“He was standing right here,” I said, measuring the distance to the lake. “Maybe he’d already planned the whole thing, or maybe he just came across the paddle and went insane.”
What she said next surprised me, but it probably shouldn’t have. “You think it’s Moretz, don’t you?”
I was silent for a moment, listening to the crickets, bullfrogs, and the gentle lapping of the water. “He’s Johnny on the Spot, first one to the crime scene. Maybe the sheriff is keeping a closer eye than we thought.”
“If so, the sheriff blew it by letting a couple more people get killed before making the arrest. His career is dead in the water.”
“Just like the third victim. With a straight razor.”
“What’s that?”
“Patterns. The paddle thing was an aberration. But then you had a strangling, a razor to the neck, and then another strangling. Despite that clipper gimmick, it sounds like he has a thing for necks.”
“You seem to enjoy mine,” she said.
“Along with everything else.” I took her in my arms and gave her a soft kiss. I was growing fond of Kavanaugh. I was about to make my move when the spotlights blasted us with five thousand watts of white brilliance, momentarily blinding me.
“Don’t move,” bellowed a male voice.
“Hands where we can see them,” commanded another.
I didn’t think it would go down that way. For all their bungling, Hardison’s crew came through as professionals when it mattered most. I pulled my hand from my pocket and let the folded razor drop to the ground.
I thought about reaching for the clippers in my other pocket, but figured any sudden moves might kill any chance for a follow-up.
Kavanaugh gasped in shock, the cops closed in and did their thing, and it was a blur after that. When they got to the part about “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” I simply said, “Mistakes were made.”
18.
My defense attorney agreed to allow Moretz to interview me. She thought I’d get sympathy from the people who would eventually comprise the jury pool, assuming the trial wasn’t moved. Or at least the interview would provide plenty of ammo for the insanity plea we’d probably render.
“I read your articles on my arrest,” I said, sitting at the table in the bare concrete room, a burly sergeant watching us. “Award worthy, for sure.”
Moretz’s eyes were as dark and devoid of human compassion as ever. “Like you said, it’s the subject matter that wins awards, not the reporter.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yeah.”
“I especially liked the part where you booted up my computer and saw I’d laid out the next day’s headline.”
“Reporter Slain At Lake. I wouldn’t have figured it out if you hadn’t typed the lead line.”
I quoted myself. “Police were stunned when the Rebel Clipper’s fifth victim was discovered at the scene of the first murder. Kelsey Kavanaugh, 33, a reporter for the News & Observer, had been covering the case when she died from injuries apparently inflicted by a sharp instrument.”
“Even after you edited so many of my stories, you still can’t write as good as I can.”
“‘Well,’” I said. “The correct grammar is, ‘You still can’t write as well as I can.’”
“The editor always has the final word,” he said.
“How’s Kavanaugh?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
I looked at the concrete walls, the little glass two-way mirror, and the stoic guard. I shrugged. “I don’t get out much.”
“She was on ‘Good Morning America,’ got an agent and six-figure book deal, and she’s going to be the subject of a one-hour Showtime special.”
“Nice kid. She deserves it.”
Moretz leaned forward, studying me. “Why did you do it?”
“Is this off the record?”
“You taught me that nothing is off the record.”
I shrugged again. I had affected a convenient case of jailhouse elan. “Deadline pressure. It gets to you after a while.”
“You type the headline, get everything ready, hint to me where the body’s going to be found. I’m on the scene just in time to get it in the next edition. Right under the wire, so nobody can scoop us.”
“More or less. If the Picayune had gone daily like I’d wanted, everything would have worked out much better.”
“Hardison almost pulled me in because of it. He thought we were conspiring. I was on the crime beat, after all.”
“That paddle, that was a stroke of genius, inspired by all that death and carnage that hit like the Biblical plagues when you came to town. It gave me the idea of a way to build up circulation. After the first one, I was hooked. Not on the murdering, that was just unpleasant work that’s likely to break your fingernails. But selling papers was a rush.”
“You’re insane.”
I smiled. “That’s an editorial opinion, not a clinical diagnosis.”
“You wanted to build circulation and get some acclaim. I get that part. But there’s no real payoff. What was this really all about?”
I’d been wondering that myself, but I think I’d finally come around to the answer.
“Obits,” I said.
“The obituary column?”
“You read enough of those, and they all blend into one big, bland bowl of oatmeal. Homemaker, retired mechanic, former Marine, schoolteacher. I just pictured my bottom line, my final word, and all I saw was the title ‘Newspaper editor.’ Not so memorable in the grand scheme of things. Sure to be set in small type.”
“And now you’re famous. A headline. Howard Nance, the Rebel Clipper.”
“Well, I could have come up with a better name, but I blame the deadline pressure.”
“We all write our own obituaries, Chief,” Moretz said. “Day by day.”
The guard interrupted and told us our five minutes were up. Moretz remained sitting while I stood, the handcuffs clinking. “You can’t type so well in handcuffs,” I joked.
“We’re all in handcuffs,” Moretz said, getting the final word at last. “They’re just invisible most of the time.”
THE END
Table of Contents
###
A vampire is lured into investigating a sinister cult while bad magic is brewing.
BAD BLOOD
by
J.R. Rain
Scott Nicholson
H.T. Night
Copyright ©2011 J.R. Rain, Scott Nicholson, H.T. Night
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Class was over.
I was making my way to my car in the dark, my backpack slung over my shoulder, when the girl came running up behind me. We had exited class together, junior year United States history, when I heard her fall into step behind me. I didn’t have to turn and look to know I was being followed. I didn’t even have to turn and look to know who it was, because I could smell her.
It was the new girl. Well, new as of two weeks ago. And she smelled of flowers and shampoo and clean clothing. She also smelled of curry, which is why I knew who she was, since most girls smelled of only flowers and shampoo.
I’ve always liked unique girls, as much as I can like anything.
I had just clicked my car door open, using the keyless remote, when I heard her footsteps pick up their pace. She was moving faster, coming up behind me. I heard breathing now—her breathing, and I might have heard something else, too. I might have heard, mixed with the sounds of cars starting and our classmates talking and laughing, I might have heard her heart beating.
And it seemed to be beating rapidly.
It should beat rapidly, I thought. Here be monsters.
My back was still to her as she stopped behind me. Her scent rushed before her, swirling around me like a dust devil, and I inhaled her deeply and spun around.
Her face was a little orange under the cheap streetlights. She had opened her mouth to speak, but in
stead she gasped. She hadn’t expected me to turn on her. Heck, maybe she even thought she had approached quietly.
Maybe she wasn’t sure she had wanted to talk to me. Maybe, just prior to my spinning around, she had decided to do the smart thing, turn herself around, and leave.
Maybe she had heard stories of me. Maybe she had heard that I was different from other students. That there was something odd about me.
I heard the stories, too. Mostly, of course, I overheard the whisperings behind my back. They didn’t know I could hear them. They thought they were being discreet. But I heard their harsh words. I heard their hateful stories. I heard them speak ill of me. I heard their laughter, but mostly I heard their fear.
I heard everything.
Her gasp hung in the air, much like her mouth hung open. She was a pretty girl. Long, blonde hair. Brown eyes impossibly round. She was small but curvy. She looked like a doll all grown up into its teen years.
“You are following me,” I said.
She closed her mouth. Some of the students spilling out into the parking lot watched us. In fact, most of the students were watching us. I ignored all of them. All of them, that is, except this new girl.
“Yes, sorry,” she said.
“Why are you sorry?” I asked. I turned and opened my car door. I tossed my backpack into the backseat.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” I said.
I heard her heartbeat clearly now. It thumped rapidly. It even seemed to labor a bit, which might mean she had some sort of heart condition, surprising for one so young. She looked once over her shoulder, and I could almost hear her thinking, although my hearing isn’t quite that good. She was thinking, and I would have bet good money on this, I can still leave now. Make up a good story, or even a bad one. Anything. Just leave. They call him a freak for a reason.
But she didn’t leave, and I knew why. Because they don’t just call me a freak.
They also call me Spider.
“You need help,” I said, draping an arm over my open car door, letting it support some of my weight.
She quit looking around and now she held my gaze, and as she did, her heartbeat steadied. She was no longer afraid. Then her eyes pooled with tears, but she did not look away even as the tears spilled out.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do you have a ride home?” I asked. I’d learned to never trust tears.
“I walk.”
I motioned toward the passenger seat. “Get in,” I said, “And let’s talk.”
Chapter Two
Seattle at night is beautiful. Seattle at night with a beautiful girl is even better.
We drove in silence. My car is an old Mustang, not a classic, but old enough to give me problems. That night I had no problems with it. The windows were down as the cool air whipped through the interior. I glanced to my right once and saw the new girl was huddled in the center of the seat, hands in her lap, looking straight ahead. I sensed her fear, or at least trepidation. Serious trepidation. I’m good at sensing things. I’m good at sensing emotions in others. It’s a survival mechanism, one of many.
I think, probably, anyone could have read her emotions. She would have looked nervous to any observer. I don’t know how it works for other people, I only know how it goes for me.
And sometimes I’m not even sure of that.
And I probably should have said something to help her relax. Perhaps something funny or sweet. But I didn’t feel funny or sweet. I felt angry and bitter, and it was all I could do to not pull over somewhere and tell her to get lost so I could be alone with my miserable thoughts.
I reminded myself that there were far worse things in the world than sitting next to a beautiful girl.
Far worse, and I’d experienced most of them.
She sensed me looking at her and huddled deeper into herself, wrapping her arms tighter around her body. I looked away, focused on driving. Lately, it seemed I had forgotten normal social etiquette. Or, more likely, it was that I didn’t give a damn about social etiquette. It was hard to care much about anything anymore.
Then why did you offer to help her?
Good question. I thought about the answer as I drove through the streets of downtown Seattle, past piercing skyscrapers and glitzy restaurants, past the many homeless and the many more tourists. It was late, sure, but it was also Friday night. Seattle was hopping.
I knew that mostly I didn’t want to help. Mostly, I wanted to be left alone. And for the most part I was alone. Perhaps too alone. To say that I was in a strange place in my life would be perhaps the understatement of the decade.
Mostly, I sensed a darkness filling my heart, filling my insides, and it scared the hell out of me. Helping others, even when I didn’t want to, seemed to keep the darkness at bay, or at least slow it down. And it helped fight off that creeping loneliness that was the eternal plight of my kind.
“Where are we going?” Her voice was small and whispery.
“Get you some food,” I said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I disagree. I know you’re hungry.”
She looked over at me and I felt her eyes studying me closely. “Why do you think I’m hungry?”
“We were just in class for three hours. And, besides,” I said, looking at her, “it’s either that or you have a small alien inside you trying to get out. I can hear your stomach growling from here.”
She actually looked down at her stomach. Her brows knitted in a brief display of confusion. Finally she shrugged. “I didn’t hear it growl.”
“It’s growling now.”
She put her palms over her stomach. “How do you know that?”
“Not only are you hungry,” I said, whipping past a slow-moving scooter. “You haven’t eaten all day.”
“How do you—”
“Your stomach is completely empty.”
“But how—”
“How do I know your stomach is empty?”
“Yeah, how? Like you can read my mind?”
Actually, I knew her stomach was empty by the sounds it wasn’t making. Sure, it would growl every once in a while, but mostly there was no indication of any digestion going on at all. I decided to keep some secrets to myself. “Call it a hunch,” I said. “So do you want something to eat?”
I knew what her answer would be. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s only money. There’s plenty of it out there for everyone.”
She looked at me and she might have smiled. “Thank you.”
“No worries,” I said, and was pleased to feel the darkness within me subside a little, loosen its hold on my heart. Just a little. “What’s your name?”
“Parker,” she said.
I almost laughed. “Is that your first or last name?”
“First, and don’t laugh.”
“I didn’t, did I?”
“No, but you almost did.”
“What’s your last name, Parker? Wait, let me guess...Cindy?”
“Ha, ha. It’s Cole.”
“Parker Cole, huh?” I said. “You sound like a child TV star or something. Ever had your own show? ‘Parker With a P,’ maybe?”
“I can’t tell if you’re being funny or mean,” she said after a moment. She had gone back to sitting in the middle of her seat, shrinking in on herself a little.
She wasn’t in my car for me to make fun of, or even hurt her feelings. A part of me didn’t care about her feelings. A part of me didn’t care about anyone’s feelings. But I was forcing that part of me to take a back seat. With some effort, I said, “I was just being stupid. Actually, you have a very nice name.”
“Thank you,” she said, but I had scared her off a little and she still sat closed on the seat. “Why do they call you Spider?”
“It’s a new nickname,” I said. “I’m not sure why.”
Actually, I knew damn well why they called me Spider. I heard the whispe
rings behind my back. I was creepy. Spiders were creepy.
I turned right up Denny Street and headed toward Capital Hill, which is an unofficial “district” of Seattle. Capital Hill is also known as the “Freak District,” and there, as we passed the homeless and junkies and fellow creatures of the night, I made a right onto State Street and soon turned into Dick’s, Seattle’s infamous burger chain.
Dick’s only served burgers and fries and Cokes and so I didn’t need to take her order. I told her to wait in the car and a few moments later, I returned with a single order of food. I gave it to her as I sat back down in the front seat.
She looked at the meal, then looked at me. We were sitting under a parking lot light and her face was glowing palely. The oddballs and freaks were consuming their hamburgers nearby, since Dick’s didn’t have any indoor seating, and were laughing and talking and sometimes arguing. I caught one or two of them looking our way, sort of like a wolf might that had observed some sheep that were almost within range.
“Nothing for you?” she asked.
“I’m not hungry,” I said. Which was a lie. I was very, very hungry, and I was watching some of the lost souls sitting on curbs just outside the glow of the parking lot light. They should have been in shadows, but to my eyes, they weren’t. They were clear as day, and the darkness in me wanted to do something very bold and very stupid. The darkness in me wanted to hurt and kill and suck and drink. I closed my eyes, and did my best to ignore the darkness.
“I can hear your stomach growling,” said Parker, and I knew she was teasing me.
“Ha, yeah. I’ll eat later,” I said, and decided to change the subject. “So tell me why you need my help, and why I’m the guy you picked.”
She took another bite, chewed slowly, and washed it down with some Coke. She set the Coke carefully in the cup holder, then turned and faced me, tucking one leg under her as she did so. Girls can do things like that. I couldn’t tuck my leg under me like that to save my life.
Scott Nicholson Library, Vol. 4 (Boxed Set) Page 60