Blood Drive asc-2

by Jeanne C. Stein

  Carolyn drops her eyes. “It isn’t a coincidence, Mrs. Strong.”

  Mom gives a little start. “It isn’t? You’re related to Trish Delaney?”

  The way my mother asks the question tells me she knows the girl, and her impression is not at all favorable.

  Carolyn’s face flushes with color. “She’s been in some trouble, I know.”

  My father’s eyes register the shock and surprise on Mom’s face. “Anita?” he asks. “You know this girl?”

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “Yes, I know Trish. She’s missed quite a bit of school this year. We suspect a drug problem. Both the school nurse and her counselor tell me they’ve tried to contact you, Carolyn, many times. You never return the calls.”

  Carolyn’s shoulders sag. “I was afraid to. Afraid if I came to school, if you recognized me-” She bites off the words, shakes her head, and continues, “But I did try to get Trish help on my own. I made appointments for her with a counselor at the hospital where I work. But I couldn’t force her to attend the sessions.” Her eyes shift to me. “That’s why I’m here. She’s run away. I want you to find her.”

  A runaway?

  My parents and I exchange looks-we don’t have to speak the words aloud to know what each is thinking. The fact that she’s come to us, virtual strangers, with a problem that is better addressed by the authorities can only mean one thing. There’s more. There has to be.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You should call me at the office tomorrow. Or better yet, go to the police. They are the ones-”

  “I can’t go to the police.You have to help her.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” I ask, my voice sounding brittle in my ears. “I’m not a drug counselor.”

  A glimmer of hope sparks in Carolyn’s eyes. “You are a bounty hunter. You track people. You can find Trish before the police and we can work out a deal for her.”

  I frown at her, afraid my suspicion is about to be confirmed. “What did Trish do that she’d need a deal from the police?”

  Carolyn’s voice is barely a whisper. “She’s in trouble. More than the drugs.”

  It’s not an answer, but I don’t care. I see how this is affecting my parents and I want Carolyn gone. “I’m sorry, Carolyn. I understand how upset you must be that your daughter is in trouble. But you need a private detective, not a bounty hunter. I have my hands full chasing people who present a real danger to society, not an out of control teenager.”

  “That’s what you think she is? An out of control teenager?”

  “Well, isn’t she?” Resentment is beginning to prickle the back of my neck. “What did she do? Get caught dealing? And why in the world would you come to my parents’ home to ask for help?”

  “I didn’t know who else to turn to,” she says quietly. “I think Trish may have killed someone.”

  The answer comes quickly, but it’s the last one we’re prepared to hear. Mom and Dad stare at her. I’m trying to decide if I heard her correctly.

  “You suspect Trish has killed someone?”

  “It’s not her fault,” Carolyn says. “Not really. It’s one of her teachers.”

  “Teacher?” Mom’s sharp voice cuts in like a razor.

  Carolyn’s voice loses its tenuous waiver, becomes heated. “His name is Daniel Frey. He teaches English. He mentors students, uses his ‘sensitive nature’ to help them get in touch with their inner selves while he’s getting in touch with everything else. He’s a drug dealer, among other things, and a pedophile-”

  Mom presses both hands over her eyes as if they burn with weariness. “You have proof of this?”

  The question startles me into shifting my gaze from Carolyn to my mother. “You don’t sound surprised.”

  She lets her hands drop and turns away from me to face Carolyn. “I’ve heard those rumors,” she says. “They have never been substantiated. Daniel Frey is a tenured teacher with a good record. His students love him. Without proof of wrongdoing, there has never been anything I could do.”

  Carolyn’s eyes bore into my mother’s. “Hear me out,” she says. “Help me find Trish. I’ll give you all the proof you need.”

  “Wait a minute.” I’m still reeling over the turn this conversation has taken. “Mom, Carolyn should be telling this to the police. She has no right to involve you. If she thinks it’s because she and Steve were friends-”

  “We were more than friends.”

  She says it quietly.

  “Okay. You were more than friends. That doesn’t give you the right-”

  My mother draws a quick breath and raises a hand to stop me. “Anna. Wait. Trish is thirteen.”

  I don’t understand the implication of Mom’s words and I’m not ready to relinquish the resentment I feel toward Carolyn. Her presence here brings back a rush of bad memories. “So what?”

  Carolyn turns away from me to face my mother. “You know?”

  I blow out an impatient puff of air. “Know what?”

  Mom’s voice has the hollow ring of shock. “Trish is Steve’s daughter. Isn’t she, Carolyn?”

  Chapter Four

  “What did you say?” I barely recognize my own voice.

  “It’s true,” Carolyn says. “Trish is your niece, your parent’s grandchild.”

  But although she’d guessed it, my mother pales at Carolyn’s words. She recovers quickly, moving past the shock and regaining control. I see it in the set of her shoulders. Her mouth forms a thin, hard line. “Why should we believe that this child is Steve’s?”

  Carolyn holds up both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t expect that you would.” The reply is direct and without rancor. “I brought Trish’s hairbrush from home. We can use the hair for a DNA test. If you don’t have anything of Steve’s, we can use a sample of your blood. It won’t be as accurate of course, but-”

  For the first time my father speaks. His voice is cold. “Why are you telling us this now? Because she’s in trouble? What do you think we can do to help?”

  Outrage reverberates in his tone. He takes a step toward her. “Why should we believe you?”

  Carolyn doesn’t move away. Instead, she takes one of his hands, holding on though he stiffens and pulls back. “I’m sorry that I’ve upset you. I never intended to tell you about Trish. Not ever. I just planned to talk to Anna. To hire her to find Trish. But when your wife told me you were all here together, I thought it was a sign. I had to come. I don’t have anyone else to turn to. And I thought after you’d heard the story, you would want to help. She is your grandchild. I wouldn’t make that up.”

  Mom’s voice is steady, controlled. “Why wouldn’t Steve have told us that you were pregnant?”

  “He never knew. I didn’t find out until after the accident. When Steve died, I got sick. Very sick. I ended up in the hospital. While I was there I found out I was pregnant.”

  Carolyn releases my father’s hand. “I thought it would be okay. I loved Steve. But I made the mistake of telling my parents. They didn’t share my enthusiasm. They tried to convince me to have an abortion. They were relentless.”

  “Why didn’t you come to us?” Mom asks.

  Carolyn’s expression hardens. “Would you have wanted to know?” There is an accusatory edge to her voice. “You didn’t bother to call to see why I hadn’t come to the funeral. I figured you would feel the same way my parents did, that we were too young to have had a real relationship. That the baby was a mistake.”

  When no one responds, she waves the air with a hand. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. I ran away. I came here because I got a scholarship to nursing school. After I had Trish, I got a job at a local hospital. I raised Trish in the best way I could. We got along very well until Trish started high school. Suddenly, everything changed.”

  “Tell us,” Mom says. “But what you say had better be the truth.”

  Carolyn perches on the edge of the couch. “Trish and I moved here from downtown last year,” she says. “I didn’t like the group of kid
s Trish was involved with in her old school.” She looks up at my mother. “I didn’t know it was your school. Not until later.”

  Mom says nothing.

  Carolyn shrugs and continues. “There was an older group of kids in the neighborhood who took a special interest in Trish from the moment we moved in. Naturally, she loved the attention. I suspect they were smoking pot and drinking. I should have stopped it then. But if Trish was doing it, too, she was very clever at hiding it. She never missed a curfew. Never neglected her chores or lied about where she was going or with whom. A couple of months ago, things changed.”

  She moves restlessly, crosses and uncrosses her legs. “Trish has always been a good student but suddenly her grades fell. She began to stay out late, was evasive about what she was doing. Sometimes she would come home stoned or drunk. Once she didn’t make it into the house before passing out on the front porch steps. I tried everything I could think of to intervene. That’s when I contacted Daniel Frey, the one teacher Trish seemed to respect. I hoped that he could offer insight into Trish’s behavior.”

  She pauses and wearily shakes her head. “He promised to watch out for Trish and asked my permission for her to join a select group of students he mentored after school. But he said his techniques were a bit unconventional and he often took students to his home for overnight or weekend sessions. If I objected to that, I could say no and he wouldn’t pursue it.”

  At this point my mother can no longer hold her tongue. “You didn’t think ‘overnight and weekend sessions’ an odd thing for a teacher to suggest? It didn’t occur to you that perhaps you should contact someone else at the school and report what this teacher said to you?”

  Carolyn lowers her eyes. “He gave me the name of a parent of one of the other students in his ‘program.’ I called her. She told me in glowing terms how Mr. Frey had helped her daughter. You have to understand, Mrs. Strong. I was desperate. Trish refused the help I offered through the hospital. She was slipping away and I felt I had no one else to turn to. When Trish said she’d accept Mr. Frey’s help, I was relieved.”

  Mom shakes her head. “You’ve leveled some very serious charges against this teacher. Once we’ve found Trish, I expect you to come with me before the school board. But right now, we need to help your daughter. Do you have any idea where she is?”

  Carolyn shrugs. “No. She’s been gone two days. She left right after the disappearance of Barbara Franco. When I heard this morning that Barbara’s body had been discovered, that she’d been murdered, I was afraid Trish might be involved.”

  Mom draws a sharp breath. “Barbara’s body was discovered?”

  The tone suggests she knew this girl too. She catches my eye and gives a brief nod. “Another of our students. God, I can’t believe this is happening.”

  I look at Carolyn. “Why do you suspect Trish is involved?”

  Carolyn bites her lip. “Barbara is the one friend Trish made here that was her same age. They really seemed to hit it off. But she was as worried about Trish as I was. Barbara came to me last week with suspicions about Mr. Frey and what he was doing with Trish. I told her that she must be mistaken. I had talked to him, that he was helping Trish. But she kept insisting that Frey was supplying drugs to kids in exchange for sex.”

  “And you didn’t believe it?”

  “Would you? Trish was getting better. There were no more late night parties. She seemed happier. But I couldn’t convince Barbara. She said if I didn’t do something to stop what was going on, she would. She said she would go to you, Mrs. Strong, and tell you what was happening.”

  I look over at my mother. “Did she?”

  Mom shakes her head. “No. I wish she had.”

  Carolyn’s expression crumbles and she begins to cry. “She didn’t because I talked her out of it.” Sobs shake her shoulders. “I told her she should go to Mr. Frey first. I told her he was a good teacher and it wouldn’t be fair to slander his reputation with gossip. I sent her to Frey. I think he killed her, and I’m afraid Trish may have helped.”

  We let her cry, though part of me wants to ask her why she hasn’t told this story to the police. The other part acknowledges that if what she says is true, Trish is Steve’s child. She’s blood. And she’s in trouble.

  After a minute, I go into the kitchen for a box of tissues. Carolyn accepts the box, pulls one free and mops at her face. She reaches down and pulls something out of the tote at her feet.

  It’s a photo album.

  She holds it out to us like an offering. “Pictures of Trish. I thought you might like to see them.”

  Neither Mom nor Dad moves to accept it, but I can’t resist. I lower myself onto the couch beside her and open to the first page.

  My brother’s eyes look back at me.

  I can’t tell how tall she is from the school picture, or what body type she is, but the resemblance to my brother is remarkable. She has Steve’s dark, onyx eyes, huge, almond shaped. She’s looking straight at the camera, her facial bones delicate, her mouth full. Her hair is the same color as my mother’s, pulled back with a clip at the top of her head, tendrils resting on her shoulders, wisping around her face. She’s smiling but not quite. An almost spectral radiance surrounds her. I can’t stop myself. I suck in a breath, blow it out and hold the picture up for my parent’s to see.

  This is my brother’s child.

  ***

  Carolyn leaves at eleven, agreeing to meet us again tomorrow evening. She leaves behind the photo album. My parents and I spend hours poring over it. Mom brings out one of Steve’s baby pictures to compare with Trish’s. There’s no need for a DNA test. The two babies could have been twins. Before long, we are all hugging each other and crying.

  They ask me to spend the night with them. I want to. But one of the sad truths about being a vampire is a keen awareness of the everyday things that make us different from humans. I have to avoid mirrors, for instance. And quite naturally, my parent’s home is full of them. Nighttime is particularly bad because I cast no reflection in brightly-lit windows either. So far, neither Mom nor Dad have noticed how I carefully pull all the drapes just before sunset. One of these days, however, they may question why I’m so diligent. They live at the top of Mt.Helix and the view from their home sweeps from Del Mar to Mexico. I used to love it, especially at night.

  So at 2:00 a.m., I trek wearily home. I’ve rented a condo downtown while my cottage in Mission Beach is being rebuilt. I console myself with the thought that it’s logical for me to go home because I plan to be in the office early. I want to fill my partner David in on what we’ll be doing for the next couple of days.

  Tracking a niece I didn’t know I had.

  A niece who may be involved in a murder.

  I reach into my handbag beside me on the seat and withdraw the picture I removed from Carolyn’s album. I hold it in front of me, just below my line of sight as I drive, so I can glance at it.

  There is something about the girl that fascinates me. Not just that she’s my niece, but that I feel a connection to her unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Since becoming a vampire, I find my sentiments toward humans often seem to rage out of control. Culebra tells me it’s natural. That as long as I have ties to human family and friends, I will be sensitive to mortal concerns.

  But this is more than mortal concern.

  I can’t describe what I feel when I look at this girl. But it’s powerful and strong.

  And it feels a lot like hope.

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday

  By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. The myth about vampires being creatures of the night is just that. Some things don’t change when you become a vampire. If you were a morning person before the change, you will remain a morning person. I need my eight hours, so when the alarm goes off at six, I literally have to drag myself out of bed and into the shower.

  The need for that first cup of coffee is another of those constants. I don’t bother to get dressed before I plug in the pot. By
the time I’ve slipped on jeans and a sweater, the coffee is ready and so am I.

  I take a cup of coffee and go to stand on the balcony that spans the front of my apartment. I have a view that extends over SeaportVillage and west toward Coronado. In early morning, the bay is quiet, the motionless water shimmering like liquid gold in the sun.

  I sip coffee and let the caffeine awaken sleeping brain cells. Mom is arranging for me to spend the day at her school in the guise of an extra security person hired because of Barbara Franco’s murder. There will be grief counselors on campus, also, so another unfamiliar face shouldn’t be cause for alarm. The few teachers who might recognize me know what I do for a living. It’s not too far a stretch to imagine a Bail Enforcement Agent moonlighting as a security guard.

  And the irony is not lost on me that for the first time, my choice of occupation is not a matter of dissension between my parents and me. Not once last night did they mention how much they wished I’d give up this quasi-law enforcement gig and go back to teaching.

  Carolyn didn’t know the particulars about Barbara’s death, but I’m assuming there will be something in the newspaper. I finish my coffee, grab my purse and start down for the parking garage. There’s a newspaper kiosk just outside the elevator door. I drop in the requisite coins, pull out the paper and fold it under my arm. I’m busy searching my purse for car keys when I run head first into the last person I expect to see-my sometimes boyfriend, Max.

  So much for a vampire’s catlike reflexes. I literally bounce off his chest. He laughs and gently holds me at arm’s length.

  “Hey, sunshine. Where are you off to in such a rush?”

  Max is one of those big, handsome men that makes a female’s heart beat faster-human or vamp. He’s six foot three and weighs in at a well-muscled two hundred twenty-five. He’s Latino, with eyes the color of the ocean. The combination of suntanned skin, dark hair, and those glorious eyes takes my breath away.