“Help me!” he yelled to his wife upstairs. “Help me!” he shouted once more, and felt cold, rusty metal thrust further into his groin.
Tearily, he realized that she would not hear him, that she could not hear him, because he had soundproofed the basement so that no sounds would escape, and she was forbidden to come down here anyway. He had been quite clear about that. Still, as he felt an iron spike tickling the back of his neck, and fought the almost irresistible urge to rear back his head and scratch it, he couldn’t help but wonder bleakly what exactly she would do if she did.
6
Though the ranch was near his own, it was farther remote than Dugan’s. He had driven by it a number of times and not thought much about it. The horse statue to which Torres referred was actually a black, cast aluminum horse silhouette that was mounted above the mailbox. It was actually quite lovely. Dugan had known what he meant.
The property had a log entryway with a double gate that led down a paved driveway, unusual for these parts. Decorative white picket fencing ran along both sides of the drive about the first hundred yards or so before giving way to empty fields. Beyond that, the road entered a thicket of woods and was lost to sight.
Slowing in front of the entrance, Dan asked, “What do you want to do?”
Dugan looked through the open gates, then up to the fading, though still star specked night sky.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “I think a frontal assault would probably work best.”
When his uncle looked at him puzzled, Dugan smiled faintly and motioned with his hand.
“It’s open, man. Drive on in.”
Though he cocked his head uncertainly, Dan proceeded through the gate. They went down the drive and passed through the short stretch of woods, eventually emerging to see in the near distance a charming farmhouse with a wraparound porch that might have been lifted straight from a postcard. To their left was a large, fenced in pasture equipped with a red hay barn. On the right was an incongruous, low-slung, corrugated metal structure that looked like a warehouse. A windowless van was parked beside it.
“Go all the way to the end,” Dugan instructed.
Dan did as he was told, pulling to a stop at the broad end of the driveway about ten yards from the house, next to a rusted pickup and a shiny red Cadillac. After idling there a moment, Dugan said, “Let ‘em know we’re here.”
Dan wasn’t sure what he meant by that before suddenly getting it. “Are you sure?” he asked nervously.
Taking hold of his door handle, Dugan pulled on it and started getting out of the car. “Do it,” he said flatly.
Dan hesitated before lifting his hand and pressing down on the horn, leaving it there a long few seconds. When he stopped, the jarring bleat of it still echoed throughout the canyon.
“Again,” Dugan ordered, standing now just outside his open door.
Dan put his hand on the horn and this time, kept it there. Seconds later, lights started flickering on inside the house. Soon after, two hard looking men with untucked shirts and untied boots hefting scary looking long guns stormed out the front door.
Momentarily blinded by the beaming headlights, they eventually saw what appeared to be a boy standing beside the open passenger door of an old car. Confused, both of them stopped before the one on the right took his first tentative step down the stairs. Having no other instructions, Dan chose that moment to remove his hand from the horn.
Once he could be heard, the man on the right yelled, “What in blazes is going on out here!”
Dugan stared at him a long few seconds before shifting his gaze to the man on the left. Both cocked their heads at the same moment before deciding their best course of action was to turn their rifles on each other. Each swung their barrels and fired simultaneously. Both were cut down instantly. Inside the car, Dan’s mouth fell open as he watched, stupefied.
Before the echo of their gunshots receded, a middle aged, well fed Mexican woman in a bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers pushed open the door and stepped from the house. After gazing at the scene, taking in the car and the boy, she walked toward the man on the left and crouched over him.
Stepping away from the car, Dugan went purposefully up the stairs and approached her. While she was bent over, he saw around her neck was a glinting golden necklace from which dangled a shiny silver key.
Raising her head, she glared at Dugan with poison in her eyes. “This was my son,” she spat.
Dugan shot a bored glance in the direction of the dying man.
“Was he Rocio?” he asked.
The woman shook her head.
“No,” she answered haughtily. “I am Rocio.”
Dugan sent her a baleful grin. Seeing him do it, the woman’s eyes narrowed before unconsciously, she crept back a little. Lazily crouching over her, Dugan reached out his hand, put his fist around the key, and tore it away from her neck.
Opening his palm, he stared at it a while as if it might contain all the secrets of the universe, before closing his fist and looking away.
“Well, then,” he said after a moment. “It’s nice to meet you, Rocio.”
It came out somewhat garbled. His fangs were already extending, in eager anticipation of the feast to come.
Inside the car, the instant his nephew pounced, Dan slammed his eyes shut.
Chapter Sixteen
1
After drinking his fill and leaving the woman a pale, dry husk, Dugan knew he had very little time remaining. Perhaps no more than forty-five minutes. Still, he took some moments to enjoy staring down at her dead, unseeing eyes, feeling warmer than he had in some time, and stronger than he had since . . . well, since the last time. Though the human blood he had consumed secondhand from Teresa was good, there was nothing like taking it directly from the source.
When ready, he stood from his feeding crouch and turned toward his uncle’s Dodge, seeing then he had his head down as if in prayer. His eyes were closed. Dugan felt a momentary pang of regret he had been there to witness it, but it couldn’t be helped.
Sorry, Uncle Dan. This is my life. This is who I am. This is what you signed up for. And with me, you never know what you’re going to get. Some nights that begin in a ravaged Mexico City can end hundreds of miles away, on the unassuming front porch of an unholy marketplace. Occasionally, they end with both of us fugitives, accused of murders we didn’t commit, while the murders we do commit go unpunished.
Welcome to my world, Dugan thought bitterly.
The key he had ripped from Rocio’s throat opened the metal warehouse. Inside the stinking repository were at least three dozen girls, some as young as twelve, a few even younger, judging by the teddy bears. Sold by their families or kidnapped by their boyfriends or just in the wrong place at the wrong time, they were all being readied for shipment to God knows where, to be used for you can guess what.
It took some time to find Ana. Dan walked through the emptying space shouting her name, or more precisely, the name they had given her, but she did not answer. When he finally did find her, she was half naked and lying on a befouled mattress, battered and bruised and having been through what he could only imagine was hell. Unresponsive, she didn’t recognize or acknowledge him, and recoiled when he tried reaching out for her. But Dan didn’t truly apprehend just how serious her condition was until she didn’t recognize Dugan either.
For his part, Dugan reached into her mind and found nothing but emptiness. Whatever wall she had erected to shield herself from her ordeal was impenetrable. Of course, he knew this wasn’t the first time this poor girl found it necessary to escape within herself. Dugan first stumbled upon her the night the Mexican army entered her village, in their secret war to root out subversives and others opposed to their country’s sclerotic, one-party rule. Her university educated older brother had been one. He and his friends were already dead by the time Dugan arrived, force fed gasoline in the town square, as were her parents. When he stumbled upon a young soldier doing what young soldiers do,
he dispatched him with relish and spirited her away from the village.
But the girl had seen things that night no one ever should, and the wall she had put up then, and the wall she had up now, were perfectly natural human reactions, he knew. But there was nothing that Dugan or Dan could do for her. She needed more help than either of them could provide. And it was almost light.
“We have to go, Uncle Dan,” Dugan said softly.
Dan wheeled on him with a look of utter surprise. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“We have to leave now. We’ve done all we can.”
He watched his uncle’s mouth fall open before he shook his head. “Are you fucking crazy? Do you mean to just leave her here?”
Dugan went on in his most calming, measured voice. “We’ll make some phone calls. First, we call the churches and the hospitals and the Red Cross to let them know what they’ll find here. Only after we make sure they’ll be the first to arrive do we call the authorities. But we can’t stay here, Uncle Dan. We have to go.”
His uncle looked stricken. “We can’t leave her,” he pleaded tearily, turning again to look in Ana’s faraway eyes. “We have to save her.”
Dugan gripped his uncle firmly by the arm and squeezed tight.
“We already have,” he whispered quietly.
He waited for his uncle to understand that, knowing in his own soul that it was true. They had saved her. Twice, in fact. She was luckier than most, Dugan knew. And if he had learned anything at all on this terrible journey, it was that you can’t save everyone.
2
Dugan was sitting cross-legged on one of the low hills that overlooked his four-room ranch, the home he had tried to make for himself. He didn’t dare spend the day inside, knowing both he and his uncle were wanted for the murders that occurred in his uncle’s home. The few moments he had spent in Torres’ filthy mind confirmed that suspicion.
But there was a gathering of boulders with a deep and spacious interior not far from here he had investigated on one of his nighttime forays. It would serve as good a place as any. For purely sentimental reasons, he wanted to spend his last day here.
His uncle dropped him off before going to make the phone calls that would provide real rescue to the girls. Aside from making plans on where they would meet up later that evening, his uncle did not speak to him as they drove away from Rocio’s. Dugan knew in that moment his uncle hated him for deciding for them both what he believed to be the wrong decision. And hell, maybe it was the wrong decision, Dugan thought broodingly. Lord knows, he’d been making his share of those lately. But, he had made it, and was prepared to live with the consequences.
He understood too that some of his uncle’s reticence had to do with coming to terms with what he had witnessed Dugan do on the porch, to have seen with his own eyes what he had formerly only imagined; to bear witness to what was now his beloved nephew’s true nature. Dugan guessed in that respect too, his uncle would someday come around. Either way, it was out of his hands.
While staring down from the hill into the valley, with a touch of nostalgia he recalled his days in the carnival, when he would often pass the time after his friends went to sleep by climbing the highest point in whatever town they happened to be in and gazing down upon all the things he was no longer a part of. In the ranch below and the land surrounding it, he had tried to carve out his own place in the world. And wherever he ended up after this, he would do the same all over again, because what other choice does anyone have?
Shuddering once again with listlessness, he knew he had precious few minutes left to seek shelter. Reaching behind him, he lifted his bag to his shoulder and recalled then that at least some words had passed between him and his uncle earlier that evening.
After pulling over to drop him off, Dugan opened his bag and removed the briefcase, taking from inside a wrapped stack of hundreds and handing it to his uncle. “Just in case,” Dugan had said, both knowing he meant in case any wheels needed to be greased in the rescue of the girls in this horribly corrupt country.
His uncle peered into the briefcase. Upon seeing its contents, he raised his eyebrows and asked, “Where’d you get that?” Dugan considered the question while closing the case and returning it to his bag.
“I think it was payment for services rendered,” he answered honestly.
He could think of no other explanation. If Richards had wanted it back, he could easily have taken it. Or maybe, he just forgot. Either way, Richards would have known he couldn’t be bribed. In fact, money meant very little to him. He still had plenty in a trust that Julian had set up in his name. Besides, he could always get money.
Standing, he picked up a second bag he had packed earlier that evening, when he entered the ranch house to collect some loose items he wanted to bring with him. A few books. More totems. A letter that Julian had written him upon their parting that was still unopened. Precious few other things. Smiling, he thought that was one good thing about moving so often. You decided well and truly and once and for all what was important to you, and what wasn’t.
One final twinge alerted he was out of time, but he stood there a while longer, to gaze at the night sky just beyond the hills, thinking he might just see a shadow of a glimmer of the first rays of the morning sun.
With a deep sigh that was almost a sob, he turned and headed for the outcrop, reminded once again that more than anything else in this world, he missed the sun.
3
Though still charged from his recent feeding, for some reason, Dugan ascended more slowly than usual from the void. When able finally to link his thoughts together, he pondered that, and supposed it might have to do with being tired. Even vampires get tired, right? Or maybe, it was all the recent travel. There were subtle differences in the sunsets of places even a few miles apart. It was one reason he had tried to set down roots, to permit his reanimated corpse to acclimate itself to one specific locale. More likely, he imagined, his weariness sprang from the simple change of seasons. It was almost late September. The days were getting shorter. Autumn was nearly here.
While waiting for night to fall, he remembered the totem in his hands. He had removed Larry’s eyeglasses from his bag just before dying, figuring it was long past time the two touch base. With an inner smirk, he thought that although he wasn’t looking forward to some of the comments that would deservedly come his way, still, it would be good to talk with his old friend again.
“Larry?” he asked, as unbeknownst to him, his body underwent a violent muscular spasm in what a medical professional might call a “death throe.”
“Are you there, buddy?” he asked, and after a moment heard the familiar voice of his friend.
“I’m here, pal,” it said.
Dugan thought his voice sounded different, weary, and maybe a little impatient. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” Larry answered, though perhaps too quickly.
After a spell of silence, Dugan asked, “So, have you been keeping up with any of this? We haven’t talked in a while.”
“Yup,” Larry answered. “I have in fact been following all of your recent adventures. And hey, I warned you about that plane, didn’t I?”
“You sure did,” Dugan replied, remembering the army veteran who suffered a sharp stick in the eye. “Good tip. Thanks for that.”
“No problemo, buddy. And . . . hey, I’m sorry about that girl of yours. I thought she was really nice.”
“Thanks,” Dugan answered quietly, not ready to talk about Teresa, but appreciating it nonetheless.
“Would it help if I told you she was in a better place?” Larry asked kindly.
Dugan thought about it. “Yeah, man. It would. It really would.”
After a beat, Larry snapped, “Well, I can’t. What the hell am I, your personal answer man? I’m not privy to everything, you know!”
Dugan chuckled as Larry went on.
“Still, we do need to talk about the elephant in the room.”
“You had sex!” Larry said in a voice filled with wonder.
In his head, Dugan smiled. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he answered as suavely as he could.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Larry continued, “it was a creepy as hell kind of sex, let’s be honest. What the hell were you thinking? With the blood and all that? What the hell is wrong with you, man?”
“Hey, don’t knock it til you tried it!” Dugan protested.
Larry laughed. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s true. Whatever floats your boat, am I right? Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that yours truly also had his cherry popped.”
“Get out!” Dugan exclaimed. “You have to tell me all about it. Fair’s fair.”
“Well,” Larry began, “Have you ever heard of Marilyn Monroe?”
“You’re shitting me!”
“Umm, yeah. Of course I am. But a man can dream, can’t he?”
Dugan laughed again as his friend’s voice started getting more distant. He was almost awake. “You still there?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m here . . .” Larry stopped as if he wanted to say more.
Bothered now, Dugan asked, “What’s going on, Larry? Tell me. I know something is. Remember, we don’t keep secrets from each other.”
“That’s true,” Larry agreed, though reticently. “And you are right. There is something we need to talk about.” When he paused a long while as if to gird himself, Dugan braced for bad news.
“The thing is,” Larry began, “and this is really awkward and hard and I hate to even bring it up. But you really gotta let me go.”
Dugan felt his heart sink. “What do you mean, let you go? Not talk to you anymore?”
Larry took what seemed to Dugan too long to form his thoughts.
“Well, yeah, it is kinda that, but it’s more like, you don’t need me anymore. Really, man. It’s also I think, and remember, I look at you like a brother, you know that. But now, it’s like you’re just using me as some kind of crutch, you know what I mean? Which I don’t mind, don’t get me wrong. But it’s not good for you. And it’s not good for me, either. I gotta let things go too. Besides, you don’t need me anymore. That’s why I think it’s time for you to let me go. You gotta let me go, man. You gotta move on.”
Applewood (Book 3): The Space of Life Between Page 29