Tuco pulled Aunt Cecilia away. “Come, Aunt, call the doctor to pronounce Grandmother dead.”
The old lady stared at Tuco in horror. “Brujo, witch! What are you?”
“In truth, Aunt, we don’t know yet. Apparently, this was a gift from our true father.”
He picked a large book bound in black leather out of the trunk. On the cover, a panther was outlined in faded gold with painted green eyes. The words Sangue Cacadore were drawn in gold calligraphy on the front. It was closed with a silver lock.
Rickie pulled a key out of a velvet bag he found inside a small inlaid box at the bottom of the trunk. “This looks like it might open it.”
“We must study all that was left to us to truly understand what we are and what we’re meant to do, Aunt. Our father wanted us to understand our animal selves and give us a purpose. Until we read what he’s said, how can we know who we are and what we’ve become?”
Chapter 5
Targ watched Jax walk to his desk. His new partner hesitated for one second as he passed Martha’s empty desk and then went on to his own. The tall blond man followed.
Erikson stayed a discreet distance behind. Al Fairfeather disturbed him in some deep, strange way. He had an odor that Targ would never forget or mistake; pine and vanilla cupcakes with a hint of citrus. It wafted around him like a cloud and made you want to stay close to him so you could inhale it. For this very reason, Erikson lagged behind. He’d never wanted to sniff around a man before in his life.
When they reached Jax’s desk, a leviathan of metal surrounded by file cabinets, the two men stopped and Erikson was forced to close in. Fairfeather’s overpowering scent made him feel giddy. He fought to overcome the attraction. It was freaking unnatural.
Jax opened the top drawer of the closest cabinet and pulled a packed accordion file out of the front. He opened it and began laying out the pictures. Erikson leaned forward. He’d seen most of the photos but the cases themselves had all occurred when Martha was with Jax so he hadn’t been to the actual crime scenes.
The color photos had been taken by the unit’s digital camera. They were clear and each body had multiple pictures from all angles. Jax sorted out the ones of the chests with their strange markings and laid them in chronological order for Fairfeather to examine. Erikson grabbed a yellow legal pad to write down what Fairfeather said.
There were three symbols carved into the chests of the victims just as with the last one Erikson had seen. Fairfeather pointed to the first DB in the series. “This symbol is the Mayan number one. The next symbol on his chest looks like Hun Came, One Death. I can’t tell you what the third symbol is; it’s way too messy.” Erikson wrote down what Fairfeather said.
He pointed to the second photo. “Beyond the obvious number two I have no idea.”
He moved down the row of pictures. All he could name on three was the number. On the fifth photo he stopped. “This is a weird one. Number-five here,” he pointed. “This glyph is for the jaundiced demon, Ahalgana; another guardian of the underworld.” He stood up. “You know, these pictographs seem to be showing that the killer is focusing on one thing, the rulers of Xibalba. At least the ones I can identify are the gods of the underworld. Maybe your killer is Mayan and maybe he’s trying to appease the gods who rule the underworld so he can get by them and into heaven.”
“But you’re not sure,” Jax said.
“Nope. I can only make an educated guess based on…” He paused and glanced at Erikson. Their eyes met and a spark of excitement leaped into Erikson’s chest. Targ looked away embarrassed by his reaction. “…based on the mutilation of the bodies,” Fairfeather continued, “and the glyphs I can decipher.”
When Targ was able to tear his gaze away from Fairfeather, he glanced at Jax who was slipping the photos back into the file.
“Al thinks we need to call in an expert on Mayan language and history,” Jax said.
Fairfeather wrote a name down on a slip of paper and handed it to Erikson. “This guy is the best. He’ll know what all this means. “He’s a professor at the University of Guatemala.”
Erickson looked at Jax and lifted an eyebrow. “Can the division afford him?”
“He’s the man who can most likely make sense of the mess carved into these men’s chests,” Fairfeather said.
“Then Captain Martin will have to bite the bullet and pay for him.” Erikson went to his desk as Jax walked Fairfeather out of the building. The name Fairfeather had written on the piece of paper was Tuco Valdavar. After several phone calls, Valdavar’s office gave him a cell phone number and he called it. There was no answer, so he left an extensive message and two callback numbers.
Jax strolled down the aisle between the desks and threw himself into his chair. He concentrated on his computer for a few minutes. While Targ sat in the seat next to the desk and waited, he thought about his sister, Pia. He’d always called her Pod. She’d been such a cute little kid. He wished there was some way to help her. She seemed to need help. She’d just graduated high school, was having a hard time finding a job and didn’t have the grades to get into U-Dub, the University of Washington.
But it was no wonder she couldn’t find a job. Who would hire her? Her hair was currently bright blue, she wore pounds of black eye make-up, couldn’t weigh more than ninety-five pounds—and she was five-foot-ten. She walked with a perpetual slouch because she’d always been acutely embarrassed about her height. Something male children longed for was often a burden to girls. And she never smiled.
When Jax lifted his head from the computer, he rested his elbows on his desk calendar. “I think we need to change tactics,” he told Targ.
“What’re you thinkin’?”
“I’m thinkin’ we need to troll the gay bars for a couple of nights and see what crawls out of the woodwork. I mean this guy has got to stick out if he’s Mayan. Most Mayans are short, have dark skin, dark hair and that Pacal profile.”
“What’s a Pacal profile?”
“Pacal was a famous Mayan ruler. Beaky nose, sloping forehead, pointy head, receding chin.” He fiddled with his computer and rolled his chair out of the way so Targ could look.
The pictures on the screen were exactly as Jax had described. An Indian with his hair pulled into a topknot decorated with feathers, snakes and all kinds of strange stuff was depicted facing right so all you saw was the left side of his face. There were other renderings and all showed only the left profile.
“Half the men in Guatemala today look like this guy. He must have been real busy,” Jax said. “But since this is Seattle, a Pacal-looking guy should stand out. We just need to be in the right place at the right time.”
Targ’s desk phone rang and he dived to answer it. “Erikson here.” He covered the phone with his hand. “It’s some guy from U-Dub named Herman Krouze. Says the captain called him about the symbols. We got the body still?” Jax nodded and Erickson returned to his conversation with the guy on the phone. “Yes, it’s still in the morgue. You say the captain told you to come look at it?”
“Yes, Mr. Erikson. Your captain told me I would be interested in the symbols carved into the vic’s chest. He emailed me a photo. The quality was not so good but from what I can discern, the carvings represent numbers and the symbol for Mayan hell, Xibalba. The glyph in the middle is above my ability to translate. I would need one of the codexes found in Germany and I don’t have access at this time. How many bodies have you found so far?”
“Eight.”
“You have to stop him.”
“We’re doing our best. Is the guy dangerous to those around him? I mean, is he armed? Will he have a gun and shoot us if we try to arrest him?”
Herman Krouze cleared his throat noisily. “He is dangerous, and I cannot say whether he will have modern weapons on his person. I can say the carvings in the victims’ chests were all done with some kind of stone sacrificial knife. It may be an actual Mayan knife or it could be a reproduction. Who can say? This is the reason for so much damage
to the surrounding tissue and the crudity of the symbols. You will need to find a true expert in the Mayan written language to decipher the middle symbols and I believe they are of utmost importance in understanding the motive of your killer.”
When Erikson hung up, he filled Jax in on the details of the conversation.
“So this guy is toting a stone knife?”
“That’s what Krouze said.”
“We’re gonna have to get in touch with the doctor in Guatemala and he’ll probably have to fly in. Martin’s just gonna have to authorizie the expense. Go home,” Jax added. “Get some rest and I’ll meet you here around eight.”
Targ nodded and headed for his Jeep while Jax stayed in the office to work on the mountains of paperwork this case had already generated. He drove home to Everett where he found Pod in the small room off the dining area they’d turned into an office, hunched over the computer. She spent a lot of time there.
They lived in an older home on Maple Street in downtown Everett left to them by their parents when the couple died in a fiery, eight-car crash on I-5. The house was constantly in need of repairs which Targ did himself. It was rewarding to rip out the old cabinets in the kitchen and put in new ones. He’d added an island covered with black granite and redone the floors in laminate. He thought it looked good. He’d also repainted the house, put on a new roof and rebuilt two of the outbuildings.
“Find anything good today?” he asked his sister.
“The only jobs in town are Mc-jobs. I told you I don’t want to work at McDonalds. I’m thinking about applying to Everett Community College. My grades weren’t that bad. I can go during the day and maybe get a job as a waitress at night.”
“If you go to school, Pod, you don’t have to work. I just don’t want you moping around the house all day and then going out with those weirdo friends of yours at night.”
She leaped to her feet and snarled. “They aren’t weirdoes. They’re like me. Does that mean you think I’m a weirdo?” Then she burst into wracking sobs.
Targ grabbed her arm and tried to embrace her. She was like a mannequin, stiff and unyielding. “Pod,” he said as he lifted her chin. “I don’t think you’re a weirdo.” He held her out in front of him. “But you gotta admit, blue hair is different.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, a child-like gesture that made her appear vulnerable and young. “I like my hair. Doreen dyed hers pink. It looks ghastly, especially with her skin color.”
Targ had no idea what to say to that. Pod relaxed in his arms and he kissed the top of her shiny blue head. “It is a lovely shade of blue. What do you want for dinner? I have to go out later.”
“Let’s eat Chinese. Where you going?”
“It’s an assignment. We’ll be in Capital Hill all night.”
“That’s so cool. I’d love to hang out there.”
Targ stiffened. “Over my dead body.”
“But Targ, there are so many cool clubs there. And a lot of Goths hang on the hill.”
“There’s also a vicious murderer hanging out on the hill. That’s why we’re going. Promise me you won’t go.”
She pouted. “Oh, you know I won’t. It’s too far from the house and you never let me use the Jeep.”
Targ closed his eyes as he thought about Pia driving. She was the worst driver in Washington State. Her mind could not concentrate on one thing at a time. “So, what are you thinking of studying in school?”
“Criminal Justice. I want to be a cop just like you.”
Chapter 6
Chan Balam stepped back and examined himself in the mirror. He posed with his chest thrown out. Across its broad expanse was an ancient tattoo inked on him by using sea urchin spines to inject the ink into the sketched design. Then the ink, now under the skin, was tapped into place with a small adze. The ink was made from soot mixed with water. The glyph on his chest was of the vision serpent. Its coiled tail curled around his navel and the human-head’s topknot ended under his chin.
The muscles of his flat stomach were sharply defined. His waist was small and his hips narrow. He was tall for a Mayan, almost six feet. When he flexed his biceps, the bands of tattooing expanded. Around each shoulder, circular bands wrapped the bulge of muscle.
With his chin lifted, he examined his face. It was a strong face with the nose of his ancestors. He had large, dark eyes, arched brows and thick, black hair pulled back from a sharp widow’s peak. He knew he was handsome. He never had trouble attracting the men of his choice. Even without using his ability to glamour a subject, young men were always willing to come home with him. He grinned and his fangs snapped into place. They were over an inch in length, showing his advanced age.
A black, cashmere turtleneck over his head and a black jacket made of fine wool showed off his dark skin. The climate of Seattle was cool and comfortable to him as he was vampire. But centuries of living in the tropics had acclimated him to warmer climes. He missed the steamy heat of the jungles of Guatemala where clothing was unnecessary. Tailored slacks with a knife-edge crease and Italian loafers completed his outfit.
He left his home on the lake, climbed into his black Jaguar, and drove towards Capitol Hill. He needed to find the were panther. He’d been looking for two months and hadn’t had any hits. When he met with some of his contemporaries, other vampires, in a bar on the waterfront, he’d been given a good clue and he intended to pursue it.
His first stop was the bar where he’d found his most recent sacrifice. He parked and walked the alley sniffing. A sudden odor stopped him in his tracks. The questions he’d asked among Seattle’s vampires had proven profitable; the rumors he’d heard were right. There was a policeman here who smelled of shifter. The vampires had told him one of the Washington Patrol members was a were-creature. Could it be his panther?
He knelt beside the trash receptacle. This was where he’d left his last sacrifice after finishing him. The unmistakable scent of a were was overpowering. Balam grinned. His last sacrifice should be a black jaguar in a human body, but a panther would most certainly be acceptable.
When he entered the bar, the first male who drew his attention was a tall blond. The man was beautiful and Balam was attracted to him. He stood alone, looking lost and uncertain. Balam smiled. Perfect. He loved the vulnerable and lost. They were low-hanging fruit; easy pickings.
He bought an apple-tini. The sharp vodka with hints of fruit made for one of his favorite drinks. He held it in an elegant, long-fingered hand, sipping daintily as he walked slowly toward the blond. The background music of this bar was Latin, which was one of the reasons he liked it. Rickie Martin’s Living La Vida Loca was the current offering and several couples were gyrating wildly while one couple slow-danced in the corner.
He skirted the dance floor and zoomed in on his target. The man was almost a foot taller than him. Balam pretended to bump into him and immediately scented a shifter on him and the odor of big cat swirled through the shifter scent, tantalizing Balam. This man and a big cat shifter of some kind were friends or he’d hung around him recently. The gods were smiling on him and his effort to enter heaven. They’d delivered the one thing he desired and needed to complete the ritual.
When he bumped into him, the tall man’s drink spilled and he looked down at Balam with a startled expression on his face as though his thoughts had been miles away.
“I am so sorry. I did not mean to jar you. May I replace your spilled drink?”
“No…uh, I mean yeah. That would be great.”
Balam lifted one perfect brow.
“I, ah, I was drinking a screwdriver, trying to get some vitamin C with the booze.” He laughed awkwardly and Balam was charmed.
He ordered his new friend a replacement and handed it to him. “My name is Balam,” he said over the lip of his drink.
The big man held out one hand. Balam took it in his and squeezed the man’s long fingers. “Targ Erikson.”
“So, Mr. Targ Erikson, where have you been all my
life?”
Erikson’s horrified expression was adorable. He was obviously straight, probably a cop out trolling the bars in Capitol Hill for the murderer—which would be him. The scent of the feline shifter was all over him. Could his shifter be this Erikson’s partner? It had to be someone who was close to him; maybe a lover. Balam laid one hand gently on Erikson’s arm. “Have I startled you? Please, don’t be frightened. Are you still in the closet? Maybe sneaking out on a wife or girlfriend?”
Erikson nodded and Balam struggled to hide his mirth. You shouldn’t go looking for something if you have no desire to find it. “Which is it? Still in the closet or sneaking out?”
The tall blond rubbed his buzzed blond hair with the flat of his hand and gulped. Balam was in love. “No girlfriend, just hanging out…kind of.”
Balam finished his drink and ordered another for both of them. Erikson was so tongue-tied, conversation was limited. Balam tried the weather, sports and then politics with zero results. Erikson just grunted.
“Do you live alone?” he asked.
Erikson shook his head. “No, I have a sister who lives with me.”
“No parents?”
“They’re dead.”
“My parents, too, are deceased,” Balam said. “Was it sudden?”
“Car wreck,” Erikson answered as he gulped down the last of his drink.
“Would you like to come back to my home with me?” Balam held Erikson’s ice-gray eyes with his own dark gaze. He wanted this man in his power. He wanted to fuck him in the worst way as well. The man’s body looked rock hard under his form-fitting sweater, and from the bulge in his jeans there was a sizeable sausage hiding there, so he began working his magic. Apparently, conversation was not going to get him anywhere, he might as well cut to the chase.
Targ Erikson’s eyes glazed over for a second and then the big man snapped back into focus. “What?”
Balam lowered his voice an octave and whispered. “I want to take you home with me.”
The Virgin Vampire Page 3