by J. R. Rain
Fortunately, I’m not wearing heels.
And I’m already late. Gotta do this.
Fists clenched, I sprint out from the cover of the parking garage, dart across the road, fly up a flight of stairs, and leap through the doors of the federal courthouse building. By the time I’m inside, I feel like an extra-rare steak. Once I’m in the shade, I stop, standing motionless in shock, barely suppressing the urge to whimper and whine at how much that hurt.
“Hey, miss,” says a man in a U.S. Marshal’s uniform. “There’s no smoking in the courthouse.”
I look down at myself. A haze of smoke surrounds me, seeping out of my pantsuit blazer and shirt. Waves of pain ripple over my arms and legs, fading away as my hunger grows. He couldn’t possibly be referring to what really happened, but I get annoyed nonetheless. Out of nowhere, I picture myself thrusting my arm into his chest, tearing out his heart, and devouring it. The imagery stuns me blank-faced. “Right, sorry.” I pretend to put out an imaginary cigarette.
The marshal nods, satisfied. Little does he know what went through my mind.
Jesus.
A weak whisper filters out from the shadows of my mind. You are foolish, Sssamantha. Dancing in the sunlight? Mingling with mortals. You are damaging yourself, forcing your body to mend, and starving yourself of what you know you need most. Ssstop denying what you have become… and feed.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, eyes closed. I am not schizophrenic. I am not hearing voices.
Deep in the recesses of my mind, the raspy feminine whisper emits a condescending laugh and goes quiet once again.
Confused, in pain, and, yes, hungry as hell, I head over to the security desk, show my ID and check my gun in before continuing down a hall, deeper into the building toward the elevators.
The walls inside are mirrors from the midpoint up, so after hitting the button for the third floor, I tuck all the way in back and keep my head down. A pair of tall men in gray suits get in on the second floor, standing in front of me. I try my best to ignore them until one sniffs at the air.
“Smells like someone’s grilling burgers.”
His friend sniffs around. “Yeah. Damn, now I’m hungry.”
Grr. Wonderful. My clothes have soaked up the fragrance of broiled Sam.
I push past them when the doors open on the third floor, and make my way down the hall to the courtroom mentioned on my subpoena. The grand jury is seated already, and the prosecutor is questioning the bottle-blonde Marissa, Marty Brauerman’s former receptionist.
Chad’s in a bank of seats off to the right where a few spectators and some other people who are probably here to testify wait their turn. One middle-aged woman, who’s in tears, has got to be Marissa’s mother. I hurry around the outer wall and take a seat by Chad while the young woman tearfully explains how she had no clue that Marty was running a scam.
“Close one, Sam. You’re next,” whispers Chad.
I nod. “Sorry.”
Hunger and fatigue get into a fistfight inside me. In what feels like a second, Chad is shaking me awake.
“You’re on, Sam,” he whispers.
I look up to find the prosecutor, a fiftyish man in a dark suit with short black hair, and the judge, an older Latina, both staring expectantly at me. Oh, great. Fell asleep in court. That looks wonderful.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and make my way over to the witness chair.
A clerk approaches with a Bible. I half expect it to burn my hand, but it doesn’t. She swears me in and walks away.
“Please state your name and title for the record,” says the prosecutor.
“Samantha Moon. I’m an agent with the Federal Department of Housing and Urban Development.”
He nods, glances at the grand jury pool, and faces me again. “Would you please explain to the court your involvement in the investigation of Mr. Martin Brauerman?”
I’ve testified to grand juries as well as trial juries before, but never while feeling like I’ve gone two weeks without sleeping. Within a minute of me starting, I refer to Brauerman as Kondapalli, the fake name he’d used on his VOIP account.
“Umm. Sorry, I mean Brauerman…” I take a deep breath, trying to wake up, and continue explaining about the ‘Call Marty’ business cards, the raid on the one property, Rosa (who, by the way, is still in the hospital recuperating from her gunshot, but expected to recover). My grogginess thickens, so I slow down and think every sentence over before speaking. Right around the time I get to explaining my going undercover as Lorelei Duke, the prosecutor raises a hand to stop me.
“I’m sorry, Agent Moon. Are you feeling unwell?”
The grand jurors are whispering amongst themselves and giving me odd looks.
I glance at the judge, feeling helpless and confused for a second. She’s got an eyebrow up. When I look back at the prosecutor, he folds his hands in front of himself, clasping a leather-bound notepad. “Is something wrong?” I ask.
The prosecutor smiles. “You’ve just strayed off topic, Agent Moon. The past few minutes, you’ve been explaining to the court how much your daughter Tammy loves finger-painting.”
My face burns with shame. “Umm. I’m sorry. I had a medical issue a few weeks ago. I was attacked and nearly killed in the park at night, and I’ve been having some problems sleeping.”
His eyebrows go up. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need a moment?”
The judge’s expression shifts from bewildered to sympathetic.
“Thank you. I’m okay.” I adjust my sleeves, sit up straight, and look the prosecutor in the eye. “Where did I leave off?”
“You were telling us about the skimming.”
“Oh, yes. My investigation of the financial records of several HUD recipients showed that they were making payments to MBM, Inc. in excess of their monthly mortgage amounts. This excess varied from $150 to $300 in one case. Our investigation led us to determine that Mr. Brauerman had deceived these people into believing they were renting, and he pocketed the difference in the payments.”
The prosecutor nods. “Did you bring any documentation for this?”
My jaw opens.
Chad stands and waves a bunch of papers.
“My partner, Chad Helling, has the documentation.” I gesture at him while giving him a Thank you for saving my ass stare.
The prosecutor collects the printouts, gives them a look-over, and hands one to the judge. At a nod from her, the papers make their rounds among the jurors. I nearly drift off while sitting there in the silent courtroom listening to the soporific rustle of papers, but manage to keep myself from blacking out.
When the jury is done reading over the financial notes, I run them through an explanation of our sting operation that included me going undercover.
“I’m sorry, what?” asks the prosecutor.
I blink at him.
“Agent Moon, I’m not sure you understood the question. I was asking you what Mr. Brauerman quoted you as your ‘rent payment,’ but you responded with… ‘spaghetti sauce.’”
Oh damn… I really am out of it. “I’m sorry. It was $550. Mr. Brauerman quoted me a rent payment of $550 a month. When the paperwork came through HUD, we saw the property mortgage at $880 per month, of which the assistance program would’ve covered $600. Lorelei’s mortgage responsibility should have been $280 per month, not $550.”
“I see. Thank you. What, if any, determination did you make as to why none of the victims came forward?”
Chad holds up a tape cassette and wags it back and forth.
“Mr. Brauerman preyed on immigrants and the poor, people who had an innate distrust or fear of government. He convinced them that his ‘special discount’ was legal, but the government would do whatever they could to shut it down. If you review the recording from my undercover investigation, you’ll hear him making the same claims to me.”
The prosecutor collects the tape from Chad, and hands over to a U.S. Marshal who pops it in a machine. I’m pretty sure I pass out
at least twice during the half-hour long recording, but no one seems to notice. I hope.
A few questions from the jurors keep me on the stand a little longer. One wanted to know what made me suspect the defendant in the first place. I explain that I initially thought the ‘Marty’ on those business cards had drug involvement given the raid on the one property, but when we started finding them at multiple HUD properties that had nothing to do with narcotics trafficking, I got suspicious. Mostly because the residents acted evasive when I asked about them.
That done, I’m excused from the stand. I wobble back over to the seating gallery and fall into the chair next to Chad. He pats my shoulder.
“Could’ve been smoother, but you did good. Well, good enough.”
For now, I’ll take good enough. I chuckle to myself. Wow, I feel like a train ran me over. And I’m so damn hungry.
“Did I really say spaghetti sauce?”
“You did.”
The prosecutor calls Chad up. As his testimony begins to sound like a duplication of mine―though spoken in a much faster, more coherent voice―I fade out again. Chad prods me awake in what feels like a split second.
“Hey, Sam. We’re done. Meet you back at the office?”
I fidget. “I think I might take the rest of the day off… would you mind telling Nico I feel like death and can’t focus?”
“Yeah, sure, Sam. You should go get checked out.”
“Starting to sound more and more like you’re right.” I stand, holding onto the barrier at the front of the seating box to keep my balance. “If Nico really wants me to come in, just call me and I’ll be there.”
Chad pats me on the shoulder. “You look pretty rough, Sam. I’ll vouch that you’re sick.”
“Thanks.” I give him a halfhearted chuckle.
He walks me out to the front lobby, where we retrieve our sidearms from the security desk. Since his car is in the attached parking deck and mine’s across the street, we split up. I head out the front door while he veers off down a corridor inside, safe from the damn sun.
Grr.
Nothing for it but to run like hell.
The pain wakes me right up as soon as I run into the light. I dash across the street so fast it doesn’t feel possible, and skid to a stop as soon as I’m in the shade again.
“Ow. Ow. Ow.” I hold my arms up from my sides, shivering on my feet until the agony stops a few seconds later. “Oh, this is really getting annoying now. How am I supposed to function if it hurts to go outside?”
With the absence of solar fire, Morpheus’ dreamy embrace returns. Falling right where I am and going to sleep doesn’t sound like a bad idea, except for knowing I’d get run over since I’m on the entrance ramp of a parking garage. Plus, if I spend another hour here, that’s an extra $18, even if the government is paying it.
While staggering down the row toward the car, a man pounces on me from behind. I’m so out of it, I flop like a ragdoll in his arms as he drags me between a pair of SUVs and throws me to the ground. The edge of a knife presses against my neck soon after his weight lands on top of me.
“Scream and you’re dead,” rasps the man.
He reaches around in front of me and fumbles at my belt, trying to get my pants off. It takes a moment for the idea that he means to rape me to drill through the cement shell of delirium around my brain. As soon as he starts pulling my pants down, the full realization of what’s happening finally registers.
Pure anger explodes inside me.
I shove at the cement, hurling us both upright while emitting an inhumanly deep growl. A nip of steel at my throat annoys me more than hurts. In a fluid move, I spin to the right, grab him, and hurl him head-first at a column fifteen feet away.
The man flies like a missile, crashing into the concrete. With a crunch, a spray of crimson paints the grey stone, and he falls limp and unconscious at the base. Cool air on my bare legs reminds me my pants are around my ankles. Not taking my eyes off the limp figure in a navy wool coat, I stoop and pull them up, re-securing my belt. My attention crawls upward, onto the gleaming red stain.
Hunger rises to a raging boil.
A too-familiar ache spreads across my face, into my jaw. It’s much worse this time, painful enough to make me gasp. Something sharp pokes me in the tongue. I can’t stop staring at the blood dripping down the cement column.
It’s so… so… beautiful.
Chapter Seventeen
In Sickness and in Health
I awake on my sofa at home.
It’s dark out. Tammy’s curled up on top of my chest, possibly napping, possibly staring sideways at the television. The scent of spaghetti sauce hangs in the air. Sloshing and plate-clattering emanates from the kitchen. Plastic clicks come from my left at the floor level, along with Anthony making voices for his toys.
The last thing I remember is staring at the creep who jumped me in the parking garage. Dark pants, dark-blue wool long-coat, wool cap. He looked like high-end homeless or low-end scumbag. A faint hint of beer lingers in my mouth, but I don’t remember drinking anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure if I attempted to drink beer, it wouldn’t stay down long.
I reach up with one arm and stroke Tammy’s hair.
She stirs and peers up at me. “Hi, Mommy! Daddy said you were sick again, so you had to sleep. That’s why you didn’t get us from Aunt Mary Lou’s.”
“Long day, sweetie. I feel much better now.” I do actually… I’m not even hungry anymore. At the memory of the two sharp points poking me in the tongue, my eyes shoot open.
“Daddy made sketti. He said you already had dinner.”
Oh, no! Was that an excuse or does Danny know something I don’t? Did I… eat that guy in the parking garage? I feel around my mouth with my tongue, but none of my teeth are, well, long. My canines do feel a little sharper than they ought to be, but they’re certainly not, like, fangs.
Jesus, the words coming out of my mind… utter nonsense.
“All right, you two… it’s time,” says Danny. He swoops around the end of the couch and plucks Anthony from the floor, swinging him into the air like a tiny Superman. “Time to fly off to bed, little man.”
Anthony waves his arms and cheers.
I stand, cradling Tammy, and carry her down the hall behind Danny. Everything feels awkwardly normal as we put the kids to bed. Not until both bedroom lights are out and the doors pulled shut, does Danny give me the ‘okay, what happened?’ stare.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“No ‘sorry.’” He grasps my arms. “I’m worried about you, Sam. What happened? You don’t have to apologize.”
I bite my lip. “Things are getting weird. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner.”
“Telling me what?” Danny lifts my chin with one finger, forcing eye contact. “Did something happen?”
Possibly, I want to say. Maybe I did to that rapist what some mysterious creature had done to me a few weeks ago. Or, I might’ve just left him there, injured and bleeding. I can’t remember what happened, but I know I’m not hungry anymore. I feel better than I have in days. Alert, strong… I can even feel Danny’s worry radiating.
“I’m not sure,” I finally say. “I… I might’ve hurt someone, but… there’s something else.”
“Hurt someone?” asks Danny. “What something else?”
I pull him into the bathroom and explain as much as I can remember of being grabbed, thrown to the ground, and assaulted. He goes from concerned to livid in an instant.
“What? Someone attacked you again?” He looks me over like a worried parent checking for scratches. “At a goddamn courthouse?”
“I’m fine, Danny. He didn’t do anything but unbuckle my belt. I threw him off. I don’t remember what happened after that. Not really. What I do remember makes no sense.”
He folds his arms. “All right…”
“I think I have fangs.”
“You’re right. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Danny.” I t
ug him closer and take a step back so we’re both in front of the mirror. “I’m sorry for not telling you this right away, but something is really messed up with me.”
“You’re not sleeping, the blood… yeah. You’re right.” He puts a hand on my cheek, flinches and removes it again. My cold, cold cheek. “We’ll get to the bottom of it somehow. Whatever it takes, we’ll fix it.”
Tears brimming in my eyes, I pluck a washcloth from the towel rack and wet it. “Look at the mirror.”
He stares at the hollows of my eyes in the reflection, a little color draining from his cheeks. My painted visage disappears as I wash away the foundation makeup. Soon, I’m an empty blouse.
“I don’t have a reflection anymore.” I drop the cloth in the sink.
“Uhh…” he says. Whatever word he was about to form dissolves into nothing.
Danny looks from me to the mirror, then back at me. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. He tries one more time, but gives up. I know the feeling. He leans in close to the mirror, his breath fogging it. He taps the glass. He looks at the rag in the sink. Picks it up, rubs some of the makeup between his thumb and finger. He smells the rag for reasons unknown to me. My hubby is analytical and clever. He’s also stumped, and he hates that. I know that much about him. My husband the attorney would make a clever investigator. He opens the glass cupboard, looks at both sides. Taps both sides. He asks me to lean close to the mirror and I do so, right along with him. I can’t help but note that there are twin barrels of dogged breath on the glass before him. My reflection, not so much.
“A trick?” he asks.
“No trick,” I say.
“Am I asleep?”
“Maybe,” I say, and pinch his arm, harder than I’d intended.
“Okay, not asleep. And ouch.”
He goes through the motions again, this time really studying me. He touches the skin of my face carefully, running a hand over my cheeks and chin. In the mirror, his hand makes a Samantha-Moon-shaped caress over empty air.
“How am I able to see the wall behind you?”