“Uh-huh,” Bill said, finishing his coffee and crumpling the cup.
Malone shrugged. “That’s all the girl remembers. She says all of a sudden her mind went blank and she don’t remember nothin’ after that.”
“Is she drunk or on drugs?” Bill asked, his eyes flicking to observe the girl by the ambulance.
“Not according to the people she was with. They said she’d only had one Hurricane and wasn’t known to use any drugs of any kind.”
Bill pursed his lips, thinking. “Have the paramedics do a blood test for alcohol and drugs. Maybe he slipped her a Mickey or that new date-rape drug.”
Malone made a note in his pad. “Reason I called you is this is the first time we’ve been able to get a description of the man who walked out with the girl. If it is the Ripper, it’ll be a major break in the case.”
“Yeah, an’ it could just be a horny tourist who happened to get mugged before he could score with his pickup,” Bill said, disgust in his voice.
“There’s something else, Chief.”
“Yeah?”
Malone led him over to the alley. “The men were fighting here until the couple called the cops on them.” He pointed down at the ground, where a can of gasoline sat next to a length of pipe that had a deep groove cut in it.
Bill took a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to cover his hand as he picked up the pipe. “Jesus,” he said in a low voice.
Malone nodded. “The couple said he used the pipe to fend off the sword. Said it threw sparks all over the place when they hit together.”
“This pipe is galvanized steel,” Bill said. “It’d take a hell of a sword to make this cut in steel.”
Bill put the pipe down. “Check the pipe and the can for prints.”
As Malone made another note in his pad, Bill thought out loud. “So what we’ve got is some guy picks up a girl, walks out, and another guy braces him. Then something happens to make the girl go blank and the two go at each other with a sword and a pipe, an’ one of the perps brought a can of gasoline to the fight.”
“Uh-huh.” Malone nodded.
“And you think this may have something to do with the Ripper killings?”
“Well, if the guy who took the girl did something to her mind, hypnosis maybe or used some drug we don’t know about, it might explain why none of the victims of the Ripper called for help or tried to get away.”
Bill looked at him. “None of the autopsies showed any evidence of drugs or alcohol.”
Malone shrugged. “It’s just a thought, Chief.”
Bill smiled and patted Malone on the shoulder. “No, you did good, Jim. You’re thinking, and I like that.” He glanced around. “Next, have your men search the alley and especially that Dumpster over there to see if the men left anything else behind besides the gasoline.” He paused. “And, Jim, have one of your men take down the license plates of all the cars parked within two blocks. I don’t believe that man walked too far carrying a four-foot-long sword and a can of gasoline. Not with all these tourists around.”
“Good idea, Chief.”
“And in the morning, send the details out over the wire. Maybe some other police force will have some information on a man who uses a sword and a can of gasoline for his muggings.”
“Right.”
Bill sighed. “I guess it’s time to face the media.”
Malone chuckled. “Good luck.”
Bill went over to Melissa Faraday, and held up his hand when she told the cameraman to turn on his camera.
“Just a minute, Ms. Faraday,” Bill said.
“But you promised to give me an interview,” she said, a note of whining in her voice.
“And I will,” he said, “but there’s nothing much here. Some guy picked a girl up in Pat O’Brien’s and when they came out, another man attacked him and they got in a fight.” He shrugged. “Sounds like a routine mugging to me.”
Faraday’s eyebrows went up in disbelief. “And they called out the chief of detectives for a mugging?”
“Can I tell you something off the record?” Bill asked.
Faraday hesitated.
“If you agree to keep this under your hat for the time being, I promise to give you an exclusive if anything important comes of it.”
She nodded. “OK, but I’ll hold you to that,” she said.
“Fair enough. They called me out because the lead detective on the case thought it might be related to the Ripper killings.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I don’t buy it myself,” Bill said, trying to keep his voice casual, “but Malone thought since it involved a pickup in a bar, the same MO as the Ripper, he ought to notify me.”
“Then you don’t think it was the Ripper?” she asked suspiciously.
“Ms. Faraday, do you have any idea how many young women are picked up in bars in the French Quarter every night?” Bill asked.
“Then why did Malone think this one was special?” she asked.
She’s sharp, Bill thought, I’m gonna have to be careful with this one. “Because after the mugging or fight, the first man ran away when the police arrived. Malone figured he had something to hide or he would’ve stayed to talk to us.”
Faraday nodded. “OK, I can see that.”
Bill put his hand on her arm. “Like I say, if anything comes of our investigation into this, I’ll give you a shout. But, if this does happen to have something to do with the Ripper, I can’t afford to have it broadcast on the evening news and tip him off.”
She glanced down at his hand on her arm and smiled. “OK, but remember how I cooperated, Chief, ’cause if you stiff me on this one, paybacks are hell.”
Fifteen
Shooter swung by the medical center to pick up Matt and Sam and TJ for the trip out to the Houston Ship Channel to explore the warehouse where Roger Niemann had held TJ prisoner.
As Matt and Sam got in the backseat of Shooter’s Mustang convertible and TJ climbed in front, Matt noticed the bandage on Shooter’s neck. He nudged Sam with his elbow and inclined his eyes at the wound.
Her eyes narrowed and she took his hand in hers and squeezed it to show she’d seen it, too. When he opened his mouth to speak, Sam warned him off with a frown. She silently mouthed the word “later” to indicate he should not say anything to Shooter until they were alone.
Matt nodded and leaned back in his seat, trying to relax. Every muscle in his body seemed tense at the thought of returning to the scene of their final confrontation with the Vampyre Roger Niemann. He glanced at TJ, wondering to himself how she’d handle seeing once again the place where the monster held her prisoner and did unspeakable things to her for several weeks.
Shooter must’ve felt the same anxiety, for he tried to keep up a jovial conversation on the trip out to the dock area, but TJ just sat staring off into space, her mind on only God knew what. Finally, Shooter stopped trying to talk and drove in stony silence the rest of the way.
When they finally arrived and Shooter pulled to a stop in front of the warehouse, Matt was amazed to see yellow crime-scene tape still adorning the outside of the building and crisscrossing the doorway.
The lock that had been broken when someone burglarized the place had been replaced and several chains were fastened across the doorway.
“You’re sure this is all right?” Matt asked Shooter.
Shooter nodded and held up a key in his hand. “Yep. Talked to Chief Clark myself an’ he said it’d be OK. He just asked if we remove anything to let him know in case they need it for evidence.”
The four friends got out of the car and walked up to the door. When Shooter put the key in the lock, Sam placed her hand on TJ’s shoulder. “You sure you’re going to be all right?” she asked.
TJ nodded, but didn’t speak. Sam noted her lips were pressed so tightly together they were white and her eyes were wide with anticipation.
The lock popped open and Shooter removed the chains and pulled the yellow tape away from the doorway. When
he opened the door, it creaked and groaned like a scene from an old horror movie.
He stepped back, covering his nose as a strong, dusky smell of musk and old blood poured from the open door. “Jesus,” he said, “it smells like an animal’s den in there.”
Matt wrinkled his nose at the strong odor and Sam put her hand to her face. She glanced at TJ and saw her nostrils flare and her eyes become hooded as she took a deep breath and entered the warehouse.
Sam followed her inside, watching her to see how she reacted. TJ slowly turned, looking into the darkness as if she could see in spite of the lack of light in the room.
“Here’s a light switch,” Shooter said from behind them. When he flicked it on, Sam noticed TJ had a strange half smile on her face. She glanced down and saw TJ’s erect nipples under her blouse. She thought with horror, My God, the smell of this place is arousing her.
The four began to move through the empty warehouse, pausing momentarily at the chalk outline of a body on the floor and the dark brown stains of spilled blood surrounding it.
“This is where they found the policewoman’s body,” Matt told Sam.
Shooter stared down at the floor, his eyes wet with remembrance of his friend who’d died here months before.
TJ averted her eyes and moved slowly toward the back of the room, toward the small cubicle where Niemann had held her prisoner while he performed the Rite of Transformation on her.
Shooter looked worriedly at Matt and Sam; then he followed TJ. When she got to the small table and chairs, and the shower stall where Niemann had raped and defiled her, she stood in front of it, a strange expression on her face.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was enjoying the memories this room evokes, Sam thought.
Matt stood with hands on hips, turning slowly as he surveyed the empty warehouse. “Doesn’t look like whoever robbed this place left very much behind.”
There were a few old pieces of furniture, some cardboard boxes that’d been opened and left empty, and various pieces of paper strewn around the room.
“I doubt if we’re gonna find anything useful here,” Shooter said with disgust. “It looks like it’s been pretty well cleaned out.”
“Let’s split up and see what we can find,” Matt said. “Sam and I’ll take this side, and you and TJ can look over there.”
“OK,” Shooter replied, moving to stand behind TJ with his hands on her shoulders as she continued to stare at the small room with a mattress on the floor next to the shower stall.
Matt and Sam began to walk around, stopping occasionally to bend and pick up pieces of paper or small objects. There were some old newspapers and magazines dating back over fifty years, but nothing they thought might be of any use, no notes or other evidence of any of Niemann’s research findings.
TJ, followed by Shooter, stepped into the small room and stood over the mattress on which she’d coupled with such wild abandon with Niemann. Tears slowly formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
Shooter didn’t know what to say, so he busied himself searching the room. Just as he was about to leave, he saw a small corner of some paper sticking out from under the mattress. When he picked it up, he saw it was a map of the United States.
He stepped over beneath one of the lights in the ceiling and unfolded the map. On it, he saw several cities circled in black India ink with small precise notations next to each one.
“Hey, Matt,” he shouted. “Look at this.”
He spread the map out on the table and they all gathered around to look at it.
“What do you make of those markings?” Shooter asked.
Matt leaned closer and peered at the map for a moment. When he stood up, his eyes were wide. “It looks like Niemann marked all the coastal cities from Houston to Florida. Next to each one, he wrote in the longitude and latitude and something that looks like a compass direction to them from Houston.”
Shooter smiled grimly. “That makes sense,” he said. “He was figuring out an escape route in case he ever had to leave Houston. Those notations are what he’d need to pilot his ship to any one of those ports.”
Matt snapped his fingers. “Speaking of his ship, where is it? I didn’t see it when we drove up.”
“I guess the Port Authority had it towed off when Niemann didn’t pay his dock fees.”
“Are you sure that’s what happened to it?” Sam asked.
“Why?” Shooter asked. “You don’t think somebody stole it, too, do you?”
Sam shrugged. “No, not really.” She paused. “But don’t you think it a bit strange that a few days after you kill Niemann, everything in his warehouse disappears along with his ship?”
Matt’s face paled. “You think he’s still alive, don’t you?”
Sam stared back into his eyes. “It would make more sense than thinking someone just happened to rob this particular warehouse, with chains and crime-scene tapes all over the doors, and then to find his ship is missing, too.”
“Sam,” Shooter said, “you didn’t see his body. The man was literally torn apart by a machine gun, and then he fell into the water and never came up. He was definitely dead as a doornail.”
“What if he wasn’t, Shooter?” Sam asked. “Wouldn’t the first thing he would do upon recovering be to get his stuff and put it on his ship and take off for parts unknown?”
Shooter shook his head. He didn’t want to hear that the monster who almost killed all of them might still be alive. “I’m sure you’re wrong, Sam.”
Matt glanced from his best friend to the woman he loved. “Hey, it’s easy enough to find out what happened to the ship. Why don’t you put in a call to the Port Authority and see if they moved it?”
Shooter glanced at his wristwatch. “OK, but it’s after five now. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
While Shooter and Matt were talking, Sam turned to TJ. Was that an expression of hope in her eyes? Was she hoping that Niemann was still alive?
Sixteen
Shooter got to his office an hour early so he could get in touch with the Port Authority. He looked up the number and dialed.
“Hello, this is John Sloan,” a voice answered.
“Mr. Sloan, I’m Detective Steve Kowolski with the Houston Police Department and I wonder if you could give me some information?”
“Sure, Mr. Kowolski,” Sloan answered. “What do you need to know?”
“We had an incident a few months back at a dock on the Houston Ship Channel involving a ship named the Night Runner.”
“Yeah, I remember it. Quite a shoot-out from what I heard.”
“The problem is, the ship is no longer berthed at the dock. I was wondering if you guys moved it or had it moved.”
“Give me a minute to check the records, Mr. Kowolski.”
Shooter heard the sound of computer keys being hit over the phone. After a moment, Sloan was back on the line.
“No, I can’t find any record of us doing anything with the ship.”
“Mr. Sloan, a few days after the incident, a nearby warehouse was broken into and cleaned out. Do you think the same people could have stolen the ship?”
Sloan laughed over the phone. “Now, that’s a new one,” he said. “I’ve never heard of a ship being stolen. Matter of fact, I don’t think it’d be possible.”
“Why is that?” Shooter asked.
“Well, first off, you’d have to have an experienced crew and captain to run the ship, and second, every ship leaving the port has to check in with us so we can track it and keep the shipping lanes safe from collision.”
“And you have no records of a ship by that name leaving the port?”
“Nope.”
Shooter gave him the date of the assault on Niemann’s ship and the current date. “What other ships left the port between that time.”
“You want all of them?” Sloan asked in amazement.
“Why, are there a lot?” Shooter asked.
“Mr. Kowolski, the port of Houston is
the second or third most busy port in the States. There have been hundreds of ships in and out of here since then.”
Shooter thought for a moment, and then it came to him. “Mr. Sloan, if someone took that ship out under a false name, then there would have to be a record of it leaving but no record of it arriving, wouldn’t there?”
“Hey, that’s right,” Sloan answered. “You are a detective, Mr. Kowolski.”
“If it’s not too much bother, could you run a cross-check against any ships leaving in that time frame against any arrivals for the past twelve months?”
“No bother at all since we’re computerized now. But it’ll probably take a couple of hours to run the program. Can I call you back?”
“Sure, I’ll be at this number until noon at least,” Shooter said, and gave him the police station phone number and his extension.
After he hung up, Shooter grabbed a cup of coffee and began to go through the paperwork on his desk.
* * *
Matt and Sam were in the lab going over the test results on TJ when the phone rang. Matt answered it.
“Hello, is this Dr. Matt Carter?” a voice said.
“Yes, I’m Dr. Carter,” Matt answered.
“I’m Dr. Bartholomew Wingate,” the voice said.
“Oh, hi, Dr. Wingate.”
“Please, call me Bartholomew,” Wingate said. “If we’re going to be working together, I think we can do without the formality.”
Matt motioned for Sam to pick up the extension. “Great, Bartholomew, I’m Matt and on the other line is Dr. Samantha Scott, known locally as Sam.”
“Glad to talk to you both,” Bartholomew said.
“Have you got any news for us?” Sam asked.
“Not anything good, I’m afraid. I’ve received the samples you sent and I’ve begun processing them, but without more information it is going to take some time to determine exactly what strain of plasmid is infecting your friend.”
“How long are we talking about, Bartholomew?” Matt asked.
“A couple of months, at least.”
“Oh, no,” Sam sighed into the phone.
“Is that a problem?” Bartholomew asked.
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