surveillance cameras had probably picked him up.
So he made an appointment with a realtor named Jim Hansen who had a couple of houses listed for sale on that same road. That way, if Barbara Rocker did in fact disappear, and if her surveillance cameras recorded VanDeventer’s car in the vicinity, then VanDeventer would at least have an excuse for being in the area.
Twice.
Good thing, too.
Barbara Rocker did in fact turn out to be another victim.
VanDeventer got questioned by some incredibly stupid detective by the name of Mark Yorke. During that interrogation, VanDeventer asked his own questions, to see if he could find something out to help his own cause
But the detective knew nothing.
Unfortunately, VanDeventer never got a license plate number for Indiana Jones’ car.
The trail died.
THEN THEY CAUGHT A BREAK. Trent Tripp did some work to figure out who was tapping into ancient documents that might lead to information about vampires and their bloodline descendents.
The name of a woman named Suzanne Wheeler came up.
A woman from Montreal, Canada.
Tripp flew there, broke into her place and snooped around.
Unfortunately, the woman came home unexpectedly.
Tripp scurried out the back door.
He didn’t know if she spotted him or not.
When he told VanDeventer and Abbott that he was pretty sure that Wheeler was the genealogist working for the vampires, they gave him authority to break in a second time and extract anything that would tell them who their two targets were.
Tripp broke in again.
He found three files.
Diamanda.
Cameron Leigh.
And Rave Lafelle.
VANDEVENTER DISPATCHED TRIPP TO PARIS. Tripp’s assignment was to see if he could get the names of the two target men from the Paris vampire, Diamanda. The theory was that each vampire knew who the other ones were. Unfortunately, Tripp got attacked by the vampire and her bodyguard and ended up with no choice but to defend himself. He was able to grab the vampire’s laptop before he escaped, and brought it back to the U.S. VanDeventer cracked it, but found no information of relevance inside.
Meanwhile, Abbott went to Denver, to see what information he could get out of one or both of the other vampires.
He disappeared.
One of the vampires, Cameron Leigh, turned up dead with a wooden stake through her chest. In his heart, VanDeventer knew that Abbott didn’t do it.
Abbott wasn’t that kind of man.
When Abbott disappeared, VanDeventer and Tripp flew to Denver to find out what had happened, and to get whatever information they could from Rave Lafelle.
So far however, she had been a tough nut to crack.
She set up a trap for Trent Tripp when VanDeventer had to return to Johannesburg. One of the two targets, namely the Indiana Jones man, even came to Denver to help her.
But that little plan backfired on her.
She ended up shooting Indiana Jones.
Trent Tripp then dumped the man’s body by the railroad tracks, and pounded a stake in his heart to send a message. At that point, they knew his name—Forrest Jones. VanDeventer wired a nice bonus to Tripp’s bank as a showing of appreciation for getting one of the two targets.
That left one to go.
VanDeventer then flew to Ohio and broke into Forrest Jones’ house to see if he could get information as to the identity of the second target. Unfortunately, VanDeventer got interrupted by a female detective and had to punch her in the nose. That resulted in the police believing that he was associated with Forrest Jones’ murder, which in turn resulted in his composite sketch being broadcast all over the Denver news.
And a warrant for his arrest.
NOW TRIPP WAS IN TROUBLE. VanDeventer would meet him at the parking lot at 20th and Broadway at nine tonight and get him out of Denver.
He leaned back in the seat and drained the last of the Bud Light from the can. His name wasn’t Jake VanDeventer today; it was Ronald Ringer, thanks to the handiwork of Lefty. He wore an expensive suit, a red silk tie and leather wingtips. His hair was black now, and matched glasses that were fitted with non-corrective lenses. Even his friends wouldn’t recognize him.
He closed his eyes.
And pulled up an image of Sophia.
Smiling.
Happy.
Getting on her red scooter.
Waving over her shoulder as she headed down the cobblestone driveway.
“We’re half done,” he whispered.
Chapter 103
Day Eight—April 19
Tuesday Evening
______________
RAVE WAS CLEANING BLOOD off the carpet in her bedroom when her cell phone beeped, indicating she had a voice message.
She retrieved it.
“This message is for Rave Lafelle,” a woman’s voice said. “This is Suzanne Wheeler from Montreal, Canada. You called me earlier. My conscience has been bothering me and I can’t stay quiet any longer. Someone broke into my house a while back. I saw a man running out the back. I told Parker about it. He thought it was probably a slayer, looking for information on vampires. He said they’d probably be back and told me to leave three files where they could find them. One on Cameron Leigh, one on a French model named Diamanda, and one on you. The first two were legitimate files. They were work that I was actually doing. I didn’t have a file on you, however. To my knowledge, you have no vampire ancestry. Parker told me to make up a file with your name on it. I asked him why. He said he was going to use you as bait to draw the slayers in. I did it. I shouldn’t have, I admit that. I’m done with Parker and all this mess. I’m glad you’re still alive and can only pray that you stay that way. Please forgive me if you can.”
Rave called London into the room.
And handed the phone to her.
“Listen to this message,” she said.
Chapter 104
Day Eight—April 19
Tuesday Evening
______________
TEFFINGER WAS AT HEADQUARTERS, frantic, pacing, wired on caffeine, when London called. Before she could say anything, he said, “London
, please don’t think I’m rude, but I don’t have a spare minute to my life right now.”
“I’m downstairs in the lobby,” she said. “Come down and see me.”
“London—”
“Just do it!” she said.
“I really don’t have time—”
“It’s about the case.”
“Jena Vellone?”
“Yes,” she said. “And Geneva Vellone, too. Come alone.”
Come alone?
What the hell did that mean?
Teffinger bounded down the stairwell, two steps at a time. He spotted London in the lobby and she pulled him outside where they could talk in private. Rain fell out of a twilight sky. The streetlights would kick on in fifteen minutes.
London had been crying.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
She grabbed his hands.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“I love you too,” she said. “I’m going to tell you something but you have to promise never to use it against me or Rave Lafelle.”
He studied her.
She was serious.
“Okay,” he said.
“You promise?”
“I do.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story later,” she said. “But here’s what you need to know right now. Trent Tripp is the one who took Geneva Vellone. And Forrest Jones is the one who took Jena Vellone.”
The words were so unexpected that Teffinger laughed. Forrest Jones was the man they found by the railroad tracks with a wooden stake in his heart.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“I’ll tell you everything later,” she said. “But trust me; those two things are absolutely true.”
Teffinger looked for lies.
And found none.
“Forrest Jones has been dead for days,” he said.
“I know.”
He turned and said over his shoulder, “I’ll talk to you later.”
“I just found out,” she shouted. “Don’t hate me.”
He stopped.
And looked back.
“Are you absolutely sure about this? Before I make a fool out of myself—”
“I’m absolutely positive. Trust me.”
TEFFINGER RAN UP THE STAIRS TWO AT A TIME. He must have looked like an out-of-breath maniac when he ran into the room because ten pairs of eyes focused on him and didn’t look away. He spotted Katie Baxter and said, “Trent Tripp is the one who took Geneva Vellone this afternoon.”
She looked dumbfounded.
“How do you know that?”
“I just do,” he said. “Follow the route of his cell phone this afternoon. Search every abandoned building within fifty yards of where he was.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He looked around the room. “I want everyone in here to help her,” he said. “No one goes off duty until we find her. I don’t care if we work for two days straight.” Back to Baxter, “Concentrate on his locations an hour or so after I left Geneva’s place—I left at 1:30, so see where he was about 2:30. Wherever he took her, he probably took her straight there.”
He pointed to Sydney and said, “I need you to come with me.”
THEY SQUEALED TO THE 6TH AVENUE FREEWAY and headed west. Teffinger brought the 4Runner up to eighty and said, “Forrest Jones is the one who took Jena Vellone.”
“Forrest Jones? You mean the dead guy by the railroad tracks?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he said.
“He’s been dead for days,” she added.
“I know.”
“So where are we going, exactly?”
“Idaho Springs.”
“What’s in Idaho Springs?”
“Jena Vellone, if my gut is right.”
THEN HE TOLD HER ABOUT THE PHONE CALL he received a couple of days ago.
The display said Private Number and Teffinger didn’t recognize the man’s voice.
“There’s a guy who got killed who’s all over the news,” the man said. “He’s the guy who got a stake pounded in his heart, like he was a vampire or something. The one they found down by the railroad tracks—”
“Forrest Jones,” Teffinger said.
“That’s the guy,” the man said. “Anyway, I don’t know if this means anything or not, but I live up in Idaho Springs and I have a cabin advertised for rent. This guy who ended up dead called me up about it, wanting to see it. We went up there to see it but he didn’t like it for some reason and never did rent it.”
“Okay.”
“Like I said, I don’t know if it means anything or not, but I just thought I’d call because I ended up talking to someone who got killed,” the man said. “Nothing like that ever happened to me before.”
“I understand,” Teffinger said.
Suddenly his other line rang.
“Hold on,” he said, and then switched lines.
It turned out to be a wrong number.
He punched back to the first line but the man wasn’t there. Then Teffinger realized why—he hit the wrong button and cut him off.
“I DIDN’T THINK ANYTHING OF IT AT THE TIME,” Teffinger said. “But now that I know that Forrest Jones is the one who took Jena, it makes sense. He must have been in Idaho Springs looking for a cabin to keep her in. He didn’t end up renting the one of the guy who called me, probably because it was too close to another one. But if my gut’s right, he didn’t stop at that point. He called someone else and eventually rented a place. That’s where Jena is right now.”
Sydney shifted in her seat.
And got excited.
“If that’s true, she’s been abandoned for a long time.”
“I know,” Teffinger said. “That’s why we can’t mess around with search warrants.”
Idaho Springs was an old mining town 35 miles west of Denver, in the thick of the Rocky Mountains. The interstate cut through it. Sydney worked the phone on the way and got the name of a realtor by the name of Theodore Brown. She called and explained the situation. He was more than willing to help.
They met him at the base of the first exit off I-70 into town.
He turned out to be an energetic, academic-looking man in his early thirties with brown glasses. As soon as they all shook hands and introduced themselves, Brown got down to business.
“There are twenty-two cabins listed for rent in the surrounding area,” he said. “I’ve already called fifteen of them and spoke to the owners. All of them are still vacant, except for one. I wasn’t able to get through to the other seven owners.”
Teffinger scratched his head.
“Okay,” he said. “Our man tried to rent something the first time. No doubt because he thought that just breaking into some place and squatting would be too dangerous. He needed a controlled environment. So I’m thinking that he stayed with his plan and actually rented something. So what I want to do is concentrate on the seven places where you couldn’t get a hold of the owner.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t see an alternative but to physically drive out to each one,” he said. “Do you know the roads around here?”
“Like the back of my hand,” Brown said.
“Let’s start with the closest one.”
Teffinger drove like a maniac through a thick thunderstorm but neither of his passengers complained. When they got to the first cabin, the windows were dark. They hopped out of the 4Runner and approached, leaving the headlights on the structure. The front door was locked. Teffinger looked around, found a stick the size of a baseball bat, and bashed in the front window. He muscled in and then opened the door.
The place had no public electricity.
They didn’t have time to find the generator and start it.
So they searched as good as they could, using the little light that reflected into the structure from the 4Runner through the rain.
They called.
No one answer.
“She’s not here,” Teffinger said. “Let’s go!”
THEY FISHTAILED down pitch-black muddy mountain roads until they got to the next place.
Teffinger grabbed the stick from the backseat and smashed the front window without even checking the doorknob.
They entered.
The place was empty.
They repeated that scenario four more times.
No Jena.
“Damn it,” Teffinger said. “We’re down to one.”
He stepped on the gas but drove with trepidation. If they didn’t find her at this last place, he didn’t know what to do.
When they arrived, the place was dark.
Teffinger smashed the window.
They entered.
And searched.
Jena Vellone wasn’t there.
They searched again.
Every inch.
She definitely wasn’t there.
They got back in the vehicle.
No one spoke.
Teffinger exhaled and turned the SUV around.
“HEY, WAIT,” SYDNEY SAID.
Teffinger put his foot on the brake.
“What?”
“There’s a storage shed or something back there, behind the house.”
They checked it.
And found Jena Vellone inside.
Curled up in a fetal position.
Unconscious.
Chained by an ankle.
Teffinger shook her but got no response.
“Jena!”
No response.
No movement.
“See if she has a pulse,” Sydney said.
Teffinger checked.
She did.
Faint.
But there.
“See if your cell gets a signal up here,” he said. “We need a flight-for-life; and something to cut this chain off.”
Sydney ran to the 4Runner.
“No signal,” she said.
“Go down to town and call,” he said. “I’m going to stay with her.”
THE 4RUNNER FIRED UP and the back tires threw mud. Within moments the sound of the engine disappeared. Teffinger took off his clothes, down to his boxers, and covered Jena. Then he wrapped his arms and legs around her and gave her his warmth.
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