The lamp’s dim yellow light made our shadows flicker on the walls. She brought the lamp close to one of the bench planks.
“Look.” Phaedra turned the board over to reveal an etching of a Star of David and a menorah scorched into the wood. “This is a hiding place within a hiding place. There were Jews among the Penitentes and they snuck here in further secrecy to celebrate their traditions. Did you know many Conquistadors were Jews fleeing the Inquisition?”
I did know. My own past came back to me. Coyote, an ancient vampire I’d met when on assignment in Los Angeles, was a child of the Spanish conquest of America. Half Aztec and half Spanish Jew, perhaps the first true Mexican, Coyote still carried the shameful burden as a survivor of the Inquisition.
“How’d you discover this place?”
“I was hiking by myself about four years ago and found it.” Phaedra sat cross-legged on the floor and rested the lamp in front of her. She closed her eyes. “You feel it? There’s an energy here. It’s a holy place. Aren’t you afraid?”
“Unless I’m tied to the floor and somebody’s about to stake me, why should I be afraid?”
“What about things like holy water? Crucifixes?”
“That’s movie stuff. I could brush my teeth with holy water. You want to hurt me with a crucifix? Pawn it and buy a gun.”
“Then what’s true and what’s not about you? As a vampire, I mean.”
I didn’t want to explain anything. The more Phaedra pried about vampires, the worse I felt about neglecting my duty to the Araneum.
Guilt put its heavy hands on my shoulders. I had no choice but to kill Phaedra, convert her into a chalice, or turn her into one of us. But I wouldn’t do any of them.
“You look tired,” she said. “Aren’t you immortal?”
“The trick to staying immortal is that you’ve got to pace yourself.”
She asked, “What about the zombies? What do you know about them?”
“Not much.”
“Where do they come from?”
“Depends. Several things can cause zombies. A virus. A mutation. In this case, there’s a reanimator. He’s killing people and using them for parts to make zombies.”
“How do you know that?”
“Other vampires told me.”
“How do you pass information? You guys have a newsletter? A website? Blog?”
“Yes. Yes. And yes.”
“Will you show me?”
“No.”
Phaedra played with the lamp and tried not to appear miffed. “Did a reanimator get ahold of Gino?”
“Most likely. It’s what happened to Barrett.”
Phaedra blinked. I could tell she was trying to take in the reality of everything that I’d said.
She picked at the laces of her boots. “Who is this reanimator?”
“That’s what I have to find out.”
“He’s the one you have to stop? By stop, I mean kill.”
“Yes. I have to kill this reanimator and destroy his zombies.”
“Do zombies die of disease?”
“Technically, they’re already dead. Make that undead. I’m pretty sure they’re immune to colds and pneumonia.”
“What about Huntington’s?”
“I guess they’d be immune to that, too. In what I’ve read about zombies, they’re not much of a drain on health care.”
“Are they immortal?”
“Considering they’re undead, I’d say yes. Why the questions?”
“I’ve spent most of my life thinking about my death.” Phaedra twisted a lock of hair from her bangs, the gesture idle, her face blank as if meditating.
She turned to the bench. “I have something else to show you.”
She reached into the bench and folded aside a tarp covered with dirt. Whisking away the dust, she lifted an artist’s black portfolio from under the tarp. She unzipped the portfolio and opened it to reveal a large drawing tablet.
Phaedra laid the portfolio where the light from the lamp was best. The tablet was full of drawings that had been torn loose and slipped back under the cardboard cover.
“When I looked into the void and found you”—Phaedra showed me the first drawing—“this is what I saw.”
It was a charcoal sketch of the little Iraqi girl.
CHAPTER 33
The sketch Phaedra held was a caricature, but the rendering captured mood in a way a camera never could. A round innocent face that had no business being close to war: hair drawn as wild zigzags that got lost in the confused crosshatched texture of the night sky; eyebrows arched in permanent horror; tiny lips twisted in sorrow.
Every scratchy mark directed me to her eyes.
Dark eyes. Frightened eyes. Accusing eyes.
Her eyes were smudges of charcoal, but they projected light from deep within the paper.
I wanted to slap the portfolio closed and push it away. But I was transfixed, both fascinated and frightened that the blackest of my memories was exposed.
Phaedra pulled out another sketch.
Soldiers huddled around the little girl where she lay dying on a poncho. Shadows radiated like spokes from each soldier as if the girl was a hub of blazing light. One soldier knelt by her side and leaned close with a bayonet.
Me. That soldier was me.
I had unsheathed the bayonet to cut away her blood-soaked dress.
Phaedra sorted through the sketches.
A pair of man’s hands.
Covered in blood.
My hands.
The emotions burst out of me.
Fear.
Terror.
Despair.
Phaedra held up the drawings like they were exhibits at a trial.
My kundalini noir shrank into a tiny ball.
Now I understood. Phaedra had crossed the astral plane to dig into my psyche. She’d uncovered my nightmares and endless shame. Phaedra’s psyche had woven into mine and that’s why I’d seen her face merge with the Iraqi girl’s.
My mind replayed the events of my vampiric life from the death of the Iraqi girl until now. My turning. My service as a vampire enforcer. The loss of Carmen to alien gangsters. The psychic attacks. Phaedra’s wish to cheat death.
Were these events randomly strung together or were they a path leading me to this moment?
And this decision?
Turn Phaedra.
I wouldn’t do it, but to refuse was to let Phaedra die.
I withdrew from the world, falling, rolling, tumbling—delirious in a miserable confusion.
A mental image of the little Iraqi girl came into focus.
Years ago, I’d been shot by vampire hunters and was close to dying. Wendy Teagarden, a supernatural dryad, gave me her blood and I was taken by a dream. In this dream I met the Iraqi girl and her family. They rose from the dead to confront me. In order for them to enter heaven, they had to let go of their hatred of me. The little Iraqi girl’s final words were “We forgive you.”
I returned from the dream, strong, complete, hungry.
Why wasn’t this memory depicted?
The delirium melted away. Clear-eyed and wary, I stared at Phaedra. “Why are you doing this?”
Her eyes were tiny yellow slits in the candlelight. “I’ve told you. So you can make me a vampire.”
“That will never happen.”
“It has to.” She jabbed at the drawings. Her fingernails gouged the paper. They left dark shiny smears.
Blood?
She waved her stained fingertips. I smelled the blood. Was this a trick? Had she cut herself on the sly?
The revulsion was too much and I recoiled from her.
Phaedra’s hand curled and her bloody index finger clawed at me. “And I selected you.”
“Where’s my say in this?”
She shook the drawings. “You know what it’s like to live with this pain. This humiliation.”
I swatted the drawings from her hand. They fluttered to the floor. “Don’t talk to me about humiliation.
Not after you’ve been digging around in my head.”
“I had to do it.” She grasped my wrist. “So you can save me.”
I held her at arm’s length. “You used the Iraqi girl to manipulate me. I owe you nothing.”
Her eyes probed mine, her expression pleading. “Nothing?”
“Not after what you’ve done.”
That pleading expression turned injured. She let go of my hand and lowered her head.
The echo started, faintly. I got ready for a hard blast to my brain. But the echo never rose above a murmur and faded.
Was this the last of Phaedra’s psychic tricks? She kept her face down and appeared embarrassed, broken.
She knelt and quietly collected the drawings.
The realization that I had better memories of the Iraqi girl reassured me. The guilt was still there but softened by her forgiveness.
Phaedra had trouble with the zipper on the portfolio. I reached to help her but she brushed my arm aside with her shoulder. After she’d closed the portfolio, she sat with her back to me.
She gave tiny sobs and wiped her face.
I didn’t have a solution. Didn’t help that she had been dishonest with me from the start. Maybe another vampire would turn her. If he didn’t kill her.
I read my watch: 3:11 P.M. We’d been here a while.
The constant anxiety caught up with me. I was tired and wanted to rest. I stared longingly at the open bench. It would be a squeeze to get in but was almost like a crypt in a chapel. This wasn’t a polished mahogany casket with a padded silk lining but it had a rustic appeal. A nap now would be too callous, even for me, so I offered an olive branch.
“Don’t your relatives worry about you?”
“Fat chance. My aunt dreams of the day she sees my face on a flyer at the police station.”
“And Uncle Sal?”
Phaedra pulled the parka’s hood over her head. “Like he cares about anything but money.”
My eyelids were heavy. I wish I had turned down this assignment. Phaedra was more than I wanted to handle. Now that she had shut up, perhaps I could get some sleep.
Her cell phone chimed. She stood and dug into her jeans. In the glow of the tiny red screen, she squinted with annoyed recognition at the number flashing. She put the phone to her ear. A woman’s voice chattered like an angry squirrel.
“Yeah, Aunt Lorena, I’m okay. Yes, I’m sure. Calm down. Why do you ask?” Phaedra’s complexion faded. She repeated, “Oh my God.” She snapped the phone closed and dropped it into her parka. “We have to go.”
I blew the lamp candle out. “What’s happened?”
“Uncle Sal’s men were attacked.”
My kundalini noir tensed. “Where? Who?”
“By the river. Cleto is missing.”
“How?” I asked.
“Just like Gino.”
The zombies were back.
CHAPTER 34
The afternoon sun retreated and cold, dark shadows claimed the forest. Phaedra ran down the slope to my 4Runner. I stayed behind her, in position to catch her in case she slipped on the uneven rocks. When we made it back to the highway, we were again in bright sunlight.
She got on the phone and, after quick frantic conversations, pieced enough together to relate a few details. Cleto was arranging a sale. Of drugs I was sure. Cavagnolo and Vinny had arrived later and found a gruesome mess.
Phaedra opened one of her prescription bottles and shook out two pills. She gulped the pills, chased them with a slug from her water bottle, and leaned against the door. She closed her eyes and grimaced.
I asked, “You okay enough to answer some questions?”
She raised her right hand and made a go-ahead motion.
“When was the last time your uncle spoke with Cleto?”
“A couple of hours ago.” She kept her eyes closed. “Why?”
“I’m trying to establish a timeline.”
The zombies had attacked recently, in daylight. Why had they become so brazen?
There was another possibility. Maybe Cavagnolo was using the mysterious killings as cover to get rid of Cleto. Maybe Cleto suspected that Cavagnolo was an informant. I couldn’t overlook the most obvious of motives.
Phaedra cracked her eyelids and peeked at the highway. She sat up and directed me to a dirt road. We wound through willows and cottonwoods on a course that took us close to the Rio Grande.
Phaedra waved to slow down and pointed to the right, through a trampled opening in the tall weeds. She explained that there were lots of secluded hangouts along the river, and she knew where the meeting had been.
My ears started to buzz. A second buzz began at my fingertips, rushed up my arms, and caused a shiver across my shoulders.
The first vehicle that came into view was Cleto’s black Chevy pickup. The second was a white Cadillac Escalade that I hadn’t seen before. The vehicles were within a clearing, surrounded by a bowl of dense trees and shrubs. The doors were open on both vehicles. Spatters of blood the size of dinner plates stained the windows and the upholstery.
On the other side of the clearing, Cavagnolo and Vinny stood beside their red pickup. They stared slack-faced at the carnage. Cavagnolo’s thumb played nervously over the hammer of his pistol. Vinny remained farther back, looking ready to run away.
Dozens of empty cartridges were strewn across the dirt. The back hatch of the Cadillac yawned wide. Plastic liter jars spilled white crystals across the ground. Judging by the cat piss smell, it was meth.
Three men lay in heaps so bloody I thought they’d been mulched to death instead of shot. One looked familiar but was so mutilated I couldn’t be sure.
Phaedra stepped behind me in slow movements as if worried that at any second the mayhem and bloodletting would begin again.
Cavagnolo saw us and in one quick wipe, his expression went from horror to anger. He scowled, and when he spoke, spit sprayed from his mouth. “Goddammit, why the hell did you bring her here?”
Phaedra brushed beside me. “I had to show Felix how to find this place.”
Cavagnolo aimed his pistol at the corpses, not to shoot, but like it was a talisman to ward off evil. The skulls had been pried open and emptied. “What’s with taking the brains? Is this some voodoo horseshit?”
More like an afternoon snack for zombies.
I asked, “These your guys?”
Cavagnolo gave a rueful nod.
“Everyone accounted for?”
“Except Cleto.” Cavagnolo pawed at the spent cartridges. “He put up a hell of fight.” Cavagnolo hesitated. “I can’t figure it. We’ve got no trouble with anybody. So what is this about?”
I said, “Maybe someone’s trying to send you a message.”
“Who? Why?” Cavagnolo squared his shoulders and leaned toward me.
I didn’t give ground. “Back off, Sal. Don’t crowd me.”
“Then why did you say it?” He tightened his grip on his pistol and gave a look that at any second he was going to drill me through the forehead. “First you arrive. Then we lose Gino.”
Cavagnolo better be careful or I’ll snap his neck. I didn’t want to do that, especially not in front of Phaedra. “What are you getting at, Sal? That I had something to do with this? Get your thinking straight. Stanley Novick was the first to get chopped up like this. That happened days before I got here. And Gino came to me for help, not the other way around.”
Cavagnolo relaxed his grip as my words soaked into his head. Heavy breaths bellowed through his nostrils.
I thought this hellish scene would leave Phaedra trembling in terror. Instead, she wandered through the area and inspected the bodies and blood from a distance.
I had to ignore Cavagnolo and think about the zombies. Why did they strike now? Why Cleto? Were they stalking him?
Phaedra called from the edge of the clearing. “Here’s something.”
A set of bloody prints went south. These prints were deep as if burdened with a heavy load. Cleto?
; I didn’t need to be Daniel Boone to follow the trail to the river. They had flattened the grass and weeds and left spots of blood and bits of cloth. Zombies for sure.
Phaedra followed me. Cavagnolo stayed behind with Vinny. She stepped gingerly in my footsteps as if afraid the blood and tatters would infect her.
The zombies couldn’t have made a more obvious path with a road grader. This sloppiness was the reason the Araneum wanted them exterminated.
Footprints and drag marks continued off the riverbank to the water’s edge. The river lapped back and forth and obliterated the tracks in the sand close to the water.
I surveyed the opposite bank. The trees were set back about a hundred feet so the ground was more open. Where did the zombies go?
The river flowed over rocks and the eddies curled around submerged sandbars. Phaedra caught me studying the water.
“You’re thinking of crossing?”
“Depends. How deep is the water?”
“That’s not a good idea,” she said. “The current can be pretty fast and suck you under. You could drown.”
No, I couldn’t. There was a lot I hadn’t told her about vampires.
“Any ideas?”
She used her index finger to note a path across the river. “If you insist, try that line of rocks. The water’s knee-deep at the most.”
I stepped off the bank. Icy water filled my shoes.
Phaedra held my arm. “Careful.”
I’ve been dunked in the Missouri River and crawled out. Compared to that river, this was a trickle.
I told her I’d be okay and would return shortly. I picked my way along the rocks and across a sandbar. The water lashed about my shins.
Once on the other side, I walked along the water’s edge. I searched the sand and river rocks for the trail.
If the zombies carried heavy, awkward loads, the strong current would have worked against them. Sure enough, a hundred feet downstream, I found a confusion of prints. Some of the feet had dug into the sand, like they’d been struggling to haul something from the water. The footprints became an orderly procession away from the riverbank. Broken grass and a string of maroon dots pointed south in the direction the zombies had fled.
Jailbait Zombie Page 14