Blood Night

by Heather Graham

  “Andre knows people in Highgate?” Emily asked.

  “He gets around,” Cheyenne said.

  She didn’t let Emily argue, just glanced at Andre, who murmured another, “Thanks for breakfast, Eric, it was great!”

  Then he quickly followed her out of the house.

  Chapter 7

  “So, I know people in Highgate now, do I?” Andre asked, smiling.

  “You seem to know everyone you meet right away,” Cheyenne said. “Seriously, Andre, if they’d had a security camera outside, they could have seen who did this.”

  “We should have woken up. I should have woken up,” he said.

  “Andre, you’re human, and so am I. When we slept, we slept hard last night.”

  He didn’t argue that. He looked ahead. Cheyenne had just started walking—without a plan, without knowing where she was going. But he strolled right along with her.

  She stopped. “Uh, where are we going?”

  “We’re starting with a visit to Clark Brighton.”

  She glanced at him. They were walking uphill toward the new, luxury apartments.

  “We have an appointment with him, and you know he’s there?” she asked.

  “We don’t have an appointment, but I know he’s there. I talked to Michael Adair about him when the good inspector came to see the writing on the steps. Mr. Brighton spends his mornings down at a coffee shop on the ground floor of his building. He likes to hold court there.”

  “Do you think Inspector Adair’s partner, Birmingham, informed him that we’re with the American government? Feds?”

  He smiled. “Yep, I think he did.”

  “Then this guy won’t see us—”

  “He will.” Andre glanced her way. “Adair thought it was funny as all hell. Birmingham wanted to warn his suspects away from talking to us. He told Brighton we were psyched-up ghost hunters. I guess he didn’t realize that would make the man want to see us all the more. I think he’ll be happy to talk to us.”

  “If he’s happy to talk to us, he’s either innocent or truly a flake,” she said.

  “We’ll find out. Hey, isn’t there a saying? ‘Out of the mouths of flakes?’”

  “No, it’s ‘out of the mouths of babes,’ but you know that, of course.”

  “I could have sworn it was out of the mouths of flakes!” he teased. “Come on. We have to meet all the persons of interest we know about and then try to see if we’ve been going in the right direction. I texted Angela, who told me to let them know if we needed anything. I’ve got her checking out the lives, social media, and habits of the other victims. Right now, the concentration is on Sheila. Probably because her landing on an ex-boyfriend’s steps seemed awfully convenient.”

  “We have to get them cameras and a system today.”

  “We will. There’s an electronics shop up here, too. We’re good. I must admit, I don’t know people there, but I’m sure I will.”

  Cheyenne wasn’t sure just how luxurious the luxury apartments were, but they were new. Looking up, she saw they offered amazing rooftop patios with views of the lower area of town, the steep slope down Swain’s Lane, and Highgate Cemetery. The place seemed to be made up of a lot of angles, glass, and chrome. It was plain but almost squeaky clean, and the coffee shop on the ground floor was ultra-modern and encased mostly in glass, which allowed them to see Clark Brighton easily before they entered. He was seated so they couldn’t see his height. But his shoulders were broad and strong, and his hair was only lightly peppered with gray.

  “Coffee, my love? Or tea?” Andre asked.

  “Coffee. I’ll go over with an introduction,” Cheyenne said.

  Andre walked up to the counter to order, and Cheyenne headed toward the man who hadn’t yet noticed her. He was concentrating intently on whatever he was reading on his computer.

  He looked up as he heard her coming, though. There was a confused look in his eyes at first, but then he smiled broadly, rising to offer her a hand.

  He was tall. Not quite as tall as Andre, but almost. A big man. A strong man.

  “You’re the American from the Krewe of Hunters, right?” he asked her.

  “Just Cheyenne Donegal over here, Mr. Brighton. Truly grateful to make your acquaintance,” she said, shaking his hand. “May I?” She indicated the chairs on the other side of the table from him. “Or may we. Andre Rousseau is with me. We’re eager to hear what you have to say. I mean, something awful is happening. Something out of the ordinary.”

  “Someone who intends to listen to me,” Brighton said. “Yes, yes. Please. I keep trying to tell the police that ignoring the past is dangerous.”

  “We all know ignoring the past is dangerous,” Cheyenne agreed. “And we’ve been doing all we can to steep ourselves in the history of what happened here before. Do you think someone has really summoned a…vampire?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Though a vampire can mean many things. Our greatest threat is those who would meddle in such awful creatures.”

  “Satanists?”

  “Yes, well, freedom of religion these days, you know. But who was Satan? Cast from heaven—the harbinger of evil and…can a person be a Satanist and not be evil? How is that, by the very nature of the devil’s existence, possible? I’ve told them, I’ve told the police that the very earth is crying.” The expression on Clark Brighton’s face said that he was serious.

  “What?”

  “Several times now, and right before one of the kidnapped girls is found, dead and drained of blood. The earth itself cries. As if calling out to all that’s good and holy in the world to help.”

  Andre walked over, bearing three cups of coffee and a paper sack brimming with creamers and sugar.

  He quickly set them down and offered Clark Brighton a hand. “Andre Rousseau—”

  “Don’t be so modest. You’re Special Agent Andre Rousseau with the FBI’s legendary Krewe of Hunters,” Clark said, rising to take Andre’s hand. “And this unbelievably lovely young lady is Special Agent Cheyenne Donegal. I am glad to make your acquaintance, truly glad. I’ve just begun speaking with Cheyenne here.”

  “He was telling me that he heard the earth cry,” Cheyenne supplied.

  Andre arched a brow. “The earth, sir?”

  “I was trying to tell the law officers that they’re not doing their duty. I truly fear Satanists are taking a secret stand here.”

  “Do you believe they’ve caused a vampire to rise?” Andre asked seriously.

  “I say again, as I did to your lovely partner earlier, define vampire!” Brighton looked as if he wanted to pound the table in his vehemence. “What I believe is that they are seeking blood. They must have it! They are the vampires themselves!”

  “Sir, wouldn’t they have been noticed? It would be difficult these days for them to use the cemetery as a site for rituals, wouldn’t it?”

  Clark Brighton waved a hand in the air. “Have you ever noticed, sir, criminals don’t obey our laws? That’s what makes them criminals. Trust me. There are ways into the cemetery at night. There is always a way, especially with an area that large. But I don’t know if they’re using the cemetery. They are here, though. I sense things, hear things in the air. In the night. I am a special person, as you two are special people, and I have senses others do not. I tell you, the earth itself is crying. And it lets out moans and wails, right before another of the victims is found. You will look into this, won’t you?” He leaned forward to gaze intensely at them.

  “We’re not here officially,” Cheyenne reminded him.

  Clark stared at her hard and slowly smiled. “But you’re here.”

  “We will listen for when the earth cries, sir,” Andre assured him. He hesitated. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  Brighton shook his head, his expression sad. “I wish I saw more, but all my vision has allowed me so far is misty shapes. The warning came with those cries from the very ground we walk upon, from the air, and from the night. It’s only when all else is
silent that you can hear them.” He was quiet for a minute. “Late, late at night, I’ve stood out on my balcony, and I have heard the earth. I promised I would listen.”

  “Mr. Brighton, you may rest assured that we, too, will listen,” Andre said earnestly. “I promise you.”

  He rose then, and Cheyenne followed.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “No. Thank you,” Brighton told her. “And, you,” he said to Andre.

  Andre nodded grimly. He set a hand on Cheyenne’s arm, and they walked out together.

  “Flake, but I believe you were right. Out of the mouths of flakes.”

  “Well, we’ve heard it now from the living and the dead. The earth is crying.”

  “Think Inspector Adair will believe us?” Cheyenne asked.

  “I think we need maps, old and new, but I also believe we’re looking at the high end of the lane. Possibly someone digging when the cemetery was planned. We might be looking for a basement, but I don’t think so. I believe there is a subterranean catacomb, storage space, original throughway—something underground that the killer is using for a lair. There’s no way he’s puncturing throats and taking the time to bleed someone where he could be seen or caught.”

  “We need to talk to the inspector.”

  “Adair and Birmingham both. Hopefully, Adam has gotten through to someone who knows someone who will help us.”

  “And now?”

  “I think we need to exchange more money.”

  “Ah, you take this one. I think it will be a bit more natural if you ask the banker about the strip clubs he visits.”

  He grinned. “How many times do you think people walk into banks and ask about strip clubs?”

  “Not every day?”

  “Trust me, this dude is going to know we’re coming. We’ll find out if he’ll talk to us or not. We really do need to meet Inspector Birmingham.”

  “I agree. Are we about to change more dollars into pounds?”

  “We are. Just down the lane.”

  But as he spoke, Andre stopped walking. Instead, he looked up Swain’s Lane.

  “They used to drive the swine down this way to the market at Spitalfields,” he said. “Thus, Swain’s Lane.”

  “And cliffs and rises aplenty all around.”

  “And Highgate, overgrown—much like home. Decaying elegance, haunting atmosphere—well, we’ve had a Rougarou. Might as well have a vampire,” he said.

  “And our flake was right about something else,” Cheyenne said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Define vampire. This killer is abducting women and draining them of blood. That would be a vampire by definition. Hey, let’s get the car later and just drive all the way up and explore the heights, huh?”

  “Sure. Bank, electronics shop, and drive. But what about our last man?”

  “Internet sensation Benjamin Turner?”

  “That would be him. We’ll get to him, too,” Andre promised. “You got money?”

  “Some. I mostly have pounds right now.”

  “Me, too. Oh, well. I’ll switch some back.” He chuckled.

  They reached the bank. Andre went in ahead, and she followed a minute later.

  It didn’t matter.

  While she pretended to be studying a rack of pamphlets advertising credit cards, Andre strode in as if he were looking for where he should be going for currency exchange.

  A man rose from the desk on the side of the bank and walked out of a little gated-off section, making his apologies to the older woman who was sitting in front of his desk.

  He headed straight for Andre and kept his voice low, but Cheyenne could hear him.

  “I know who you are, and I do not wish to speak with you. The police have questioned me. I hadn’t seen Sheila in weeks. I don’t care if one of your American oh-so-special agents is Emily Donegal’s cousin. You have no authority here, and don’t you dare think you’re going to question me at my place of business.”

  Andre just stared at him for a moment as if puzzled. “Oh, you must be that banker. Mark Bower, right?”

  “Yes. Will you please be so kind as to leave now before I’m forced to call security?”

  “I just need to exchange some coins. I’ve accumulated a stack of them already.”

  Cheyenne decided it was time for her entry. She left the rack of pamphlets and approached the two of them. “Andre, we need to get going. I’m sorry, sir!” she said to Mark Bower. “We just need to get rid of some of these coins. I mean, they’ll be worthless when we get home, and you kind of wind up with them no matter how hard you try to get rid of them.”

  “You’re just here to exchange money?” Bower asked.

  “We are.”

  “But—”

  “Well, you and Sheila weren’t close, were you? I mean, you only dated a few times, right?”

  “Right. We dated a few times,” Bower said. “That’s it. I’m sorry. She was a nice girl. But I am not talking to any unauthorized Americans about the case. I will thank you to get out of the bank.”

  “May we just exchange our coins for paper currency, please?” Cheyenne asked sweetly.

  Bower leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You just happened into this bank, right?”

  “Well, old chap,” Andre said, “it’s the first bank we came to on the street. Apparently, you know about us. So, you likely know we’re staying with Eric and Emily because you know Sheila was found on their doorstep. This is the nearest bank,” Andre pointed out.

  “Do your business and get out,” Bower snapped.

  Andre politely told him, “Thank you,” and headed for the counter.

  “Why are you so against us?” Cheyenne asked.

  She was surprised at the sudden passion Bower showed when he turned to her. “Sheila is dead. And we don’t need any seances or any other mumbo-jumbo used against her memory. She’s dead. Do you get that? Dead!”

  He spun around and headed back to his desk and his customer, adjusting his tie as he did, apologizing profusely to the older woman who awaited him.

  “The electronics store is just a bit down,” Andre said, returning with a small stack of colorful British pounds in his hand. “First things first. Cameras and cables. And then—”

  He didn’t finish his sentence because his phone started ringing.

  He answered it quickly. By the way his expression changed, she knew it had to be the home office calling.

  He listened, nodded, glanced at his watch, and took Cheyenne gently by the arm to lead her outside.

  Back on the street, he stopped, agreed to whatever was being said on the other end of the line, and then ended the call before looking at her.

  “So?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Well, I was going to say we needed a trip to meet with the esteemed Inspector Birmingham, but that will have to wait. If we move swiftly, we have a few minutes to get a camera set up—at least something—for Eric and Emily’s place.”

  “Yes, I think that may prove to be really important.”

  “I want to meet Birmingham, though.” He grimaced. “I’m tempted to tell him I’ve received a message from his long-lost dog or something—that it came through my crystal ball.”

  “Andre! We need to be careful here. I don’t think mocking Bower by calling him a chap was…diplomatic.”

  “Hey, I love the British. And even I love the sound of a smooth accent. He just came on like such an ass. I’m sorry. And you’re right.”

  “Remember—”

  “Yes, we’re not official. Anyway, we’ll meet Birmingham eventually, but Angela also gave me the name of the club Bower visits most frequently. It’s called Pussycats and Toms, and it’s down at Piccadilly Circus. We’ll go tonight.”

  “Great. I love a good strip club.” She rolled her eyes.

  He grinned, arched a brow, and moved again toward the electronics store.

  “It is called Pussycats and Toms. Maybe there are some good Toms to be seen.”

&nb
sp; “I think the Toms part probably refers to the customers, but I’m up for whatever. You think Bower is worth the time?”

  “I do.”

  “All right, but why not Birmingham now? We can buy our cameras and all, drop them off at Eric and Emily’s, and we’ll still be early. It’s just after ten.”

  “We have an appointment.”

  “With?”

  “Benjamin Turner, historian and Internet sensation.”

  Chapter 8

  Andre could easily see why Benjamin Turner had managed to become an Internet sensation.

  He was a tall man, fit, with bright blue eyes and reddish-brown hair, a quick smile, and a way of looking very serious and intelligent.

  When they arrived—after their visit to the electronics store and their stop by the house to deliver their purchases to Eric, who was delighted to play with the equipment and his computer through the afternoon—a man met them and asked them to wait behind the glass of a home studio.

  The assistant wasn’t doing the filming. He’d been sitting at his desk when they arrived, obviously taking care of some mundane things. Perhaps like accounting or the research needed for many of Turner’s little broadcasts.

  Turner had his studio set up so he managed his own cameras. Andre assumed he did his own editing, as well.

  He was currently working on a leading-up-to-Halloween broadcast, revisiting gory events around the world that had occurred right before the holiday.

  The most recent one was a piece on the toolbox killers who had tortured and killed five women, with the last murder taking place in the United States on Halloween, 1979.

  He went into gory detail, cinematically somber, warning his watchers to be safe. Every year, there were more parties in Britain with Halloween becoming more of an event resembling that of the States.

  Turner finished with the broadcast and turned off the camera and microphones he had in the studio.

  Then he looked through the glass and smiled at them.

  Exiting his recording space, he introduced himself, in case they hadn’t been aware of who they were watching.

  “Hello, welcome. I’m Benjamin Turner. I talked to an absolutely lovely young American woman a few hours ago, who asked if I would speak with you. I’m happy to do so! I don’t know how I can be of assistance, but if there’s anything I can say or do that might help, I am delighted.”