Dark Hungers (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)
Page 16
“We have a problem,” VanDeventer said.
“How so?”
“I had an encounter while scouting around in the vampire’s house,” VanDeventer said. He didn’t need to define the vampire. They both knew he was talking about Forrest Jones, the vampire who set a trap for Tripp on Rooney Road; the one who got his face shot by the other vampire, Rave Lafelle; the one who Tripp later dumped near the railroad tracks and pounded a stake into his heart.
“What kind of encounter?” Tripp asked.
“I was in the guy’s bedroom scouting around with a flashlight when someone opened the front door and the lights downstairs came on,” VanDeventer said. “I didn’t have time to get out of the house so I ducked into the master closet. The person coughed every now and then and I could tell it was a woman. She never talked to anyone so I figured she was alone.”
“A girlfriend?” Trent asked.
“No, worse,” VanDeventer said. “A detective. My guess is that Denver called the locals and asked if they would check the guy’s house for anything that might explain why he ended up dead out in Colorado. Anyway, I was hoping that she wouldn’t bother with the closet. Just in case, however, I pulled a shirt off a hanger and wrapped it around my face. Later, unfortunately, the door opened. I punched the woman in the face before she even knew what was happening. But something bad happened.”
“What?”
“She got a hand on the shirt as she went down and pulled it off my face,” VanDeventer said. “So she might have gotten a look at me.”
“You think?”
“It’s possible,” VanDeventer said. “If she did, it was only for a fraction of a second; and it was while she was in pain and dropping to the floor. So my gut feeling is that no clear images entered her brain. But I just don’t know.”
“Then what happened?”
“The punch knocked her out,” VanDeventer said. “I left and headed back to my hotel room. This morning I walked over to Greyhound and paid cash for a ticket to Cincinnati. That’s where I’m calling from right now.”
Okay.
“I don’t see it as a big deal,” Tripp said. “You didn’t kill her, after all.”
“Here’s the problem,” VanDeventer said. “This guy gets killed in Denver. The next day, someone’s snooping around in his house. The locals are going to tell Denver about it and Denver’s going to think that the snooper—me—is either the killer or is connected to the killer. That means that if this local detective got a good enough look at me to work with a sketch artist, the Denver cops will get it and will be looking for me.”
Tripp picked up a stone and threw it.
“I still don’t see it as a big deal,” he said.
VanDeventer wasn’t in Denver when the vampire got killed. He was in Johannesburg.
And could prove it if he ever had to.
“So now what?” Tripp asked.
“I’m getting on a plane to Denver in two hours,” VanDeventer said. “But I’m going to need to keep a really low profile once I get there, meaning no credit cards, rentals, or that kind of thing.”
“No problem,” Tripp said. “I’ll pick you up at the airport. Give me the flight number and TOA.”
WHEN TRIPP HUNG UP, Brittany asked, “Do you have to go?”
He kissed her.
“Not right this second,” he said. “I still have the afternoon free.”
“Good.”
Yes.
Actually it was.
Very good in fact.
“I need to warn you about something,” he said.
“What?”
“This is nice,” he said.
“And how is that a warning?”
“Because you’re getting me addicted,” he said. “I’m going to need more.”
She put her arms around his neck and pressed her stomach to his. “More, huh?” she asked. “How much more?”
Tripp kissed her.
“Lots more,” he said.
“Good, because that’s exactly how much I have.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Day Six—April 17
Sunday Morning
______________
WHEN RAVE first saw the body lying face down on the floor in the middle of her living room, she registered it as just that and nothing more—a dead body. On further examination, she recognized it as the dead body of Jason White, the lead guitarist. She walked over, dropped to her knees and looked for a knife in his chest or a bullet in his head.
She saw no wounds.
Then, without warning, the body moved.
Not much.
Hardly any.
But more than it would if it was dead.
The smell of Tequila came from it.
She stood up and surveyed the damage to her house. The piano was totally, a hundred percent trashed. The keyboard cover had been ripped off and thrown across the room. The ivories were cracked and smashed. The sharps had been knocked off and were now the color of cracked wood instead of black. Rave walked over and pressed a key down.
It sounded fine.
The strings hadn’t been broken.
That’s more than she could say for the CD player and receiver. They were irretrievably smashed to pieces on the floor—same with the speakers. The furniture hadn’t been worth much to start with, but now wasn’t even worth that. The sofa and chair had been sliced repeatedly with a knife. The legs were knocked off the coffee table and both end tables. In the kitchen, food that should be in the refrigerator was now splattered on the floor, walls and ceiling.
Mustard.
Ketchup.
Milk.
Bananas.
Leftover spaghetti.
The bedroom hadn’t escaped attack either. The sheets had been pulled off the bed and thrown into the corner. The pillow and mattress had been stabbed repeatedly.
Suddenly she heard a vehicle in the driveway.
She pulled the curtain to the side and looked out.
Parker and London stepped out of a cab.
PARKER RAN THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR, saw that Rave was in no danger from slayers, and went straight to the body.
“That’s the lead guitarist from my band,” Rave said. “He’s alive. From what I can figure, he got pissed about being replaced, trashed the place and then passed out.” She looked at Parker. “He smells like Tequila, but is probably jacked up on a lot more than that. What do we do with him? I don’t want any cops here.”
Parker knew why.
This is where Rave shot the skinhead slayer in the face.
Self-defense, but still—
Parker nudged the man in the ribs.
The man recoiled and moaned.
“He’s not going to die, so we don’t need to take him to a hospital. I’ll dump him somewhere.” Parker covered the man with a blanket, carried him outside to the trunk of the Volvo, took off, and then returned forty-five minutes later.
“Where did you take him?” Rave asked.
“I went up Clear Creek Canyon until I found a turnoff with no one around,” Parker said. “I pulled him out and set him on the ground; without the blanket, of course.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“No.”
“Did you beat him up or anything?”
Parker shook his head.
“If you want me to later, I’ll be more than happy to,” he said. “But I can’t hit an unconscious man.”
“No, I don’t want you to,” Rave said. “This whole thing is partly my fault.”
“That’s not true,” Parker said. “The guy’s a first-class jerk and that’s all there is to it. He probably would have beaten you to a pulp if he caught you home last night.”
Rave frowned.
She had already thought of that.
AS THEY CLEANED THE PLACE, Rave said, “The fact that my little friend didn’t end up dead might mean that the slayers have left Denver.” She looked at Parker. “Wouldn’t they have killed him if they came here looking for me and found him in
stead?”
Parker considered it.
“That depends,” he said.
“On what?”
“On whether they knew who he was or not,” he said. “If they didn’t know who he was, then they probably would have taken him for a vampire and acted accordingly, meaning he’d be dead right now. If they knew who he was, on the other hand, they probably wouldn’t bother with him.”
Rave was confused.
“How would they possibly know who he was?”
“They could have seen him in the club.”
Rave shivered.
She always knew that they could have been lurking somewhere in the crowd.
But never wanted to actually believe it.
“Maybe they just gave up and went back to wherever they came from,” Rave said.
Parker frowned.
“Not likely,” he said. “But that’s fine because I’ve been working on a new plan.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Day Six—April 17
Sunday Evening
______________
THE EARTH FELT GOOD under Teffinger’s feet. The wind blew with a vengeance through the airport’s west parking garage; the same wind that almost swatted Teffinger out of the sky not more than twenty minutes ago. Now he could care less. He hunted around for the Tundra longer than he should have before realizing that the Cherry Hills police had it. Then he spotted the 4Runner, pointed and said, “There it is.”
Inside, before Teffinger could even crank over the engine, Geneva said, “I’m starved. Feed me.”
“Feed you?” he asked.
“Right.”
“Is that what you just said? Feed you?”
“Right.”
“Meaning you expect me to pay?”
“Right.”
“You know I’m the cheapest guy on the face of the earth, right?”
She nodded.
“Everyone knows that,” she said.
“And you still expect me to feed you?”
“Right.”
“Now you have my curiosity way up,” he said. “Why would I do that?”
She rolled her eyes.
“So I’ll never tell anyone that I had to hold your hand.”
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “You just did it.”
“You’re quibbling over semantics, Teffinger,” she said. “Do we have a deal or not?”
They did.
Fifteen minutes later Teffinger pulled off I-70, drove past a Texas Roadhouse and pulled into a Quiznos.
THEY ATE IN THE CAR, not wanting to waste time, heading to the house of the dead vampire—Cameron Leigh. Just as they got inside the city limits, Teffinger received a call from the FBI profiler, Dr. Leigh Sandt.
“How’d Chicago go?” she asked.
“It’s too early to tell.”
“I just found out something interesting,” she said. “There was another billboard case. You might actually not be crazy this time.”
He knew he should laugh but was too excited.
“Where?”
“San Francisco.”
San Francisco?
That meant flying.
Teffinger pushed the feeling down and said, “Details.”
She gave them.
As soon as he hung up, Teffinger told Geneva the news and asked, “Do you feel like going to San Francisco?”
She receded in thought.
And looked like she was about to say yes.
But said, “I can’t. I have to be on the air tomorrow at six.”
TWO MINUTES LATER, LONDON CALLED.
She missed him.
Would he be home tonight?
“Do you feel like going to San Francisco?” he asked.
“Are you serious?”
He was.
“Do me a favor,” he said. “See when the absolute next flight to San Francisco is and get tickets.” He pulled his wallet out and gave her a credit card number. “Call me as soon as you get the tickets and let me know when the flight leaves. I’m going to drop Geneva off and then head home.”
Five minutes later London called and said, “I have us booked on a 9:45 flight.”
“Tonight or the morning?”
“Tonight.”
Heavy black storm cells raked across the scariest sky Teffinger had every seen.
He swallowed and said, “Good.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Day Six—April 17
Sunday Afternoon
______________
WHEN RAVE showed up at the Old Orleans in the early afternoon to rehearse with Friday’s Child, Tim Pepper greeted her with a busted up face. His right eye was almost swollen shut and his lower lip was puffed up. Rave felt his pain and hugged him long and tight to prove it. Then she said, “Don’t tell me. Our guitar-playing friend.”
Pepper nodded.
“He was waiting for me when I came out of the club last night,” Pepper said. “Apparently he wasn’t too thrilled about the way things turned out.”
“He’s a nut case,” Rave said. “It’s better that we found out now.”
Then she told him how he trashed her house.
“Did you file a police report?” she asked.
“No,” Pepper said. “I just want him out of my life. Hopefully, that was it.”
“If he bothers you again, let me know,” Rave said. “I have a friend who will have a talk with him.”
FRIDAY’S CHILD HADN’T SHOWN UP YET, so Rave sat down at a battered old upright piano in the corner and worked out the chords for the melody that came to her in the shower this morning. Pepper sat on the edge of the stage with his legs dangling. Then he clapped, dropped down to his feet and walked over.
“That, my dear, is your first single.”
She studied him.
To see if he was messing with her.
He wasn’t.
“You think?”
“No,” he said. “I know.”
When Friday’s Child showed up a few minutes later, they immediately set to work on the new song. Within an hour they had Pepper grinning from ear to ear.
“Now I know how Brian Epstein felt,” he said.
PARKER PICKED HER UP after the rehearsal and said, “You don’t have a gig tonight, right?”
“Right.”
Not tonight.
Or tomorrow night either.
“Good,” he said.
“Why?”
“I want to take you on a little trip.”
“A little trip to where?”
“New York.”
“New York?”
“Right,” he said. “Have you ever been there?”
No.
She hadn’t.
“What’s in New York?” she asked.
He kissed her and said, “Me—the real me. I want you to know who I am so you can decide whether you want to be with me or not.”
“I already know that, Parker,” she said.
“Reserve your judgment until after tonight,” he said.
“Why? What’s going to happen tonight?”
“You’re going to meet some more vampires.”
THREE HOURS LATER THEY LIFTED OFF a DIA runway into a violent, turbulent sky. Rave didn’t care about the sky. There were no slayers up there.
That was the main thing.
Plus she was with Parker.
And had the new song.
“My life is all peaks and valleys,” she said. “There’s nothing in between anymore.” She squeezed Parker’s hand. “Whatever happens tonight isn’t going to change the way I feel about you.”
“We’ll see,” Parker said.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Day Six—April 17
Sunday Evening
______________
ALLEY RAN OVER AND BRUSHED UP against Teffinger’s leg as soon as he walked through the front door. He picked it up, carried it into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Bud Light from the fridge and drank half of it in one long swallow. Then he put
a little on his finger and gave Alley a taste. When London walked into the room, Teffinger said, “Alley likes beer.”
She didn’t care.
She kissed him like she meant it.
“I have three words for you,” she said.
Teffinger raised an eyebrow.
“And what might they be?”
“Mile … High … Club.”
He chuckled.
“Are you serious?”
“You have no idea.”
He handed Alley to her. “In that case, I’m going to take a quick shower.” Then he said over his shoulder, “Hey, would you mind driving to the airport?”
“Sure.”
“I seriously need to get a few beers in my gut.”
She chuckled and said, “You’re such a poet sometimes.”
“It doesn’t come easy,” he said. “I work at it.”
THEY MADE SURE ALLEY HAD PLENTY OF FOOD and water, left a radio playing on low volume, and then headed for DIA. All the while, Teffinger kept his eyes locked on the storm cells and tried to drown a bad feeling with long gulps of Bud Light. “I really apologize for not being around much the last couple of days,” he said. “I feel like I invited you to a party and then left while you were in the bathroom. This is unusual, even for me. I hope you don’t think this is the way I always am.”
“I understand,” she said. “Stop worrying about it.”
“The truth is, I’m scared to death that Jena’s going to end up dead and I’m going to find out after the fact that she wouldn’t be if I had just been a little smarter, or a little quicker, or a little less full of coffee, or a little more full of coffee.”
He drained the last of the beer.
Crushed the can in his hands.
And tossed it into the back of the 4Runner.
“She’s on the news every ten minutes,” London said. “Her and that guy who got killed like a vampire. Everyone in the city is obsessed with at least one of those cases.”
Teffinger didn’t know that.
He hadn’t watched ten seconds of the news for days.
But it didn’t surprise him.
“I’m not even sure why I’m going to San Francisco, to tell you the truth,” he said. “This whole billboard link is a long shot to start with. And I’m spending all my time on it. All my time. I wonder if it might be smarter to just come up for air and see if there’s another angle that I missed. I’m starting to wonder if I’m just making busy work to trick myself into thinking I’m actually doing something constructive.”