by J.R. Rain
I dialed the number from my hotel phone, which should be untraceable. I waited, discovered that my heartbeat had increased. I was calling the true killer, I was sure of it. In fact, I felt more than sure. I just knew.
The line picked up.
A generic voice mail message. I hung up. Maybe I should have left a nasty little message. Then again, I didn’t want to scare the killer away, as ironic as that sounds.
Instead, I flipped open my address book and called my ex-partner, Chad Helling. He didn’t answer. Typical. I left Chad a voice mail message asking for a trace on the cell number. Once done, I stepped back to the window, pulled aside the curtain and continued staring down at the city.
61.
An hour later, still at the window, my cell rang.
The name that popped up on the LCD screen said it was Sara Benson, Kingsley’s receptionist. “Mr. Kingsley Fulcrum requests a meeting tonight at the Downtown Grill in Fullerton at ten thirty.”
“Oh, really?” I said, rolling my eyes. “And why doesn’t Mr. Kingsley Fulcrum call me himself?” I emphasized Kingsley Fulcrum. I mean, who has their secretary set up dates for them? Not only was I falling for a werewolf, I was falling for a werewolf with a massive ego.
“He’s in a meeting at the moment.”
I checked my watch. Geez, defense attorneys kept weird hours. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.
“Fine,” I said. “Tell Kingsley I’ll be there.”
“I’m sure he will be pleased.”
More than likely this was a business meeting, but since this was Friday night, who knows, maybe Kingsley had something more on his mind.
As I was getting dressed for what might or might not be a date, my cell rang again.
“Funny how you only call when you need something,” said the deep voice immediately. It was Chad.
“Would you prefer I called if I didn’t need something?”
“Would be a pleasant change.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“How’s that skin disease working out for you?” he asked.
“Very well, thanks for asking.”
“Anytime,” he said. “You want the name and address for that cell number?”
“Would be nice,” I said, very aware that the name he was about to give me could very well be the shooter.
He gave me the name and address. I used the hotel stationery and pen. By the time I finished writing, my hand was shaking.
I clicked off and stared at the name.
62.
I parked in the half full parking lot. Ever the optimist.
I was wearing flats, which slapped loudly on the swath of cobblestones that led up to the rear entrance of the restaurant. The night was clear and inviting, and I had a sudden surge of hope, and love of life. I felt that all was right in the world, or would be, and for the first time I actually believed it. Hell, I almost felt sorry for people who were not vampires, who did not get to experience this side of the night. I was lonely, sure, but that could always change. Loneliness is not permanent.
The cobblestone path ended in a short alley. The alley was kept immaculately clean, for it provided convenient access to the many shops and restaurants. At the moment, the alley was empty and dark. The lights were out. Or broken. I was willing to bet broken. I had long ago lost my fear of dark alleys. My footfalls reverberated off the high walls of the surrounding businesses. I passed behind the back entrance to a used bookstore, a comic book shop, a stationary store and a pet store. The Downtown Grill was the only establishment open at this hour. Music pumped from the restaurant’s open door. Fire escapes crowded the air space above the alley like oversized cobwebs.
Sitting on the fire escape was a woman. Pointing a gun at me.
There was a flash, followed immediately by a muffled shot. Something exploded in my chest and I staggered backward. I kept my balance and looked down. Dark blood trickled from a hole in my dress. Next came two more muffled shots—and the impact of two more bullets turned me almost completely around. The bullets had been neatly placed in my stomach. Some good shooting. My red dress was ruined.
The woman walked casually down the fire escape. I saw that there was a silencer on the gun. No one would have heard the muffled shots, especially above the din of music pumping from the restaurant. The fire escape creaked under her weight.
From out of the shadows emerged Sara Benson, Kingsley’s receptionist. She paused in the alley and held the gun in both hands like a pro. Her hair was pulled back tightly, revealing every inch of her beautiful face. Her eyes were wide and lustful, and tonight she appeared particularly radiant. Her shapely legs were spaced evenly at shoulder width. A good shooting stance. Any attorney should be so lucky to have such a beautiful receptionist.
Except this receptionist had gone over the edge.
“How could you help that animal, Mrs. Moon?” she said. Her voice was even, and calculating, as if her words had been planned well in advance. I could hear again the undercurrent of rage and hatred, and now I understood fully who that anger was directed toward.
I assumed she was talking about Kingsley. “He’s not an animal,” I said. Actually, technically, she might have had a point there.
She paused, no doubt surprised that I was still speaking. Her surprise quickly turned into indignant, self-righteous rant. “Not an animal? Murderers have been set free, rapists have been let loose. The man has no conscience. He’s manipulative and horrible.”
“He’s just doing his job.”
“He does it too well.”
“Perhaps. But that’s neither for you nor I to decide. There are safeguards put into place in the law to protect the innocent. He upholds these safeguards. Not everyone in prison belongs in prison.”
She shook her head, and continued moving closer. I could see tears streaming down her face. Why the hell was she getting so emotional? Wasn’t I the one getting shot here?
“I love him,” she said. “There is something so different about him, and I wanted to be part of that. I would have done anything for him. I gave him everything in my heart, but still he left me. And now he has you.”
“Let me guess. If you can’t have him, then no one can?”
She cocked her head and fired her weapon again. My head snapped back. Blood poured down the bridge of my nose. I’ll give her this much: she was a hell of a shot. Which didn’t surprise me much, since she was also a hell of an athlete.
And able to leap small park benches in a single bound.
For a brief second, my vision doubled and then even trebled, then everything righted itself once again. Three seconds later the bullet in my head emerged and dropped into my open palm.
Let’s see Copperfield do that.
Sara stared at me in dumbfounded shock.
From the opposite end of the alley, coming up from the Commonwealth Avenue entrance, another figure appeared. A very large and burly figure. He was standing in a small pool of light from the alley opening.
“Stop!” shouted Detective Sherbet. “Drop your weapon. Now!”
But Sara didn’t drop her weapon. Instead, she swung her arm around with the gun.
I jumped forward. “Sara, don’t!”
Too late. She didn’t get all the way around. Three gunshots exploded from Sherbet’s end of the alley. His shots weren’t muffled by a silencer. The echoes cracked and thundered down the narrow corridor, assaulting the eardrums.
Sara pirouetted like a ballerina, spinning on one heel. Her gun flung off in one direction and her shoe in the other. And as the sound of Sherbet’s pistol still reverberated in the alley, Sara’s last dance was over and she collapsed.
Sherbet dashed over to us. He was out of breath and looking quite pale. As he reached down for Sara he called for backup and an ambulance.
Then he looked up at me for the first time.
“You okay, Sam—” And then he stopped short. “Sweet Jesus. You’ve been shot.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
>
“The ambulance is on its way.”
“Won’t be necessary.”
He was silent for a long time. In the distance, I heard the coming sirens.
“We will definitely be talking, Samantha.”
“I expect so, Detective.”
63.
Rain drizzled outside Kingsley’s open French windows.
Water gurgled forth from the fountain with the breasts. Kingsley and I were sitting together on his leather couch. Our shoulders touched. There seemed to be a sort of kinetic energy between us. A sexual energy. At least, there was a sexual energy in me.
“Tell me how you figured out Sara was the shooter,” he said.
“Three things. First, Horton was in constant contact with her, especially in the hours prior to each shooting. Second, she contacted me from her cell number, claiming she was calling from work, which I found odd. Third, I recalled the picture on her desk, the one taken at the office Halloween party. She went as a pirate.”
Kingsley smacked his forehead with his palm. “The mustache. Good Lord, I’ve seen that picture a hundred times.”
“It’s the spitting image of your shooter.”
“But why didn’t you suspect her earlier? I thought you had some sort of ESP thing going on?”
“I do. But it’s not an exact science. I sensed a lot of anger from Sara, but I assumed that anger was directed at her failed relationship with you.”
“Granted most of my relationships have been failures since the death of my wife, but how did you know about Sara and me?”
“I’m an ace detective, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“She hinted at it.”
“Okay, yeah, we dated. We hit it off initially, but things didn’t quite take.”
“Ya think?”
We drank some more wine. Our shoulders continued touching.
“Speaking of dating,” I said. “Danny’s secretary dumped him.”
“Is that why you can’t wipe that smile off your face?”
“It’s one of the reasons,” I said. “Not to mention Horton has admitted Sara approached him with a proposal to kill you and your client. He provided the gun and surveillance. She did the shooting.”
“Then why attack me in broad daylight, in front of so many witnesses?”
“That was calculated. The shooting was scheduled between security shifts; her getaway truck was parked nearby, the plates removed. Horton was waiting a few blocks away, where they swapped cars. The truck was then concealed in a parking garage.” I paused and sipped from my Chardonnay. Even vampires get dry mouths. “Now, with Sara dead and the game up, Horton confessed to everything. He will stand trial as an accessory to murder and attempted murder.”
We were silent. Kingsley reached over and gently took my hand. His hand was comforting. And damn big. The rain picked up a little and plinked against the French windows.
“You did good work,” said Kingsley. “You were worth every penny.”
“Of which you still owe me a few.”
“When I get my new secretary I’ll have her write you a check.” He took my wine glass and walked over to his bar and filled me up. From the bar, he said, “I did some research on the medallion.”
I perked up. “And?”
“The medallion is rumored to be connected to a way of reversing the effects of vampirism.”
“Reversing?” I said, “I don’t understand.”
“The medallion,” he said, “can reverse vampirism.”
“You mean—”
“You would be mortal again, Sam. That is, if we’re talking about the same medallion, which, by the way, is highly coveted, so you might want to keep this on the down low.”
My head was swimming with the possibilities. To be human again. To be normal again. To have my kids again.
I looked over at Kingsley and there was real pain on his face. He was hurting.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked.
“You think that if I choose to be mortal...” my voice trailed off.
“I would lose you,” he said, finishing. “And I wouldn’t blame you for one second.”
I stood and came to him, this beautiful, massive man who made me feel alive again, who made me feel sexy again, who made me feel human again, even when I was at my lowest. I sat down in his huge, warm lap and put my arms around his huge, warm neck. I leaned in and pressed my lips softly against his.
When I pulled away after a long moment, I said, “And what if I told you I was falling in love with you?”
“Then that would make me the happiest man, or half-man, on earth,” he said. “But what about being mortal again?”
“We’ll look into that another day.”
“Good idea.”
And he kissed me deeply, powerfully, his lips and tongue taking me in completely.
It was a hell of a kiss.
64.
Did I catch you at a good time, Fang?
It’s always a good time when I hear from you, Moon Dance.
No girls over tonight?
No girls for awhile. So what’s new in your world, Moon Dance?
So I told him. I wrote it up quickly in one long, mangled paragraph.
More type-o’s than a blood bank, he answered when I had finished. I think Sara truly loved Kingsley, at least in her own twisted way.
Loved him and hated him.
And it drove her to a certain madness.
Yes, I wrote, remembering Sara’s pirouetting body. Watching her land in a heap as a pool of dark blood spread around her. I had stared deep into that dark pool, and felt a hunger.
Fang wrote: She thought Kingsley morally reprehensible, which justified her attempt on his life. And she would have succeeded had he not been immortal. You immortals get all the breaks.
Some of them, I wrote.
Rejection can make you do some crazy things.
Like jump off a hotel balcony, I added.
Yes. But not everyone has wings.
So why no girls for awhile, Fang?
Because I was in love with another woman.
So who’s the lucky woman?
There was a long delay. A very long delay. I wrote: Fang?
And then on my computer screen appeared a single red rose, followed by the words: I love you, Moon Dance.
I stared at my monitor. More words appeared.
I fell in love with you instantly. I know this sounds crazy because I’ve never met you, but I have fallen in love with the image I have created of you in my mind. There will never be a woman on the face of this earth who can compare to this image. All will fall short.
He stopped writing, and I read his words over and over again. Finally, I wrote my response.
We are both crazy, Fang. You know that, right?
Yes, I know that.
Goodnight, Fang.
Goodnight, Moon Dance.
The End
Samantha Moon returns in:
Vampire Moon
Vampire for Hire #2
by J.R. Rain
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback * Audio
~~~~~~
Also, read Fang’s back story in:
Teeth and Other Stories
by J.R. Rain
Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback * Audio
Return to the Table of Contents
DARK HORSE
by
J.R. RAIN
Jim Knighthorse Series #1
Dark Horse
Published by J.R. Rain
Copyright © 2010 by J.R. Rain
All rights reserved.
Dedication
To my sister Elaine, who loves mysteries. Love you, sis.
Acknowledgments
Also, a big thank you to Eve Paludan and Sandy Johnston (again).
Dark Horse
Chapter One
Charles Brown, the defense attorney, was a small man with a round head. He was wearing a brow
n and orange zigzagged power tie. I secretly wondered if he went by Charlie as a kid and had a dog named Snoopy and a crush on the little red-headed girl.
We were sitting in my office on a warm spring day. Charlie was here to give me a job if I wanted it, and I wanted it. I hadn’t worked in two weeks and was beginning to like it, which made me nervous.
“I think the kid’s innocent,” he was saying.
“Of course you do, Charlie. You’re a defense attorney. You would find cause to think Jack the Ripper was simply a misunderstood artist before his time.”
He looked at me with what was supposed to be a stern face.
“The name’s Charles,” he said.
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Glad that’s cleared up.”
“I heard you could be difficult,” he said. “Is this you being difficult? If so, then I’m disappointed.”
I smiled. “Maybe you have me confused with my father.”
Charlie sat back in my client chair and smiled. His domed head was perfectly buffed and polished, cleanly reflecting the halogen lighting above. His skin appeared wet and viscous, as if his sweat glands were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
“Your father has quite a reputation in L.A. I gave his office a call before coming here. Of course, he’s quite busy and could not take on an extra case.”
“So you settled on the next best thing.”
“If you want to call it that,” he said. “I’ve heard that you’ve performed adequately with similar cases, and so I’ve decided to give you a shot, although my expectations are not very high, and I have another P.I. waiting in the wings.”
“How reassuring,” I said.
“Yeah, well, he’s established. You’re not.”
“But can he pick up a blind side blitz?”
Charlie smiled and splayed his stubby fingers flat on my desk and looked around my office, which was adorned with newspaper clippings and photographs of yours truly. Most of the photographs depict me in a Bruin uniform, sporting the number 45. In most I’m carrying the football, and in others I’m blowing open the hole for the tailback. Or at least I like to think I’m blowing open the hole. The newspapers are yellowing now, taped or tacked to the wood paneling. Maybe someday I’ll take them down. But not yet.