The Blood Born Tales (Book 1): Blood Collector

by T. C. Elofson

  I abhorred snakes and their slimy organs. I despised spitting cobras and vicious rattlesnakes. But I hated nothing as much as seeing this woman again. Most days I hated that I ever got together with Sara. Life would have been so much simpler if I had never met her. But then I never would have had my daughter. Merric was the silver lining.

  “Dad!”

  The voice was sweet and happy and the instant I heard it my mood was better. She ran down a softly lit hallway and collided into me, her arms wrapping around my waist. I lifted her up into my arms with a grunt and told her how tall she was getting.

  “Honey, you seem to grow by the minute!” I smirked.

  She leaned forward and gave me a kiss on the side of my face. Then Kenny stepped forward and planted a big wet kiss on her cheek.

  “Hi, munchkin,” he said.

  “Hi, Uncle Kenny.”

  Sara instantly shot me a hard look and I knew right away why; she hated it when Merric called Kenny her uncle. “That man is not your uncle. He is just your dad’s friend from the Army,” she used to say when we were married. And I was sure she would say it later too, but none of that mattered now.

  “Are you going to find Zakk for me, Daddy?”

  “Well, sweetie, your uncle and I are going to do our best. Alright?”

  “Alright, Daddy.”

  I hadn’t been in the house for a while. I’d just signed on with the SPD and Sara was pregnant with Merric when we bought the place. Then it was a small, rundown hole, a real ‘fixer upper’, and I had loved everything about it. I remembered looking at the shag carpet and water-stained walls and telling her it was just bad luck. That soon I would work on the house. I told her our kid would end up swinging on a tire swing from a tree in the backyard and laughing and yelling as I cooked away on a barbeque.

  “You know that fuckin’ dog has been gone for days and you just now found time to get here?”

  Here she was—the torchbearer of my hate and poor discretion. How I wished that I never married her. How simple my life would have been without her. I should ask Jack to look into her background. Maybe he could seize her assets or something. I mean, really, for all that bitch knew I could have been out putting away a killer that was going to take her stupid pointless life tomorrow, but to hear her talk to her stoned friends all I ever did was waste tax dollars. People like Sara hate cops and think the world owes then something. I hate handouts and I always will.

  “I’m sorry, Sara. I’ve been busy.”

  “‘Sorry’?! You’re not fuckin’ sorry!”

  I cut her off. “Do we have to do this now? In front of Merric?”

  “Fine. Go find that fuckin’ beast. Make yourself useful for once.”

  Kenny and I turned and stepped out of the house. I heard a loud slam as the door swung shut behind us.

  “I really hate her,” I whispered to Kenny as he walked uncomfortably next to me, not really knowing what to say.

  “I could kill her for you,” he joked.

  “Tempting. Let’s get out of here,” I said as I buttoned my coat and put on my gloves. I imagined Zakk watching cars from a group of trees by a busy street somewhere.

  “You know, someday it will be different,” Kenny began to say, “Someday, Merric will grow up and realize that the life she had with her mother and all the bad things she heard Sara say about you is crap. She may not see it now, but someday she will. She’ll look back and see how respectful you were and how you never said a bad word about Sara in front of your daughter. It will mean something.”

  I was silent for a moment, and then smiled for a bit. “Thanks, Kenny. That means a lot.”

  Sara’s home was on the west side of Seattle, in the Ballard area not far from my house. In fact, I made it a point to live close by. I could see the lights of Shilshole Bay Marina on the other side of the sloping hill that led down to the water. Several nice old homes decorated the streets around Ballard and Sara lived in one of best, a large two-story green house with a cascading walkway—the home of our dreams. Now it was just the home of her dreams. Goodbye to yesterday, I suppose.

  At about the time that families began to show up for Thanksgiving dinner, Kenny and I were walking down a cold, wet road, our hands cupped over our faces as a brisk wind blew its harsh strength over us. I imagined that turkeys and hams were being prepared around the neighborhood and pumpkin pies would soon be piping hot out of the oven. What would Thanksgiving be like without my little girl? I didn’t want to think about it anymore.

  We walked for at least an hour calling out Zakk’s name. My face froze under the wet rain and I got increasingly more disoriented. I could not tell if the round, bright lights far down in the foggy mist were police lights or not. Then a police cruiser flew down the street and headed north with its engine roaring loudly.

  “Kenny, check in. See what’s up,” I said.

  “I’m on it.”

  Kenny grabbed up his radio and called the station for an update. Moments later the call came back to us. Two bodies found at a home in Blue Ridge, two holes in the neck. Same M.O.

  “Sounds like our girl,” Kenny said as we ran back to my truck.

  Chapter 39

  9:00 a.m., November 25

  En route, I received a phone call from Kenny’s uncle.

  “Anderson…?”

  “Oh hi, Hank,” I responded, a little confused.

  “What? Why is he calling you?” Kenny wanted to know.

  “He’s inviting us for dinner—tonight at seven. We’ll play poker after,” I relayed his uncle’s words with a gentle smile.

  “No, tell him he doesn’t have to make me dinner.”

  “Well, Kenny said you don’t have to make him dinner… Okay. Kenny, Hank says, ‘Shut up. And don’t be late.’ Okay, Hank. Alright. Bye.”

  I could tell by the look on Kenny’s face that he did not like how any of that played out.

  “He said he’s going to teach me how to kick your ass.” I laughed.

  “That will be the day! I don’t think so.”

  The house on NW 96 Street was dark when we turned into the driveway from 28 Avenue. Kenny did not have a good feeling about it. This neighborhood was one of the wealthiest in Seattle and certainly there had been problems before, but nothing more than the occasional breaking and entering. Even so, most people still did not leave doors unlocked or let in strangers after dark, and the flashing lights and yellow police tape stretched across the well-manicured lawn were definitely causing a panic with the neighbors on that holiday.

  As I got out and walked towards the house, avoiding deep puddles on the street, I noticed a man coming out of the front door. It was a moderately-sized home with sea blue paint and white trim. The house looked immaculate and I could tell that the owners had spent a lot of time meticulously keeping every aspect of the home perfect. Every detail seemed planned out—from the rows of flowers on the walk to the number of figurines in the windows.

  It only took me a second to recognize Special Agent Jack Mitchell. He was in a real slick black suit with his usual white dress shirt and tie. I couldn’t help but notice how he tried to stay out of people’s way as they searched for evidence and waited for me to approach.

  “Do we know who…?” I asked with dread.

  “Old couple, retired last year. Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson,” Jack said as he walked us into the house. I did not like his coolness; I did not like how reserved he was being. I wanted Jack to lose his temper. I wanted him to join my mood. That was the problem with fuckin’ FBI guys—they’re too cool all the time. I don’t trust people who don’t lose it once in a while.

  Now that I was inside the house, I decided that one of the deceased—most likely the wife—had suffered from an obsessive compulsive disorder. The windows, tiled floors, and furniture were all spotless, perfectly arranged in the house. A rug was centered in the living room and on a bookshelf there were thirteen figurines of cats. As I looked around I noticed thirteen picture frames mounted on the top of the entryway
leading into the kitchen. Everything was perfectly aligned, an ideal pattern of OCD. Thirteen seemed to be a reoccurring motif for the household.

  “Jack,” I said. “When you look around this house, what is it you see? Tell me.”

  Jack looked around for several minutes. His eyes scanned over the walls and tables quietly before he turned to me with a smile. “How did you see that?” he asked.

  “I had a brother with OCD.”

  “People with OCD repeat patterns in their lives in order to stave off physiological panic,” he decided to explain. “Everything in the house is organized in sets of thirteen. Thirteen cats on the shelf, thirteen pictures on the wall, and thirteen coasters on the coffee table. And, as a matter of fact, there are thirteen magazines here next to the chair,” he said as he pointed to a wooden magazine stand with a reading lamp in the corner of the room. “Sets of thirteen must have been a manifestation of her OCD.”

  The two bodies lay in the middle of the kitchen floor, one tossed on top of the other like sacks of grain thrown onto the bed of a farm truck. There were no broken plates or anything that indicated that there was a struggle of any kind. Even stranger yet, the couple had slight grins on their faces, as if they were in peace when they left this world. She was clothed in a pink and blue warm-up outfit and white slippers and was lying on her back on top of her husband. He was wearing a Seahawks T-shirt and navy workout pants. He was fit and it looked as if they both exercised enough to live a lot longer than they had.

  Kenny walked into the kitchen and looked at the stove. On a back burner was a cast iron skillet and the metal was grey, streaked with a black ring burnt into it. A charred film of butter stuck to the pan.

  “The burner was left on?” Kenny asked.

  “Yes, Detective. I think they were getting ready for dinner when it happened. When the lady next door got here, the left back burner was on low and the pan was hot as hell with nothing in it. But it was smoking up the place real good,” one of the dozen or so officers said.

  “This is the way things looked when I got here,” Jack said. “The lady from next door said she found some food sitting out but she put it away.”

  “What?! Are you fuckin’ kidding me? The bitch comes in here, finds her next-door neighbors dead on the kitchen floor and the fuckin’ bitch cleans up?” I was floored by what Jack had just told me. However, I had seen people do some really strange things in shock. Their minds would just shut down. I guess you only see what you want to see sometimes.

  A few minutes later, Dr. Marty Colleens and Aaron, the assistant M.E., showed up and I decided I should get out of her way and let her do her job. It had been a really hard week for her. As I was walking out the front door, Jack turned to her and spoke.

  “Marty, I talked to Doctor Andwell today. She is the consultant forensic anthropologist at the Smithsonian and an expert on bone damage. She’s expecting you to email what you have to her.”

  “Thank you, Agent Mitchell. I appreciate what you did,” she said as she squeezed past him in the doorway. He barely gave her enough room to get through. Jack was one of those guys that liked to innocently rub his cock up against women. He thought that if they felt it on their hip or leg, they might actually want to feel it some more. He was just wrong and creepy. I could tell that Dr. Colleens just wanted to do her job and definitely wanted to be left alone.

  The grass was spongy beneath my feet as it had been very rainy the last few days. But when the sun emerged from the dark clouds, the air finally began to heat up a bit. Outside, I could see more signs of Mrs. Sanderson’s OCD pattern as I searched with Kenny for footprints or any other evidence that would help us.

  In the yard everything came in thirteens—paving stones, plants, decorative rocks, garden gnomes—always thirteen. Everything was perfectly arranged and displayed. The grass was kept very short and I’m sure that was not really an easy task this time of year. The weather had been really wet in the morning and hot in the day, unusual for the season. Even now, you would have to mow at least once a week to keep the grass this short. God knows I don’t have time for that; my lawn is out of control.

  Suddenly I spun around and looked down at a grove of trees that led down to Long Beach. I was curtain someone was watching me. I stepped off of the lawn and walked into the trees but I found no sign of anyone. At that moment, Aaron ran out of the house and came up to me. His face was nervous as he presented me with a white evidence envelope.

  “Detective, this was found under Mr. Sanderson. It… it has your name on it.”

  I stood there for a moment in shock. I reached out and took the envelope in my hand as Kenny walked over to me.

  “What the fuck, dude?” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  * * *

  I didn’t bother looking for Jack or telling him anything after I was handed the evidence envelope. Aaron could give Jack the facts as easily as I could. Kenny and I headed back into the truck. With the muffled sounds of the shutting doors behind us, we sat silently for a moment with the piece of paper on the dash. Close to the window, the morning light warmed my face as I sat in the driver’s seat of my green Ford pickup truck, Kenny musing silently at my side. The engine kicked over with a turn of the key and for a few minutes we sat with the engine running. The wiper blades swept back and forth on the dry glass and I looked out to the perfectly even brick walk of the Sanderson home. Kenny glanced down at the evidence envelope as if it was something scary or unnatural. I turned off the wipers and watched them come to a complete halt at the base of the windshield. The quiet that filled the cab was unnerving.

  What was it that the killer left for me? And why me? Was it information or just some game to throw us off the scent? But it seemed like there was no scent to be found. I was utterly lost in this case—in all these cases. I slowly sat up in the seat and Kenny looked over at me. He looked tired, but alert. I could see the worry in his eyes as I reached for my evidence bag behind my seat and handed Kenny a pair of recovery gloves to wear. His eyes were full of thoughts as he turned his attention to the officers outside the truck to make certain that we would not be disturbed. We both put on our gloves.

  Kenny lowered his voice to a soft whisper and looked up at me. “Why?”

  I really didn’t have an answer for him but I spoke anyway.

  “Why? I suspect to confuse us. But I still have a weird feeling about this one. Something is just not right.”

  I could tell that my friend was feeling the same way.

  The plastic evidence bag crinkled on my gloved fingers as I pulled it open and grabbed the envelope with a pair of tongs. I slid the folded piece of yellow note paper out. I dropped the empty envelope next to me and unfolded the note. It was a normal kind of notepaper like you could find at any office shop or convenience store. I had hoped that it would be rare and I could trace it back to a part of town. My suspicion was that it was taken off a notepad in the Sanderson home.

  The writing was done with a calm and careful hand. The writer had not been in a hurry or rushed for time. It was written in a very artistic form of calligraphy. The loops were penned by a steady hand and composed without much pressure on the tip of the pen. Someone who was very skilled and practiced at that type of calligraphy had written this. I read the note out loud to Kenny in a soft, low voice.

  Dear Timothy,

  My name is Fabiana. I have watched you from a distance over the last few nights. I have come to the conclusion that you are a decent and good man. It is important for you to know that I did not take the lives of the two people in this house, but I know who did. I cannot say that he will not take any more lives of your citizens, but what I can tell you is that you are in danger. There are blood drinkers in this city that wish you harm. So take care, as I may not be able to protect you from them. I’m sorry.

  Fabiana of Olisipo

  I stared past the warming glass of the window and felt my heart racing under my skin. Kenny took a long, steadied breath. Then he reached over and t
ook the note from my lap.

  “Fuck,” he said as he held it up. “Blood drinkers? What the hell is going on, Tim?”

  “I don’t know but we need to find out.”

  “Man, we can’t show this to Jack, can we?” Kenny asked.

  I didn’t answer for a moment as I was thinking about Jack. I felt very small inside and had a childish urge to hide under a blanket somewhere. Maybe when I woke up none of this will have happened. I would be a normal cop after a normal criminal, not some vampire. And I was starting to come around to the idea that it might actually be a vampire, like in the movies. My thoughts were long and drawn-out but I could not shake something. I strongly sensed that Jack has known about this all along. That there was something he was not telling us.

  “I don’t trust Jack,” I said breaking the silence. “We need to find out what he knows.”

  “You think there’s more to this than he’s told us, Tim?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Kenny said and we pulled away from the curb.

  252

  Chapter 40

  11:00 a.m., November 25

  Jack’s demeanor soured as he followed a cobblestone walk in the shade of the back garden and a text message came over his phone. It was a short warning from User319.

  You can’t trust anyone; treachery is the inevitable result of all affairs.

  Then pages of a document came over his screen and suddenly Jack’s attention flared. He paused, his expression serious and earnest. Historical records dating back many centuries flashed over his iPhone. This was nothing new. It had been happening all along—right under the mist of the world—from ancient times to the present.

  Then another text message followed.