Second Sunrise

by Aimée Thurlo

  “This reminds me of when I was a child,” Diane said.

  “Right. Gas was cheap then, and a uniformed attendant actually pumped your gas, checked your oil, and washed your windshields. Instead of beer and bread, you bought tires and could get an oil change. The good ole days.” Lee shrugged.

  “You should know.”

  “Sounds like faint praise.”

  He parked on the concrete pad where pumps had once been installed, but left the engine running. “When I pull out, park this pickup in its place.” He climbed out of the truck, glanced around and adjusted his sunglasses, then pulled a key from his wallet. He walked over to the structure, which was painted in different-colored, varying-sized blocks along the bottom six feet or so to cover up gang tagging, and unlocked a big padlock on one of the bay doors.

  Stepping inside, he walked over to a rusting water pipe, reached around behind it, and unwound a key from a wrapping of duct tape arranged to resemble a hasty repair.

  It took a little while to start the older-model sedan, but he managed, driving it out so Diane could pull the truck inside, out of sight. They moved their gear into the sedan, locked up the bay, and were gone in less than five minutes.

  “Dusty but comfortable,” she said, settling into the faded bucket seat and looking around the four-door sedan, an inexpensive Honda Civic in a faded chocolate brown.

  “Doesn’t gather a lot of attention, and it’s economical. If I needed to travel several hundred miles, I’d prefer this to the pickup anyway,” Lee mentioned. “The vehicle legally belongs to another identity of mine, and won’t send any flags up with the tag numbers. I even have the minimum required insurance.”

  “You’re doing better than a lot of New Mexicans, just having insurance.” Diane nodded. “All this is planned to reduce calling any attention to yourself, I suppose.”

  “Exactly. And I try never to return to a community where I might be recognized by old neighbors or coworkers. Well, I’ve done it a few times before, but I waited twenty years or more first. Then I can say I’m a younger relative of whoever might be remembered there, if anybody thinks they knew me.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever be able to live a normal life?” Diane spoke softly. “Spending time with friends, dating, family outings, that kind of thing?”

  He waited a long time before answering, not really knowing what to say. “This is the closest I’ve come to a normal life in decades. It’s great just having someone to talk to who knows my secrets and can accept me for who I am.”

  Diane looked at him curiously, but didn’t say anything all the way back to the safe house. There were moving vehicles within view of the turnoff when they approached, and Lee decided not to risk being seen going down that road. If he was being followed, whoever was doing it was beyond damned good.

  He circled the neighborhood, passed by again, noting there weren’t any cars within sight this time, and quickly turned around to pull up the drive.

  That afternoon, they got ready to stake out Muller’s apartment and, if necessary, follow him if he left. Hours went by, and they took turns catnapping while the other kept checking Diane’s handheld assistant for the E-mail from her FBI mentor.

  Lee found himself unable to sleep. Having Diane around had reawakened memories of living with a woman, and Annie had been his wife and companion for several years. He kept trying to visualize Annie in his mind, and realizing he’d forgotten exactly what she looked like, having idealized her memory for so long. There were two things he remembered vividly, however. One was how happy he’d been when they were together, and the second was discovering her body after she’d been killed. That image would never go away, even if he lived to two hundred.

  Finally, he got up off the sofa where he’d been lying down and went to sit at the table, sipping coffee and focusing on his plans.

  Lee kept going over and over again what he knew about the neighborhood where Muller lived, and the layout of Alamogordo and the route to Fort Wingate. He’d been over that stretch of highway road that passed near where the box was buried hundreds of times, and knew it with his eyes closed. Too bad his memory about where the box was, exactly, was so dim. He might have a hell of a time finding it.

  “Can’t sleep?” Diane walked into the living room rubbing her eyes, wearing one of his long shirts and a pair of jeans that had been cut off as shorts. She was barefooted.

  For some reason, his heart started beating faster, and he looked away, reaching for his coffee. “Too much caffeine, I guess.”

  Together they discussed their general strategy, and finally the message they’d been waiting for came in from her FBI contact. “Too bad we can’t print this out, but let me read the training schedule off to you and you can write it down.” She started giving the dates and hours on-and off-duty, also relating what times the German flight crews were in class, briefings, and on practice missions.

  Ten minutes later, they knew what Muller officially had to be doing the remainder of his tour in New Mexico.

  “He’s only got three more night exercises, and the rest of his duty time will be spent in debriefings and short day flights,” Diane pointed out. “And he has tonight off. He’s not due back for duty until six P.M. tomorrow.”

  “So, if he leaves town and heads toward Fort Wingate, we’ll have a good idea what he’s planning on doing with his time.” Lee nodded. “We need to follow him from the base and see where he goes. Then . . .”

  “If the opportunity presents itself, you plan on making your move, with me backing you up? You know . . . killing him?” Her voice trailed off as if she had a bad taste in her mouth.

  She probably did. After all, they were planning cold blooded murder. He thought about it for a moment. “Are you okay with this? I don’t see that trying to take him alive is a viable option. It would be impossible to link him with the crime he actually committed back in 1945, unless we catch him digging up that box. Even then, he’d probably go free or be deported unless he turns out to be an actual terrorist or drug dealer. Anything short of his death would have no long-term effect. He’d break out of lockup, go into hiding, and I’d have a hell of a time finding him again. A lot of other people could get hurt along the way if we don’t act now.”

  “I don’t look forward to killing a man, even a vampire, in cold blood,” Diane admitted. “It’s just not in my nature, no matter how valid your argument is. And I do accept your argument, you know, or I wouldn’t be here now.” Diane looked away, checking her extra pistol magazines.

  “It doesn’t come easily for me either, but I’ve learned to accept the necessity, like a soldier does during wartime. But if he sees us coming, or guesses what is going down before I strike, it may be the last thing we do. He’s stronger than me and quicker than a gazelle. He’s also smart, and he’s had decades of experience hunting and being hunted. If you manage to disable him, don’t hesitate. Finish him off completely before he can recover. He’d kill you without a thought if he thinks you’re any danger at all. If you can, stay well clear of him and let me do the . . . work.”

  “I’ve seen you in action, and you are very quick and capable. It’s hard to imagine anyone faster or stronger. You ran from the pickup to Blackhorse so quickly it was absolutely amazing. But do you have it in your heart to do this in cold blood to another man? He’s not an animal, like those skinwalkers have become.” Diane looked up, reading his face.

  “I was around Muller just long enough to see him for what he really is. Muller is evil. He’s a pathological killer who enjoys his work. He developed those traits differently than the forced madness a skinwalker is subjected to. They can’t help themselves, but he can. Killing a skinwalker is putting a violently disturbed creature out of its misery. Killing Muller would be a service to mankind. He was that way long before he became a vampire.”

  Diane looked a little paler, but nodded her acceptance. They were ready to leave within a half hour. From another hiding place in the garage, Lee brought out a .30-06 hunting rifle w
ith iron sights. He hid it underneath the backseat along with a box of 180-grain solid-point ammunition.

  Lee touched up his sunblock, made sure he had an extra bottle stashed in the car in case he was unable to return to his supply at the safe house, and Diane helped stow extra food and water in a small backpack to bring along. The last thing Lee did was take out his medicine pouch and sing a brief blessing. Diane watched politely, saying nothing.

  The trip to Alamogordo was comfortable in the Honda Civic this time of year, before it got hot, and Diane drove. She wasn’t wearing the wig anymore, that image belonged to the woman in the pickup. Like Lee, she was wearing a baseball cap. Hers was a maroon NM Aggies cap, and he had a black one with no image or logo at all, a rare find in the age of perpetual promotion.

  They passed White Sands National Monument, and pulled off to the side of the road within sight of the turnoff to Holloman Air Force base, which was ahead on their left. Lee kept watch through a telephoto lens on a camera, pretending to take photos of Diane, who was posing as if they were tourists.

  Fifteen minutes later, while pretending to change the film in the camera, Lee spotted Muller’s small sports car pulling up to the highway from the turnoff. It was a hardtop, and the windows were darkly tinted, though Lee knew glass alone was enough to filter the damaging radiation. It was the ultraviolet rays that actually did the damage. He’d learned through experimentation, grateful that such activities hadn’t cost him the finger he’d used for the tests.

  “Time to go, dear,” Lee shouted to be heard over the sound of young men passing by in a pickup. They were whistling loudly at Diane.

  “Okay, dumpling,” she shouted back, hurrying toward the car. Lee was ahead of her, already opening the door.

  Lee checked to make sure no cars were approaching, then pulled out quickly, gaining speed in order to keep Muller’s sports car in sight, while maintaining a paranoia-safe distance. Diane took the camera, and used the magnified lens to check out the car. “GXX-184. That’s the right tag, all right.”

  “Hopefully, Muller will remain true to form, stop by a convenience store for a six-pack of beer, then go straight to his apartment. At least that’s been the routine he’s followed the five times I’ve tracked him from the base. On two of those occasions, I waited for hours before I saw him coming out again, and was afraid someone would think I was a terrorist staking out the base. Glad you were able to get his schedule. Every time I thought I knew his routine, it would change. I’d figure it out again, then it would change again.”

  “How long have you been monitoring him?”

  “I’ve been watching him off and on, depending on my patrol schedule, for about three weeks now.”

  “Why didn’t you make your move before?”

  “I was looking for a way of verifying he was really the vampire who killed the rookie state policeman assigned to me, and that civilian that he carjacked. I’m like you. I can’t kill an innocent man.”

  “How could he have gotten into the military—a vampire? Basic training out in the sun should have killed him.” Diane shook her head. “I know we talked about it before . . .”

  “I’ve given that some thought. The only thing that I can figure is that he must have killed the real Major Muller, or paid him off and took his place right before a transfer to another unit where he wasn’t known by sight. The lure of immortality and immunity to disease and illness could be a powerful incentive, and the switch could have been a willing one. And he’s in a branch of the military that doesn’t require him to be outside for long stretches of time, at least at the rank of major, I suspect. A cockpit would insulate him well from sunlight, especially the ultraviolet wavelength that burns vampires. He could have paid for private flight training. With enough money, he might have traveled to Russia and flown high-performance military aircraft,” Lee suggested.

  “You said Muller is intelligent and resourceful. I wonder why he chose to come to the U.S. now. He could have come long ago as a German tourist and searched off and on for years, rather than maneuvering and manipulating to come as a military pilot.”

  “I have no idea. At this point, we don’t know if his return has anything to do with me or the cargo I took from him. Unless the spy that tipped him off about the plutonium back in 1945 was able to let him know I never turned it in, Muller doesn’t know for certain it’s still hidden. We’ll find out this morning. If he is after the plutonium, believing it’s out there, it’s possible his politics have changed and he hopes to conduct some terrorist act, or sell the radioactive material to a Middle Eastern client. Maybe that’s where he got his high-performance aircraft training. Or maybe he already knows pretty closely where the container is, and plans to use his military status to get it out of the country conveniently—like in his aircraft. Whatever the reason, this is the end of the road for him.”

  They remained silent for a while after that, following just within visual range, which wasn’t hard, even with the undulating but relatively low-profile terrain between the base and Alamogordo. To the north and west were ancient lake basins, with mountains farther west, northeast, and east beyond the city.

  The trip to Alamogordo was only around ten miles from the base, so it wasn’t long before they entered the community from the south end on highway seventy. Muller’s apartment was near the New Mexico State University branch so they followed his car from a distance as he skirted the downtown area, circling east, then headed north on Scenic Drive.

  “Okay, we’re getting close, let’s not get spotted now,” Diane advised, watching Muller pull up into a numbered parking slot less than fifty feet from his apartment.

  Lee followed a road that led deeper into the complex, knowing he’d be able to keep Muller in sight until he entered the apartment. The man hadn’t made his customary stop for beer tonight, another indication that he’d be on the road again soon.

  They drove around to a visitor’s space nearly opposite Muller’s apartment, and waited, watching. Many cars were arriving and departing now, with day workers coming home from work or going out for dinner. No one gave them more than a quick glance.

  They almost missed seeing Muller leaving ten minutes later.

  A van had pulled up behind his vehicle, and he’d rushed out to it in a wide-brimmed boonie hat and dark green hiking clothes and boots, carrying a large duffel-type bag. The sliding side door of the van had opened, and he’d placed the bag gently inside, then jumped into the passenger seat.

  “With that tinted glass, I can’t make out any details of the driver, can you?” Lee asked.

  Diane, who had the camera out again, shook her head. “No, I was hoping the polarizing lens would help out by cutting the glare, but all I can see is another shape. Any idea who the van belongs to?”

  “From the check I did initially, I think that belongs to his crewman—Kurt Plummer, the guy in the backseat of his airplane. Who better for him to team up with than the man he depends on during flight operations?” Lee said.

  “Could he be a vampire too?”

  “Sure. But the man doesn’t have to know what Muller is to work with him to recover the missing cargo.”

  “Well, according to our basic scenario, if Muller is heading toward Fort Wingate, they’ll take the fastest route—north on fifty-four to Carrizozo, then west to I-25, and north again to Los Lunas. Once they hit I-40 west again, they’ll make good time on the Interstate all the way to Wingate.” Diane looked up from a highway map she’d brought along.

  “Looks like we may be in for a long ride. Think you can sleep for a while?” Lee asked, glancing over at Diane, who looked tired. She must have had as much trouble sleeping earlier as he had.

  She nodded, then reached over and moved the lever adjusting the seat back so it reclined to about forty-five degrees. “I’ve been in the Bureau long enough to learn to catch some Z’s whenever I can. If I don’t wake up on my own by seven, wake me up and I’ll drive for a while.”

  “Good enough.”

  Lee le
t her sleep until eight. His strong constitution, a byproduct of his half-vampire blood, could keep him going at full strength for days at a time, if necessary, as long as he had food, and a quart or two of calves’ blood. He’d munched silently on high-calorie granola bars, washing them down with blood from a thermos, knowing that in tonight’s encounter with Muller, he’d need any advantage he had.

  He’d had to stop once, outside Las Lunas, when the van had pulled into a station for gas, and Diane had instantly awakened. Once she’d seen what was going on, however, she’d gone to sleep again within minutes.

  Lee changed places with her, and slept while she drove. By the time he woke up, they were passing through Grants and were less than a half hour from the area he believed Muller would start his search.

  “The walker of the night lives,” Diane joked, hearing him yawn. “They seem to have slowed down a bit, do you recognize the area?”

  Lee smiled, yawned again, then sat up and adjusted his seat, glancing out at the railroad line and the surrounding mesas, most topped with mixed stands of piñons and junipers. “It looks like home, at least to an Navajo boy like me. We’re less than ten miles away from the old turnoff leading to where I hid the box. Do you suppose they’ve narrowed down the location somehow?”

  “Maybe they’ve gotten hold of some geological surveys that have target sites with higher radioactive activity. I understand that much of New Mexico has some radioactivity in the rocks, with so much uranium around. But maybe they’re simply checking out the hotter spots, hoping one will be the jackpot.”

  “They might also have some good equipment in that bag Muller loaded into the van,” Lee said.

  “You don’t think that was just their dinner?” she joked. “Raw liver and coolers full of iced blood?”

  “Trust me, it’s really quite good, and nutritious. There’s a tribe in Africa, I think, where the male warriors feed on blood almost exclusively.”