Beneath a Blood Red Moon

by Heather Graham

Page 52

 

  “Montgomery Enterprises. ”

  “Ah . . . and could this be Ms. Montgomery herself?”

  Maggie felt her skin crawl.

  “Aaron. Damn you. ”

  “Honey, we are already among the damned. ”

  “What do you want, Aaron?”

  “Blood, murder, mayhem—the usual. ”

  “You’ve managed that, Aaron. Why are you calling, what do you want from me?”

  “Why, my dear, that’s just it. You’re what I really want. ”

  “Really? How interesting, Aaron. We despise each other. ”

  “Oh, no, Maggie. You’re under the mistaken impression that you don’t like me. You’re a nasty, self-righteous little bitch, but a darned good-looking one. And a challenge, you know. I want you under my power, Maggie. You’ve owed me for a long time. And who knows? I might be adoringly obsessive enough to be good to you . . . after proper punishment for all you’ve done to me, of course. But hell, Maggie, maybe I do just want you. ”

  “If you were to have me, you’d stop all these killing sprees?” His laughter was husky, and seemed to cut deep to the bone. “Not on your life. I’d teach you how to live. I’d teach you to have the power I have, because I’m not afraid to be what I am. A predator, my love. A bloodsucking creature of the night, if you would. You’d revel in life. ”

  “Were you ever human, Aaron?”

  “Interesting question. In truth, I was, I certainly was. And this is my territory, honey, more so than it is yours!” he said, a note of anger in his voice.

  “And were you a killer when you were human, Aaron?”

  “Ahh, another interesting question! Are we killers when we feed on cattle? No, we are simply higher animals, a greater intelligence, cattle are there to serve our needs. Rumor has it that you’ve always been especially fond of them. My dear, I have always been stronger, more intelligent. I’ve always loved a good game. I am the highest on the scale of creation; those I’ve killed have been my cattle, at all times.

  Human beings are so stupid, you must agree. They just don’t believe. They see themselves as higher creatures, too intelligent to realize that there might be more beyond what the eye can see! Even when tales are told again and again, when the truth all but slaps them in the face, they are just so blind. Poor Sean, I’m out to get him, you know. Another Canady. And he’ll be easy prey, because he doesn’t believe. Just like always. They’re too damned bright to believe—until the moment death closes their eyes for good. ”

  Maggie twisted the phone wire tightly in her hands. “Leave the Canadys be, Aaron. I’ll come to you.

  Where? When?”

  “Oh, Maggie! No way. I’ll come to you, when you least suspect it. Maybe we’ll talk again. Maybe I’ll give you a few chances. ”

  “Aaron, if you hurt Sean, I’ll kill you. I mean it. ”

  “Maggie, my love, I’ve gotten stronger. A lot stronger. Maybe I won’t let you kill me. There is that big chance that you can’t kill me. Maybe I’ll just see to it that you do exist . . . forever and forever, just to entertain me!”

  “Aaron, whatever—”

  “Good-bye, Maggie, my love. ”

  “Aaron—”

  “Remember back, Maggie? Five little whores . . . that’s the way they counted it, anyway. If they’d only known. Oh, well, over the centuries, not even I could keep count. But what happened after the first two, Maggie?”

  “Everywhere you‘ve gone there has been deception, trickery, and death, Aaron. ”

  “Nature of the beast, and I will teach you that, in time. You’ve denied yourself too long, Maggie. I know you feel the hunger. One day . . . but I get ahead of myself. What happens after the first two, Maggie?”

  “First two? You’re already responsible for at least five deaths. ”

  “I had nothing to do with Rutger Leon. But that doesn’t matter. The pimp didn’t matter; the others didn’t matter. Two little whores, Maggie. It should have been three. That Callie bitch. But she’s gone and I haven’t the interest in tracking her down. Maybe later. Maybe we’ll find her together. ” She told him what he could do with himself. He laughed.

  “A threesome, Maggie. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Damn you, what comes next?”

  “Aaron—”

  “A double hitter, Maggie. Two little whores in the same night. Remember?”

  “The cops are combing the city for you, Aaron. And you’re not indestructible—”

  “Cops die, too. I definitely plan to kill another Canady. Another Sean Canady. We don’t want that bastard riding along into immortality with us, do we now? Double hitter, Maggie. Two little whores.

  Watch me. Watch me, watch me . . . ”

  “Aaron—”

  The phone line went dead.

  Pierre and Sean stood back, staring at the gurneys that held the corpses—Jane Doe and Bessie Girou, their sad lives cut short. Anthony Beale. He’d dealt in human flesh. Did that mean he’d deserved to die such a death? Then there were Rutger and Ray.

  “Well?” Pierre asked.

  “I’m looking for more puncture marks. ”

  Pierre hesitated. Sean felt the man watching him.

  “Puncture marks?”

  “Like we found before, Pierre, on Beale,” Sean said.

  Pierre nodded. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “But, Sean, I don’t get—”

  “I believe our madman might think himself a vampire, all right?”

  “Yeah, sure, all right,” Pierre said.

  “Okay, we know that Beale has ‘em—I’ll take a look at Rutger, you get Ray. Then—”

  “I’ll take Bessie, and you can look at our Jane Doe. ” Sean stared at him. “Jane Doe was never in water.

  Bessie was. I probably know what I’m doing a little better, huh?” Sean nodded. He stepped forward. The morgue seemed so damned quiet. He’d meant to get over first thing, right after he’d talked with Jack, but Chief Daniels had wanted a report, then he’d listened to a missing persons report on a promiscuous teen who had turned up several hours later. Now, it was dusk.

  There was a night crew at the morgue, but it was skeletal. Most of the staff had gone home. Not too many people to witness his hunt for puncture marks.

  Four corpses, heads not attached, yet there, just a distance away. Death. Sean saw it frequently enough.

  As people were so fond of saying with a simple shrug, it was New Orleans. Blending pot. A place with magic, and a place with violence brought on by the blending through the centuries. Clashes of culture, of religion . . . of the preternatural?

  He concentrated on the corpses. What had been human flesh. His heart surged with pity. What was so cold had once meant life. But there, yes . . . above the cut. . .

  Puncture holes. Two of them.

  He suddenly felt as if he were on a stage set. As if he stepped back, and the room grew bigger. Yes, this was it, the moment. . . from the corner of his eye he thought he saw mist filtering into the room from the doors, closed since he and Pierre had come to view the five corpses set up for their examination. He needed sleep. Mist rising, the way mist rose from the Mississippi when the temperature cooled and the day drifted to night . . .

  Not mist. Someone was with them. He spun around. Gave himself a shake. One of Pierre’s assistants had joined them; a man stood next to and slightly behind Pierre. The fellow was young—a student?—and wearing a lab coat over ebony jeans. Sean hadn’t heard the doors open. Pierre hadn’t even noticed the man yet. “We didn’t ask for help,” Sean said.

  Pierre looked up, studied the newcomer, frowned. “Yes, I’m sorry, what is this interruption? We didn’t call for any assistance. Who are you, young man, and who—” Who or what?

  Sean recognized him at that moment. The black dye was gone from his hair. He was tall, light, with sharp, striking features and a slow smile that was purely vicious.

  “Shut
up, old man!” he told Pierre, and with a single backhanded blow, he sent Pierre flying across the room, crashing into a wall of morgue drawers. Two flew open with the impact. A slender, fair-skinned hand fell from a sheeted corpse, and rested lightly upon Pierre’s head as he slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  “If you’ve killed him—”

  “He isn’t dead. I don’t like dead meat. Cold blood is like a good wine gone sour. But that’s for later.

  Look at you, Lieutenant Canady! This is just like déjà vu,” the man said. He wasn’t even breathing hard from the blow he had dealt Pierre. He crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head as he studied Sean. “Sean Canady. Here we are together at last in an intimate moment. Aaron Carter, sir, at your service, just in case you weren’t aware that I was back. I’ve been called various things throughout the years, of course. Jack the Ripper, the Axeman, the Grim Reaper. La Morte. That was in Paris. Great city, Paris. The French are so emotional. Such sweet, hot blood they provide. That’s one of the reasons I always loved New Orleans! Why, we are just full of the hot-blooded here, don’t you agree? Sweet little things like Bessie. Satan’s spawns, like old Ray over there. Those torn between the darkness and the light, like our irresistible dear Maggie. But I intend to let her see the light—or the dark, as it may be. Ah!

  Then we have the great would-be heroes—like you, Canady. Hell, I killed you once, my friend. You should have stayed dead. ”

  Sean studied Carter as he spoke. Was he a centuries-old vampire? Or was he simply an incredibly strong man, made more so by some drugs either craved or taken to combat his form of insanity.

  One way or the other, he was a killer.

  “Welcome to the morgue,” Sean said. “You should take care. You might just find that you stay here longer than you anticipated. ”

  Carter laughed. “Nice touch of bravado. Well, you boys were always full of yourselves. The South shall rise again! And all that rot! No, I don’t think so. I like the dramatic. I wanted Maggie to see you die again, to realize what you are, and what she is . . . but then, when I followed you to the morgue, I simply couldn’t resist the temptation of slicing you up right on the autopsy table!” Could this man really be an immortal, blood-sucking aberration? Sean was about to find out. He slipped his hand beneath his lab coat, drawing his . 38 special.