by J. R. Rain
There was something to that.
And that’s all I had. A distraught man who felt his murdered brother had not been given proper justice. Not much, but it was a start.
I sat back in my chair and stared at the file. The rain was coming down harder, rattling the window. I listened to it, allowed it to fill some of the emptiness in my heart, and found some peace. I checked my watch. Open House was in an hour and still no sign of Danny.
I pushed him out of my thoughts and logged onto the internet; in particular, one of my many investigation data bases. There had been no mention of the brother’s name in the file, but with a few deft keystrokes I had all the information I needed.
The murder had made the local paper. The article mentioned the surviving family members. Parents were dead, but there had been two surviving siblings. Rick Horton and Janet Maurice. Just as I wrote the two names down, the house phone rang. My heart sank.
I picked it up.
“Hi, dollface.”
“Tell me you’re on your way home,” I said.
There was a pause. He sucked in some air. “Tell the kids I’m sorry.”
“No,” I said. “You tell them.”
“Don’t.”
I did. I called the kids over and put them on the phone one at a time. When they were gone, I came back on the line.
“You shouldn’t drag the children into this, Samantha,” he said.
“Drag them into what, pray tell?”
He sighed. When he was done sighing, I heard a voice whisper to him from somewhere. A female voice.
“Who’s that whispering to you?” I asked.
“Don’t wait up.”
“Who’s that—”
But he disconnected the line.
19.
We were late for Open House.
I had a hell of a time getting the kids ready, and had long ago abandoned any notion of making dinner. We popped into a Burger King drive-thru along the way.
“Tell me what you guys want,” I said, speaking over my shoulder. We were third in line at the drive-thru. The kids were wearing some of their best clothes, and I was already worried about stains.
I looked in the rearview mirror. The kids were separated by an invisible line that ran between their two back seats. Crossing the line was grounds for punishment. At the moment, Tammy was hovering on the brink of that line, making faces at Anthony, taunting him, sticking her tongue out, driving him into a seething rage. I almost laughed at the scene, but had to do something.
“Tammy, your tongue just crossed the line. No TV or Game Boy tonight.”
Anthony said, “Yes!” Then pointed at his sister. “Ha!”
Tammy squealed. “But, Mom, that’s not fair! It was just my tongue!”
“Tongues count. Plus, you know better than to tease your little brother.” We moved up in line. “What do you two want to eat?”
Tammy said she didn’t want anything. Anthony gave me his usual order: hamburger, plain. I ordered Tammy some chicken fingers.
“I don’t want chicken fingers.”
“You like chicken fingers.”
“But I’m not hungry.”
“Then you don’t have to eat them, but if you waste them, the money’s coming out of your allowance. Anthony, don’t tease your sister.”
Anthony was doing a little victory dance in the back seat, which rocked the entire minivan. His sister had been successfully punished and he had escaped unscathed. It was a triumphant moment for younger brothers everywhere.
And just when he thought I wasn’t looking, just when he thought the coast was clear, he gave his sister the middle finger. Tammy squealed. I burst out laughing. And by the time we left the drive-thru, both of them had lost two days of TV privileges.
And as I pulled out of the Burger King parking lot, Anthony wailed, “There’s mustard on my hamburger!”
“Christ,” I muttered, and made a U-turn and headed back through the drive-thru.
20.
After Open House, the three of us were sitting together on the couch watching reruns of Sponge Bob. Sadly enough, I had seen this episode before. Danny still wasn’t home, nor did I really expect him to be any time soon.
Open House had gone well enough. Anthony was passing all his classes, but just barely. His teacher felt he spent too much time trying to be the class clown. Tammy, a few years older, was apparently boy crazy. Although her grades were just about excellent, her teacher complained she was a distraction to the other students; mostly to the male variety.
Apparently, my kids liked attention, and I wondered if I was giving them enough of it at home.
“What’s that smell?” I asked.
“Whoever smelt it dealt it,” said Anthony, giggling.
“Probably you,” said Tammy to her brother. “You’re always cutting them.”
“So do you!”
“Do not! I’m a girl. Girl’s don’t cut anything.”
“Yeah, right!” shouted Anthony.
“I don’t smell anything, Mommy,” said Tammy, ignoring her brother.
I proceeded to sniff armpits and feet. As I smelled, they both giggled, and Anthony tried to smell my own feet.
“It’s you, Mommy,” he shouted, giggling. “Your feet stink!”
“Do not,” I said. “Girls’ feet don’t stink.”
“You’re not a girl.”
“Oh, really?”
“Then what is she, lame brain?” asked Tammy.
“She’s a lady,” said Anthony.
“Thank you, Anthony,” I said, hugging his warm body. “Lady is good.”
“And ladies have stinky feet,” he added.
“Okay, now you just blew it,” I said, and tickled the hell out of him. He cowered in the corner of the couch, kicking pillows at me, and then Tammy jumped on my back to defend her little brother and soon we were all on the floor, poking fingers at any and all exposed flesh, a big tickling free-for-all.
Later, as we lay gasping on the floor as Sponge Bob and his infamous square pants completed another fun-filled romp at the bottom of the ocean, Anthony asked, “Mommy, why are you always...cold?”
“Mommy is sick,” I said. And, in a way, I was very sick.
“Are you going to die soon?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Mommy won’t die for a very long time.”
“Good!” he said.
“But can we catch what you have?” asked Tammy, always the careful one.
“No,” I said. “You can’t.”
I suddenly wrinkled my nose. The smell was back. From my angle on the floor, I could just see under the couch. And there, in all its glory, was one of Anthony’s rolled up socks. A very smelly rolled up sock. I used a pencil and pulled it out, where it hung from the tip like radioactive waste.
“Look familiar, Anthony?” I asked.
He mumbled an apology and I told him to throw it in the wash, and as he got up to do so, Tammy and I made farting noises with each step he took.
Bad move.
He turned and threw the sock back at us and we spent the next few minutes playing hot potato with it, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
21.
After my attack six years ago, about the same time I first went online, I made a cyber friend.
I was exploring through the new and interesting world of chatrooms. I landed in a room called Creatures of the Night. The room was comical to a degree, for there seemed to be a running script of a vampire appearing in a castle and sucking the life out of its inhabitants. There were many rapid postings, and it was difficult to keep up. Still, one thing was obvious: everyone here loved vampires with all their heart and soul. And many wanted to be vampires.
A private message box had next appeared on my screen. Someone named Fang950 was trying to contact me. He said Hi and I responded back. Over the course of the next few hours, which flew rapidly by, I found myself opening up to the this Fang950. It was exhilarating. I told him everything. Everything. All my deepest secrets.
I didn’t care if he believed me or not. I didn’t know him from squat. But he listened, and he asked questions and he did not judge me. He was the perfect outlet to my angst. And no one knew about him but me. No one. He was all mine.
It was late, and it was still raining. I had gone to the open house alone. Danny had yet to come home. I had already fed for the night and was sitting in my office in a bit of a stupor. I always felt sluggish after feeding, not to mention bloated and sick to my stomach.
A private message window popped up on my computer screen, followed by the sound of splashing water. It was Fang.
You there, Moon Dance? he wrote, referring to my screen name, the only name he knew me by.
Yes, Fang, what’s up?
Nothing new. How about you?
There was never anything new with Fang. He told me little about himself. I knew only that he lived in Missouri and that he was twenty-eight.
So I spent the next few minutes catching him up on my new case. I left out names of course, but Fang was computer savvy. If he was interested enough he would find out about the story himself.
What does your gut tell you about the file? he asked.
My gut tells me I’m onto something, I answered.
Too bad your gut can’t be more specific.
Yes, too bad, I wrote. But it’s helped me solve cases before, though. I’ve developed quite a reputation here. But I feel like I’m cheating.
Cheating?
I thought about that a little, then wrote: Well, other P.I.’s don’t have the benefit of a heightened sixth sense, or whatever you want to call it.
But other P.I.’s work in the day, he wrote. You are handicapped by working nights.
It’s not much of a handicap. I can get around it.
Nonetheless. Remember, you help people. That’s the important thing. Whether or not you’re cheating doesn’t matter. It’s the end result, right? Didn’t you once say you turn down more cases than you accept?
I wrote, Yes.
Which cases do you turn down? he asked.
Cheating spouses mostly.
Which cases do you accept?
The bigger cases. Murder cases. Missing person cases.
How do your clients find you?
Police referrals mostly, I wrote. If the police can’t solve the crime, they will sometimes send the clients my way. I have developed a reputation for finding answers.
You do good work. You are like a super hero. You help those who have nowhere else to turn for answers. You give them the answers.
There it was again. Super hero.
The rain continued. I heard Danny come in, but he didn’t bother to stop by my office in the back of the house. Instead, I heard him head straight into the shower. To shower her off him, no doubt.
But sometimes the answers should remain hidden, I wrote a few minutes later, distracted by Danny’s appearance.
Sometimes not, wrote Fang. Either way, your clients have closure.
I nodded to myself, then wrote, Closure is a gift.
He wrote, Yes. You give them that gift. So you think this distraught brother took a few shots at your client?
I’m thinking it’s likely. I paused in my typing, then added, Do you believe that I am a vampire, Fang?
You have asked me this a hundred times, he answered.
And I have conveniently forgotten your answers a hundred times.
Yes, he wrote. I believe you are a vampire.
Why do you believe I am a vampire?
Because you told me you are.
And you believe that?
Yes.
I took in some air, then typed: I sucked the blood from a dead man last night.
There was a long pause before he wrote: Did you kill him, Moon Dance?
No, I didn’t. He was already dead, part of a gang that attacked me. He was accidentally shot by someone in his gang. The shot had been intended for me.
OMG, are you okay?!
I loved Fang, whoever the hell he was. I wrote, Yes, thank you. It was nothing. The bangers didn’t know with whom they were dealing.
Of course they didn’t, how could they? So what happened to the dead guy?
I sucked his blood until I couldn’t swallow another drop.
There was a long pause. Rain ticked on the window.
How did that make you feel? he asked.
At the time? Refreshed. Whole. Complete. Rejuvenated.
He tasted that good, huh?
Even better, I wrote.
How do you feel now? he asked.
Horrified.
Does it worry you that he tasted so good?
Not really, I wrote. But I do realize now how much I’m missing. Cow blood is disgusting.
I bet. Can you still control yourself, Moon Dance?
Yes. I’ve never lost control of myself. As long as I’m satiated each night on the blood stored in my refrigerator.
What would happen if you ran out of blood?
I don’t want to think about it, I wrote. It’s never happened, nor do I plan on it happening.
Sounds like a plan, he wrote.
I laughed a little and sat back in my chair and drank some water. I typed, I met a werewolf.
No shit?
No shit, I wrote.
What’s a werewolf like?
I don’t really know just yet. Mysterious. Obsessed with the moon.
Stands to reason.
He’s a practicing attorney, I wrote. And a very good one.
Well, we all need a day gig.
Or a night gig, I added.
Haha. Well, Moon Dance, it’s late. Let me know how it goes with the werewolf. When will be the next full moon?
A few days. I already checked.
Have there been any unsolved murders resembling animals attacks? he asked.
Not to my knowledge.
Might want to stay alert for that, he said.
True, I wrote.
Goodnight, Moon Dance.
Goodnight, Fang.
22.
I was driving south on the 57 Freeway when my cell phone rang. It was Kingsley.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked excitedly.
“That you’re a werewolf?” I suggested.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, dear girl. Not over the phone lines. You never know who might be listening.”
“Big Brother? Aliens? Homeland Security?”
“Hewlett Jackson’s dead.”
I blinked. “Your client.”
“Now my ex-client.”
“Murder?” I asked.
“Yes. Shot.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Five times in the head.”
“Close. Nine.”
“Appears our killer wasn’t going to take any chances this time.”
“Find them,” said Kingsley.
“That’s my job,” I said.
“You have any leads?”
“One.”
“Just one?”
“That’s all I need,” I said.
“I see,” he said. “Well, the police say you’re the best. So I trust you.”
There was some static, followed by a long pause. Too long.
“You there?” I asked.
“I’m here,” he said, then added, “Tomorrow’s a full moon, you know.”
“I know,” I said. “So, can I watch?”
“Watch?” he asked.
“You know, the transformation.”
“No,” he said. “And you’re a sick girl.”
“Not sick,” I said. “Just were-curious.”
He snorted and I could almost see him shaking his great, shaggy head. He said, “So I heard they found a corpse in Fullerton,” he said, pausing. “Drained of blood.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” I said. “Not over the phone. But if it puts you at ease,no, I didn’t kill him.”
“Good.”
More static. More pausing. With some people, gaps in the conversation can feel uncomfortable. With Kingsley, gaps felt natural. The
n again, we were immortal. Technically, we could wait forever.
Kingsley un-gapped the conversation. “So where you headed at this late hour?”
“It’s early for me, and I’m following up on my one lead.”
“Tell me about your lead.”
So I did.
When I was finished, Kingsley said, “Yeah, I remember him. Rick Horton. His brother was dead and the only suspect was walking free because of a police screw up.”
“Why, Kingsley, if I didn’t know you better I would almost say you sound sympathetic.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Tell me about the incident in the court,” I said.
“He lunged at me, but it was sort of a half-ass effort. Mostly he called me a stream of obscenities.”
“You must be used to them.”
“Like they say, sticks and stones,” he said. “He didn’t seem the type for violence, though.”
“Some never do.”
“True,” he said. “You know where he lives?”
“I’ve got his address. I still happen to have friends in high places.”
“Good, let me know how it goes.”
“Have fun tomorrow night,” I said. “Arr Arr Arrrooooo!”
“Not funny,” he said, but laughed anyway.
I disconnected the line, giggling.
23.
I took the 22 East, then headed south on the 55 and exited on Seventeenth Street. Rick Horton lived in an upscale neighborhood in the city of Tustin, about ten miles south of Fullerton. I continued following the Yahoo driving directions until I pulled up in front of a two-story Gothic revival. A house fit for a vampire.
From its triangular arches, to its cast-iron roof crestings, from its diamond-patterned slate shingles, to its multiple stacked chimneys, the Horton house was as creepy and menacing and haunted-looking as any house in Orange County. It was set well back from the road on a corner lot, surrounded by a massive ivy-covered brick and mortar fence. The fence was topped with the kind of iron spikes that would have made Vlad the Impaler proud. The entire house was composed of a sort of squared building stone.