by Aimée Thurlo
Lee pulled himself up easily, slipped over the rail, and took two steps across the wooden deck to the sliding-glass door, his regulation Smith & Wesson .45 semi-auto in hand. He checked the latch, knowing he could lift the door off the track and defeat the lock, but it wasn’t fastened. When he moved the handle it slid open easily. It figured. Nobody could get up here without a long ladder.
Lee opened the door just enough to step inside onto the carpet, then listened, his eyes directed toward the open door that led into a hall. A child was crying somewhere in the distance, but he couldn’t detect any footsteps or activity within the house.
Then Officer Gorman started another round with the bullhorn. If he timed it right, her speech would cover his movements. He stepped across the room quickly, crouched, then peered down the hall. Several wheeled children’s toys and a folding gate were scattered along the passage, perhaps placed there by Chuck to trip up an intruder. Either that, or the parents were lousy housekeepers.
Chuck’s flashlight beam streaked past the stair railing on the ground floor. Inching closer, Lee took a quick glance over the rail. A baby crib had been inverted in the middle of the spacious, sunken living room, and two children were lying on a quilt inside the hastily improvised jail. They had stuffed toys with them and their faces were tear-streaked, but although visibly upset, they appeared unharmed. At least he didn’t have to worry about them getting in the way or stepped on.
The beam of the flashlight swung around toward the stairs and Lee flattened against the wall of the landing, barely avoiding a plastic dump truck. Meanwhile, Deputy Gorman’s litany continued, calling for Mr. Martin to come out, unarmed, and turn himself in to protect his children.
“Yeah, right. Give them back to that drunk?” the man mumbled to himself. Then he shouted again. “These are my children, and I know what’s best for them. Leave us alone.”
Lee finally located Charles Martin as he moved across the room. A big man—no, make that an enormous man, Chuck looked like a walk-in freezer with a head. He reminded Lee of that ex-UNM Lobo All-American that now played pro ball for Chicago, only half again as large. Chuck stood beside the curtain, peering out, shotgun in his right hand.
Lee felt the reassuring weight of the Smith in his own grip, and knew he could take out the man right now with a head shot and end the danger to the kids once and for all. But that wouldn’t solve the real problem here.
One of the kids called “Daddy” and Mr. Martin turned to look, directing his flashlight beam toward the crib. “It’s okay, JJ. Daddy’s here,” the man whispered softly, crouching down on one knee to greet his son eye to eye. When the man placed his shotgun down on the rug for a second to wipe away a tear, that’s when Lee decided to strike.
Easing his .45 back into its holster, Lee jumped up and swung over the top of the stair railing, directing the leap with his left hand as he cleared the banister by two feet.
Charles must have heard the wood creak, because he looked up just as Lee arrived. Lee landed with a thud just a foot away from the shotgun, and barely another foot from Mr. Martin, whose jaw had dropped a foot as he tried to decide what the hell was going on.
In one fluid motion, Lee slid the shotgun across the carpet in the opposite direction, then, using the heel of his other hand, leaned forward and propelled Chuck toward the front door with a thump in the middle of his chest.
Chuck gasped and slammed into the carved wooden door so hard that it cracked right down the center. The stricken man collapsed to the floor, landing hard onto his butt. Gasping, Chuck fumbled at his chest, trying to catch his breath. He was dazed and disoriented, his eyes wide with fear from the shock and speed of the assault.
“Stay down, Mr. Martin. I’m a state police officer, and you’re now in my custody.” Lee reached over and turned on both wall switches. A table lamp came on, as well as the outside porch light.
Charles Martin groaned, clutching his chest, but he was unable to take his eyes off Lee. “I’m twice your size. How in the hell …”
“Stay where you are or you’re going to find out, Mr. Martin.” Lee reached over and clicked on his mike. “This is Hawk. Mr. Martin is in custody and the children are safe. Come on in.”
Lee ended the call, then brought out his handcuffs. “Turn around with your back to me, Mr. Martin, slowly. And make sure I can see your hands. Please don’t try anything else in front of your children, or I’ll bounce your head off the fireplace.”
CHAPTER 2
Processing the scene, plus the paperwork and logistics—waiting for the agency people to take custody of the children and all that—took a couple of hours. By then the sun was up. Lee had managed to remain inside the house for most of his stay, and when he was outside, he stood in the shade of one of the old house’s big cottonwood trees.
He’d covered up his ability to leap onto the second-story balcony by making it look like he’d entered through a rear, ground-floor window. All that had required was repositioning a piece of furniture and unlocking a window before either of the deputies looked around. Lee doubted that Charles Martin would bring up what he’d seen, having to put all his efforts to avoid extended jail time. But Chuck would undoubtedly wonder what had really happened for the rest of his life.
Leaving the scene, Lee drove quickly to his temporary quarters in Farmington, the largest city in the area, about thirteen miles west of Bloomfield. He’d have to hurry to make that meeting with Dr. Wayne, but now it didn’t seem like such a bad day. Lives had been saved.
Lee was just stepping through the doorway to his motel on Farmington’s east side when the phone rang. “Officer Hawk,” Lee answered automatically, closing the door and locking it. Security, even from sunlight itself, was second nature to him now.
“Officer Hawk. I’m Sergeant Rodriguez—with FPD. Dr. Victor Wayne asked me to let you know that he’s been forced to cancel this morning’s meeting. He’ll be contacting you later to reschedule.”
Lee thanked the Farmington police officer, then hung up, relieved. Here was his chance to take a leisurely shower and grab some breakfast. He didn’t need much sleep, but food was essential for someone with his metabolic rate. Unlike the myths of the undead, vampires burned a lot of energy, especially when repairing body damage or after really intense physical effort—like leaping tall buildings with a single bound. He chuckled at the thought. Superman was the invention of his generation—when comic books and Saturday matinees had been a boy’s most popular indoor pastimes.
After a long, relaxing shower and fresh application of sunblock, Lee dressed in dark slacks and a long-sleeved knit T-shirt. He normally also wore a baseball cap—without any logo or slogan—and high-top boots, which concealed the long commando dagger in an ankle holster. His off-duty weapon was a sixteen-round 9mm Beretta Model 92—purchased before the limit of ten-round magazines became law, and he carried a six-round semi-auto backup .45 in his pocket.
Overkill was needed sometimes—there were dangers out there much worse than angry ex-tackles toting shotguns. Fortunately, for the past year he’d often had a highly skilled ally covering his back, FBI Agent Lopez.
Diane. Lee and she were getting along quite well, going out to dinner or a movie whenever their paths crossed, making time at least once a month or so to see each other even when it was inconvenient. They weren’t lovers yet, but their friendship had advanced well beyond mutual trust and respect. Diane joked with him about being old-fashioned, but it was a gentle tease, especially because from what he knew about Diane, she’d also been raised in a very traditional family.
His transfer to the Four Corners area two months ago—the department had a shortage of officers who spoke Navajo—kept them apart nowadays. Neither had actually voiced the “L” word, but Diane was the only woman in his life, and she’d made it clear that he was the only man in hers outside required Bureau assignments.
Taking one more look around the room, Lee patted the small bottle of backup sunblock in his light-weave sports jacket pocket, p
ut on his bad-ass sunglasses, then opened the door and glanced outside. The sun was still low in the east and the porch overhang wasn’t providing any shade yet, so Lee worked quickly, locking the door behind him. A minute later he was seated inside the motel’s coffee shop.
The food wasn’t bad, for a motel eatery, and coffee was swirling into his cup before he could even open his laminated menu. “Good morning, Officer Hawk. Busy night?”
Lena—a cute, chubby Navajo girl around nineteen—gave him the biggest smile he’d seen since, well, yesterday morning about this time.
“The usual. Speeding tickets, fender benders. Stuff like that.” Though he was really ninety-two or so, Lee looked twenty-five and seemed to get his share of womanly attention. It was something he didn’t want to encourage, though. Friendships were difficult for half vampires.
“Guess you missed out on all the excitement, then. I heard they found some bodies over by Kirtland when the sun came up. Two or three Anglo people dead.” Lena shook her head. “It’s terrible.”
The girl was obviously not a traditional Navajo since she was so willing to speak of the dead. Then, as he took a big sip of coffee, Lee thought about Dr. Wayne’s cancellation. “Not an accident, then?”
Lena shrugged. “It was down by the river, so I don’t think so. My cousin works for the tribal police, and his wife watches my two boys. She told me his shift was extended and he might be getting some good overtime. That’s all I know. It was too late to make this morning’s papers.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out more about it eventually. Okay if I order breakfast now?” Lee’s stomach was beginning to grumble.
“Ooops, you’re right. What’ll you have, officer, a jumbo Southwest Sunrise, with extra green?”
Lee nodded, looking forward to the pile of scrambled eggs topped with Hatch green chile, steaming, crispy hash browns, and a half-dozen thick slices of bacon. The toast was homemade, thick sliced, and smeared with real butter. “And keep the coffee coming.”
“Gotcha. Where do you put it all, handsome?”
“I’m a bottomless pit, what can I say?”
Lena giggled. “Then I’d better get this into the kitchen before you starve to death.” The young woman winked, then hurried off.
A half hour later Lee was munching on his last piece of toast when his cell phone started to vibrate. He picked up the device and looked at the sender’s number.
He recognized the caller and pressed the receive button. “Good morning.”
“Lee, it’s me.” Special Agent Diane Lopez’s sexy, slightly gravelly voice was quite distinctive. “I need your presence, officially, at a crime scene just west of Kirtland. We have three homicide victims, and based upon what I’ve seen so far, you’re extremely qualified to deal with this situation.”
“Extremely?” Lee looked around to make sure none of the other breakfast crowd could hear him.
“Yeah, I’d say that—for sure. We’re just north of the San Juan, a few hundred yards east of the bridge at Fruitland. An officer will lead you from the highway to the site. How soon … can you get here?” Her voice nearly broke, then finished strong.
“Within a half hour.” Lee checked his watch. “I’ll call back once I get on the road. Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. And, Lee, there’s a fed here we’ve met before. That forensics expert from the Justice Department—Dr. Wayne.”
“I’m not surprised. Is this scene going to remind him of Fort Wingate?” Lee said, standing and leaving a few dollars beside his plate. He’d paid when the meal was served, a good strategy when he sometimes had to eat and run.
“Not exactly, but you might want to bring a wooden stake or two, just in case.”
Lee heard Diane yell something to someone else. “Sorry, Officer Hawk. Gotta hang up now. See you in thirty.” Her tone had changed, which meant someone had moved within listening range at her end.
Lee jammed the cell phone back into his pocket and hurried out the entrance to the coffee shop.
Twenty-five minutes later Lee was directed toward a sandy spot beneath a stand of cottonwood trees. There was dust in the still air, and it was obvious what had stirred it up. Several other vehicles, most of them patrol units like his own but from the sheriff’s department and the Navajo tribe, were in various locations between this place and the river. The cold, usually shallow San Juan River was visible beyond the willows and grass, a hundred yards farther south.
A generic federal sedan, which he surmised was assigned to Diane though it wasn’t her usual vehicle, was about fifty feet from his. The Navajo officer that had led him to this parking area in the bosque—the closest thing to a desert forest at this elevation—climbed out of his own vehicle and motioned with his head toward a group of officers among the rim of willows and grass in the flood plain beside the river, which wasn’t really much of a barrier this late in the summer.
“Thanks,” Lee said, stepping away from his own black-and-white. The officer walked on ahead of Lee until reaching a yellow crime-scene tape, which roughly encircled a section of red and green willows, damp sand, and river-bottom boulders leading to the sun-drenched river.
There were several officers standing at various distances from three blanket-draped figures sprawled atop the moist sand only a few feet from the water. The tribal officers were together in one group, watching silently, and three county deputies were occupied taking photos and placing wire flags next to various traces of evidence.
Two men in civilian clothes, one wearing a suit and the other in jeans and an OMI jacket, were crouched beside one of the bodies. The blanket had been drawn back to the waist, revealing a bloody shirt. The victim had been impaled with a piece of wood. The OMI man was taking notes on a clipboard.
Lee took a quick glance around, spotting Diane, alone and wearing a dark nylon jacket, walking in his direction from the west. One of the deputies working the crime scene stopped to study her form. His companion nudged him none too gently, and the deputy got back to work immediately.
Diane was a hard-nosed law enforcement professional, but she could be a heart-stopper too. Twenty-seven years old, Agent Lopez was a fair-skinned Hispanic beauty with light brown hair and haunting amber eyes. She wore lightweight boots that added about an inch and a half to her short stature, and was in very good shape, a fact that she often tried to conceal with sensible slacks and a loose-fitting jacket. Right now, she could have been a runway model for the business professional, if it wasn’t for the 9mm Glock at her belt and the radio.
“Officer Hawk.” Diane nodded as she spoke, showing her professional respect in front of the others. She also knew not to shake his hand—a Navajo taboo among traditionalists. “I’ll brief you while the OMI and Dr. Wayne complete their preliminary examination.”
She continued her walk downstream, and Lee joined her, matching strides. Diane seemed quite pale, even when considering the morning light, and he wondered just how bad the victims had been mutilated to bring out this reaction in a veteran like her. He kept quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.
“Glad you were in the area, Lee. I was at the Albuquerque Sunport interviewing on an unrelated case when I got the call to check this out. The Bureau flew me to Farmington, and I drove from there. Dr. Wayne, unfortunately, was at the Farmington station at the same time, and decided to join me since he’d heard the buzz.”
“Buzz? We’ve got three murder victims, right? I know you suggested that I bring a wooden stake and I saw the one that had been impaled. Is another vampire on the loose?” Lee knew that even a multiple homicide probably wouldn’t have attracted the attention of a special Justice Department forensics specialist—not unless there’d been something unique about the crimes. But although Diane knew about vampires, Lee couldn’t believe Dr. Wayne would buy into such a possibility unless one jumped out and actually bit him on the ass.
“The superficial evidence is there. It looks to me like the victims, three Anglos, were killed by either a Hollywood-
style vampire, or possibly someone playing a sick game. The victims all lost a lot of blood, had wooden stakes jammed into their chests, and, get this, have what looks like bite marks on their necks. All three, and in the same place … like a vampire drained them, then staked the bodies so they couldn’t turn.”
“But you and I know”—Lee glanced around to make sure no one could hear him or read his lips—“that real vampires aren’t neck nibblers. It’s way too inefficient—and messy.”
“But, Lee, those people over there on the riverbed were armed with wooden stakes—I found three being carried in jacket pockets—and they obviously fought hard for their lives. The two men looked relatively strong and healthy, and I know the woman was young and fit …” Her voice broke slightly again and she looked away for a second.
“What’s up, Diane? This isn’t just a nasty crime scene to you. There’s more.” Though he’d tried to sound sympathetic, it came out more like an order. His feelings were sincere, but he was a little out of practice.
“I know … knew the woman,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Her name was Lynette Alderete and we grew up in the same neighborhood in Albuquerque. I even dated her brother a few times.”
That explained the falter in her voice when she’d first called. “What’s she doing here at the edge of the Navajo nation?”
“I have no idea. She’s a dermatologist, and last I heard, she was teaching at the UNM Medical School. Maybe she was in the area to give a seminar to local physicians or something like that. We’ve been out of touch for nearly a year now, I guess.”
“Anything on the male victims? Are they doctors too, maybe specializing in biochemistry or radiology?” Lee was starting to see the light, and light wasn’t always a good thing. He glanced over at the Navajo officers, who seemed more interested in them than in the medical examiners, and urged Diane closer to the cold, clear water. From there, they’d prevent their words reaching the others—even via lip reading. “Maybe the feds have gotten past the ridiculous notion of demons and the undead and are taking a closer look at vampires from a strictly scientific point of view. That might explain Dr. Wayne’s interest. I’d better take a closer look.”