by J. R. Rain
Maybe this is what it feels like to be dead.
I next found an article on the internet about the murder of Hewlett Jackson, Kingsley’s one-time client who had taken nine shots to the face. And, not being a werewolf, he promptly died. Hewlett’s body had been found in a parking lot, still inside his car, shot outside a seedy bar I was unfortunately familiar with. There had been no robbery, just a blatant killing.
Interestingly, no one yet had made a connection with Jackson’s murder to Kingsley’s attack.
Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree.
Did werewolves bark?
I sat back in my chair and stared up at the painted ceiling. The cobwebs in one corner of the room were swaying gently, though I felt no breeze. I should probably clean those someday. The sun was due to set in a few minutes. Its lingering presence in the sky was the reason behind my current uneasiness and shortness of breath and general foul temperament.
I used to worship the sun. Now it was my enemy.
Or, like Superman, my kryptonite.
I drummed my short fingers on the desk. My nails were thick and somewhat pointed. The nails themselves were impossible to cut. They shaped themselves and seemed to hold steady at that length.
I wondered again if Horton had hired a killer.
But that didn’t feel right. No hitman worth his salt would have made such a blatant and dangerous attempt in broad daylight. In front of video cameras. In front of a goddamn courthouse. No. The shooter was making a point; most important, the shooter had not cared about getting caught. I was sure of that. Oh, he cared just enough to wear some silly disguise, but I truly felt in my heart that the shooter had not expected to actually escape.
But the shooter had escaped.
There was a knock on my front door. I swung my feet around and stood. My legs were a little shaky. The shakiness was due to the lingering presence of the sun. I moved slowly through the house, to the front door.
And standing there in my doorway was Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton Police Department. He was holding a bag of donuts.
28.
We sat in the living room.
I was in my grandmother’s rocking chair and he was on the sofa across from me. The sun was still minutes from setting, and I felt vulnerable. My mind was firing at a slower rate. My body was sluggish. In fact, I felt mortal. I forced myself to focus on the detective sitting before me.
Sherbet held out the bag of donuts. “Place on Orangethorpe makes them fresh this time everyday.”
I glanced inside the open bag and my stomach turned. “You are perpetuating the stereotype of policemen and donuts,” I said.
“Hell, I am the reason for that stereotype.” He chuckled to himself. “Lord knows how many of these I’ve eaten. Can’t be too bad for you. I’m sixty-seven and still going strong.”
I looked away when he took a healthy bite into his donut.
“You don’t look too well, Mrs. Moon. Is it too early in the day for you? I tried coming when the sun set, you know, with your skin condition and all. Now what sort of condition do you have?”
I told him.
“Yeah, right, that one,” he said. “Well, I looked into it.”
“Really?”
“Oh, I’m not trying to snoop on you, Mrs. Moon, I assure you. I just love learning new things. Always been that way.”
I nodded; he was snooping on me.
He continued, “Anyway, apparently it’s a very rare condition. Usually shows up first in children, not so much in adults....” He let his voice trail off.
“Well, I’m a late bloomer. Always been that way.” I wasn’t feeling too chatty. Warning bells were sounding in my head—only my head felt too dull to sort through them. “What can I do for you, detective?”
“Oh, just wondering how your case is coming along. Actually, our case is coming along.” He chuckled again.
“Our case is moving along fine,” I said.
“Any leads?”
“Not yet.” I’m always hesitant to share any information to cops. At least, not until I’m ready. When I needed Sherbet, I’d come to him. Not the other way around.
He finished the donut and licked his fingers; he fished around in the bag—which must have gotten his fingers sticky all over again—and removed a cinnamon cake. He seemed pleased with his selection and promptly took a healthy bite.
I was sucking air carefully. My lungs felt somehow smaller. I was having a hell of a hard time getting a decent breath.
His eyes flicked over at me. “You okay, Mrs. Moon?”
“Yes; it’s just a little bright for me.”
“Your shades are down. We are practically sitting in the dark.”
I motioned toward the weak sunlight peaking through a crack in the curtains. “Any sunlight at all can be harmful.”
“You have a sensitive condition.”
“Very.”
“There was a murder in Fullerton a week ago,” he said, biting into the cinnamon donut. He wasn’t looking at me. “Kid was drained of his blood, or at least most of it. The thing is, the medical examiner doesn’t know where the blood went.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the kid was lying there on the sidewalk, shot to death, and there wasn’t an ounce of blood around him—or even in him, for that matter.” This time he didn’t chuckle.
“Maybe he, you know, bled elsewhere.”
“Maybe.” Sherbet took another sizable bite. Cinnamon drifted down, glittering in the angled sunlight coming in through the blinds. “No one knows who shot him. No one heard anything. So I keep at it. You know, just doing my job. I find out that the victim is a known banger, has a long rap sheet, name of Gilberto. I talk to Gilberto’s friends, discover they had a party the night of his murder. But that’s all I get from them. I figure the victim must have been shot after their little party.” He paused. “And then we find this.”
The detective licked his fingers and reached inside his Members Only jacket and pulled out a photograph of a hand gun. “Kids found it in the bushes a few streets down the road. We test the gun, discover it’s the same gun that did the banger. We also lift some prints from it. Turns out the prints belong to Gilberto’s uncle. Guy’s name is Elias. So I shake down Elias the other night, and he says he shot the gun in self-defense.”
Detective Sherbet peered inside the donut bag carefully. The room was still and quiet. Sherbet’s face was half-hidden in shadows. The bag crinkled as his hand groped for the next donut. “So I push Elias some more, really come down on him. Believe it or not, I can be a real hardass if I want to be.”
Actually, I believed it.
He continued. “And he tells me the whole story. I follow up on the story with the others who were there that night. The story checks out.” He paused and studied me carefully. The whites of his eyes shone brightly in the dark. “The story goes like this. They were partying. A woman shows up. Jogging, believe it or not, in the dead of night. Anyway, I get a teenage punk to admit that they were going to gang rape her. But things go wrong, horribly wrong.”
I said nothing.
“Turns out they cornered a tigress.” He chuckled softly and went to town on a chocolate old-fashioned. He worked his way along the outer rim of the donut. “She showed them hell. A real G.I. Jane.”
I almost laughed. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it sounded funny.
He continued. “She apparently picks this Gilberto scumbag up by the throat. A two hundred and fifty pound man. Picks him up with one hand. And that’s when the story gets a little fuzzy. At some point around that time a gun goes off, and Gilberto takes a bullet in the chest. The others flee like the scattering rats they are. One of them, hiding in the bushes, watches the woman carry off Gilberto’s corpse into the dead of night.”
We were silent. I could almost hear his tired digestive system going to work on the donuts.
“Hell of a campfire story, if you ask me,” he said. He wadded up the paper bag. “What do you t
hink about all of that?”
“Hard to believe.”
He chuckled. “Exactly. Group of guys out having fun, drunk and fist-fighting and things turn ugly and a gun goes off, and one of them turns up dead. Happens all the time. Sometimes the group will even put their heads together and come up with a wild story.”
He held the wadded-up donut bag in both hands. He rested his chin on top of his hands and stared at me. “But I have never heard of a story more wild than this.”
I continued saying nothing.
“You ever jog alone at night, Mrs. Moon?”
“Yes.”
We sat quietly. “Now, as far as I can tell, this girl committed no crime. She was acting in self-defense, and I can guarantee you she taught these boys a lesson. I’ve never seen a group of men so fucking spooked in my life. Still, I would kind of like to know what she did with that body. I mean it went missing for a few hours, then reappeared later that morning. Minus a lot of blood. You have any thoughts on that, Mrs. Moon?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
He stood up and gave me his card. “Well, thanks for chatting with an old man. I expect to see more of you.”
“Lucky you.”
He stepped over to the front door. “Oh, and Mrs. Moon...were you jogging that night?”
“Which night was that?”
He told me.
“Yes,” I said.
“And you didn’t see anything?”
“Nothing that would help you, detective.”
“Great, thank you.”
He shook my hand, holding it carefully in both of his. His hands were so very warm. He nodded once and then left my home.
So very warm....
29.
I drove slowly past the massive Gothic home, peering through the wrought iron fortification. The house was dark and still. I continued by the brooding structure, parked around the corner and killed the minivan’s engine.
Other than a handful of trash cans mixed between some parked cars, the street was empty, as it should be at 2:00 a.m., the vampire’s hour.
Whatever that means.
A small wind scuttled a red Carl’s Jr. hamburger wrapper along the gutter. Hamburgers are not on my short list of acceptable foods, although raw hamburger meat has been known to sometimes—sometimes—stay down. Where it went, of course, I had no idea.
New topic.
The brick fence that ran along the east side of Horton’s home was almost entirely covered in ivy. Streetlamps were few and far between, and none on this particular corner. Better for me.
I stepped out of the minivan and into the cool night air. The darkness was comforting. Perhaps I needed the darkness more than it needed me, but I liked to think that I enriched and added flavor to the night. I liked to believe I gave the night some purpose, a sort of symbiotic relationship.
It was 2:00 a.m., the vampire’s hour, and I was feeling good.
I approached the vine-covered wall and did a cursory look around. No one was out. The street was empty. The wall before me was ten feet high and topped with iron spikes. Spikes, stakes, ice picks, railroad spikes, of course, all made me nervous. Hell, I’ve been known to shudder at the sight of a toothpick.
With a small crowbar tucked into a loop on my jeans, I paused briefly beneath the brick fence and then jumped. High. Soaring through the air.
I landed on top and grabbed hold of an iron spike in each hand. Early on in my vampirism, I discovered I could dunk a basketball. Basketball rims were typically about ten feet high. The kids at the local park had been impressed beyond words. So was I. We had, of course, been playing at night.
Careful of the iron spikes, I squatted there on top of the wall like an oversized—albeit cute—frog. In true amphibian-like fashion, I jumped over the spikes and landed smoothly on the far side of the wall, hands flat on the cement.
I dashed around to the back of the house, and promptly pulled up short, coming face to face, or face to muzzle, with two startled Doberman pinchers. Both were huge and beautiful, sleek and powerful. Both blended perfectly with the night.
Their surprise at seeing me turned quickly to fear. No doubt they caught a whiff of me. Whimpering, they turned and dashed off. Had they owned tails, those would have been tucked between their hind legs; as it were, their round nubs shuddered like frightened little moles poking up through the dark earth. The dogs disappeared within some thick shrubbery near a tool shed.
I had that effect on dogs, and animals in general, who seem to sort of see right through my human disguise. I guess they didn’t like what they saw. Too bad. I love dogs.
Horton’s house might have an alarm. Hell, in Southern California many lesser homes had some form of security. Although I suspected the Dobermans were the extent of the backyard security, I wasn’t taking any chances with the downstairs French doors. Instead, I focused on the second floor balcony with its sliding glass door, leading, by my reckoning, to a guest bedroom.
I reached up, gripped the edge of the balcony’s wooden floor. In one fluid motion, I pulled myself up and over the railing and landed squarely in the center of the balcony, which shuddered slightly. Next, I used the pry bar to jimmy open the sliding glass door’s lock. Luckily, nothing broke. This time. I was getting better at this.
I stepped into the house.
30.
It was indeed the guest room.
The bed, however, was currently empty of guests. A massive Peruvian tapestry hung behind the bed, evoking a simple scene of village life. Moonlight shone through the open drapes, splashing silver over everything. I loved moonlight. Sunlight was overrated.
The air was musky. Newly-stirred dust motes drifted into the moonbeams. Being a trained investigator, I surmised this room hadn’t been used in quite some time.
I stepped through into a dark hallway. Well, dark for others, that is. For me, the hallway crackled with molten streams of quicksilver energy, turning everything into distinct shades of gray. Better than any flashlight.
The hallway segued into a wooden railing. Beyond, was a view of the downstairs living room.
And that’s when I met the Cat From Hell.
It was sitting on the railing in perfect repose, forepaws together, tail swishing, ears back, its reflective yellow eyes bright spheres of hate. It growled from deep within its chest cavity; we stared at each other for about twenty seconds, just two creatures of the night crossing paths.
Apparently, it wasn’t feeling the same sort of kinship.
Like an umbrella, its fur sprang open. Pop. Then it screeched bloody hell, and in one quick movement, slashed me across my face. It leaped from the railing, darted down the hallway, hung a right and disappeared down a flight of stairs.
I touched my cheek. The little shit. The wound was already scabbing. I knew within minutes it would be gone altogether.
Still. The little shit.
I waited motionless, certain someone would come to investigate the devil cat. But no one came.
I continued on, and at end of the hall I peaked into an open door. There, sleeping as peaceful as can be, was Rick Horton. From the doorway, I studied his massive room and noted the various antique furnishings, especially the massive, ornate mirror. The room itself was immaculate; everything in its place. Because of that, it was the last place I would have wanted to sleep. A bedroom needed to be lived in.
Rick Horton slept on an undraped four-poster bed. Instead, coats, sweaters and slacks hung neatly from hangers along the horizontal canopy board, perhaps an extension of his closet. Beneath the bed was a cardboard box. The box was slightly askew and not in accordance with the rigorous precision of the room, as if it had been recently shoved under the bed.
I walked quietly to his bedside. Little did Horton realize that an honest-to-God vampire was leaning over him in his sleep, peering down at the smooth slope of his pale neck, where a fat artery pulsed invitingly. I could easily overpower him, tear open the flesh and start drinking. It would be so easy, and warm blood tasted...
so... goddamn... good.
I sighed and turned my attention to the box, sliding it silently from beneath the bed. Horton never stirred, although I wondered if his sub-conscious was somehow aware of me. Perhaps at this very moment he was fleeing a beautiful vampire in his dreams. Okay, maybe not beautiful, but certainly damn cute with a curvy little body. I wondered fleetingly if the vampire in his dreams catches him. If so, what does she do with him?
I exited the room and made my way back through the long hallway and found a cavernous study. I didn’t risk turning on the light. Instead, I pulled open the curtains and allowed for some moonlight, and sat down in a brass-studded executive chair behind a black lacquer desk. I opened the box.
Inside were folders and papers. I removed the first folder, flipped it open and was greeted almost immediately with my own agency’s business card stapled to a sheet of paper. Written on the paper was my physical description. I was pleased to say that I was referred to as being thin and pretty. There was more. A meticulously written recap of our conversation. Most disturbing was a description of my minivan and my license plate number. He had watched me leave.
The second file was much thicker. Inside was a vast array of facts and photographs of Hewlett Jackson, Kingsley’s now-murdered client. Hewlett was a young black man, good-looking. There were some pictures of him coming and going from a residence, pictures of him leaving a white Ford Mustang, of him sitting in a park with a female companion, or him drinking late at night with friends at an outdoor restaurant. Careful notes were made of times and places of Hewlett’s movements and activities.
One particular time and place was circled in red ink. Most interesting was that it was the exact time and place Hewlett was found murdered.
The last file contained similar information on Kingsley Fulcrum. I read the entire file with much interest, then closed the box, exited the study and returned the whole shebang back under Horton’s bed. I even made sure the box was slightly askew.
I stared down at the man who had lost his brother within this last year. I felt pity for him. But Rick Horton had decided to take justice into his own hands. And that’s where my pity ended.