“It’s that stupid step,” Hank began. “Who has stairs like that!?”
“I told you to use the elevator, Uncle.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t need to use that mechanical contraption like some old man,” he said, denying his age. And I felt bad for Kenny. He didn’t need to deal with this right now. He had a lot on his plate. I wanted to leave, to give my friend some space. But I knew him. I knew Kenny would want me close. But he would never tell me that, not in a hundred years.
“No, Uncle, you could have been hurt. You could have been killed…” I had never seen Kenny with such a look of concern on his face.
“I always used to walk everywhere… walked down those stairs more than a million times. It’s that damn first step! It’s dangerous, Kenny.”
“Alright,” Kenny said, giving in and trying not to hurt his feelings.
After that incident, we needed to drop Hank off at a friend’s while we worked. Our attention was drifting from this case at a bad time. I could tell that Kenny was tormenting himself with guilt as we left Hank with someone else.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Hank had told him. But he did, and Kenny was finally getting that. He wanted to be there for the old man. I had always known that about Kenny. He was very close to his adoptive family. They were his family and no one would ever tell Kenny that they weren’t. He wanted to be the one that took care of Hank. He didn’t want to fail him and have him live in some home somewhere, but I couldn’t see that Kenny had much choice. Some things just had to be done, no matter how much love you had for someone.
After Kenny and I dropped his uncle off with a friend of ours, we went back to my house to work on the case. All the files were still there and I figured Kenny needed some distance from the scene of Hank’s accident. Jack had called several times, but Kenny and I were not about to trust him with anything. If we went to him with any of our thoughts we would be off the case at once, and we both knew it. But there was something that tugged at me when I looked at Jack. I couldn’t put my finger on what, but I just didn’t trust that man.
“What then? What are we supposed to do?” Kenny was asking me.
“Jack knows more than he’s telling us,” I said. “We might have to work outside our roles as law enforcement on this. Can you go and find Jack? Follow him, see what he’s into?”
“Yeah, Tim. I think I can handle that,” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find me a fuckin’ vampire.”
Then I turned back to Kenny and said, “I’m sorry about…” and he knew I meant Hank.
“Yeah, I guess he needs more than I can give right now, huh? Maybe I should take a leave of absence.”
“I really need you on this case, but if you feel that’s what you need to do, I’ll understand.”
“He’ll think I don’t love him… And he’s all the family I have left.”
“Really? You really believe he’ll think you don’t love him?” He didn’t answer me, he just nodded his head.
“Let’s go. We have work to do,” Kenny said, and we both left my home. I dropped him off at his car and moments later I headed out into the swiftly coming evening. This was some Thanksgiving…
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Chapter 42
5:30 p.m. in D.C., November 25th
From ceiling to floor in every available inch of the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History’s bone storage room, green wooden drawers housed the dead. More than thirty thousand human remains sat unidentified, waiting for their time to be put to rest. Until that day, there they sat, in small boxes in Washington, D.C. The lobby of the Smithsonian was fragrant with a variety of exotic plants and the chatter of tourism filled the hall outside the lab.
In addition to being a natural scientist and curator, Dr. Samantha Andwell worked for the FBI by identifying remains whenever possible. Inside a laboratory cluttered with steel carts and bearing the remains of skeletons, shelves were covered with more bones and other reminders of a time past. She sat down at her computer, logged into her server and set up the video link to the Seattle, King County M.E. office. The time was half past five o’clock in the evening, a little later than she had intended to be there on Thanksgiving, but her work on the case files from Seattle took a bit longer than she had originally hoped it would. She would be out the door soon.
To Samantha’s surprise, these cases turned out to be some of the most fascinating files she had read in a very long time. If she hadn’t known any better she would have been certain that the bones that she had received photographs of had been from a time period far older then this last century. A moment later the video box appeared on her screen, filled with the face of Marty Colleens.
“Dr. Colleens, I’m sorry to keep you so late on the holiday,” she began. “These cases are nothing if not unique. I should thank you for getting me involved. A person could go their entire career without ever seeing something this fascinating.”
Marty smiled as she cleaned her glasses with the hem of her lab coat, which was her way of dealing with a compliment when she felt a little more dependent than just a colleague sharing information. Marty had felt almost helpless as she sat in her lab waiting for the great bone expert to get back to her. And when she got the email a few hours ago saying that Dr. Andwell finally had some information to share with her, she was more anxious than relieved. She called her husband and informed him of the unfortunate circumstances with work. He was not pleased but he always knew that her work came first.
“Dr. Colleens, the conclusions that you reached on the first three victims were very well thought out and thorough. I have analyzed the metal that was recovered from the third victim. The tool used to stab contained traces of iron and carbon and, to a lesser extent, silicon and magnesium, and phosphorus. It was very old—so old only one conclusion could be made and only one weapon could have left these traces. Ancient metal workers turned iron into steel on accident. They would heat up the metal creating low-grade steel, but they thought it was their mode of quenching it that hardened it.”
“Romans peed on it,” Dr. Colleens added.
“Yes, Doctor. This weapon was forged in ancient Rome.”
“Interesting,” Dr. Colleens said.
“I agree with your findings wholeheartedly. As for your burn victim, I have some amazing findings and am eager to share my thoughts with you.”
“Please, Dr. Andwell. I’m ready and waiting,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with as much sincerity as she could muster up on short notice.
“Well, it is hard for me to be sure, but the cranial measurements indicate that the body is congruent with the ancient Sax and the Celts. His physical attributes show Saxon tissue depth markers, but he has Pictish features and he is certainly quite a ways off of the British Isles. This is a victim, not some skeleton that was stolen from a museum?”
“I’m afraid so. Most of the victims in this case are just as confusing as the Pictii,” Marty said with a defeated look on her face.
Dr. Andwell felt amazed at that. This looked like a skeleton of a Pictii, the first civilization to have ever pushed back the Roman army.
“You see, Doctor—in 400 AD, the land of the British Isles was known as Taezali on the northeast Pictii settlement. The Romans left the island years before and the country had been divided into four settlements, with the Pictii in the northern and northeastern part. The Romans had named them ‘the painted ones’, or Pictii.
“Now, if I were speaking only from a scholastic view, I would say that body that you have in your morgue is a Pictii. But I can’t see how that is possible. But I would love it if it was.”
Marty looked keyed up and exhausted, her eyes nervously darting about. Her face was close to her computer camera as a bead of perspiration appeared on her brow.
Aaron, the assistant M.E., was never too preoccupied or busy to glance over Marty’s shoulder or spy on what she was doing. So when he heard her discussing the case with Dr. Andwell, he could no
t help himself from listening in on the conversation. This was a habit that frustrated Dr. Colleens to no end.
“There is plenty of work to do without you peering over my shoulder every five minutes,” she used to say when she would catch a glimpse of him reflected in glass windows, computer screens, or the stainless steel cabinets that cluttered her office. But this time, Marty just ignored him.
“Dr. Colleens, I would love to get my hands on those bones some day.”
“I would like to oblige you, Doctor. But as long as this is an active investigation, I will be unable to release the bones. I’m sorry.”
“Of course. I understand, Doctor. If I can be of any further assistance, please don’t hesitate to call my office,” Dr. Andwell said. “And, Doctor—Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Doctor. Thank you again.”
Then the video box disappeared on Dr. Andwell’s screen. She sat there for a moment, wishing she could have participated more.
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Chapter 43
4:50 p.m., November 25th
The art deco pastels of Freemont reminded Kenny of San Francisco. Buildings were pink and yellow and wedged close together. Polished brass door knockers and brilliant handmade doors stood open in inviting ways—a sight that seemed even more out of place because of the weather. The sun had turned to a mist that floated, never-ending, in the air.
It was the night of Thanksgiving. Traffic was rush-hour awful and Kenny had to drive around the block twice to find a parking spot behind a warehouse on the avenue just a block down from where he had spotted Agent Jack Mitchell.
Kenny walked a block behind Jack, engulfed in a camouflage of people heading to The Dubliner Bar up the street. The people were laughing and giggling. Most were just barely drinking age, home from college and wanting to finish up the holiday week with alcohol. A girl walked in front of Kenny; she was blond and thin with a pair of hip-hugger jeans barely holding on to her flesh as she swayed from side to side, teasing the boys around her. Her long straight hair bounced in the wind as she walked down the road, and even though Kenny could not see it, he was sure it wasn’t the only thing bouncing on her at that moment. She was playing the game and she was good at it. Each boy around was hoping that maybe someday he would be able to get close to her in the only way they ever really wanted to at that age.
The Dubliner was an Irish pub on Freemont Avenue North, a popular hangout for anyone wishing to be social or have a drink at an expensive cost. It was one of those old brick buildings that places like Freemont and Ballard were known for. The old brick reminded people of how the city used to look before all the impersonal steel and concrete became the staples of construction. Even some parts of the city still had the old brick roads that ran in front of some of the more popular places, but The Dubliner was not one of them. The bar was just getting crowded as Jack made his way past the large plate glass window under a long white sign with the painted letters that read The Dubliner, An Irish Pub. It was one of those places that made you feel as if you were in Ireland. Even a round Guinness sign hung to the right of the doorway. Several small flags fluttered on a long plastic line as Kenny snuck in a few moments after Jack had walked through the entrance.
There was a man at the front door checking the IDs of the younger kids as Kenny slipped in. The man wore a name tag that read Mountain. He looked like his name, with brilliant green eyes set in a rugged, hardened face topped by a shaved head. His accent was that of a Native American, very rare for anywhere these days. His conversation was no more than “ID” and “Go ahead.”
Kenny made his way to the back and hid himself in a darkened corner of the bar where he was ensured privacy and no interruptions. The long leaves of a small, planted tree sat in the corner, hiding Kenny from any inquisitive eyes.
Inside the bar it was very dark, and the women who worked there made their way over to Jack. The hostesses’ looks were curious, then disdainful and indifferent; it was obvious his words to them were not well-received. Jack was not the smooth-talking playboy he liked to think that he was. Most women found him vulgar and unpleasant, especially in a social setting like a bar, when he felt freer than at the FBI headquarters. Jack picked at a stem of a maraschino cherry and took his time drinking his tequila and orange juice.
He liked to drink his sunsets, especially strong ones that were made in places such as The Dubliner. He sipped his cocktail, and the mixture of alcohol and orange juice and red grenadine floated through cubed ice as he drank it down, the straw pushed to the side. It only got in his way. When he was done drinking, the glass would be sitting alone on the counter with just empty ice cubes and a ring of juice. It would have the look of innocence to it as if it was an empty glass of OJ. As a kid he had loved the taste of OJ, but now, as an adult, he chose to respect his age and insisted on the addition of alcohol as he ordered up another.
People were like the drinks that Jack so loved to consume. His poor wife, faithful and at home, sat waiting for her loving man to return to her. Now Jack, he loved the consuming part. He loved to consume drinks and women. His job took him away from D.C. plenty and he always found the time to exercise his male urges. Kenny thought to himself that Jack looked like he was merely on the prowl, but something told him to hang around a little longer. Something was going to give. Jack lifted his drink and took another sip, swirling the orange juice in an effort to appear seductive to the barmaids.
Kenny sat there for over an hour, just watching Jack at the bar. The place was getting more and more crowded. Kenny swirled his coke and ice in front of him, trying not to drink too much. He already missed that old coot. He didn’t want to put a lot of liquid in his system since he had no idea how long he would be sitting there and he didn’t want to worry about the urge to urinate. It was difficult for Kenny to sit and watch all the alcohol float by him on the trays being carried by the girls. It had been years since he had had a real drink. The last thing he needed now was to slip off the wagon. Then he would find himself back in those god-awful meetings again.
Kenny noticed a woman walk up to Jack. She had long red hair that curled up at the end like a big hook. Jack saw the redhead, his eyes moving in the dark, and he looked over her skimpy, short black dress that should have been a blouse. It barely covered what it needed to cover. She bent over to give him something to see, to sell her wares to him, in a way. She leaned over and gave Jack a show. She looked up to catch him looking, but that was the whole point and no one knew that more than Jack.
Kenny wondered if Jack ever thought about using his great powers of perception on himself. Would his long years of studying psychology really mean anything to him? She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, just a kid compared to Jack. Jack was working his charms on her and he seemed to be getting somewhere. Her thin, but shapely frame moved closer and closer to Jack over the next few minutes. Soon she was rubbing her breasts against his arm. Kenny could see her whispering something in his ear, but the bar was way too noisy for him to hear. Jack’s cell phone went off with a mild beep—a text message. He picked it up off the table and glanced down at it for a moment. It was obvious that Jack did not like what it said. After a few seconds he closed his phone and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket.
A moment later they got up and left the bar together. She hung on his shoulder as if she needed him to help her walk. The girl bounced and swayed as she moved, continuing to sell herself to Jack even as they left the pub. Kenny watched from his seat as they walked in front of the large plate glass window that faced the street. They walked hand in hand down the sidewalk, then disappeared from sight. Kenny got up and made his way to the front of the bar, having to slip in between people playing pool and people dancing to a horrible thump thump song that played on the jukebox in the corner. After passing several drunken college girls that would soon be making a mistake with some guy, he swiftly went outside.
Jack and the girl were walking around a corner. Kenny wanted to run to catch up to them but took
slow steps instead. He did not want to be seen. As the unlikely pair walked through the evening streets, lightning flashed high overhead, thrashing clouds boomed as a storm worthy of winter unloaded its violent arsenal somewhere behind them. The sound cracked across the sky and for a moment, as Jack’s attention was drawn up to the night, Kenny thought he was going to look back and see him following behind them.
Then the two of them ducked down a darkened alleyway just behind the bar. Kenny pulled his Glock 9-mm handgun out from his waistband and hid himself just in the mouth of the alley, engulfed in the blackness of the night.
The two were embarrassing one another; Jack was pushed up against the cold brick wall of the bar, the girl was licking his neck. Her tongue moved rapidly over his skin and a smile was painted across his rough face. Suddenly Jack pushed her back. She stumbled and tried to catch herself. Then Jack pulled a wooden stake from his back pocket and plunged it between her ribs, into her heart. She screamed out for a moment and dropped to her knees. Kenny moved as fast as he could but there was no way he could have stopped it.
“Freeze!” Kenny yelled at Jack. Jack didn’t react. His face was ashen, his eyes so dark they looked black.
“Please put down the gun, Officer Johnson,” he said calmly to Kenny, and Jack stepped out into the light of a street lamp.
Kenny stared wide-eyed at her, his lips parted, the gun still in his hands. His voice stuck in his throat. His hands froze in front of him.
“Just stay there.”
Kenny took several steps, lowering his gun a little. For some bizarre reason it occurred to him that she was not dead. The wooden stake protruded from her chest and she looked to Kenny for help.
“It’s over, Jack. Don’t make this worse.”
“That’s not true, Kenny. You’re just going to have to trust me and listen.”
“I would like to know how you’re going to talk your way out of this,” Kenny said. Kenny took several steps closer as Jack reached for something.
The Blood Born Tales (Book 1): Blood Collector Page 19