Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Collection 6-10

by Laurell Hamilton

  I opened the door and walked out into the cool white hallway without answering him.

  9

  MARKS’ OFFER OF ESCORTING me to the crime scene seemed to have evaporated with his temper. Edward drove me. We drove in almost complete silence. Edward never sweated small talk, and I just didn’t have the energy for it. If I could have thought of something useful to say, I’d have said it. Until then, silence was fine. Edward had volunteered that we were on our way to the latest crime scene, and we’d meet his other two backups in Santa Fe. He told me nothing else about them, and I didn’t press it. His lip was still swelling because he’d been too macho to put ice on it. I figured the busted lip was all the slack Edward was going to give me for one day. I’d told him in the strongest terms I could manage, short of pulling a weapon, to stop the competitive crap, and nothing would change that, least of all me.

  Besides, I was still riding in a ringing bell of silence as if everything echoed and nothing was quite solid. It was shock. The survivors, if that was the word for them, had shaken me down to my toes. I’d seen awful things, but nothing quite like that. I was going to have to snap out of it before we had our first firefight, but frankly if someone had pulled a weapon on me right that second, I’d have hesitated. Nothing seemed truly important or even real.

  “I know why you’re afraid of this thing,” I said.

  He glanced toward me with the black lenses of his eyes, then back to the road, as if he hadn’t heard. Anyone else would have asked me to explain, or made some comment. Edward just drove.

  “You don’t fear anything that just offers death. You’ve accepted that you’re not going to live to a ripe old age.”

  “We,” he said. “We’ve accepted that we aren’t going to live to a ripe old age.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, then stopped. I thought about it for a second or two. I was twenty-six, and if the next four years were anything like the last four, I’d never see thirty. I’d never really thought about it in so many words, but old age wasn’t one of my biggest worries. I didn’t really expect to get there. My life style was a sort of passive suicide. I didn’t like that much. It made me want to squirm and deny it, but I couldn’t. Wanted to, but couldn’t. It made my chest squeeze tight to realize that I expected to die by violence. Didn’t want it, but expected it. My voice sounded uncertain, but I said it out loud. “Fine, we’ve accepted that we’re not going to make it to a ripe old age. Happy?”

  He gave a slight nod.

  “You’re afraid that you’ll live like those things in the hospital. You’re afraid of ending up like them.”

  “Aren’t you?” His voice was almost too soft to hear, but somehow it carried over the rush of wheels and the expensive purr of the engine.

  “I’m trying not to think about it,” I said.

  “How can you not think about it?” he asked.

  “Because if you start thinking about the bad things, worrying about them, then it makes you slow, makes you afraid. Neither of us can afford that.”

  “Two years ago, I’d have been giving you the pep talk,” he said, and there was something in his voice, not anger, but close.

  “You were a good teacher,” I said.

  His hands gripped the wheel. “I haven’t taught you all I know, Anita. You are not a better monster than I am.”

  I watched the side of his face, trying to read that expressionless face. There was a tightness at the jaw, a thread of anger down the neck and into his shoulders. “Are you trying to convince me or yourself, . . . Ted?” I made the name light and mocking. I didn’t usually play with Edward just to get a rise out of him, but today, he was unsure, and I wasn’t. Part of me was enjoying the hell out of that.

  He slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop on the side of the road. I had the Browning pointed at the side of his head, close enough that pulling the trigger would paint his brains all over the windows.

  He had a gun in his hand. I don’t know where in the car it had come from, but the gun wasn’t pointed at me. “Ease down, Edward.”

  He stayed motionless but didn’t drop the gun. I had one of those moments when you see into another person’s soul like looking into an open window. “Your fear makes you slow, Edward, because you’d rather die here, like this, than survive like those poor bastards. You’re looking for a better way to die.” My gun was very steady, finger on the trigger. But this wasn’t for real, not yet. “If you were really serious, you’d have had the gun in your hand before you pulled over. You didn’t invite me here to hunt monsters. You invited me here to kill you if it works out wrong.”

  He gave the smallest nod. “Neither Bernardo or Olaf are good enough.” He laid the gun very, very slowly on the floorboard hump between the seats. He looked at me, hands spread on the steering wheel. “Even for you, I have to be a little slow.”

  I took the offered gun without taking either my eyes or my gun off of him. “Like I believe that’s the only gun you’ve got hidden in this car. But I do appreciate the gesture.”

  He laughed then, and it was the most bitter sound I’d ever heard from Edward. “I don’t like being afraid, Anita. I’m not good at it.”

  “You mean you’re not used to it,” I said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  I eased my own gun down until it wasn’t pointing at him, but I didn’t put it up. “I promise that if you end up like the people in the hospital I’ll take your head.”

  He looked at me then, and even with the sunglasses on I knew he was surprised. “Not just shoot me or kill me, but take my head.”

  “If it happens, Edward, I won’t leave you alive, and taking your head we’ll both be sure that the job’s done.”

  Something flowed across his face, down his shoulders, his arms, and I realized it was relief. “I knew I could count on you for this, Anita, you and no one else.”

  “Should I be flattered or insulted that you’ve never met anyone else cold-blooded enough for this?”

  “Olaf’s blood is plenty cold enough, but he’d just shoot me and bury me in a hole somewhere. He’d have never thought about taking my head. And what if shooting didn’t kill me?” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’d be in some stinking hole somewhere alive because Olaf would never think to take my head.” He shook his head as if chasing the image away. He slid the glasses back on, and when he turned to look at me, his face was blank, unreadable, his usual. But I’d seen beneath the mask, further than I’d ever been allowed before. The one thing I’d never expected to find was fear, and beneath that, trust. Edward trusted me with more than his life. He trusted me to make sure he died well. For a man like Edward there was no greater trust.

  We would never go shopping together or eat an entire cake while we complained about men. He’d never invite me over to his house for dinner or a barbecue. We’d never be lovers. But there was a very good chance that one of us would be the last person the other saw before we died. It wasn’t friendship the way most people understood it, but it was friendship. There were several people I’d trust with my life, but there is no one else I’d trust with my death. Jean-Claude and even Richard would try to hold me alive out of love or something that passed for it. Even my family and other friends would fight to keep me alive. If I wanted death, Edward would give it to me. Because we both understand that it isn’t death that we fear. It’s living.

  10

  THE HOUSE WAS a two-story split-level ranch that could have been anywhere in the Midwest, in any upper-middle-class neighborhood. But the large yard was done in rock paths running high to cacti and a circle of those small flowered lilacs that were so plentiful. Other people had tried to keep their lawns green as if they didn’t live on the edge of a desert, but not this house. This house, these people had landscaped for their environment and tried not to waste water. And now they were dead and didn’t give a damn about environmental awareness or rainfall.

  Of course, one of them could be a survivor. I didn’t want to see pictures of the survivo
rs before they’d been . . . injured. I was having enough trouble keeping my professional distance without color photos of smiling faces that had been turned into so much naked meat. I got out of the car, praying that everyone had died in this house, not my usual prayer at a crime scene. But nothing about this case so far was usual.

  There was a marked police car sitting out in front of the house. A uniformed officer got out of the marked car as Edward and I walked towards the yard. He was medium build but carrying enough weight for someone taller, a lot taller. His weight was mostly in the stomach and made his utility belt ride low. His pale face was sweating by the time he’d walked the five feet to us. He put his hat on as he walked towards us, unsmiling, thumb hooked in his utility belt.

  “Can I help you?”

  Edward went into his Ted Forrester act, putting his hand out, smiling. “I’m Ted Forrester, Officer . . .” he took the time to read the man’s name tag, “Norton. This is Anita Blake. Chief Appleton has cleared us both to see the crime scene.”

  Norton looked us both up and down, pale eyes not the least bit friendly. He didn’t shake hands. “Can I see some ID?”

  Edward opened his wallet to his driver’s license and held it out. I opened my executioner’s license for him. He handed Edward’s back, but squinted at mine. “This license isn’t good in New Mexico.”

  “I’m aware of that, Officer,” I said, voice bland.

  He squinted at me, much as he had the license. “Then why are you here?”

  I smiled and couldn’t quite make it reach my eyes. “I’m here as a preternatural advisor, not an executioner.”

  He handed the license back to me. “Then why the hardware?”

  I glanced down at the gun very visible against my red shirt. The smile was genuine this time. “It’s not concealed, Officer Norton, and it’s federally licensed so I don’t have to sweat a new gun permit every time I cross a state line.”

  He didn’t seem to like the answer. “I was told to let the two of you in.” It was a statement, but it sounded like a question, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was going to let us in, after all.

  Edward and I stood there trying to appear harmless, but useful. I was a lot better at looking harmless than Edward was. I didn’t even have to work at it most of the time. He was better at looking useful, though. Without seeming dangerous in the least he could give off an aura of purposefulness that police and other people responded to. The best I could do was look harmless and wait for Officer Norton to decide what our fate would be.

  He finally nodded, as if he’d made up his mind. “I’m supposed to escort you around the scene, Miss Blake.” He didn’t look happy about it.

  I didn’t correct him that Miss Blake should have been Ms. Blake. I think he was looking for an excuse to get rid of us. I wasn’t going to give him one. Very few policemen like civilians messing around in their cases. I wasn’t just a civilian, I was female, and I hunted vampires; a triple threat if ever there was one. I was a civvie, a woman, and a freak.

  “This way.” He started up the narrow walkway. I glanced at Edward. He just started following Norton. I followed Edward. I had a feeling I’d be doing a lot of that in the next few days.

  Quiet. The house was so quiet. The air conditioner purred into that silence reminding me of the recycled air in the hospital room. Norton came up behind me, and I jumped. He didn’t say anything, but he gave me a look.

  I moved out of the entry hall and into the large high-ceilinged living room. Norton followed me. In fact he stayed at my heels as I moved around the room like some obedient dog, but the message I was getting from him wasn’t trust and adoration. It was suspicion and disapproval. Edward had settled into one of the room’s three comfortable-looking powder blue chairs. He’d stretched himself full length, legs crossed at the ankles. He’d left his sunglasses on so he looked the picture of ease in the midst of that careful living room in that too silent house.

  “Are you bored?” I asked.

  “I’ve seen the show,” he said. He’d toned down his Ted act and was more his usual self. Maybe he didn’t sweat Norton’s reaction, or maybe he was tired of playacting. I knew I was tired of watching the show.

  The room was one of those great rooms which meant the living, dining, and kitchen were all one shared space. It was a large space, but I’m not really comfortable with the open floor plan. I like more walls, doors, barriers. Probably a sign of my own less than welcoming personality. If the house was any clue to the family that had lived in it, they’d been welcoming and somewhat conventional. The furniture was all purchased as sets: a powder blue living room set, a dark wood dining room set to one side with a bay window and white lacy drapes. There was a new hard back southwestern cook book on the kitchen cabinet. The receipt was still being used as a bookmark. The kitchen was the smallest area, long and thin with white cabinets and a black and white cow motif down to a cookie jar that mooed when you took its head off. Store bought cookies, chocolate chip. No, I didn’t eat one.

  “Any clues in the cookie jar?” Edward asked from his chair.

  “No,” I said, “I just had to know if it really mooed.”

  Norton made a small sound that might have been a laugh. I ignored him. Though since he was standing about two feet from me the entire time, ignoring wasn’t easy. I changed direction in the kitchen abruptly, and he nearly ran into me. “Could you give me a little more breathing space?” I asked.

  “Just following my orders,” he said, face bland.

  “Did your orders tell you to stand close enough to tango or just to follow me?”

  His mouth twitched, but he managed not to smile. “Just to follow you, ma’am.”

  “Great, then take about two big steps back so we do this without bumping into each other.”

  “I’m supposed to make sure you don’t disturb the scene, ma’am.”

  “The name’s Anita, not ma’am.”

  That earned me a smile, but he shook his head and fought it off. “Just following orders. That’s what I do.”

  There was something just a touch bitter about that last. Officer Norton was on the down side of fifty or looked it. He was close to putting in his thirty years, and he was still a uniform sitting in a car outside a crime scene following orders. If he’d ever had dreams of more, they were gone. He was a man who had accepted reality, but he didn’t like it.

  The door opened, and a man came through with his tie at half-mast, the white sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up over dark forearms. His skin was a dark solid brown, and it didn’t look like a tan. Hispanic or Indian or maybe a little of both. The hair was cut very short, not for style, but as if it were easier that way. There was a gun on his hip and a gold shield clipped to the waistband of his pants.

  “I’m Detective Ramirez. Sorry I’m late.” He smiled when he said it, and there seemed to be genuine cheerfulness, but I didn’t trust it. I’d seen too many cops go from cheerful to hardcore up in your face too many times. Ramirez would try to catch his flies with honey instead of vinegar, but I knew the vinegar was there. You didn’t get to be a plainclothes detective without that streak of sourness. Or maybe a loss of innocence was a better phrase for it. Whatever you called it, it would be there. It was only a matter of how far under the surface it was.

  But I smiled and held my hand out, and he took it. The handshake was firm, the smile still in place, but his eyes were cool and noticed everything. I knew that if I left the room now he’d be able to describe me in detail down to my gun, or maybe up from my gun.

  Officer Norton was still behind me like a pudgy bridesmaid. Detective Ramirez’ eyes flicked to him, and the smile wilted just a touch. “Thank you, Officer Norton. I’ll take it from here.”

  The look Norton gave him was not friendly. Maybe Officer Norton didn’t like anybody. Or maybe he was white and Ramirez wasn’t. He was old and Ramirez was young. He was going to end his career in uniform and Ramirez was already in plainclothes. Prejudice and jealousy are often close kin. Or maybe N
orton was just in a bad mood.

  Whatever it was, Norton went out like he’d been told, shutting the door behind him. Ramirez’ smile went up a notch as he turned to me. I realized that he was cute in a young guy sort of way, and he knew it. Not in an egomaniac way, but I was a female, and he was cute, and he was hoping that that would cut him some slack with me. Boy, was he shopping in the wrong aisle.

  I shook my head, but smiled back.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked. Even the slight frown was sort of boyish and endearing. He must practice it in the mirror.

  “No, Detective, nothing’s wrong.”

  “Please call me Hernando.”

  That made me smile more. “I’m Anita.”

  The smile flashed bright and wide. “Anita, pretty name.”

  “No,” I said, “it’s not, and we’re investigating a crime, not out on a blind date. You can tone the charm down just a touch, and I’ll still like you, Detective Ramirez. I’ll even share clues with you, honest.”

  “Hernando,” he said.

  It made me laugh. “Hernando. Fine, but really, you don’t have to work this hard to win me over. I don’t know you well enough to dislike you yet.”

  That made him laugh. “Was it that transparent?”

  “You make a good good-cop, and the little boy charm is great, but like I said, it’s not necessary.”

  “Okay, Anita.” The smile went down a watt or two, but he was still open and cheerful somehow. It made me nervous. “Have you seen the entire house yet?”

  “Not yet. Officer Norton was trailing a little too close for comfort. Made it hard to walk.”

  The smile closed down, but the look in the eyes was real. “You’re a woman and with that black hair probably part something darker than the rest of you looks.”

  “My mother was Mexican, but most people don’t spot it.”

  “You’re in a section of the country where there’s a lot of mixing going on.” He didn’t smile when he said it. He looked serious and a little less young. “The people that want to notice will.”