The scream rang out again. It was clearly a female scream and the situation was definitely critical. Sam hesitated for only a moment before running into the darkness.
Seconds later, a dark-clad figure stepped out from behind the bronze statue.
The Hooded Man watched her, a frown visible above his dark glasses, his chiseled jaw set firmly, his lips pressed together in a tight line. He reached inside his worn black leather duster, pulled out a gun – a Heckler & Koch USP Match 9mm with stainless-steel slides and flared magazine wells. He checked the magazine, each hollow-point bullet filled with a thick silvery liquid. Satisfied, he loaded it back into the gun securely, then ran along the statue platform toward shore. He jumped across onto the sea wall and ran straight toward the wooded area ahead, disappearing into the darkness after Sam.
This stupid bitch is starting to piss me off. Franco struggled with the woman, trying to wrench the loaded syringe from her frail-looking hands. For a junkie, she’s got a lot of fight in her. Have to appreciate that. He grabbed a hold of her wrist. Enough of this. He twisted her hand sharply, snapping her arm like a twig. The woman let out a scream. Franco carefully pocketed the precious syringe.
“Now, now,” he growled. Grabbing her good arm, he pulled her to him, his mouth near her ear. She screamed again.
“Shh, shh.” He reached up gently, wiped a tear from her cheek. His hands on either side of her head, he jerked quickly, snapping her neck. Silence.
“That’s better.” He let gravity pull the woman’s body from him and into a broken heap on the ground.
Franco reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the syringe. Leaning his head to the side slightly, he palpated his neck searching for the jugular. This could have been a lot easier if I’d paid attention in biology class. Ah, there. Franco pressed the needle to his skin, feeling the tip of the needle on his skin for a moment before sinking it in. He closed his eyes and pushed down slowly on the plunger, forcing the potent mixture into his jugular vein.
“C’mon, Franco, let’s see the hands.”
Franco withdrew the empty syringe from his neck, tossed it to the ground.
“Hands where I can see them, now!”
Franco placed his hands behind his head and slowly turned.
“Officer Karolyi, you sure you want to do this?”
Sam fingered the trigger of her gun, the barrel aimed straight at Franco’s head. She glanced at the body of the woman he had killed just a few feet away.
“It’s Detective Karolyi, you asshole! Now shut up and keep your hands where I can see them, or I’ll do something I should have done a long time ago.”
She reached into her pocket with her left hand, searching for something. Dammit, where are those cuffs? She looked away from Franco, only for a second.
It was enough. Franco smirked and lunged toward Sam. He moved fast, almost inhumanly fast, and Sam barely caught the flash of the blade before it sliced across her neck. Sam reached up quickly to her throat, covering the wound with her hand as she fell backward onto the ground. She prepared for what may be coming; rape, death... but nothing happened. Sam sat up, looked around for Franco.
He was maybe twenty-five feet away, bent over double holding his stomach and evidently in pain. Sam looked down at her gun. Did the gun fire? I didn’t hear the gun fire.
She carefully removed her hand from her throat, half expecting a rush of blood, but there was little on her hand. The slash wasn’t deep, barely scratching the surface of the skin – just enough to scar. Great. Sam got to her feet, turned to look for Franco. Shit, where’d he go?
Sam checked her gun and started forward toward the spot where she’d last seen him. As she got closer, a strange sound grew louder. Sam strained to hear. It kind of sounded like a dog, an injured dog or something. Sam hoped that it wasn’t the dog that had attacked Ivan. Part of her wanted to kill it on sight, but if it was wounded...
Then she saw him.
Franco huddled on the ground, rolling back and forth, his hands clawing at his stomach. The whimpering sound had gotten louder and turned into a steady groaning. He turned toward Sam, the expression on his face a mixture of pain, rage... and a chilling fear.
“Please...,” Franco reached out toward her with one hand, his arm outstretched in appeal, “Kill me... ple -” His words were cut short, dissolving into a dark, intense, bone-chilling, hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck howl!
Franco’s body contorted, arching violently. His muscles seemed to be fluid, moving under his skin in a sinuous rhythm for several seconds before suddenly pulling taut. Then it truly began; bones cracking, muscles ripping, tendons snapping. Franco let out another howl, tinged by what seemed to be the last remnant of his humanity tortured by the transformation. Suddenly, he went still.
Silence.
Sam watched the still form for a moment, her gun still at the ready. Slowly, she moved closer until she was steps from the body. “Franco?”
Sam lifted her foot, nudged at the body, first gently, then harder. Nothing. “Well, might as well call it in.” She reached into her pocket for her phone...
Suddenly, a huge howl punctured the silence and a very-much-still-alive Franco whirled around. The movement knocked both the phone and the gun out of Sam’s hands, sending them flying in separate directions. Franco swung his arm at Sam, catching her in the back. Her coat and shirt ripped beneath his fingers and Sam yelped in pain as Franco’s fingernails scratched her back. Sam scrambled along the ground, struggling to get to her gun a few feet away.
Franco followed, grabbing Sam and holding her down, her head resting on the ground. He ran a finger along the side of her face, down her neck, back and forth down her back. “You know, I used to think about this back then... having you in this exact position.”
Sam winced as he ran his finger along the scratch marks on her back. He raised a blood-tinged finger to his lips and tasted it, then promptly leaned forward and licked Sam’s back, long passes almost like a big cat. Sam struggled to get away, straining as she reached for her gun just inches out of reach.
Franco suddenly reared back and let out a howl. With his weight off her, Sam was able to scramble free. She grabbed her gun and whirled around, ready to shoot.
Franco’s face began to change. The skull and jaw cracked and began to widen; it moved forward, becoming narrower and lupine. His eyes grew wide, darkening to a complete flat black, like the eyes of a shark. No feeling, no understanding, no soul. Hair began to spout in clumps anywhere visible on his body, giving him a mangy appearance.
Franco’s gaze came back to Sam and his lips turned up in an ugly, disturbing sort of smile. Sam fired her gun – and it jammed. Franco lunged and then suddenly was flying backward and away from her, landing in a heap several yards away.
Sam turned to see what had propelled him... it... away, and came face-to-face with the Hooded Man. Well, more face-to-chest, since the man was easily six feet tall. The hood of his dark sweatshirt hung low on his forehead, obscuring the upper half of his face. The lower half featured a strong jawline, now clenched, with a heavy shadow of dark stubble and a mouth with lips pressed firmly together. She inhaled briefly, smelling fresh, clean air, a hint of mint, maybe... he smelled good.
Sam watched as he reached under his coat, a worn black leather duster and pulled out two Heckler & Koch USP Match 9 millimeters. He pushed one into her empty hands, then turned and aimed the other at Franco, fired – and missed.
Franco dropped into a crouched position, squatting like a large cat ready to pounce.
Sam quickly checked the gun in her hand. The magazine was fully loaded with hollow point bullets. There was something inside of them, a silver liquid sort of something.
The Hooded Man aimed and shot again, this time hitting Franco in the shoulder. Franco yelped, backing up a few feet. He looked back and forth between the Hooded Man and Sam.
Sam snapped the magazine back in and pulled the slide to load a bullet into the chamber.
Fran
co smiled and lunged for Sam.
Sam pulled the gun up quickly, aiming for the head. She fired, hitting Franco in the face just below his right eye. Franco let out a howl and fell to the ground. His body began to convulse.
“Nice shot.”
The Hooded Man’s voice was surprising: rich yet with a touch of softness to the timbre. Sam watched him walk to Franco’s body. The Hooded Man crouched for a moment, looked steadily at the body.
“I’ll call... for help.” Geez, is that my voice?
The Hooded Man didn’t respond, and Sam started to wonder if he’d even heard her. Sam reached into her pocket for... the phone. The phone that got tossed. Shit!
“There’s only one way to help him now.” The Hooded Man stood up, raised his weapon and aimed it at Franco’s abdomen. He fired, the bullet blasting into his body just below the sternum.
Sam quickly raised up the gun and trained it on him. “Put the gun down!”
The Hooded Man glanced toward her briefly but seemed untroubled by her clipped order. Franco whimpered a final time and was still.
“Any minute now.”
Sam kept the gun aimed as she looked at Franco’s body. The skin color had changed, taking on a silvery sheen. Sam closed her eyes, opened them. The body seemed to be moving, a subtle gelatin-like shudder. Beads of the silvery sheen rolled off the body like sweat, soaking into the ground below.
He’s... it’s melting. The fuckin’ body is melting! Sam backed away and leaned against a nearby tree, the gun lowered at her side.
The Hooded Man continued to watch the body until nothing remained but a darkened patch where the body had been. He holstered his weapon and pushed back the sweatshirt hood. He ran a hand through his wavy black hair, causing longish pieces on the top of his head to stand at odd angles. He looked to be in his early thirties, but a kind of dark maturity gave him an air of timelessness. His eyes were dark, a rich coffee brown that verged on black, with heavy black eyebrows rising above them. She’d been a little over-generous in her height estimation; with the hood back, he was tall, but his wiry build gave him an illusion of greater height.
He watched Sam for a moment before he stepped away from the melting site and joined her by the tree.
“You all right?”
Sam was silent, staring at the spot where Franco, or whatever he had become, had melted away.
The Hooded Man watched her a moment more, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of soft white cloth. He reached over, dabbing at the blood that had trickled down her neck from the cut Franco had made. He dabbed once, twice; as he reached to dab a third time, Sam shivered slightly, grabbed his hand.
She watched his face relax a bit as he released the cloth into her hand. “That was a little close, wasn’t it?” His voice had a bit of an accent, maybe Irish or something. That wasn’t going to help her concentration.
Sam blotted at her neck, glared at the handsome man in front of her. “Close, yeah, thanks. What was that?”
The Hooded Man glanced at the melting scene then looked back at Sam. “Some poor bastard infected with LV.”
Sam stopped blotting. “LV?”
“Lycanthropic Virus.”
Sam gave him a blank look. “I’m sorry, I left my medical encyclopedia in my other coat. What does that mean exactly?”
“A virus which causes Lycanthropy.”
“Lycanthropy, I see.” Sam moved away from the tree and began to make big circles as she scanned the ground searching for her phone. She stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute. Is that, like, werewolves?”
“Like, yeah. What are you looking for?”
“My phone,” she groaned, resuming her search. “Werewolves, huh? Not to antagonize the crazy person or anything, but when was the last time you had a CAT scan?”
“Six months ago.”
Her phone appeared in front of her face. Sam looked up at the Hooded Man, took the phone from him. He raised his other hand; Sam’s Lorcin pistol hung before her eyes.
Sam hesitated a second, then took her gun, tossing him a small smile in thanks. “Uh-huh, well, you need another one.”
She started walking away from the scene and toward the low-level noise and movement of Broadway. The Hooded Man followed her.
“You know, after what just happened, after what you just saw, I would think you’d be more open-minded than this.”
“I’m a New Yorker, I was born open-minded.” Sam picked up her pace, keeping it steady and brisk as she reached Broadway and started up the street.
“So, what happened to Sick Boy?”
“Who?”
“The kid who robbed the store, who was hit by the bus.”
Sam stopped suddenly. The Hooded Man had walked on a few steps before he noticed that she had stopped. He backtracked to stand in front of her.
Sam looked at him warily, her hand near the gun in her pocket. “You. You were there, by the vendor. The man in black. Who are you?”
“Vincent Kremer, at your service.” He bowed slightly at the waist, adding a flourish with his right hand, then smiled.
He has a nice smile, nice everything actually... oh, what the hell, Sam? You’re just one big hormone anymore... Shook her head, banishing the thoughts away and focusing in again on Vincent where he stood on the sidewalk. She frowned. “Why were you there? Were you following that kid? Oh, wait, let me guess... He was a werewolf.”
Vincent grinned. “You’re catching on.”
“Good Lord.” Sam rolled her eyes and marched past him, continuing up Broadway. Vincent hurried to catch up to her, talking all the way.
“Jekyll and Hyde. The beast within realized. The virus enables the physical transformation; drugs eliminate the ability to control it. Result - a short, violent life spent preying upon the homeless, the sick, the weak, spreading the evil as they go. A physical manifestation of everything dark that lurks within.” He paused, seemingly for breath, as they neared St. Paul’s and Vesey Street. “You know that bastard back there had been running around for two days? Gutted a junkie in the Bowery the other night.”
Sam stopped; her gaze fixed on the sidewalk ahead of her. “The Bowery, huh? Now that’s funny.”
Vincent frowned, puzzled, “Why would that be funny?”
Sam looked up at him, a matching frown on her own face. “Because someone was spotted leaving the scene that night. A man like a shadow.” She paused, letting it sink in, looking him up and down. “A man in black.”
“Oh.” Vincent looked down at his clothing. “I suppose my wardrobe is a bit incriminating, then.”
Sam nodded, started walking again. “A bit. Now, I’m torn between hauling your ass in on murder charges, or my personal favorite, me walking this way and you not following me. So -”
She turned to look back at him, but Vincent was gone. What the hell? C’mon with the disappearing people!
Sam noticed something laying on the ground behind her. It was just about in the spot where Vincent would have been standing if he hadn’t high tailed it out of there. Sam wondered what did it, the threat to haul him in or that she encouraged him to go away?
Sam bent to pick up the small piece of folded cardboard. A matchbook, plain and white, half the matches gone. She opened it and despite her tiredness, the aches and pains setting in already from the altercation with Franco-thing, the fear and anger and loneliness she felt right now with Ivan locked away in the hospital... Despite all of that, she smiled.
Written on the inside of the matchbook cover were the initials VK and his cell number.
6
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF Medical Examiner of New York (OCME)
It always amazed Sam how places of healing and places of death were so similar. Same cold, same sterile metals and nauseating tiling. The smell... Ugh. Sam swallowed hard, pushed the door open.
“Hello? Ben? Hello? Anybody home?”
Of course not, you’re all dead.
Sam felt on the wall beside her, found the light switch. The sickly green
cast of the overhead lights only served to intensify her nausea. What the hell is up with my stomach, anyway? She knew one thing it wasn’t... Haven’t had sex in months... Okay, why are we thinking about sex again?
A thud echoed from the back room. Sam sighed, walked toward the sound, and pushed aside the heavy plastic strips that formed the divider between the main room and the autopsy and storage rooms. She looked around. The room was empty, the three autopsy tables along the wall cleaned and cleared of any trace of who may have been there that day. Water still pooled beneath the tables, flowing towards the drains located on either end of the floor. She turned toward the wall of metal drawers, the hair on the back of her neck sticking up. It felt like someone was watching.
Sam walked over to the wall, looking up one row and down the next, noting the index cards slid into the front that indicated an occupant.
Benny always called these “The Coolers.” Guess it sounded better than “the drawers where the dead people are.” And she guessed they were cold.
A drawer was ajar. Sam reached out for the handle. Suddenly, the drawer slid open and a figure sat up straight. Sam screamed, and the figure promptly removed the hockey goalie mask he was wearing, revealing an attractive baby-face that was, at the moment, hysterical with laughter.
Sam grabbed the mask away from him, struggling not to laugh herself. “You jerk-off! What are you, crazy? You know I carry a gun!”
Benjamin Franklin Lewis, known to any and all as “Ben,” climbed out of the drawer, a rueful look on his face. “Sorry. Forgot.” He closed the door behind him, turned back to Sam. “Hey, did that mask fuck-up my eyes?”
He leaned in toward Sam, putting his expressive face a few inches from her own. Sam surveyed the face of her childhood friend – the barely-there hint of potential beard growth; the mop of dyed black hair; the sensitive mouth and puppy-dog brown eyes ringed in dark eyeliner.
The Bloodline Series Box Set Page 5