by J. R. Rain
However… what if the next time I lose it, someone innocent suffers? Reasonable certainty that the dark thing that’s moved into my soul understands what I will do if it hurts my children or Danny, so I’ve got somewhat of a sense of security that I won’t attack them. Do I have to kill to feed? Perhaps not as evidenced by my three victims. Two survived, I think. Dale was already dead to Chad’s shot before I touched him, and I still have no clue about the rapist in the garage. I’m hesitant to look him up. I’m not eager to see if he was, in fact, found dead. That, plus, if someone notices me looking into that situation, it could trigger some awkward questions.
Better not to know, I think.
Well, I have been denying the (however unlikely) truth of my being a vampire and not been consuming blood. Maybe I’m prone to having hunger-induced blackouts if I go too long without a snack? One way to test that. I’ll ask Danny if he can get more beef blood from his butcher client. A week or two of regular blood ‘meals,’ and if I don’t pounce someone like a pregnant lady spotting a tub of dark chocolate Häagen-Dazs after a long, crummy day at the office, I’ll know I’m good.
Or at least under control.
An email comes in with a ping.
Score one for the FBI.
Looks like the older man I photographed is Mitch Gallagher. The FBI’s got a file on him due to his involvement with an anti-government militia group that’s been operating in the area for about fifteen years. They call themselves the Brothers of the Republic. He’s also buddy-buddy with some Klan types. Ugh. His record’s got a bunch of simple assault charges, but the pattern of them is weird. About half occurred in bars frequented by members of the Armed Forces. Never on a base, but always close to one where soldiers hang out. I bet Mitch is going in there looking to recruit like-minded idiots, and every so often, he runs into a real patriot who doesn’t take kindly to wackos.
Anyway, the other incidents are scattered around geographically, and all those victims have one thing in common: they’re not white. Ooh, I really wanna nail this guy if I can. A picture is starting to form in my day-fogged brain. Joey probably fell in with these idiots. He strikes me as the wannabe-cop washout who wound up working security while his repeated attempts to apply for law enforcement failed.
A whim, and a few phone calls later, I get confirmation. Joey’s been applying for the LAPD every time the test comes up. His affiliation with Gallagher’s group, along with pitiful test scores, has been keeping him back. I wonder if he realizes that or not?
The other guy, the one who hit the floor at Joey’s house and didn’t try to shoot us, is Ted Clarke. He’s also a member of Gallagher’s little group. He, too, has a police record. Domestic battery is the most severe charge. There’s a restraining order against him from his ex-wife. I’m happy to read there are no kids involved. He’s also been investigated for making threatening calls to a federal judge who ruled on a land dispute in a case involving Mitch, but they couldn’t prove he’d been the one on the phone.
Wow. I’ve found a little nest of happiness.
Or hornets.
Smashing a hornet’s nest with a stick isn’t usually a wise course of action, but I’m pissed. And, apparently, I can’t die, either. Which makes me the perfect candidate to do all the smashing. And if the smashing occurred at night…
Well then, it could actually be a little fun, too. I am, after all, a different woman at night.
Very, very different.
I spend about a half hour cobbling together as much information as I can from the reports at the house, the FBI files on the two men, and everything I can dig up on the Internet related to Mitch’s group, the ‘Brothers of the Republic.’ Oy.
With my bundle of information, I head down the hall to Nico’s office and knock.
“Come in.”
I enter with as confident an expression as my mind and body are willing to generate at three in the afternoon. Having bones of lead and muscles of rubber is getting old fast. “I think I’ve got something.”
He leans back. “Flu?”
“Ha. Ha. No, I mean something on the Joey Bell case.” I set the papers on his desk, sit in the facing chair, and explain my theory that Joey is working for Gallagher―probably selling arms―and that accounts for the undocumented income.
Nico reads for a moment or three more, then peers at me over the top of the file. “Undocumented income? You’re still chasing that?”
“No… I mean.” I rub my forehead in frustration. “They took Al Capone down on tax evasion, right? The undeclared money is a technicality to get him in custody.”
“Sam… the man shot at you and Helling.”
I cringe. “Technically, the other two did. Joey just ran.”
“He’s still a party to felony attempted murder of two federal agents.” Nico chuckles. “Not declaring his extra cash to HUD isn’t even the cherry on the top of a ‘you’re screwed’ sundae.”
My back stiffens. “But I―”
“I know exactly what you’re doing, Sam.” He gives me the kindly/worried Dad smile. “You’re fishing for an excuse to be personally involved in going after the bastards.”
Dammit. He’s right, but is that a bad thing? “I can’t just sit here crunching numbers while he’s still out there.”
“It’s already ballooned out of our reach, I’m afraid. This is HUD, Sam. Those guys are trading in weapons stolen from a US National Guard armory. I can run a note up the flagpole that we’re offering some extra hands if they need us on a raid, but this is FBI/ATF territory now, Sam. Out of our hands.” He sinks back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the desk.
I feel like the kid who thought she had an awesome science project, but got a D. For a second, I start to feel the nip of depression coming on, but I wind up angry instead.
“Nothing against your investigation, Sam. Solid work.”
My barely-awake brain isn’t prepared for a debate with my boss. If I try it now, he’ll run rings around me and I’ll probably only piss him off to the point of being ordered to stay far away from anything to do with this case. Besides, I’m technically stuck in the office for at least two weeks while they continue to investigate the shooting… and I’ve got a meeting with Dr. Burdine coming up next week. Not sure if I’m looking forward to or dreading my post I-just-shot-two-people fireside chat with a shrink.
I slouch and rub my face. “Thanks… Hey, I’m feeling a little out of it. Maybe you’re right about that flu thing, and about me not thinking clearly over Chad. My queue’s caught up. Think I could head home early today?”
Nico nods. “Yeah, sure. You look like death warmed over.”
Or death chilled. Heh. If he only knew. I don’t know why I find that funny. If I’m dead, I shouldn’t be laughing about that. But I don’t feel dead―if you discount the cold skin, slow heartbeat, and not breathing or peeing thing.
“Thanks. Sorry to bother you with all this crap.” I stand and collect the papers. “Just had to do something for Chad. At least feel like I was trying.”
“Understandable.” Nico leans forward, his expression going concerned. “How are you holding up?”
“All right, I guess about as well as can be expected. Maybe not so all right… I mean, I’m more upset that Chad got hurt than I shot two men.”
He purses his lips, nodding. “Heat of the moment. The reality of it still hasn’t hit you yet.”
Heh. The reality of a lot of things haven’t hit me at the moment, and shooting two guys has nothing on the mess that my life (or lack thereof) has become. Really, the only thing bothering me is the nagging fear that the shitstorm I’ve been swept up in is going to spatter all over my family too. Maybe I am going crazy, since the shootings hardly registered as an event to me. What kind of psychopath has no reaction to almost taking life?
Hi, Sam, you’re a vampire now.
Maybe, just maybe, I am a killer, too.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Unclean
Tugging at my hair wak
es me up.
My eyes creep open to a close-up view of my sofa cushion. I’m face down with the weight of a four-year-old girl kneeling on my back, the scent of mac-and-cheese still in the air. Tammy’s pulling a brush through my hair in reasonably gentle strokes for a kid.
“Come on, sweetie,” says Danny from above and behind me. He emits a soft grunt, and Tammy rises off me. “Mommy’s not feeling well.”
“Why not?”
“Well, she’s got a rare sickness that makes her tired during the day. So, if she’s sleeping, you should try not to wake her up unless it’s important.”
“What’s rare?”
“Means not everybody has it.”
“Oh. But why does she have it?”
Why indeed? I think.
“Sometimes bad things happen to good people,” says Danny, although I am not sure that is a smart thing to say to a four-year-old, but I’m too groggy to protest.
“Mommy’s a good people,” says Tammy.
“Yes, Mommy is good people.” Danny laughs.
I push myself off the cushions and sit up. Dark orange shimmers in the windows from a just-completed sunset. I feel good. Maybe better than I ever have. Like, ever. “It’s all right. I’m up.” I twist around and tickle at Tammy’s feet, making her squeal.
Danny smiles at me, but the hint of sadness underneath it is quite obvious. He’s taken on a mournful affect ever since that night he broke down sobbing. I try to ask if he’s upset with me for sleeping through dinner or if the sorrow’s coming from him thinking me ‘dead.’ Interestingly, I try to ask all of that with my eyes, but there is a small chance I tried to ask it telepathically, too. Really, Sam? Telepathically? Is that even a thing? At any rate, he doesn’t react. So much for that.
He sets Tammy back down on the cushion beside me, then folds his arms on the sofa back. “So, how was work? Still groggy?”
“Yeah. Not quite as bad today, though.” Which is true.
Tammy retrieves the hairbrush and holds it up with a ‘can I?’ face.
“You were doing such a good job. Of course.” I kiss her on the forehead and shift sideways so she’s standing behind me. While she resumes brushing my hair, I ramble to Danny about the investigation I think should be mine being handed off to the FBI/ATF.
“You’re not going to drop it, are you?” asks Danny. “I know that look.”
I sigh. “Had certain unforeseen circumstances not come to pass, I’d probably be a good little obedient agent.”
He nods, understanding what I mean. I’m facing the frustratingly intractable truth that my present ‘condition’ makes functioning in any sort of formal day job a massive pain in the ass at best, and a lethal hazard at worst (to other people). Bending rules doesn’t bother me much when I’m already giving serious thought to resigning. Not like I’ve got any realistic expectation of another twenty years of career to protect anymore.
A spike of sadness hits me out of the blue at that realization, that everything I’d worked so hard for is gone. I grab Danny’s arm and pull it down from the sofa back, hugging it like a doll.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “It’s not fair. None of it. You worked harder than anyone to get where you are. I’m sorry I ever wanted you to find a less dangerous job.”
“Thank you.” I rest my head against his arm. “It’s hardly your fault, and you only wanted me to be safe.”
A sad chuckle escapes him. “Maybe I prayed you’d do something else?”
“You? Pray? Since when?” His parents had been very religious, but as what often happens with overbearing parents, Danny had gone far in the other direction as soon as he got out from under their roof. That said, I suspect he still wanted to believe in something greater, something beyond himself. Truth is, maybe I do too. I think. I wonder what it’s like… to have faith?
Danny leans down and kisses me. “My dad always used to say there are no atheists in foxholes. Since you got shot and broke a rib, I guess a brush with losing you was enough to make me reach out to the Big Guy.”
I laugh. “Big Guy?”
“Big Woman?”
“Okay, that only makes it sound worse.” I pause. “If there is a God, I’m pretty sure he had nothing to do with”―I glance out of the corner of my eye at Tammy’s reflection in the window working a hairbrush over empty air―“me getting sick.”
Danny shrugs. “Well. Certain things I thought to be stories turned out to be not stories, so who knows. All I’m saying is, if it’ll help you, I’ll believe in anything. Well, you know what I mean.”
“In God,” I say.
“Sure,” he says.
This coming from the same man who once, in his darkest hour, questioned why a supreme being who demanded worship couldn’t be bothered to show evidence of its existence. Of course, I’m the girl who begged the universe, God, and anything else who’d listen for help while bleeding out in the woods three weeks ago. Welcome to the foxhole. I suppose maybe there aren’t any atheists bleeding out in the woods at one in the morning either.
“Sorry for missing dinner,” I say. “I was exhausted from work.”
Danny winks. “It’s all right. The kids understand. And I saved you some, umm, food. You know what I mean.”
I nod. Liquid food, of course. “Where’s Anthony?”
“Asleep early. He’s got a cold. Your sister said he’s going to be one of those kids.”
I raise an eyebrow. Mary Lou’s probably thinking of Clayton, our youngest brother. Some kids are just always sick. Fortunately, Clay grew out of it around fifteen or so, but for most of his early life, he had a cold, flu, or something. In hindsight, it probably had to do with his aversion to clothes.
“Ugh. I really hope Anthony’s not going to be ‘that kid who’s always sick.”
Danny nods. “I should go check his temperature again… In the fridge whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks.”
Tammy and I spend a little while talking about her day at preschool before Danny returns with Anthony, who’s apparently feeling better.
“He wanted to see you,” says Danny past a big smile.
I take Anthony and hug him. “How’s my big little man?”
“Fick.” He scrunches up his nose. “I’m gotta code.”
“Ruby Grace threw up five times today,” says Tammy, wide-eyed with awe. “An’ Billy Joe pooped on the floor.”
“What?” I ask, half-laughing. “On the floor?”
Anthony giggles, making a snot bubble.
Tammy nods. “Yeah, Mommy. He was sittin’ on the floor, an’ he sneezing, and poop flied out his pants legs. It got on Ellie Mae’s dress and she screamed.”
Danny and I wince at the same time. The runs plus four-year-old equals epic mess. Oh, poor Mary Lou. That at least explains where Anthony got his cold from. Most likely, one of the older kids brought it home from school.
The four of us sneak in a little family time, and maybe we let the kids stay up a smidge late. After we get them settled in for the night, we walk down the hall together. I head to the kitchen while Danny breaks off to the right and goes into the living room. Sure enough, there’s a hidden bottle in the back of the fridge full of the red stuff.
Hmm. If this becomes routine, two things need to happen. One: an opaque bottle. Two: Maybe a second fridge in the garage. The last thing I want is one of the kids trying to have cereal and dumping gore on it.
Though I’m not particularly hungry, I drink half the bottle, cap it, and put it back in the fridge. It tastes a little different from last time. Kinda watery, and it had a few bits of flesh floating in it. Maybe even a hair or three.
I stash the bottle again and wander into the living room, where Danny looks too innocent.
“What did you do?” I ask.
He wags his eyebrows at me in a ‘wanna’ gesture while holding up a DVD. I can’t make out the whole title, but the big word is ‘vampire.’ Oh boy. I start laughing. We snuggle on the couch watching the cheesiest thing I’v
e ever seen. I can’t tell if it’s intended as comedy or a serious horror and it’s just that overacted. The story’s told from the point of view of a vampire hunter, a doddering fifty-ish guy who’s part Dick Van Dyke and part Inspector Clouseau. I can’t say I’ve ever seen the actor in anything else, and if this movie was his first, it’s easy to see why.
A small village in some fictional European country is, naturally, under attack by fiendish vampires. The hunter’s survived thus far (the first thirty minutes) by sheer dumb luck and slapstick nonsense like how he stoops to pick up a coin right when a vampire leaps out of the shadows, so the creature sails over him.
Danny and I hold hands and chuckle through most of it.
“Oh gawd,” I moan in an overdone accent when the female lead winds up rising from the dead with an enormous coiffed hairdo and a nearly see-through gown. “They didn’t tell me vampirism requires that much Aqua Net. And hey, my boobs didn’t double in size, either. Not fair.”
“Tell me about it!”
I jab him in the ribs with my elbow, maybe a little too hard. He oofs and rubs the spot.
The hunter, and his merry band of three local idiots (one of whom is the former fiancé of the now-vampiric big-busted, big-haired princess of the undead), line up to break into the master vampire’s home. Naturally, a house that big in a small village in fictional Europe has a secret underground catacomb with a convenient tunnel entrance at the side of a hill.
Apparently, all the locks in this village suck. Every door opens when subjected to ‘vigorous shaking.’ The hunter leads the group into the basement with a bunch of obligatory jump scares from spiders and rats.
“How bad do you think this is going to be?” I tuck my feet under my rear end and lean into Danny. “Caskets?”
“Oh, definitely.” He chuckles. “They’ve spared no cheese here.”
I snort, laughing.
Sure enough, the group enters a chamber with cobwebs and four fancy coffins. One’s white. Gee, I wonder which one holds Fiona of the Huge Hair. Also, predictably, Romeo beelines for the woman’s casket and throws himself over the lid, wailing and gnashing his teeth. The addled hunter pulls him off.