Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella

by J. R. Rain

  But one thing was obvious: it was heavy-looking, and it was topped by a razor-sharp flint head. A weapon used, no doubt, in battle or for skinning animals.

  Or, in this case, for murder.

  Thad must have heard something. As he turned to look, crying out, the hatchet flashed down and buried deep into his forehead. Thad jerked and nearly bit off his tongue. His left eye popped clean out of his head, to dangle by its neon-red optical nerves. I next watched in sick fascination as Mr. Wharton worked the hatchet free from the dead man’s skull. When he did, Thad the security guard toppled into the freezer.

  The ghost of Mr. Wharton calmly shut the lid, returned the bloody hatchet to its proper place, and promptly disappeared.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  I was at Heroes, where only one person knew my name, and that was just the way I liked it.

  I had already picked up Tammy from school and dropped her off at my sister’s. Danny, remarkably, was with Anthony at the hospital. My sister had asked if I would be there as well, and I said I would as soon as I could. She didn’t like it but knew that only something very, very important would keep me away from my son.

  Now, it was almost five and it had been a helluva day. Soon I would be heading out to Simi Valley, but first I needed to speak with Fang, my rock. And since our relationship had graduated to the physical level, I paid him a visit before heading out. The bar was mostly empty and we could speak freely enough. I caught him up to date on the past few days’ activities.

  “So the crystal egg was in the box,” said Fang. He wasn’t polishing the stereotypical glass; instead, he was cutting lime wedges.

  “Yup.”

  “Any idea where he was going to send it?”

  “Hard to say with only an ‘M’ in the address. Could have been his grandma. A P.O. Box anywhere. And before you ask, his name was Thad.”

  “Thad?”

  “Yup.”

  “Is that a real name?”

  “As real as Fang.”

  He grinned. “Pretty clever idea just shipping that sucker out right under their noses.”

  “Would have worked, too, if Mr. Wharton hadn’t cleaved his skull nearly in two.”

  “With a five hundred year old war ax. Very fitting, being that this was his museum and all.”

  “And that he protects to this day,” I said.

  Fang leaned across the bar. As he did so, his two canine teeth clacked together like two marbles. He said, “So did you unpack the box right there?”

  “No. I left it for Ms. Dickens. She opened it with a few other staff members standing nearby...and when she did, well, she nearly wept.”

  “A murder is one thing, but the theft of a piece of art is another.”

  “It is to a small museum trying to make a name for itself.”

  “Our world is weird,” said Fang.

  “Tell me about it.”

  His eyes crinkled a little. Maybe he got some squirting lime juice in them. “How did you explain that you knew the egg was in the box?”

  “I told her I had a hunch.”

  “Your hunches are pretty damn good.”

  “Better than most,” I said.

  He nodded. “So the ghost of Mr. Wharton killed the security guard.”

  “He wasn’t going to let anyone steal from his museum.”

  “Death by ghost,” said Fang.

  “Our world is weird,” I said, and both Fang and I smiled at each other.

  “So, it will go down as an unsolved crime?”

  “No doubt,” I said.

  “Would be hard to arrest Mr. Wharton,” he said, laughing lightly. He added, “Can a ghost still go to hell for killing?”

  “You’ll have to ask God.”

  He grinned again, and his eyes did this sort of sparkly thing that made my heart beat a little faster. Knowing my thoughts, he smiled brightly.

  “Oh, give it a rest,” I said. “You have a nice smile, so what?”

  “Whatever you say, Moon Dance.” He reached out and took my hands. “Have you thought about my request?”

  “Not really, no. Too much on my mind.”

  He nodded. “I understand. Things have been crazy.”

  He squeezed my hands a little tighter. His hands were soft in spots, but rough in others. They were the hands of a man who poured drinks for a living, but worked on muscle cars when he could. They were also the hands of a man who had killed three people.

  “I regret the killings,” said Fang, squeezing my hands a little tighter and reading my thoughts. “I’m not a killer, Sam.”

  “Then why do you want to be a vampire?”

  “Because I want to be with you,” he said, bringing my knuckles to his lips and kissing them lightly. “Forever.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  The traffic out to Simi Valley was so bad that I was tempted to just pull over and take flight.

  I resisted and two hours later, after winding my way through the foothills that connect Northridge to Simi Valley, I headed down a long incline toward the glittering lights that porn built.

  Porn Valley. Or, as some people call it, Silicone Valley.

  As a one-time federal agent, I knew that nearly 90% of all legally produced pornographic films made in the United States were produced in studios based in the San Fernando Valley, of which Simi Valley was the heart.

  The key phrase here was “legally produced.” Other porn was produced here, as well. Some not so legal.

  This, of course, was what made me nervous.

  My cell rang. It was Danny. Oh, joy. Then again, he might have news about my son. Ever the cautious driver, I hooked my Bluetooth around my ear and clicked on.

  “Hey, Sam,” he said. His voice sounded strained. Something was either obstructing his throat or he had been crying. Or was still crying.

  Shit. “Hey.”

  “He’s dying, isn’t he?” But Danny didn’t really get the words out. Not really. Instead, a choked, strangled sound came out, and it was a horrible sound to hear. “Please, tell me the truth, Sam. Please. I’m so scared.”

  I closed my eyes. His pain went straight to my heart. I debated how much to tell him, until I realized he had a right to know.

  “Yes, he is,” I said.

  Danny wept harder than I had ever heard him weep, harder than I had ever heard any man weep, and we cried together on the phone for many, many miles.

  * * *

  A trail of red brake lights snaked ahead of me as far as the eye could see. Although an hour outside of L.A., traffic in Southern California knew no city boundaries.

  When I had hung up with Danny, I was an emotional wreck. Still driving, I did my best to compose myself, wiping the tears from my cheeks. Say what you want about the guy, the man loved his kids.

  Traffic picked up, and as I worked my way into Simi Valley, one building clearly shone brighter than all others, up on a large hill—or a mountain, as one little girl put it—the Ronald Reagan Museum.

  Below it, near the base and about three miles south of me, glittering in a far different way, was a massive casino. The Juarez Indian Tribe, on land reserved for them, had built one of the most popular casinos in Southern California, and even from here, as I made my way off the freeway, the casino lights flashed and strobed and practically jiggled—anything to lure dollars away from wallets.

  A few minutes later, with the half moon hanging high in the sky, I pulled up to the casino and stepped out of my minivan. I scanned the fifteen-story facade of the hotel. Some of the windows were bright, but most were dark.

  Maddie’s words came flooding back to me. Perhaps they had been unlocked because I was staring up at the massive hotel, or perhaps I had gotten a psychic hit. Sometimes I didn’t know. Hey, I’m still figuring this stuff out as I go.

  Either way, I heard her words again: “We take the vader up.”

  The vader.

  The elevator.

  Maddie was here, in this hotel. Somewhere.

  I was sure of it.<
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  Chapter Fifty

  I was dressed to kill. Or at least to seriously maim someone. I was wearing a tight black dress, fully aware of my rounded hips and thighs on the one hand, but not giving a shit on the other. It had been a while since I had worn this black dress and I had forgotten how much skin it showed.

  How much pale skin, that is.

  I’m a jeans-and-tee-shirt kind of gal, but sometimes you have to look the part. And what was the part I was looking? I didn’t know, but dressing as a slutty whore in a casino in Porn Valley seemed the best way to blend in.

  The black man in the photographs was named Carl Luck. A known drug dealer and pornographer. And, apparently, murderer and kidnapper.

  Allegedly, of course.

  I parked my minivan in the back of the crowded parking lot. After huffing it across the vast lot, I strode past an epic water fountain with a stone eagle feather motif. I walked under a glittering eagle feather arch, and across an eagle feather tiled mosaic near the entry way.

  I sensed a pattern here.

  Inside, the Moon Feather Casino was epic. I felt lost just standing there at the entrance. Where to start? I had no clue. I had Carl Luck’s face seared, as they say, on the back of my retina. I would know the guy anywhere. Now it was just a matter of finding him without attracting attention to myself, or getting myself kicked out by the tribal police.

  If I were a regular, where would I go in a casino?

  I had no clue. I would have thought the bar, except the whole damn place was one big, honking bar. Waitresses crisscrossed everywhere, each carrying trays of colorful drinks. The waitresses were all middle-aged and tired-looking. They wore shiny leotards that showed a lot of stockinged legs. An eagle tail feather hung behind them, seemingly flapping as they walked.

  Oh, brother.

  Ignoring the occasionally discreet and mostly not-so-discreet stares of men old enough to be my grandfather, I made a circuit of the casino. At least, I think I did. Quite frankly, I had no clue where I ended up at. It all looked the same. Exits everywhere. Restaurants everywhere. Hallways to exotic-sounding clubs. And the games. My God, the games. Rows upon rows of video poker and slot machines, with every conceivable theme. There were elaborate and colorful ancient Egyptian-themed slots: “Play with the Pharaohs!” Rows of ancient Mayan slot machines with pictures of treasures and stepped pyramids. An ancient Troy slot machine with a flashing Trojan horse, but instead of men pouring out of its underbelly, golden coins poured free. Hell, I could receive a thumbnail history lesson all while losing my money. If anything, the casino was a “Who’s Who” of the ancient world.

  And as I walked past a row of Easter Island slot machines, complete with megalithic-shaped heads, I decided to wait it out at what appeared to be the casino’s central bar.

  I ordered a house white wine and noted idly that the bartender wasn’t anywhere near as cute as Fang. And as I sat there, drinking it sporadically and watching the crowd, I realized that this was a little like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  That is, if the needle was a child-trafficking killer.

  So I decided to pull out the big guns.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  I closed my eyes and did my best to clear my thoughts.

  It’s hard to clear your thoughts with the sounds of a casino assaulting your ears. Maybe that’s the casino’s secret plan. Assault the senses. Overstimulate them, confuse them, and thus lead you down dark roads where pulling out gobs of money and shoving them into a machine for “credits” suddenly seems like a damn good idea.

  Or maybe the machines were just fucking annoying.

  Anyway, I closed my eyes and cleared my thoughts and ignored the guy who just sat next to me, reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. I tried to hone in on my guy.

  I let a single name ease into my thoughts:

  Carl Luck.

  I let his image slide in next. The picture of him exiting McDonald’s, with little Maddie and her mom, Lauren, in tow. In the picture he’s looking down, perhaps at Maddie. But it’s a good shot of his face. His strong cheek bones. His flat forehead. The tight position of his eyes in relation to his nose. All of this was permanently emblazoned in my thoughts.

  Next, I did something that was new even to me, and it just sort of happened on its own. In my mind’s eye, I saw my thoughts rippling away from me, further and further out like a widening gyre. And as my mind reached out, it seemed to touch down on everyone around me, searching.

  Searching.

  It kept reaching out, kept searching—

  “Excuse me, baby?”

  My probing thoughts came racing back, nearly slamming physically back into me. Jolting me. I gasped. It took me a moment to orient myself, and when I did, my smiling drunk neighbor’s face was about three inches from my own. Three purple, wormy veins snaked just under the skin of his bulbous nose.

  “What?” I asked, confused. I was still coming back. Back into my body. I had been out there somehow. Out in the casino. Somehow out of my body.

  Sweet Jesus.

  “Hey, baby, you were the one talking to me.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “Sure, baby. You kept saying something about luck. And, since I’m the only lucky bastard sitting next to you, I figured you were talking to me.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, sorry.”

  He put a firm hand on my bare thigh. “Of course you were, angel. Tonight’s my lucky night.”

  He was a big guy. Granted, when you’re five foot three, even sixth graders look big. But this guy was closing in on three hundred, and nearly had me by three times my own weight. I’ve got nothing against big guys. Actually, I find them adorable. But not drunk guys who lay their drunken fat hands on my thighs.

  I put my hand on his and he smiled. This was encouraging for him. And, apparently, some drunken guy green light. He immediately tried to move his hand up the inside of my thigh. Except his hand didn’t move. I calmly lifted it off my thigh and started squeezing.

  “Hey!”

  “Go away.”

  “My hand!”

  “Go far away.”

  I let go and he tumbled backwards off the stool, his feet flying up. He landed with a squishy thud. Keys and a cell phone toppled out of his pockets. Along with a condom. Eww. The not-quite-as-good-looking-as-Fang bartender rushed over to us, but I only shrugged and made a drinking motion. The guy got to his feet, gathered his stuff, and hurried away from me without looking back.

  The bartender lingered briefly, certain that something strange had gone on, but then moved further down the bar to take an order, glancing at me a final time.

  Way to stay inconspicuous, Sam. Easy, girl.

  With the excitement over and alone once again, I closed my eyes and went through the previous steps and cast my thoughts outward.

  And they continued outward until they reached the far end of the casino. I went through a double door and into an exclusive poker room. And sitting near the poker table was a dead ringer for public enemy #1, Mr. Carl Luck.

  Whose luck might have just run out.

  Hey, I had to say it.

  As an experiment, I cast my thoughts even further out, up through the hotel, floor after floor, but there seemed to be a limit to this. The further I got, the more scattered my thoughts were.

  I retracted them, this time not so violently, and opened my eyes. When I had steadied myself, I plunked down a $10 bill, got up, and headed for the far side of the casino.

  To the poker room.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Feeling as if I had done this before, I wove my way past roulette tables and blackjack tables, and past tables of made-up games I had never heard before. Games like Flash Poker and Three-Card Texas Slam.

  Okay, now they’re just making stuff up.

  As I walked, I was aware that a lot of flesh was showing and a part of me didn’t entirely mind. A steady diet of blood, staying out of the sun, and my own nighttime jogs had done wonders for my b
ody. The ultimate Atkins Diet. I was still naturally curvy, but a petite curvy. Petite and now roped with muscle.

  Some men looked. Some women did, too. I wasn’t the sexiest or prettiest woman here, not by a long shot, but I suspected I projected a certain presence. What that presence was, I didn’t know. Confidence? Blood lust?

  Soon, I reached the far corner of the casino, where I wasn’t too surprised to see the same double doors there. There were two guys—both Native American—standing just outside the open doors, and I suspected they would have stopped most people. But I put on my best “don’t fuck with me” look and they simply blinked and smiled and let me through.

  And as I swept through, I wondered: Had they let me in because of my “don’t fuck with me look” or something else?

  What that something was, I didn’t know. But the words “mind control” came to mind.

  Too weird.

  I surveyed the room. Definitely high rollers. Seven men were seated around the table, no women. Two of the men were wearing Arab keffiyehs. Another was wearing a white cowboy hat, and the remaining four were a mix of ethnicities. All were dressed immaculately. None noticed me. All were intent on the dealer who was currently shuffling. A few more security types stood around the room, all of them Native American. The casino’s own security, no doubt. There were a handful of plush chairs surrounding the main poker table, and these were filled with babes. Various hookers, no doubt. And at a private bar on the far side of the room sat Carl Luck, wearing shades and drinking a draft beer. He was watching the game intently.

  My heart slammed against a rib or two. My first instinct was to fly across the room and slam his face into the bar, and keep slamming it until he told me where Maddie was.

  Calm down. Deep breaths.