by J. R. Rain
I snort, laughing.
Sure enough, the group enters a chamber with cobwebs and four fancy coffins. One’s white. Gee, I wonder which one holds Fiona of the Huge Hair. Also, predictably, Romeo beelines for the woman’s casket and throws himself over the lid, wailing and gnashing his teeth. The addled hunter pulls him off.
“Get a hold of yourself, man! What’s under that lid is no longer Fiona,” says the hunter, gazing off into the distance. “The girl you fell in love with was gone the instant the master vampire’s fangs pierced her neck.”
A squirm of self-consciousness runs through me. I hope Danny doesn’t take that line to heart.
“Okay, Doctor, okay.” Romeo clutches a stake. “I can do this. Please, let me be the one to put Fiona to rest.”
The hunter nods and pats Romeo on the back. “You can do it, boy. Remember, the fiends are weak during the day.”
Fiend. Great.
Idiot One and Idiot Two take positions by two other caskets while the hunter steps back, away from danger. Romeo faces the white casket. The men simultaneously open the lids, revealing the woman, and two foppish men in wigs even more ludicrous than her hair. All three exposed vampires are sleeping with their hands clasped like corpses at a wake.
Even Danny rolls his eyes.
“On three,” whispers the hunter.
Danny leans close and mutters, “I bet they all die except Doctor Galloway.”
Romeo raises the stake in both hands. Fiona’s eyes snap open.
“Now!” rasps the hunter.
Idiots one and two plunge their stakes down into the chests of their respective vampires, but Romeo hesitates. Fiona starts to sit up, looking groggy and out of it. Gee, I can sympathize with that. She’s doing her best, ‘you couldn’t hurt me, could you, Ethan?’ routine.
“It’s not her!” rasps the hunter. “Do it, boy, before it’s too late!”
‘It’s not her’ resonates with me. Am I still me?
The other casket opens, revealing the master vampire: a man in his late fifties with overly grey skin and a helmet of Brylcreem hair. Despite his fancy black suit, he staggers about like a wooden-legged mannequin, barely able to move as he totters toward Idiot Two, raking his arms at the air. Idiot Two fumbles at his belt for another stake he just can’t seem to get out of its little holder. He screams as the master vampire totters closer and closer.
Sobbing, Romeo lowers his stake and embraces Fiona, who promptly bites him on the throat.
“Fools!” shouts the hunter.
The master vampire swats the head off Idiot Two’s shoulders with an arm as stiff as a baseball bat, and claws as sharp as, well, mine, and pounces on Idiot One while the hunter wails in terror and runs for his life. Evidently overcome by ‘daytime,’ once the imminent threat to their unlife is passed, the master vampire collapses asleep in the middle of the room. Yup, I can relate. Fiona slumps back in her casket, pulling Romeo with her.
“You were right,” I mumble. “All dead except for the coward.”
Danny laughs.
“I’m nowhere near that bad during the day.” Speech appeared to be out of the question for those made-up fiends, and their motions had the herky-jerky awfulness of B-movie zombies.
“And your hair doesn’t need its own bed.” Danny strokes his fingers down my chestnut-brown mane. “It’s still as beautiful as the first day I saw you. All lustrous and perfect.”
Can I blush anymore? I cling to his arm. “This movie is really bad.” And wait―I haven’t put anything in my hair in days. It looks like I’ve been spending hours a day maintaining it, but…
“So bad it’s funny,” says Danny. “I don’t think they meant it as a comedy. Maybe real vampires made it to give hunters a false sense of security. You know, get them to think daytime means they’d be sluggish and easy prey.”
I laugh. “I am not sleeping in a box.”
Danny’s joviality fades in an instant. Uh oh. Mixing thoughts of me in his head with a coffin was a mistake.
“I mean, how stereotypical can you get? It’s just Hollywood nonsense. Besides. I’m not dead.”
He recovers a nervous smile.
Damn.
Well, any hope I had of getting frisky or cute with him is shot to hell. Still, we do cuddle for the rest of the movie (the hunter rallies some villagers for a grand attack on the vampires, but Fiona and Vampire-Romeo return). Danny expects the hapless hunter will run off and leave the village to its grisly fate, but the movie pulls a surprise. The ‘hunter’ inexplicably goes from clueless to badass, and takes out three lesser vampires before getting into an overacted showdown with the master vampire, ultimately killing him by impaling him on the broken strut of an old windmill. The dead master vampire goes around and around on the creaking wood, with such a silly look on his face, I have to laugh.
He thinks he’s won, but Fiona and Romeo sneak off unnoticed before the credits roll.
“Wow, that was… special.” I whistle.
“I was hoping you’d find it funny,” says Danny.
“Yeah. That was pretty funny.” I glance at him. “Hope you didn’t find it realistic.”
“Pff.” He waves dismissively. “It’s a movie. I already know you don’t have to kill when you eat.”
I blink, stunned. This is information that I am only starting to grasp. Danny already knew? He accurately reads my expression.
He says, “The man in the hospital a few rooms down the hall from you.” Danny fidgets, rolling a bit of his shirt back and forth between his thumb and finger. “Some things are making more sense now.”
“Danny?” I reach over and grasp his chin, pulling his head around so I can stare into his eyes. “I will never, ever, hurt you or the kids. Please believe that.”
“Of course I believe that.” False lawyer smile leaps onto his face. “Besides, I’m going to find a cure. You’re going to be back to your old self in no time. Mark my words.”
“Wow. Did you just say ‘mark my words’ and mean it?”
“I did, yes. But I’m not proud of it.”
“Take heed!” I shout, raising my finger.
“Sam, the kids…”
“Heareth my voice!”
“That’s it,” he says, rolling on top of me, covering my mouth with his hand.
“Take notice!” I mumble between his fingers.
In the past, such playfulness usually ended up in the bedroom. Now, it ends up with giggling and tickles… and a sense that Danny and I might, just might, be getting through this together. That he feels more like a friend than a lover is something I squash down and hide in the deepest recesses of my mind, back where that thing has taken up residence inside my head.
***
The worst part about being a vampire is boredom.
I feel like some poor bastard on swing shift who’s home when all their friends are at work. Roaming a house full of sleeping people is about as fun as… well, roaming a house where everyone’s sleeping. Can’t watch TV too loud, can’t eat… I suppose I could take up reading or writing. Maybe there is a book in me. How many vampire mamas are there out there in the world? Can’t be too many. Or, hell, maybe I’ll see what the deal is with World of Warcraft. Maybe I can be a secret gamer. I shake my head at the thought, suddenly depressed. I catch crooks in real life, not in games. True, I have been bored these past few weeks, but tonight I have a mission.
I fire up Danny’s laptop and start hunting online.
The Brothers of the Republic have an AOL presence, but it’s super basic and appears to be a membership application form. I get the feeling the extent of their entry criteria is making sure any potential recruits believe ‘guns are good, government and minorities are bad.’ I can’t help but think back to many of the residents I’ve worked with at HUD. A good portion are nonwhites, all are citizens, and they all bust their asses to earn a living. Sure, some of the residents I investigate are gaming the system, but that’s why my job exists.
Grr. After reading the webs
ite, my drive to take this guy down gets even stronger.
I run a couple searches, hunting for ‘Brothers of the Republic,’ then the names of the men I’ve identified. Eventually, I get a hit from a small local news station about a reporter, Terrell Summerlin, who disappeared four days ago in the middle of doing a series on ‘homegrown hate.’ A small transcript teasing the as-yet-unaired segment mentions the Gallaghers rallying against ‘unclean outsiders.’ Basically, anyone who doesn’t look or think like them.
Ugh. Fair bet that guy’s dead. Probably buried in a shallow grave somewhere on Gallagher’s property… wherever that is. There’s no mention of the address anywhere I can find on AOL or Yahoo!, nor on their membership form. Only a P.O. box to which people are supposed to mail the form to after printing it out. I even try out a new search engine called Google, but even that turns up nothing.
The FBI did have quite a case file on Mitch. He’s been seen frequenting a Walmart in Corona, buying large quantities of nonperishables. That makes me think he’s got a compound somewhere within driving distance. Duh. Of course, he does. The one guy said he could go to jail, or ‘kill us and hide at the compound.’ More than likely, Joey is doing just that. Since we haven’t heard anything come down the hall about a raid, I’m betting the FBI hasn’t pieced together where this guy is yet. I’d bet money they’ve got people staking out that Walmart, waiting to tail him.
An odd nagging suspicion that Terrell Summerlin is still alive strikes me with no explanation. Dammit. I have to do something. Nico didn’t specifically tell me not to get involved, only that he couldn’t call in a raid or officially pursue the investigation.
Under normal circumstances, I’d go make a pot of coffee and get ready for an all-nighter. However, my circumstances are far from normal and it’s not as if I have any problem staying awake at night anymore.
With Danny and the kids sound asleep in their beds, I sprawl over the dining room table in a mess of pictures, papers, manila folders, and stapled bundles: all the evidence I managed to photocopy or print out concerning Mitch and his moron brigade.
A small black-and-white booking photo of a man by the name of Renton Chase catches my eye maybe twenty minutes into my hunt. Early forties, thinning hair, no neck, and a biker-type beard. Hmm. He looks like a fun sort. The photo’s stapled to some papers that detail his involvement in an assault-and-battery arrest where he and Mitch Gallagher got picked up after a bar fight. I leaf through the packet, growing more disgusted with each page. Three Hispanic men and a black guy pressed charges, claiming that Gallagher and Chase, plus six others, targeted them as a hate crime. It appears that the others ran off before the police showed up. Mitch had been knocked out during the fight and Renton suffered a stab wound to the thigh that I guess kept him from running.
Considering their militia manifesto refers to non-whites as ‘unclean,’ this sure feels to me like Mitch and his boys got into far worse than a simple bar fight… Alas, the indictment didn’t include a hate crime, so either a plea happened or someone has friends in high places. I cross-check the FBI’s files on the Brothers of the Republic, looking for references to this Chase guy, and he turns up fairly often. At least nine photos show him hanging out with Mitch and company, the pair acting like best buds. Lots of guns and beer involved in being a militia, apparently. Hmm. Ol’ Renton’s address is east of here, past Corona. The probation officer’s got an address for him south of Lake Mathews. Probably a trailer on a giant lot of dirt.
I bet he knows where Mitch hides out. Guess I’m going to do a little running around tonight.
The last time I went out for a late-night jog, something bad happened. Still, I can’t shake that feeling that Terrell is still alive… and in deep trouble.
I think something bad is going to happen if I go out for a run tonight.
But not to me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tall Tales
Danny doesn’t stir out of his sleep while I change clothes.
I throw on as stealthy an outfit as I can find: black jeans, black shirt, brown hiking sneakers. Hey, the only black shoes I have are heels, and who in their right mind wears heels out to the sticks? Once dressed, I spend a moment watching my husband breathe. He’s kind of edged into my half of the bed as if he’s getting used to sleeping alone. Ouch.
Okay, now, I’m feeling sorry for myself.
Or maybe, he’s only trying to cuddle me in his sleep and doesn’t realize I’m not there.
Damn, now I’m feeling guilty all over again.
What I’m about to do could go quite wrong in a myriad of ways, and it’s probably foolish of me, but… that reporter must’ve found the compound and I don’t like the results when my brain tries to come up with what men like that would do to him.
Oh, hell. In all probability, Terrell Summerlin’s dead already, but hoping he isn’t is the excuse I need to get myself out the door. Not to mention, I’m confident Joey Bell is hiding out where he thinks the law can’t touch him. Maybe they’re planning for another Waco Massacre type event. Based on what I read about them on their page, these guys sound like real wingnuts fully willing to martyr themselves in the hopes it sets off another American Revolution.
Great.
Well, good thing there’s only about a dozen of them.
I wave at Danny and whisper, “Back in a few hours.”
After checking on Tammy and Anthony, I head out the door and hop in the Momvan. I check my Thomas Guide maps, plot a route, and start driving. For a little more than a half an hour of driving, the ‘should I/shouldn’t I’ argument goes back and forth in my head. At present, the ‘shouldn’t I’ argument is winning. After all, this is way out of my comfort zone, probably because I’m planning to break a bunch of agency policies and I don’t have any kind of official sanction to do this.
Still, it’s becoming clear that my days at HUD are numbered, and before I am responsible for someone else getting hurt, I owe it to Chad to make sure these bastards go down. Though I get no closer to feeling confident, I keep going out to Cajalco Road, and almost miss the right turn into the barren nothingness south of the lake.
My thoughts drift to my kids. No matter what happens tonight, HUD or no HUD, they’re all that matters. Hell, I’ll work night security if I have to. And with that thought, the idea of working as a private eye sounds just that much better; after all, as a PI, I would be my own boss and work the kind of cases I want to work. Okay, that suddenly doesn’t sound so horrible. Better than working a night security shift.
I let that thought play out for a few minutes, and find myself smiling at calling myself a private dick… and later find myself wondering if Terrell had a family.
A heavy sigh slides out my nose as a beat-up one-story building comes into the glare of my headlights. Dust clouds swirl around over head-sized green scrub in front of me. A small corrugated steel awning over a well on the left clatters in the wind. I’d call the place a house, but it’s not. More like an elaborate shack, or a house trailer with an extra room built onto it. Three motorcycles and a beat-up green pickup truck with a lift and giant tires sit out front. Only one of the bikes looks capable of actually running.
A flimsy front door swings open, striking the wall with a thwap. Renton Chase steps out onto the concrete block serving as a stair, bare-chested in jeans, with a metal bat. Hmm. Well, that’s not too neighborly of him. He’s still got the horseshoe of brown hair around his otherwise bald head, and a puffy beard down to his gut. He’s also quite thick in the chest and arms, so despite his general beer-bellied couch potato look, he’s probably quite strong.
As soon as I open the van’s door, he yells, “Don’t want none. Get on gone.”
“Oh, shoot,” I say, in a raised voice so he can hear me from the distance. “But I just got in a new batch of Thin Mints. And Samoas!”
Evidently, Renton wasn’t expecting a woman. At the sound of my voice, his aggressive stance slackens to merely unfriendly. “Hell you want?”
&n
bsp; I suppose full sentences is going to be too much to ask. “Okay, you caught me. We’re auditioning a backup singer for ZZ Top.”
Renton glowers at me as I walk up to stand in front of him. He’s a big guy. More than a full head taller than me and I guess he didn’t take advantage of the prison gym. But I shouldn’t underestimate natural strength; his biceps are bigger than my thighs. I’ve heard it said that vampirism is a curse, and at this moment, I would tend to agree. The fragrance of feet, fishy bellybutton lint, and beer fart is making my eyes water. Sometimes amped-up senses are not helpful. Luckily, I can see easily in the night, and note that we are alone, with no one sneaking around. Curiously, I note a light ringing just inside my ear again. Almost… yeah, almost as if it’s some kind of warning. Am I the only one who can hear it?
“You funny, lady.” Renton spits to the side.
I don’t hear anyone else moving around inside the house. Whatever happens between us is going to stay between us. “I was hoping you could help me out.”
“You a cop?”
Right, because undercover cops aren’t allowed to lie. Bet he believes income taxes are a government fabrication, too. “No, I’m not a police officer.”
“You sure?” He squints and points the bat at me.
“I think I’d know if I was a cop or not.” I smile. “Can you tell me where I can find the Brothers of the Republic?”
He leans to the left, presses a thumb to one nostril, and huffs out his nose, sending a streamer of snot flying. “You ain’t the type.”
I step into the glow of the light above the door. “What? I don’t think it’s possible to get much whiter than I already am.”
“You’s askin’ wrong.”
“Oh. Sorry, did that complete sentences thing disqualify me? Is there a maximum IQ to join?”
“Only cops walk up an’ ask. There’ a process, and it don’t involve no talkin’ to no one.”
I blink at him. Wow. Was that a triple negative? I’m not even entirely sure what he tried to say there. “What?”