I slow down to take a tight bend in the lane. “But what if Shane tells the McAllisters the truth?”
“You think they can be trusted?”
“Eileen acted pissed, but deep down I think she was glad to see him. Shane said they used to be really close.”
“And his mom?”
“Codependency out the wazoo. She wasn’t even mad at Shane, like she should’ve been.” I pause for a moment, recollecting the details. “She wore a crucifix and a Knights of Columbus jacket. If she’s high - octane Catholic, she might give religious meaning to his being a vampire.” I pull into the clearing, where Franklin is standing in front of the ram-shackle building. “Maybe even call for an exorcism.”
“Listen. The Control will stop at nothing to protect the vampires’ secret. If Shane doesn’t make his family go away, the Control will do it for him.”
“I’ll talk to him.” I drive onto the grass to avoid running over Franklin, who appears to be photographing the ground in the center of the tiny parking lot. “How’s Dexter?”
“Safe in the basement with the windows covered. No apparent interest in eating Antoine.”
“Good. Thanks for saving my ass last night with my landlord.”
He chuckles. “Out of professionalism, I’ll avoid any comment on your metaphorical ass.”
My face heats, and I clear my throat. “I gotta go. Franklin and I have that early meeting with the, um, people.” A second later I think of the word. “Clients.”
I hang up and open the car door, almost forgetting to put it in park first (my real car—which is now sort of Shane’s car—is a stick shift, but Elizabeth’s Mercedes is an automatic), then hurry over to see what Franklin is—
Uh - oh.
Franklin lowers the camera and gives me a sullen glare. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Red spray paint covers a large white sign, forming the four familiar words:
YOUR GOING TO HELL
“It’s still tacky.” Franklin holds up his forefinger, tipped in red. “The paint, I mean, it’s not dry. I must’ve interrupted them by coming to the office early.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Nope, but thank God we had that client schmooze - fest to get ready for.” He points to a broken bottle lying on the driveway. “Or we would’ve ended up just like the Pig.”
I approach the bottle and catch the nostril - waxing scent of gasoline. A rag is stuffed into its mouth, which is still intact. The arsonist must not have had time to light it before escaping.
My stomach twists at the image of WVMP going up in flames. The vampires would be safe in their apartment downstairs—temporarily, at least—but the ensuing investigation would raise questions we can’t answer.
I turn back to Franklin. “Tell me you didn’t call the police.”
“I’m not stupid. Travis said he’d investigate after sunset. He’s in the office now.”
I examine the sign—the “handwriting” is the same as the one at the Smoking Pig. “Hard not to interpret all this as some kind of warning.”
“If we didn’t back down in the face of Gideon, we’re not going to listen to a bunch of Bible beaters.”
“But we did back down to Gideon.”
“Only long enough for you to kill him.” Franklin takes another photo of the graffiti. “These assholes could at least threaten us with proper grammar.”
I enter the station via the cellar in the back of the building, since the front door is locked to prevent vampire flameouts. A double - sealed door leads to the downstairs lounge, from which I climb the stairs to the main office.
Typing sounds come from Elizabeth’s old office to my left. I turn the corner to find Travis.
“Just the vampire I wanted to see.”
He takes out his earbuds and gives me a dull glower. “What?”
“Hate to interrupt your Faith Hill jamfest, but I have a fun job for you, possibly connected to the arson attempt.” I tell him about the big honkin’ cross. He listens with his arms folded over his chest, his dark green eyes growing more guarded with every sentence. “So can you come with me and David tonight to investigate?” I ask him.
He glances away, clearly freaked by the idea of getting so close to the BHC. “Love to.” He focuses on his laptop. “But I’m busy with other cases.”
“You have no other cases. You’re writing a memoir so you can be as famous as the DJs.”
“The Control won’t lemme write a memoir, so it’s a novel now.” He adjusts the angle of the screen. “Autobiographical.”
“About a vampire detective. How original.”
“It’s hard.” He scratches the back of his head, ruffling the short dark hair at his nape. “I keep accidentally writing scenes that happen during the day.”
“Then it’s not very autobiographical.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t remind me.” He starts typing again, fingers smashing the keys.
Poor Travis is one of those bitter nonvoluntary vampires. On top of the violent attack that turned him into an undead blood drinker—who saw me as his first meal—his maker Gideon left him to starve, in the vampire equivalent of infanticide. The DJs took him in and raised him as their own, thus ensuring his everlasting loyalty, if not his taste in music.
I sit on the corner of the desk. “You knew the day would come when I would call in my favor.”
He looks up without raising his head. “I already made up for trying to kill you.”
“That’s debatable, but it’s not what I meant.” By reflex, my hand rubs the left side of my neck. “I meant that other favor.”
He crosses his arms again, scowling. “I didn’t ask for your blood to save my life.”
“Then you should have spit instead of swallowed.”
Travis sighs and opens a new word processing document. “What do you got?”
I tell him everything we know about FAN and the cross and Dexter and the arsons, both attempted and successful.
From the outer main office, my direct line rings. I hop off the desk and hurry out to my phone.
It’s Jeremy from Rolling Stone.
“Thanks for the broadcast files,” he says. “Anything new?”
I glance at Travis through the open door of Elizabeth’s office. He’s already put his earbuds back in and is swaying to what is probably the sensation of the week out of Nashville.
“Maybe,” I tell Jeremy. “I’ll e - mail you from my personal account. Late tonight.”
“Good.” He hesitates. “Can I ask you a few specific questions about the vampires?”
“You mean the DJs?” I plop into my chair, ready to bullshit. “Fire away.”
“They live at the station, right?”
“Sure.” I keep my voice high - pitched to sound like it’s part of the PR spiel. “They live in a special underground bunker here that keeps out the sunlight.”
“Do they automatically fall asleep at sunrise?”
“The one I’m staring at right now looks reasonably alert.” I wave to Travis, and he gives me the finger in return. “They can stay awake all day, just like we can stay up all night. Makes them cranky, though. That’s why we repeat their nightly broadcasts the next morning and afternoon rather than have them do live shows during the day. Per their contracts, overtime is paid in blood.”
The truth is so fun sometimes.
“And they’re immortal, right?”
“Theoretically. They get physically stronger as they age, they can’t get diseases, and it takes a lot to hurt them.” I remember how in their fight to the death, Shane chopped off Gideon’s arm, and it stopped bleeding in about three seconds. “Bullets, cars, poisons—none of them work.”
Jeremy pauses. “So what can kill them?”
Something in his voice makes me sit up. I try to keep my tone light. “Well, that’s a secret, of course.”
“What about fire? Fire kills everything, right?”
My stomach tightens. Instead of answering, I decide to let him k
eep talking.
“Ciara, do you think the arson at the Smoking Pig was an attempt on the DJs’ lives? That maybe someone out there believes they really are vampires, and that this is the only way to kill them all?”
“The Pig was closed when it caught fire. If someone was trying to kill the DJs, wouldn’t it help if they were actually present at the time?”
“Maybe it was a warning. Makes sense, considering the tone and content of the pirate broadcasts.”
He sounds so self - satisfied, and I wish I could tell him I’ve already figured all this out, but that would give too much away.
“I have someone working on the case now.” I scribble Jeremy’s name and phone number on a pink sticky note. “Here’s the deal: you get me some info on the Family Action Network like you promised yesterday, and I’ll share our findings with you.”
“Digging dirt is what I’m best at.”
“Have a good weekend.” I hang up before he can ask any more questions, then bring the paper with Jeremy’s name and number over to Travis.
“What’s this?” he asks me.
“Your next subject. I want to know everything about the man who wants to know everything about us.”
We’ll see who digs the most dirt, Mr. Muckraker, and who gets buried.
“Sorry to drag you along.”
“Are you kidding?” Lori grins at me, her face reflecting the red of the stoplight. She gestures at the woods looming next to the highway leading out of Sherwood. “Creeping around spooky spots is my ideal Friday night.”
She’s not kidding. Lori’s passion is Civil War ghosts, a passion she feeds by being secretary/treasurer of the Sherwood Paranormal Investigative Team (SPIT). They have yet to confirm an actual ghost sighting, which I suppose makes them useful in a different way than they intended.
We pass the cross and park on a turnoff down the road, out of sight. Lori points to a red pickup as we get out of the car. “Whose truck is that?”
“Travis. Our staff detective.”
“Is he still crazy?”
“No. Shane and Regina make sure he gets his twice - a -night blood rations so he doesn’t attack civilians.”
Lori switches on her flashlight as we enter the trees surrounding the cross, which is still flashing red, white, and blue from the spotlight. “So what’s Travis’s compulsion?” she asks me. “Counting? Sorting?”
“Nothing yet. Too young.” Shane once explained the vampires’ obsessive - compulsive behaviors to me. The world moves so fast beyond them, they need to feel like they control something. It’s the only way to feel sane, he says.
David approaches us when we reach the clearing, shoes crunching over the rocky soil.
“How’s Dexter?” I ask him.
“Great. I got him this light - up collar so I can see him in the backyard at night. And he has a thing for squeaky - balls.”
“So you like him now?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not until I can find a basement apartment that accepts pets.”
“What about Elizabeth’s place down in Rockville?”
“No way.” The thought of living in the dead - undead vampire’s former home totally skeeves me. “Too long a commute.”
Travis is staring at the top of the cross with a pair of binoculars, a long metal tool—a bolt cutter, I assume—resting against his right leg. A tiny orange glow rises and falls in the darkness as he takes a drag from his cigarette.
“Hey, what did Shane tell you about smoking?” I stalk up to him. “It could kill you.”
“I’m already dead.” Travis drops it on the ground and crushes it under the heel of his scuffed black work boots.
“At your age, all it takes is a stiff breeze while you’re lighting up, and you’ll go poof like a piece of flash paper.”
He looks at Lori, and his scowl fades. “Well, hello. Have we met?”
Since Travis rarely smiles around the office, I often forget how his vampiric nature has transformed his formerly dorky expressions. His eyes glint in the light of the cross, his freckled face radiates a magnetic warmth, and the breeze seems made to sweep a few rogue curls across his forehead.
Lori returns his smile and extends her hand. They introduce themselves, even though they met three months ago and damn well know it.
“Can you see anything?” I ask him, to distract his attention from my best friend.
Travis waves the bolt cutter at the top of the structure. “Definitely an antenna up there. It doesn’t go too far past the tip of the cross, so it’s hard to see.”
“If that’s an antenna,” David says, “then we know what we’re going to find in that.” He points to the metal box at the base. A thin wire runs from it up the length of the cross.
“Stand back.” Travis wraps the bolt cutter’s teeth around the loop of the padlock. The lock breaks with a metallic snap that makes Lori jump.
David compares the lock to the new one he brought, then hands the old one to me. Its dull steel feels mundane against my skin—not too warm or too cold.
David uses the bolt cutter to pry open the metal cabinet from a distance, as if he expects something to jump out. Beside me, Lori retreats a step.
Nothing appears but a black box with blinking lights. The name of a Japanese electronics brand shines in dull silver on the corner of the box.
I pocket the padlock. “I take it that’s a repeater.”
“Yep.” David pulls out a small flashlight. “This is what shifts the original transmission to match our frequency.” He draws a gloved finger over the console. “The puzzle is, how are they switching it on and off on command?”
“Let’s find out.” I dial the station on my cell phone. Noah answers in his velvet voice.
“WVMP, the Lifeblood of Rock ‘n’ Roll. How may I help you tonight?”
“Hey, Noah. We’re ready when you are.”
“Most excellent timing. I was about to cue the next song.”
“Put me on speakerphone so I can hear when you play it.”
“One moment.”
Soon I hear his voice echoing within the studio. I acknowledge him, then mute my phone.
While I wait, I notice Lori showing off her electromagnetic frequency reader to Travis. The thing looks like a cross between a Star Trek tricorder and a barbecue grill lighter.
“Normally we use EMF to detect ghosts,” she tells him, “but it might help here, to see when the remote transmission comes in telling the repeater to turn on and mess up their broadcast.”
“You ever seen a ghost?” he asks her with a straight face.
Noah speaks on the air, obscuring Lori’s reply.
“That was ‘Babylon’s Burning’ by the Upsetters with Max Romeo. Next we have ‘Stay’ by Marcia Griffiths, the Empress of Reggae. Lovely lady indeed, and if you ask her about me today, I guarantee she still remember that long night in Kingston.”
Yellow lights on the repeater start to glow and blink.
“Look at that.” David aims the flashlight on a small black component the size of a pencil sharpener, fastened to the top of the repeater. A steady red light shines in its center. “Must be the transmitter.”
“I’m reading an EMF spike.” Lori holds her contraption closer to her face. “Something’s definitely coming in.”
Noah comes back on the phone, off the speaker. “I’ll check the FM signal and see if we’re on.” After a long moment, he sighs. “Bastards, they’re on our air. What is wrong with these people?”
“Testosterone imbalance.
Probably impotence, too.” Noah chuckles. “I’ll switch back to a man on the next song.”
I cast a nervous glance at our surroundings. “Might as well do it now. It’s not as if anyone can hear you.”
“Good point. And good luck.”
I put the phone back in my pocket and watch the console with the rest of them.
“Another spike,” Lori says.
The yellow lights on the console fade as the radio
transmission stops.
The tiny box still glows red. David reaches for it.
I seize his elbow. “What are you doing?”
“Disconnecting it.” He shrugs off my grip. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it look accidental. They can’t report it, anyway, since what they’re doing is illegal.”
“But if we disconnect it,” I point out, “they won’t be able to interrupt our broadcast.”
He rests his hand on the repeater. “That’s the idea.”
“Then we lose our victim status and all the media attention that goes with it.”
David gives me a look of disbelief. “You aren’t seriously suggesting we let this continue.”
“I’ve already had calls from reporters wanting the tape of the piracy from Halloween.”
“And you said no, right?”
I put my hands in my pockets. “It’s free publicity, David.”
“You gave the tape to reporters?”
“Just the Rolling Stone guy. But I’ve got press releases waiting to go out Monday with more copies of the broadcast.” I shift my feet in response to his stare. “With your permission, of course.”
He reaches for the transmitter. “I’m ending this.”
“No!” I grab his elbow again. “We can snuff it whenever we want. And they don’t know we know about it, which gives us power.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” He straightens and faces me. “This is about principle, not publicity. They’re stealing from us. They want to destroy WVMP.”
“And until we find out why, we should let it go on. What’s to stop them from building another one of these next week?”
“Money. Time. The law.”
I notice Lori and Travis again. He’s leaning one hand against the cross, feet crossed in a casual pose as he and Lori converse in a tone too intimate for my liking.
I return my focus to David. “We don’t know if money, time, and the FCC are an obstacle to these people, because we don’t know who they are.”
“And the last thing we need is some ambitious journalist digging a little too deep.” He turns back to the repeater. “It’s safer to make it all go away.”
“Uh, guys?”
Travis is still standing with his hand pressed against the cross. But now he’s not leaning on it, he’s pulling away.
Bad to the Bone Page 7