Rainy Nights: Three Mysteries
Author: Rain, J.R.
Date: 2013-12-03

RAINY NIGHTS

THREE BESTSELLING NOVELS

Moon Dance

Dark Horse

The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

by

J.R. RAIN

Acclaim for the novels of J.R. Rain:

“Be prepared to lose sleep!”

—James Rollins, international bestselling author of The Devil’s Colony

“I love this!”

—Piers Anthony, bestselling author of Xanth

“J.R. Rain delivers a blend of action and wit that always entertains. Quick with the one-liners, but his characters are fully fleshed out (even the undead ones) and you’ll come back again and again.”

—Scott Nicholson, bestselling author of The Red Church

“Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”

—Gemma Halliday, award-winning author of Spying in High Heels

“Moon Dance is absolutely brilliant!”

—Lisa Tenzin-Dolma, author of Understanding the Planetary Myths

“Powerful stuff!”

—Aiden James, bestselling author of Plague of Coins

“Moon Dance is a must read. If you like Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, be prepared to love J.R. Rain’s Samantha Moon, vampire private investigator.”

—Eve Paludan, author of Letters from David

“Impossible to put down. J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance is a fabulous urban fantasy replete with multifarious and unusual characters, a perfectly synchronized plot, vibrant dialogue and sterling witticism all wrapped in a voice that is as beautiful as it is rich and vividly intense as it is relaxed.”

—April Vine, author of The Midnight Rose

Other Books by J.R. Rain

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Lost Ark

Elvis Has Not Left the Building

The Grail Quest

The Body Departed

Silent Echo

Winter Wind

VAMPIRE FOR HIRE

Moon Dance

Vampire Moon

American Vampire

Moon Child

Christmas Moon (novella)

Vampire Dawn

Vampire Games

Moon Island

Moon River

Vampire Sun

Moon Dragon

Moon Shadow

SAMANTHA MOON

SHORT STORIES

Teeth

Vampire Nights

Vampires Blues

Vampire Dreams

Halloween Moon

Vampire Gold

Blue Moon

Dark Side of the Moon

JIM KNIGHTHORSE

Dark Horse

The Mummy Case

Hail Mary

Clean Slate

Easy Rider (short story)

Night Run

THE WITCHES SERIES

The Witch and the Gentleman

The Witch and the Englishman

The Witch and the Huntsman

The Witch and the Wolfman

THE SPINOZA TRILOGY

The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

The Vampire Who Played Dead

The Vampire in the Iron Mask

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES

Bound By Blood

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

The Bleeder and Other Stories

Vampire Rain and Other Stories

The Santa Call and Other Stories

Black Rain: 15 Dark Tales

Blood Rain: 15 Dark Tales

SHORT STORY SINGLES

The Bleeder

Co-Authored Books

COLLABORATIONS

Cursed (with Scott Nicholson)

Ghost College (with Scott Nicholson)

The Vampire Club (with Scott Nicholson)

Dragon Assassin (with Piers Anthony)

Dolfin Tayle (with Piers Anthony)

Jack and the Giants (with Piers Anthony)

Judas Silver (with Elizabeth Basque)

Lost Eden (with Elizabeth Basque)

Glimmer (with Eve Paludan)

The Black Fang Betrayal (with Multiple Authors)

The Indestructibles (with Rod Kierkegaard)

THE OPEN HEART SERIES
with Rod Kierkegaard

The Dead Detective

Ghosts of Christmas Present (short story)

NICK CAINE ADVENTURES
with Aiden James

Temple of the Jaguar

Treasure of the Deep

Pyramid of the Gods

THE ALADDIN TRILOGY
with Piers Anthony

Aladdin Relighted

Aladdin Sins Bad

Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman

THE WALKING PLAGUE TRILOGY
with Elizabeth Basque

Zombie Patrol

Zombie Rage

Zombie Mountain

THE SPIDER TRILOGY
with Scott Nicholson and H.T. Night

Bad Blood

Spider Web

Spider Bite

THE PSI TRILOGY
with A.K. Alexander

Hear No Evil

See No Evil

Speak No Evil

Rainy Nights: Three Novels

Published by J.R. Rain

Copyright © 2010 by J.R. Rain

Ebook License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. All rights reserved.

Dedication:

To my good friend, Diane Arkenstone.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Moon Dance

Dark Horse

The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

Reading Sample

About the Author

MOON DANCE

Vampire for Hire #1

Dedication

This book is dedicated to mothers everywhere:

Our amazing, selfless, unsung heroes.

Love you, ma.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Eve Paludan, Liisa Lee (and all her i’s) and

Sandy Johnston for their generous assistance with this book.

Moon Dance

1.

I was folding laundry in the dark and watching Judge Judy rip this guy a new asshole when the doorbell rang.

I flipped down a pair of Oakley wrap-around sunglasses and, still holding a pair of little Anthony’s cotton briefs in one hand, opened the front door.

The light, still painfully bright, poured in from outside. I squinted behind my shades and could just made out the image of a UPS deliveryman.

And, oh, what an image it was.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, a hunky guy with tan legs and beefy arms materialized through the screen door before me. He grinned at me easily, showing off a perfect row of white teeth. Spiky yellow hair protruded from under his brown cap. The guy should have been a model, or at least my new best friend.

“Mrs. Moon?” he asked. His eyes seemed particularly searching and hungry, and I wondered if I had stepped onto the set of a porno movie. Interestingly, a sort of warning bell sounded in my head. Warning bells are tricky to discern, and I automatically assumed this one was telling me to stay away from Mr. Beefy, or risk damaging my already rocky marriage.

“You got her,” I said easily, ignoring the warning bells.

“I’ve got a package here for you.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’ll need for you to sign the delivery log.” He held up an electronic gizmo-thingy that must have been the aforementioned delivery log.

“I’m sure you do,” I said, and opened the screen door and stuck a hand out. He looked at my very pale hand, paused, and then placed the electronic thing-a-majig in it. As I signed it, using a plastic-tipped pen, my signature appeared in the display box as an arthritic mess. The deliveryman watched me intently through the screen door. I don’t like to be watched intently. In fact, I prefer to be ignored and forgotten.

“Do you always wear sunglasses indoors?” he asked casually, but I sensed his hidden question: And what sort of freak are you?

“Only during the day. I find them redundant at night.” I opened the screen door again and exchanged the log doohickey for a small square package. “Thank you,” I said. “Have a good day.”

He nodded and left, and I watched his cute little buns for a moment longer, and then shut the solid oak door completely. Sweet darkness returned to my home. I pulled up the sunglasses and sat down in a particularly worn dining room chair. Someday I was going to get these things re-upholstered.

The package was heavily taped, but a few deft strokes of my painted red nail took care of all that. I opened the lid and peered inside. Shining inside was an ancient golden medallion. An intricate Celtic cross was engraved across the face of it, and embedded within the cross, formed by precisely cut rubies, were three red roses.

In the living room, Judge Judy was calmly explaining to the defendant what an idiot he was. Although I agreed, I turned the TV off, deciding that this medallion needed my full concentration.

After all, it was the same medallion worn by my attacker six years earlier.

2.

There was no return address and no note. Other than the medallion, the box was empty. I left the gleaming artifact in the box and shut the lid. Seeing it again brought back some horrible memories. Memories I have been doing my best to forget.

I put the box in a cabinet beneath the china hutch, and then went back to Judge Judy and putting away the laundry. At 3:30 p.m., I lathered my skin with heaping amounts of sun block, donned a wide gardening hat and carefully stepped outside.

The pain, as always, was intense and searing. Hell, I could have been cooking over an open fire pit. Truly, I had no business being out in the sun, but I had my kids to pick up, dammit.

So I hurried from the front steps and crossed the driveway and into the open garage. My dream was to have a home with an attached garage. But, for now, I had to make the daily sprint.

Once in the garage and out of the direct glare of the spring sun, I could breathe again. I could also smell my burning flesh.

Blech!

Luckily, the Ford Windstar minivan was heavily tinted, and so when I backed up and put the thing into drive, I was doing okay again. Granted, not great, but okay.

I picked up my son and daughter from school, got some cheeseburgers from Burger King and headed home. Yes, I know, bad mom, but after doing chores all day, I definitely was not going to cook.

Once at home, the kids went straight to their room and I went straight to the bathroom where I removed my hat and sunglasses, and used a washcloth to remove the extra sunscreen. Hell, I ought to buy stock in Coppertone. Soon the kids were hard at work saving our world from Haloes and had lapsed into a rare and unsettling silence. Perhaps it was the quiet before the storm.

My only appointment for the day was right on time, and since I work from home, I showed him to my office in the back. His name was Kingsley Fulcrum and he sat across from me in a client chair, filling it to capacity. He was tall and broad shouldered and wore his tailored suit well. His thick black hair, speckled with gray, was jauntily disheveled and worn long over his collar. Kingsley was a striking man and would have been the poster boy for dashing rogues if not for the two scars on his face. Then again, maybe poster boys for rogue did have scars on their faces. Anyway, one was on his left cheek and the other was on his forehead, just above his left eye. Both were round and puffy. And both were recent.

He caught me staring at the scars. I looked away, embarrassed. “How can I help you, Mr. Fulcrum?”

“How long have you been a private investigator, Mrs. Moon?” he asked.

“Six years,” I said.

“What did you do before that?”

“I was a federal agent.”

He didn’t say anything, and I could feel his eyes on me. God, I hate when I can feel eyes on me. The silence hung for longer than I was comfortable with and I answered his unspoken question. “I had an accident and was forced to work at home.”

“May I ask what kind of accident?”

“No.”

He raised his eyebrows and nodded. He might have turned a pale shade of red. “Do you have a list of references?”

“Of course.”

I turned to my computer, brought up the reference file and printed him out the list. He took it and scanned the names briefly. “Mayor Hartley?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“He hired you?”

“He did. I believe that’s the direct line to his personal assistant.”

“Can I ask what sort of help you gave the mayor?”

“No.”

“I understand. Of course you can’t divulge that kind of information.”

“How exactly can I help you, Mr. Fulcrum?” I asked again.

“I need you to find someone.”

“Who?”

“The man who shot me,” he said. “Five times.”

3.

The furious sounds of my kids erupting into an argument suddenly came through my closed office door. In particular, Anthony’s high-pitched shriek. Sigh. The storm broke.

I gave Kingsley an embarrassed smile. “Could you please hold on?”

“Duty calls,” he said, smiling. Nice smile.

I marched through my single story home and into the small bedroom my children shared. Anthony was on top of Tammy. Tammy was holding the remote control away from her body with one hand and fending off her little brother with the other. I came in just in time to witness him sinking his teeth into her hand. She yelped and bopped him over the ear with the remote control. He had just gathered himself to make a full-scale leap onto her back, when I stepped into the room and grabbed each by their collar and separated them. I felt as if I had separated two ravenous wolverines. Anthony’s fingers clawed for his sister’s throat. I wondered if they realized they were both hovering a few inches off the floor. When they had both calmed down, I set them down on their feet. Their collars were ruined.

“Anthony, we do not bite in this household. Tammy, give me the remote control.”

“But Mom,” said Anthony, in that shriekingly high-pitched voice that he used to irritate me. “I was watching ‘Pokemon’ and she turned the channel.”

“We each get one half hour after school,” Tammy said smugly. “And you were well into my half hour.”

“But you were on the phone talking to Richaaard.”

“Tammy, give your brother the remote control. He gets to finish his TV show. You lost your dibs by talking to Richaaard.” They both laughed. “I have a client in my office. If I hear any more loud voices, you will both be auctioned off on eBay. I could use the extra money.”

I left them and headed back to the office. Kingsley was perusing my bookshelves. He looked at me before I had a chance to say anything and raised his eyebrows.

“You have an interest in the occult,” he said, fingering a hardback book. “In particular, vampirism.”

“Yeah, well, we all need a hobby,” I said.

“An interesting hobby, that,” he said.

I sat behind my desk. It was time to change the subject. “So you want me to find the man who shot you five times. Anything else?”

He moved away from my book shelves and sat across from me again. He raised a fairly bushy eyebrow. On him, the bushy eyebrow somehow worked.

“Anything else?” he asked, grinning. “No, I think that will be quite enough.”

And then it hit me. I thought I recognized the name and face. “You were on the news a few months back,” I said suddenly.

He nodded once. “Aye, that was me. Shot five times in the head for all the world to see. Not my proudest moment.”

Did he just say aye? I had a strange sense that I had suddenly gone back in time. How far back, I didn’t know, but further enough back where men said aye.

“You were ambushed and shot. I can’t imagine it would have been anyone’s proudest moment. But you survived, and that’s all that matters, right?”

“For now,” he said. “Next on the list would be to find the man who shot me.” He sat forward. “Everything you need is at your disposal. Nothing of mine is off limits. Speak to anyone you need to, although I ask you to be discreet.”

“Discretion is sometimes not possible.”

“Then I trust you to use your best judgment.”

Good answer. He took out a business card and wrote something on the back. “That’s my cell number. Please call me if you need anything.” He wrote something under his number. “And that’s the name and number of the acting homicide detective working my case. His name is Sherbet, and although I found him to be forthcoming and professional, I didn’t like his conclusions.”

“Which were?”

“He tends to think my attack was nothing but a random shooting.”

“And you disagree?”

“Wholeheartedly.”

We discussed my retainer and he wrote me a check. The check was bigger than we discussed.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” said Kingsley as he stood and tucked his expensive fountain pen inside his expensive jacket, “but are you ill?”

I’ve heard the question a thousand times.

“No, why?” I asked brightly.

“You seem pale.”

“Oh, that’s my Irish complexion, lad,” I said, and winked.

He stared at me a moment longer, and then returned my wink and left.

4.

When Kingsley was gone I punched his name into my web browser.

Dozens of online newspaper articles came up, and from these I garnered that Kingsley was a rather successful defense attorney, known for doing whatever it took to get his clients off the hook, often on seemingly inane technicalities. He was apparently worth his weight in gold.

I thought of his beefy shoulders.

A lot of weight. Muscular weight.

Down girl.

I continued scanning the headlines until I found the one I wanted. It was on a web page for a local LA TV station. I clicked on a video link. Thank God for high speed internet. A small media window appeared on my screen, and shortly thereafter I watched a clip that had first appeared on local TV news. The clip had gone national, due to its sensationally horrific visuals.

A reporter appeared first in the screen, a young Hispanic woman looking quite grave. Over her shoulder was a picture of the Fullerton Municipal Courthouse. The next shot was a grainy image from the courthouse security camera itself. In the frame were two men and two women, all dressed impeccably, all looking important. They were crossing in front of the courthouse itself. In football terms, they formed a sort of moving huddle, although I rarely think of things in football terms and understand little of the stupid sport.

I immediately recognized the tall one with the wavy black hair as Kingsley Fulcrum, looking rugged and dashing.

Down girl.

As the group approaches the courthouse steps, a smallish man steps out from behind the trunk of a white birch. Three of the four great defenders pay the man little mind. The one who does, a blond-haired woman with glasses and big hips, looks up and frowns. She probably frowns because the little man is reaching rather menacingly inside his coat pocket. His thick mane of black hair is disheveled, and somehow even his thick mustache looks disheveled, too. The woman, still frowning, turns back to the group.

And what happens next still sends shivers down my spine.

From inside his tweed jacket, the little man removes a short pistol. We now know it’s a .22. At the time, no one sees him remove the pistol. The short man, perhaps ten feet away from the group of four, takes careful aim, and fires.

Kingsley’s head snaps back. The bullet enters over his left eye.

I lean forward, staring at my computer screen, rapt, suddenly wishing I had a bowl of popcorn, or at least a bag of peanut M&Ms. That is, until I remembered that I can no longer eat either.

Anyway, Kingsley’s cohorts immediately scatter like chickens before a hawk. The shorter man even ducks and rolls dramatically as if he’s recently seen duty in the Middle East and his military instincts are kicking in.

Kingsley is shot again. This time in the neck, where a small red dot appears above his collar. Blood quickly flows down his shirt. Instead of collapsing, instead of dying after being shot point blank in the head and neck, Kingsley actually turns and looks at the man.

As if the man had simply called his name.

As if the man had not shot him twice.

What transpires next would be comical if it wasn’t so heinous. Kingsley proceeds to duck behind a nearby tree. The shooter, intent on killing Kingsley, bypasses going around a park bench and instead jumps over it. Smoothly. Landing squarely on his feet while squeezing off a few more rounds that appear to hit Kingsley in the neck and face. Meanwhile, the big attorney ducks and weaves behind the tree. This goes on for seemingly an eternity, but in reality just a few seconds. A sick game of tag, except Kingsley’s getting tagged with real bullets.

And still the attorney does not go down.

Doesn’t even collapse.

The shooter seemingly realizes he’s wasting his time and dashes away from the tree, disappearing from the screen. No one has come to Kingsley’s rescue. The other attorneys are long gone. Kingsley is left to fend for himself, his only protection the tree, which has been torn and shredded by the impacting stray bullets.

Witnesses would later report that the shooter left in a Ford pickup. No one tried to stop him, and I really didn’t blame them.

I paused the picture on Kingsley. Blood is frozen on his cheeks and forehead, even on his open, outstretched palms. His face is a picture of confusion and horror and shock. In just twenty-three seconds, his life had been utterly turned upside down. Of course, in those very same twenty-three seconds most people would have died.

But not Kingsley. I wondered why.

5.

I was at the Fullerton police station, sitting across from a homicide detective named Sherbet. It was the late evening, and most of the staff had left for the day.

“You’re keeping me from my kid,” he said. Sherbet was wearing a long-sleeved shirt folded up at the elbows, revealing heavily muscled forearms covered in dark hair. The dark hair was mixed with a smattering of gray. I thought it looked sexy as hell. His tie was loosened, and he looked irritable, to say the least.

“I apologize,” I said. “This was the only time I could make it today.”

“I’m glad I can work around your busy schedule, Mrs. Moon. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you in any way.”

His office was simple and uncluttered. No pictures on the wall. Just a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet and some visitor’s chairs. His desk had a few picture frames, but they were turned toward him. From my angle, I could only see the price tags.

I gave him my most winning smile. “I certainly appreciate your time, detective.” I had on plenty of blush, so that my cheeks appeared human.

The smile worked. He blushed himself. “Yeah, well, let’s make this quick. My kid’s playing a basketball game tonight, and I wouldn’t want to miss him running up and down the court with no clue what the hell is going on around him.”

“Sounds like a natural.”

“A natural dolt. Wife says I should just leave him alone. The trouble is, if I leave him alone, he tends to want to play Barbies with the neighborhood girls.”

“That worries you?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“You think he could turn out gay?”

He shrugged uncomfortably, and said nothing. It was a touchy subject for him, obviously.

“How old is your son?” I asked.

“Eight.”

“Perhaps he’s a little Casanova. Perhaps he sees the benefits of playing with girls, rather than boys.”

“Perhaps,” said Sherbet. “For now, he plays basketball.”

“Even though he’s clueless.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way.”

“Even if it’s your will and your way?” I asked.

“For now, it’s the only way.” He paused, then looked a little confused. He shook his head like a man realizing he had been mumbling out loud. “How the hell did we get on the subject of my kid’s sexuality?”

“I forget,” I said, shrugging.

He reached over and straightened the folder in front of him. The folder hadn’t been crooked, now it was less uncrooked. “Yeah, well, let’s get down to business. Here’s the file. I made a copy of it for you. It’s against procedures to give you a copy, but you check out okay. Hell, you worked for the federal government. And why the hell you’ve gone private is your own damn business.”

I reached for the file, but he placed a big hand on it. “This is just between you and me. I don’t normally give police files to private dicks.”

“Luckily I’m not your average private dick.”

“A dick with no dick,” he said.

“Clever, detective,” I said.

“Not really.”

“No, not really,” I admitted. “I just really want the file.”

He nodded and lifted his palm, and I promptly stuffed the file into my handbag. “Is there anything you can tell me that’s perhaps not in the file?”

He shook his head, but it was just a knee-jerk reaction. In the process of shaking his head, he was actually deep in thought. “It should all be in there.” He rubbed the dark stubble at his chin. The dark stubble was also mixed with some gray. “You know I always suspected the guy doing the shooting was a client of his. I dunno, call it a hunch. But this attorney’s been around a while, and he’s pissed off a lot of people. Trouble is: who’s got the time to go through all of his past files?”

“Not a busy homicide detective,” I said, playing along.

“Damn straight,” he said.

“Any chance it was just a random shooting?” I asked.

“Sure. Of course. Those happen all the time.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“No,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

The detective was used to this kind of exchange. He worked in a business where if you didn’t ask questions, you didn’t find answers. If my questions bothered him, he didn’t show it, other than he seemed to be impatient to get this show on the road.

“Seemed premeditative. And no robbery attempt. Also seemed to be making a statement, as well.”

“By shooting him in the face?”

“And by shooting him outside the courthouse. His place of work. Makes you think it was business related.”

I nodded. Good point. I decided not to tell the detective he had a good point. Men tend to think all of their points were good, and they sure as hell didn’t need me to boost their already inflated egos.

I’m cynical that way.

He stood from his desk and retrieved a sport jacket from a coat rack. He was a fit man with a cop’s build. He also had a cop’s mustache. He would have looked better without the mustache, but it wasn’t was my place to suggest so. Besides, who better to wear a cop mustache than a cop?

“Now it’s time to go watch my son screw up the game of basketball,” he said.

“Maybe basketball’s not his game.”

“And playing with girls is?”

“It’s not a bad alternative,” I said, then added. “You think there’s a chance you’re reading a little too much into all of this with your son?”

“I’m a cop. I read too much into everything.” He paused and locked his office door, which I found oddly amusing and ironic since his office was located in the heart of a police station. “Take you, for instance.”

I didn’t want to take me for instance. I changed the subject. “I’m sure you’re a very good officer. How long have you been on the force?”

He ignored my question. “I wondered why you insisted on meeting me in the evening.” As he spoke, he placed his hand lightly at the small of my back and steered me through the row of cluttered desks. His hand was unwavering and firm. “When I asked you on the phone the reason behind the late meeting you had mentioned something about being busy with other clients. But when I called your office later that day to tell you that I was going to be delayed, you picked up the phone immediately.” He paused and opened a clear glass door. On the door was etched FPD. “Perhaps you were meeting your clients in the office. Or perhaps you were in-between clients. But when I asked if you had a few minutes you sounded unharried and pleasant. Sure, you said, how can I help you?”

“Well, I pride myself on customer service,” I said.

He was behind me, and I didn’t see him smile. But I sensed that he had done so. In fact, I knew he had smiled. Call it a side effect.

He said, “Now that I see you, I see you have a skin disorder of some type.”

“Why, lieutenant, you certainly know how to make a girl feel warm and fuzzy.”

“And that’s the other thing. When I shook your hand, it felt anything but warm and fuzzy,” he said.

“So what are you getting at?” I asked. We had reached the front offices. We were standing behind the main reception desk. The room was quiet for the time being. Outside the smoky gray doors, I could see Commonwealth Avenue, and across that, Amerige City Park, which sported a nice little league field.

He shrugged and smirked at me. “If I had two guesses, I would say that you were either a vampire, or, like I said, you had a skin condition.”

“What does your heart tell you?” I asked.

He studied me closely. Outside, commuters were working their way through downtown Fullerton. Red taillights burned through the smoky glass. Something passed across his gaze. An understanding of some sort. Or perhaps wonder. Something. But then he grinned and his cop mustache rose like a referee signaling a touchdown.

“A skin disease, of course,” he said. “You need to stay out of the sun.”

“Bingo,” I said. “You’re a hell of a detective.”

And with that I left. Outside, I saw that my hands were shaking. The son-of-a-bitch had me rattled. He was one hell of an intuitive cop.

I hate that.

6.

I was boxing at a sparring club in Fullerton called Jacky’s. The club was geared towards women, but there were always a few men hanging around the club. These men often dressed better than the women. I suspected homosexuality. The club gave kick-boxing and traditional boxing lessons. I preferred the traditional boxing lessons, and always figured that if the time came in a fight that I had to kick, there was only one place my foot was going.

Crotch City.

I come here three times a week after picking the kids up from school and taking them to their grandmother’s home in Brea. Boxing is perhaps one of the most exhausting exercises ever invented, especially when you box in three-minute drills, as I was currently doing, which simulated actual boxing rounds.

My trainer was an Irishman named Jacky. Jacky wore a green bandanna over a full head of graying hair. He was a powerfully built man of medium height, a little fat now, but not soft. He must have been sixty, but looked forty. He was an ex-professional boxer in Ireland, where he had been something of a legend, or that’s what he tells me. His crooked nose had been broken countless times, which might or might not have been the result of boxing matches. Maybe he was just clumsy. Amazingly enough, the man rarely sweat, which was something I could not claim. As my personal trainer, his sole responsibility was to hold out his padded palms and to yell at me. He did both well. All with a thick Irish accent.

“C’mon, push yourself. You’re dropping your fists, lass!”

Dropping one’s fists was a big no-no in Jacky’s world, on par with his hatred for anything un-Irish.

So I raised my fists. Again.

During these forty-five minute workouts with Jacky, I hated that little Irish bastard with all my heart.

“You’re dropping your hands!” he screamed again.

“Screw you.”

“In your dreams, lass. Get them hands up!”

It went on like this for some time. Occasionally the kickboxers would glance over at us. Once I slipped on my own sweat, and Jacky thankfully paused and called for one of his towel boys who hustled over and wiped down the mat.

“You sweat like a man,” said Jacky, as we waited. “I like that.”

“Oh?” I said, patting myself down with my own towel. “You like the sweat of men?”

He glared at me. “My wife sweats. It’s exciting.”

“Probably because you don’t. She has to make up for the two of you.”

“I don’t know why I open up to you,” he said.

“You call this opening up?” I asked. “Talking about sweat and boffing your wife?”

“Consider yourself privileged,” he said.

We went back to boxing. We did two more three-minute rounds. Near the end of the last round, I was having a hell of a time keeping my gloved fists up, and Jacky didn’t let me hear the end of it.

When we were done, Jacky leaned his bulk against the taut ropes. He removed the padded gloves from his hands. The gloves were frayed and beaten.

“Second pair of gloves in a month,” he said, looking at them with something close to astonishment.

“I’ll buy you some more,” I said.

“You’re a freak,” he said. He studied his hands. They were red and appeared to be swelling before our very eyes. “You hit harder than any man I’ve ever coached or faced. Your hand speed is off the charts. Good Christ, your form and accuracy is perfect.”

“Except that I drop my hands.”

“Not always,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve got to tell you something so that you think I’m earning my keep.”

I reached over and kissed his smooth forehead. “I know,” I said.

“You’re a freak,” he said again, blushing.

“You have no idea.”

“I pity any poor bastard who crosses your path.”

“So do I.”

He held out his hands. “Now, I need to soak these in ice.”

“Sorry about that.”

“You kidding? It’s an honor working with you. I tell everyone about you. No one believes me. I tell them I’ve got a woman here that could take on their best male contenders. They never believe me.”

Around us the sparring gym was a beehive of activity. Both boxing rings were now being used by kick boxers. Women and men were pounding the hell out of the half dozen punching bags, and the rhythmic rattling of the speed bags sounded from everywhere.

“You know I don’t like you talking about me, Jacky.”

“I know. I know. They don’t believe me anyway. You could box professionally with one hand behind your back.”

“I don’t like attention.”

“I know you don’t. I’ll quit bragging about you.”

“Thank you, Jacky.”

“The last thing I want is you pissed-off at me.”

I box for self-defense. I box for exercise. Sometimes I box because it’s nice to have a man care so vehemently whether or not my fists were up.

I kissed his forehead again and walked out.

7.

I drove north along Harbor Blvd, through downtown Fullerton and made a left onto Berkeley Street. I parked in the visitor parking in front of the Fullerton Municipal Courthouse, turned off my car, and sat there.

While I sat there, I drank water from a bottle. Water is one of the few drinks my body will accept. That and wine, although the alcohol in wine has no effect on me.

Yeah, I know. Bummer.

My hands were still feeling heavy from the boxing workout. I flexed my fingers. I couldn’t help but notice my forearms rippling with taut muscle. I like that. I worked hard for that, and it was something I didn’t take for granted.

I sat in the minivan and watched the entrance to the courthouse. There was little activity at this late hour. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find here but I like to get a look and feel for all aspects of a case. Makes me feel involved and informed.

And, hell, you never know what might turn up.

Two security guards patrolled the front of the building. So where had they been at the time of Kingsley’s shooting? Probably patrolling the back of the building.

Behind me was a wooded area; above that were condominiums. A bluejay swooped low over my hood and disappeared into the branches of a pine tree. A squirrel suddenly dashed along the pine tree’s limb. The jay appeared again, and dove down after the squirrel.

Can’t we all just get along?

When the guards disappeared around a corner, I got out of the van and made my way to the court’s main entrance. My legs were still shaky from the workout; my hands heavy and useless, like twin balloons filled with sand.

The courthouses consisted of two massive edifices that faced each other. Between them was a sort of grassy knoll, full of trees and stone benches. The benches were empty. The sun was low in a darkening sky.

I like darkening skies.

Shortly, I found the infamous birch tree. The tree was smallish, barely wide enough to conceal even me, let alone a big man with broad shoulders. As a shield, it was useless, as the additional bullets in Kingsley’s head attested. To have relied on it for one’s sole protection of a gun-wielding madman was horrifying to contemplate. So I did contemplate it. I felt Kingsley’s fear, recalled his desperate attempts to dodge the flying bullets. Comical and horrific. Ghastly and amusing. Like a kid’s game of cowboys and Indians gone horribly wrong.

I circled the tree and found four fairly fresh holes in the trunk. The bullets had, of course, been dug out and added to the evidence. Now the holes were nothing more than dark splotches within the white bark. The tree and Kingsley had one thing in common: both were forever scarred by bullets from the same gun.

The attack had been brazen. The fact that the shooter had gotten away clean was probably a fluke. The shooter himself probably expected to get caught, or gunned down himself. But instead he walked away, and disappeared in a truck that no one seemed to remember the license plate of. The shooter was still out there, his job left unfinished. Probably wondering what more he had to do to kill Kingsley.

A hell of a good question.

According to the doctor’s reports cited in a supplementary draft within the police report, all bullets had missed vital parts of Kingsley’s brain. In fact, the defense attorney’s only side effect was a minor loss in creativity. Of course, for a defense attorney, a lack of creativity could prove disastrous.

Someone wanted Kingsley dead, and someone wanted it done outside the courthouse, a place where many criminals had walked free because of Kingsley’s ability to manipulate the law. This fact was not lost on me.

Detective Sherbet had only made a cursory investigation into the possibility that the shooting was related to one of Kingsley’s current or past cases. Sherbet had not dug very deeply.

It was my job to dig. Which was why I make the big bucks.

I turned and left the way I had come.

8.

“So how often do you, like, feed?” asked Mary Lou.

Mary Lou was my sister. Only recently had she discovered that I was, like, a creature of the night. Although I come from a big family, she was the only one I had confided in, mostly because we were the closest in age and had grown up best friends. We were sitting side-by-side at a brass-topped counter in a bar called Hero’s in downtown Fullerton.

I said, “Often. Especially when I see a particular fine sweep of milky white neck. Like yours for instance.”

“Ha ha,” she said. Mary Lou was drinking a lemon drop martini. I was drinking house Chardonnay. Since I couldn’t taste the Chardonnay, why order the good stuff? And Chardonnay rarely had a reaction on my system, and it made me feel normal, sort of, to drink something in public with my sister.

Mary Lou was wearing a blue sweater and jeans. Today was casual day at the insurance office. This was apparently something that was viewed as good. She often talked about casual day; in fact, often days before the actual casual event.

“Seriously, Sam. How often?” she asked again.

I didn’t say anything. I swallowed some wine. It tasted like water. My tastebuds were dead, my tongue good for only talking and kissing, and lately not even kissing. I looked over at Mary Lou. She was six years older than me, a little heavier, but then again she ate a normal diet of food.

“Once a day,” I said, shrugging. “I get hungry like you. My stomach growls and I get light headed. Typical hunger symptoms.”

“But you can only drink blood.”

“You mind saying that a little louder?” I said. “I don’t think the guy in the booth behind us quite heard.”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

“We’re supposed to keep this quiet, remember?”

“I know.”

“You haven’t told anyone?” I asked her again.

“No. I swear. You know I won’t tell.”

“I know.”

The bartender came by and looked at my nearly finished glass of wine. I nodded, shrugging. What the hell, might as well spend my well-earned money on something useless, like wine.

“Have you tried eating other food?” asked Mary Lou.

“Yes.”

“What happens?” she asked.

“Stomach cramps. Extreme symptoms of food poisoning. I throw it back up within minutes. Not a pretty picture.”

“But you can drink wine,” she said.

“It’s the only thing I’ve found so far that I can drink,” I said. “And sometimes not even that. Needs to be relatively pure.”

“So no red wine.”

“No red wine,” I said.

My sister, with her healthy tan, put her hand on my hand. As she did so, she flinched imperceptively from the cold of my own flesh. She squeezed my fingers. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Sis.”

“I am, too,” I said.

“Can I ask you some more questions?” she asked.

“Were you just warming me up?”

“Yes and no.”

“Fine,” I said. “What else you got for me?”

“Does the blood, you know, have to be human blood?”

“Any mammalian blood will do,” I said.

“Where do you get the blood?”

“I buy it.”

“From where?” she asked.

“I have a contract with a butchery in Norco. I buy it by the month-load. It’s in my freezer in the garage.”

“The one with the padlock?” she asked. I think her own blood drained from her face.

“Yes,” I answered.

“What happens if you don’t drink blood?”

“Probably shrivel up and die.”

“Do you want to change the subject?” she asked gently.

She knew my moods better than anyone, even my husband. “Please.”

Mary Lou grinned. She caught the attention of the bartender and pointed to her martini. He nodded. The bartender was cute, a fact not lost on Mary Lou.

“So what case are you currently working on?” she asked, stealing glances at the man’s posterior.

“You done checking out the bartender?”

She reddened. “Yes.”

So I told her about my case. She remembered seeing it on TV.

“Any leads yet?” she asked, breathless. Mary Lou tended to think that what I did for a living was more exciting than it actually was. Her drink came but she ignored it.

“No,” I said. “Just hunches.”

“But your hunches are better than most anyone’s.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s a side effect.”

“A good side effect.”

I nodded. “Hey, if I have to give up raspberry cheesecakes, I might as well get something out of the deal.”

“Like highly attuned hunches.”

“That’s one of them,” I said.

“What else?” she asked.

“I thought we were changing the subject.”

“C’mon, I’ve never known...someone like you.”

“Don’t you mean something?”

“No,” she said. “That’s not what I mean. You’re a good mother, a good wife, and a good sister. You are much more than a thing. So tell me, what are the other side effects?”

“You saying all that just to butter me up?”

“Yes and no,” she said, grinning. “So tell me. Now.”

I laughed. “Okay, you win. I have enhanced strength and speed.”

She nodded. “What else?”

“I seem to be disease and sickness free.”

“What about shape-changing?”

“Shape-changing?”

“Yes.”

Having my sister ask if I could shape-change struck me as so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. Mary Lou watched me briefly, then caught on because she always catches on. Soon we were both giggling hysterically, and we had the attention of everyone in the bar. I hate having people’s attention, but I needed the laugh. Needed it bad.

“No,” I said finally, wiping the tears from my eyes. “I can’t shape-change. Then again, I’ve never tried.”

“Then maybe you can,” she said finally, after catching her own breath.

“Honestly, I’ve never thought about it. There’s just been too much other crap to deal with, and this...condition of mine doesn’t exactly come with a handbook.”

“So you learn as you go,” said Mary Lou.

“Yes,” I said. “Sort of like The Greatest American Hero.”

“Yeah, like him.”

We drank some more. My stomach was beginning to hurt. I pushed the wine aside.

“You ever going to tell me what happened to you?” Mary Lou’s words were forming slower. The martinis had something to do with that. “How you became, you know, what you are?”

I looked away. “Someday, Mary Lou.”

“But not today.”

“No,” I said. “Not today.”

Mary Lou turned in her stool and faced me. Her big, round eyes were glassy. Her nose was more slender than mine, but we resembled each other in every other way. We were sisters through and through.

“So how do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Look so normal. Act so normal. Be so normal. Hell, life’s hard enough as it is without something like this coming out of left field and knocking you upside your ass. How do you do it?”

“I do it because I have to,” I said. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Because you love your kids.”

“Sometimes it’s the only reason,” I said.

“What about Danny?”

I didn’t tell her about Danny. Not yet. I didn’t tell her that my husband seemed revolted by the sight of me, that he turned his lips away lately when we kissed, that he seemed to avoid touching me at all costs. I didn’t tell her that I was sure he was cheating on me and my marriage was all but over.

“Yeah,” I said, looking away. “I do it for Danny, too.”

9.

The shower was as hot as I could stand it, which would have been too hot for most people. Some of my sensitivity had left my skin, and as a result I needed hotter and hotter showers. My husband, long ago, gave up taking showers with me. Apparently he had an aversion to the smell of his own cooking flesh.

My muscles were sore and the water helped. I was thirty-seven years old, but I looked twenty-seven, or perhaps even younger. There wasn’t a wrinkle on my pallid face. My skin was taut. Usually ice cold, but taut. My muscles were hard, but that could have been because I never stopped working out. After all, there is only so much one can lose of one’s self, and so I was determined to maintain some normalcy. Working out reminded me of who I was and what I was trying to be.

My body was still sore from boxing, but the soreness was almost gone. I heal fast nowadays, amazingly fast. Just your average, run-of-the-mill freak show.

I stood with my back to the spray and let my mind go blank. I stood there for God knew how long until an image of Kingsley and his bloody and confused face drifted into my thoughts. It had been such an angry attack. Full of pent-up rage. Kingsley had pissed off someone badly. Very badly. At one point in the shooting, the shooter had actually paused and looked at Kingsley with what had been thunderstruck awe, at least that’s how I interpreted the grainy image. The look seemed to say: How many times do I have to shoot you before you die?

I had already soaped up and washed and conditioned my hair. There was nothing left to do, and now I was only wasting water. Sighing, I turned off the shower. Rare heat rose from my skin, a pleasant change for once. My skin was raw and red, and I was in my own little piece of heaven. The kids were with their sitter, and tonight I was going out with my husband. We tried to do that more and more lately. Or, rather, I tried to do that more and more lately. He reluctantly agreed.

Early on, after my transformation, Danny had been a saint. Someone he loved (me) was hurting and confused, and he had come to my rescue like no other.

Together we had devised schemes to let the world know I was different. It was his idea to tell the world I had developed xeroderma pigmentosum, a rare, and usually fatal, skin condition. With xeroderma pigmentosum, even brief exposure to sunlight can cause irreparable damage that could lead to blindness and fatal skin cancers. People eventually accepted this about me—even my own family. Yes, I hated lying, but the way I saw it, I had little choice.

Danny helped me change careers, and helped me set up my home-based private investigation business. He also explained to the kids that mommy would often be sleeping during the day and to not bother me. Finally, he helped set me up with my feed supply with the local butchery.

Danny had been a dream. But that had been then; this was now.

So tonight we were going to dinner. I would order my steak raw and do my best to participate with him. He would avert his eyes, as usual. Not a typical relationship by any means. But a relationship, nonetheless.

I found myself looking forward to tonight. I had recently read a book about how to be a better wife, how to understand your man, how to show your love in the little ways. It’s amazing how we all forget what’s necessary to keep a loving relationship intact. Well, I was determined to show him my appreciation.

Of course, most marriages didn’t deal with the issues I have, but we would make it through, somehow.

I was still dripping and toweling off when the phone rang. I dashed out of the connecting bathroom and into the bedroom and picked up the phone on the bedside table.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi, doll.”

“Danny!”

There was a pause, and I knew instinctively that I was going to get bad news. Call it my enhanced intuition, or call it whatever you want.

“I can’t make it tonight,” he said.

“But Danny....”

“We’re backed-up at the office. I have a court case later this week, and we’re not ready. I hope you understand.”

“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I’ve got to get going. Don’t wait up.”

That was our little joke now. Of course, being a creature of the night, all I could do lately was wait up.

He hung up the phone.

10.

It was evening.

I was pacing inside the foyer of my house. The muscles along my neck were tense and stiff. Outside, through the partly open curtain, I could see the upper curve of the setting sun.

I continued to pace. Breathing was always difficult at this time of day. I was making a conscious effort to inhale and exhale, to fill my lungs as completely as I could.

In and out.

Slowly.

Keep calm, Samantha Moon. You’ll be all right.

Nevertheless, a sense of panic threatened to overcome me. The source of the panic was the sun. Or, rather, the presence of the sun. Because I did not, and could not, feel fully alive until that son-of-a-bitch disappeared behind the horizon.

I checked the curtain again. The sun was still burning away in all its glory.

Crap! Had the earth stopped in mid-orbit? Was I doomed to feel half-alive for the rest of my life?

Panic. Pure unabated panic.

I breathed.

Deeply.

Consciously.

I leaned against the door frame and closed my eyes, willing myself to relax. I reached up and rubbed my neck muscles. I continued to breathe, continued to fight the panic.

And then, after seemingly an eternity, it happened. A sense of peace and joy began in my solar plexus and spread slowly in a wave of warmth to all my extremities. My mind buzzed with happiness, pure unabated happiness, and with it the unbridled potential of the coming night. It was a natural high. Or perhaps an unnatural high. I opened my eyes and looked out the window. The sun was gone.

As I knew it would be.

* * *

The kids were with Mary Lou and her family at Chuck E. Cheese’s. I owed Mary Lou big. Danny was working late, preparing for his big court date. So what else was new?

I had not yet realized just how much my life was unraveling. It occurred to me then, as I was driving south along the 57 Freeway, that I might have to give up detecting if Danny was going to continue working so late. In the past, he would be home with the kids. Now, he rarely got home in time to see them off to bed.

The thought of not working horrified me. Like they say, idle hands are the devil’s tools. By keeping myself busy, I was able to forget some of what I had become, and to keep the nightmare of my reality at bay.

But something had to give here, and it wasn’t going to be Danny. He had made it clear long ago that this was my problem.

My windows were down. The spring evening was warm and dry. I couldn’t remember the last time we had rain. I liked the rain. Perhaps I liked the rain because I lived in Southern California. Rain here was like the elusive lover who keeps you begging for more. Perhaps if I lived up north I would not like the rain so much. I didn’t know. I’d never lived anywhere else.

I took the 22 East and headed toward the city of Orange. At Main Street I exited and drove past the big mall, and turned left onto Parker Avenue and into the parking lot of the biggest building in the area.

I took the elevator to the seventh floor. In the lobby, I was greeted by a pretty brunette receptionist. Greeted might have been too generous. Frankly, she didn’t look very much like a happy camper. She was a young girl of about twenty-five, with straight brown hair that seemed to shine like silk. My hair once shone like silk; now it hung limply. Her pink sweater knit dress was snug and form-fitting, highlighting unnaturally large breasts. Did nothing for me, but then again, I am not a man. I sensed much animosity coming from her. Waves of it. I think I knew why. She was working late, and I was part of the reason she was working late.

I gave her my most winning smile. Easy on the teeth. The nameplate on her desk read: Sara Benson.

“Hi, Sara. I’m Samantha Moon, here to see Mr. Fulcrum.”

“Mr. Fulcrum is waiting for you, Mrs. Moon. I’ll show you to his office.”

As she did so, I said, “I understand you’re going to help me tonight?”

“You understand correctly.”

“I would just like to express my gratitude. I’m sure you would rather be anywhere else but here.”

“You have no idea,” she said, and stopped before a door. “He’s in here.”

11.

Kingsley occupied a spacious corner suite, filled with lots of dark wood shelving and legal reference books. Had the blinds not been shut he would have had a grand panoramic view of Santa Ana and Orange. Thick stacks of rubberbanded folders were piled everywhere, and in one corner was a discreet wet bar. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s was sitting not-so-discreetly on the counter.

“Generally, the Jack Daniel’s stays behind the bar during office hours,” said Kingsley, moving around from behind his desk and shaking my hand, which he might have held a bit longer than protocol required. Then added, “You keep strange hours, Mrs. Moon.”

I removed my hand from his grip. “And you heal surprisingly well.”

The scar above his eye was almost gone. Indeed, it even appeared to have moved a little—to the left, perhaps—but then again Mom always told me I had an overactive imagination. He saw me looking at it and promptly turned his head.

“Touché,” he said. “A drink to the freaks?”

“This freak is working. No drinking.” Drinking didn’t effect me, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Do you mind if I have one?”

“You mean another one?” I asked. I could it smell it on his breath.

“You are quite the detective,” he said.

“Oh yeah, that was a hard one.”

He grinned and swept past me toward the bar. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

The closest place to make myself comfortable was a client chair that was currently occupied by a giant box. “Would you prefer I sit on a pile of folders or on top of this box?” I asked, perhaps a little snottily.

Behind me, at the bar, Kingsley had started to pour himself another drink. “Forgive me. We’ve been so busy lately; the place is a mess. Let me get that for you.”

“Don’t bother,” I said, setting the heavy box on the floor.

Now back behind his desk, drink in hand, Kingsley watched me carefully. He took a sip from the highball glass. The bourbon sparkled amber in the half-light. I love half-light. I watched him watching me. Something was up. Finally, he said, “That box is filled with four fifty-pound plates,” he said. “Two hundred pounds. And if you throw in the other crap in the box, that’s well over two hundred pounds.”

“I’m not following,” I said, although I suspected I knew what he was getting at.

“It was a test,” he said smugly. “And you passed. Or failed. Depending how you look at it.”

I said nothing. I couldn’t say anything. Instead, I found myself looking at his fading scars. Not too long ago I had stepped on a thick piece of glass; the wound had healed completely in a few hours. Unlike mine, Kingsley’s face had a healthy rosy glow. And he had arrived at my home in the middle of the day and had not worn extra protection from the sun. He was not like me, and yet he had survived five bullet shots to the head.

“Well,” I said, “I would have been in trouble had it been too much over two hundred pounds.”

He pounced. “You only work nights, Mrs. Moon. You wear an exorbitant amount of sunscreen. Your windows, I noticed, were all completely covered. You lift two hundred pounds without a moment’s hesitation. Your skin is icy to the touch. And you have the complexion of an avalanche victim.”

“Okay, that last one was just mean,” I said.

“Sorry, but true.”

“So what are you getting at?”

He leaned back and folded his hands over his flat stomach. “You’re a vampire, Mrs. Moon.”

I laughed. So did he. Mine was a nervous laugh; his not so much. As I gathered my thoughts for a firm rebuttal, I found myself taking a second glance around his office. Behind his desk on the wall, was a beautiful picture of the full moon taken by a high-powered telescopic lens. There was a silver moon globe next to his monitor. Half moon bookends, which, if placed together, would form a full moon. On his desk was a picture of a woman, a very beautiful woman, with a full moon rising over her shoulder.

“You’re obsessed with moons,” I said.

“Which is why I picked you out of the phone book,” he said, grinning. “Couldn’t help myself, Mrs. Moon.”

We were both silent. I watched him carefully. His mouth was open slightly. He was breathing heavily, his wet tongue pushed up against his incisors. His face looked healthy, vigorous and...feral.

“You’re a werewolf,” I said finally.

He grinned, wolf-like.

12.

Kingsley moved over to the window, pulled aside the blinds, and peered out into the night. With his back to me, I could appreciate the breadth and width of his shoulders.

“Could you imagine in your wildest dream,” he said finally, “of ever having this conversation?”

“Never.”

“And yet neither one of us has denied the other’s accusations.”

“Nor have we admitted to them,” I added.

We were silent again, and I listened to the faint hum of traffic outside the window. I spied some of the reassuring darkness through the open slats. I was in uncharted territory here, and so I decided to roll with the situation.

“For simplicity’s sake,” he said, his back still to me, “let’s assume we are vampires and werewolves. Where does that leave us?”

“Obviously I must kill you,” I said.

“I hope you’re kidding.”

“I am.”

“Good, because I don’t die easily,” he said. “And certainly not without a fight.”

“I just love a good fight,” I said.

He ignored me. “So,” he said, turning away from the window and crossing his arms across his massive chest. “How do you want to handle this?”

“Handle what?”

He threw back his head and laughed. It was a very animalistic gesture. He could have just as easily been a coyote—or a wolf—howling at the moon. “This new wrinkle in our working relationship,” he said.

“As far as I’m concerned you are still my client and I’m still your detective. Nothing has changed.”

“Nothing?”

“Other than the fact that you claim to be a werewolf.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Mr. Fulcrum, werewolves are fairytales.”

“And vampires aren’t?”

I laughed. Or tried to. “I’m not a vampire. I just have a condition.”

“A condition that requires you to stay out of the sun,” he said, incredulously. “A condition that requires you to drink blood. A condition that has turned you whiter than a ghost. A condition that has given you superhuman strength.”

“I never said it was a common condition. I’m still looking into it.”

He grinned. “It’s called vampirism, my dear, and it’s time for you to own it.”

“Own it?”

“Isn’t that what the kids say these days?” he said.

“Just how old are you, Mr. Fulcrum?”

“Never mind that,” he said. “The question on the table is a simple one: do you believe I’m a werewolf?”

“No,” I said.

“Do you believe you are a vampire?” he asked.

I hesitated. “No.”

“Fine,” he said. “Is your husband cheating on you?”

“Why would you say that?” I asked.

“I assume he is,” said Kingsley. “I assume he’s terrified of you and he doesn’t know what to do about it yet, especially with the kids in the picture.”

“Shut up, Kingsley.”

“And since you’re not denying it, I will also go as far as to assume he’s a son-of-a-bitch for abandoning you in the hour of your greatest need.”

“Please, shut up.”

“I also know something else, Mrs. Moon. He will take the kids from you and there isn’t a single goddamn thing you can do about it.”

Something came over me, something hot and furious. I flashed out of the client chair and was on Kingsley before he could even uncross his arms. My left hand went straight for his throat, slamming him hard against the wall. Too hard. The back of his head crashed through the drywall. Teeth bared, I looked up into his face—and the asshole was actually grinning at me, with half his head still in the wall. His hair and shoulders were covered in plaster dust.

“Shut the hell up!” I screeched.

“Sure. You got it. Whatever you say.”

We stood like that for a long time, my hand clamped over his throat, his head pushed back into the wall.

“Can you set me down now?” he asked in a raspy voice.

“Down?” I said, confused, my voice still raspy in my throat.

“Yeah,” he said, pointing. “Down.”

I followed his finger and saw that his feet were dangling six inches above the floor. I gasped and dropped him as his head popped out of the wall.

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly. “I was mad.”

Kingsley rubbed his neck. “Remind me next time not to piss you off,” he said, dusting off his shoulders and opening his office door. “Oh, and I’m sorry to inform you, Mrs. Moon, that you are very much a vampire.”

Eyes glowing amber, he winked at me and left.

13.

Sara and I spent the next three hours sorting through files and since Sara was a little on the grumpy side, I did what any rational person would do under similar circumstances. I ordered Chinese. When it arrived she perked up a little. Some people needed alcohol to loosen up, apparently Sara needed fried wontons.

We ate at her desk. Or, rather, I pretended to eat at her desk. We ate mostly in silence.

Interestingly, according to the pictures on Sara’s desk, she seemed to know how to let loose just fine. There were pictures of her in a bikini on some tropical isle, of her hiking along a heavily forested mountain trail, of her viciously spiking a volleyball, of her dressed as a pirate in an office Halloween party, complete with massive gold hoops, eye patch and mustache. In the background was Kingsley dressed as a werewolf. I almost laughed.

“You played volleyball?” I asked.

“Yes, at Pepperdine. I tried out for the Olympics.”

“What happened?”

“Almost made the team. Maybe next time.”

“Maybe next time,” I said. “Is Kingsley a good boss?”

She shrugged. “He’s kind enough. Gives big bonuses.”

“What more could you want?” I asked cheerily.

She shrugged and turned her attention to her food. I tried another approach. “Do you like your job?”

She shrugged again and I decided to let my attempt at idle conversation drop. Maybe she needed more fried wontons.

While we ate, we worked from a long list of all of Kingsley’s closed files from the past six years. Seven hundred and seventy-six in all. Kingsley was a busy boy. From these files, I removed all those Kingsley had personally litigated. Now we were down to three hundred and fifty-three. Still too many to work with. From those, I removed all violent crime; in particular, murder defense cases. Now we were down to twelve files.

I told Sara I would need copies of all twelve files. She promptly rolled her eyes.

While we made copies, Sara decided to open up a little to me. Okay, maybe she hadn’t decided so much as gave in to my constant barrage of questions. Anyway, I gleaned that she had come here to Kingsley’s firm straight from college. Initially, she had loved working for her boss, but lately not so much.

“Why?” I asked, hoping for more than just a shrug. I had the Chinese restaurant’s number in my pocket should I need an emergency order of fried wontons.

Turns out I didn’t need the number. Rather heatedly, Sara told me in detail the story of the rapist who had been freed because Kingsley had discovered evidence of tampering at the crime scene. She finished up with: “Yes, Mr. Fulcrum’s a good man. But he’s a better defense attorney. And that’s the problem.”

I was sensing much hostility here. We were standing at the copier, working efficiently together, passing folders back and forth to each other as we copied them. Sara was very pretty and very young. Any man’s dream, no doubt. She was taller than me and her breasts appeared fake, but in Southern California that’s the norm and not the exception. She, herself, did not seem fake. She seemed genuine and troubled, and I suddenly knew why.

“You dated Kingsley,” I said.

She looked up, startled. “Why? Did he say something to you?”

“No. Just a hunch.”

She passed me another folder. I removed the brackets and flipped through it, looking for papers of unusual sizes, or POUS’s, that would jam the copier. As she spoke, she crossed her arms under her large chest and leaned a hip against the copy machine. “Yeah, we dated for a while. So?”

“So what happened?” I asked.

“Ask him. He broke it off.”

“Why?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” she said.

“It’s a compulsion,” I said. “I should probably see a shrink about it.”

Her eyes brightened a little and she nearly smiled, but then she got a handle on herself and remembered she didn’t like me. “He said things were moving too fast for him. That he had lost his wife not too long ago and he wasn’t ready for something serious.”

“When did his wife die?” I asked.

“A few years ago. I don’t know.” She shrugged. She didn’t know, and she clearly didn’t care.

“Are you still angry with him?” I asked.

She shrugged and looked away and clammed up the rest of the night. Yeah, I think she was still angry.

We finished copying all twelve files, many of which were nearly a foot thick. Maybe within one I would find a suspect or a clue or something. At any rate, the files would give me something to do during the wee hours of the night, especially since I had recently finished Danielle Steel’s latest novel, Love Bites, about two vampires in love. Cute, and uncannily dead on.

So Sara and I loaded up the files into a box and as I carried the entire thing out to the elevator, the young assistant watched me with open-mouthed admiration. I get that a lot.

“Jesus, you’re strong,” she said as we stepped into the elevator.

“It’s the Pilates,” I said. “You should try them.”

“I will,” she said. “Oh, and I’m supposed to remind you that these files are confidential.”

“I’ll guard them with my life.”

Outside, in the crisp night air, Sara said, “I sure hope you find out who shot Knighty.” She caught the indiscretion and turned beat red, her face glowing brightly under the dull parking lot lamps. “I mean, Mr. Fulcrum.”

I smiled at her slip. “I do, too.”

She thanked me for the Chinese food, seemed to want to tell me something else, thought better of it, then dashed off to her car. I watched her get in and back out and drive away. Just as I shoved the box into the minivan, the fine hairs at the back of my neck sprang to life. I paused and slowly turned my head. My vision is better at night. Not great, but better. I was alone in the parking lot. Check that; there was an old Mercedes parked in a parking lot across the street. A man was sitting there, and he was watching me with binoculars.

I slammed the minivan’s door and moved purposely through the parking lot, crossed the sidewalk, stepped down the curb and headed across the street.

He waited a second or two, watching me steadily, then reached down and gunned his vehicle to life. His headlights flared to life, and before I was halfway across the street, he reversed his Mercedes and tore recklessly through the parking lot. As he exited at the far end, turning right onto Parker Avenue and disappearing down a side street, I was certain of two things:

One: he had no plates. Two: those weren’t binoculars.

They were night-vision goggles.

14.

With the files in my backseat and thoughts of the night vision goggles on my mind, I called Mary Lou around 10:30 to thank her for watching my kids.

“I’m still watching them,” she said sleepily.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Danny never showed up,” she said.

“Did he at least call?” I asked.

“No.”

I was on the 57 freeway, but instead of getting off at my exit on Yorba Linda Blvd, I continued on to Mary Lou’s house two exits down. Yeah, it’s nice to have family close by, especially when you have kids.

“I’m so sorry,” I said when she opened the door. “I didn’t mean to stick you with the kids all night.”

“Not your fault. I love them, anyway. Tell me you at least made some headway on your case.”

“Some headway,” I admitted. I left out the part about Kingsley being a werewolf but did mention the guy in the parking lot.

“Maybe he was just some creep,” said Mary Lou, frowning. “I mean you are, after all, a hot piece of ass.”

“Always nice to hear from your sister,” I said.

“I say don’t let it worry you.”

“I won’t,” I said. “I can take of myself.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what worries me.”

With the kids in the backseat sleeping, I called Danny’s office. He wasn’t there; I left a voice mail message. Next I called his cell phone and he answered just before it went to voice mail. He sounded out of breath. Something was wrong here and warning bells sounded loud and clear in my head. I did my best to ignore them, although I couldn’t ignore the fact that I had suddenly gotten sick to my stomach.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Working late,” he answered huskily.

“You doing push ups?” I said, trying to smile.

“Just ran up a flight of stairs. Bathroom on this floor isn’t working.”

“You didn’t pick up your work phone.”

“You know I never pick up after hours.”

“You used to,” I said.

“Well, honey, that was before I became so goddamn busy. Can I call you later?”

“Even better, why don’t you come home.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

He clicked off and I was left staring down at my cell phone. If it was possible, he seemed to have been breathing even harder by the end of the conversation.

* * *

It was past midnight, and I had worked my way through more than half of the twelve files when Danny finally came home. He stopped by the study and gave me a little wave. He looked tired. His dark hair was slightly disheveled. His tie was off. The muted light revealed the deepening lines around his mouth and eyes. His eyes, once clear blue and gorgeous, were hooded and solemn. His full lips were made for kissing, but not me, not anymore. He was a handsome man, and not a very happy one.

“Sorry about not picking up the kids,” he said. He didn’t sound very sorry. He didn’t sound like he gave a shit at all. “I should have called your sister.”

“That’s okay. I’ll make it up to her,” I said. There was lipstick on his earlobe. He probably didn’t think to check his earlobe.

He said, “I’m taking a shower, then hitting the hay. Another big day tomorrow.”

“I bet.”

He stood there a moment longer, leaning against the door frame. He seemed to want to say something. Maybe he wanted to tell me about the lipstick.

Then he slid away, but before he was gone, I caught a hint of something in his eyes. Guilt. Pain. Confusion. It was all there. I didn’t think I needed any heightened sixth sense to know that my husband of fourteen and a half years had fallen out of love with me. We all change, I suppose. Some of us more than others.

After he was done showering, I listened to the box springs creak as he eased into bed and I set down my pen and silently cried into my hands.

15.

I was running along Harbor Blvd at 3:00 a.m. I had finished reading through the files and needed some time to think. Luckily, I had all night to do so. Being a vampire is for me a nightly battle in dealing with loneliness.

I was dressed in full jogging gear, sweats and sweatshirt. No reflective shoes. I had been pulled over once too often by cops who had advised against a woman running so late at night. I wondered if they would give the same advice to a vampire. Anyway, I kept to the shadows, avoiding the cops and everyone else.

I kept up a healthy pace. In fact, my healthy pace was nearly a flat-out sprint. An un-godly pace that I could keep up for hours on end, and sometimes I did. Sure, my muscles hurt afterward, forcing me to soak in my hot tub. But I love the speed.

Harbor Blvd sped past me. I breathed easily. The air was suffused with mist and dew. My arms pumped rhythmically at my side, adding balance to my churning legs. Harbor was empty of all traffic and life. I made a right down Chapman, headed past the high school and junior college. Streets swept past me, I dodged smoothly around lamp poles, bus benches, and metal box thingies that had something to do with traffic lights. I think. Anyway, there seemed to be a lot of those metal box thingies.

I didn’t need water and I didn’t need to pause for air. It was an unusual sense of freedom. To run without exhaustion. The city was quiet and silent. The wind passed rapidly over my ears.

I was a physical anomaly. Enhanced beyond all reason. My husband once called me a super hero after seeing an example of my strength and marveling at it.

There was a half moon hanging in the sky. I thought of Kingsley and his obsession with moons. It stood to reason that a werewolf would be obsessed with moons. I ran smoothly past an open-all-night donut shop. The young Asian donut maker looked up, startled, but just missed me. The smell of donuts was inviting, albeit nauseating.

A werewolf?

I shook my head and chuckled at the absurdity of it. But there it was, staring me in the face. Or, rather, he had stared me in the face. So what was happening around here? Since when was Orange County a haven for the undead? I wondered what else was out there. Surely if there were werewolves and vampires there might be other creatures that went bump in the night, right? Maybe a ghoul or two? Goblins perhaps? Maybe my trainer Jacky was really an old, cantankerous leprechaun.

I smiled.

Thinking of Kingsley warmed my heart. This concerned me. I was a married woman. A married woman should not feel such warmth toward another man, even if the other man was a werewolf.

That is, not if she wanted to stay married. And I really, really wanted to stay married.

Perhaps I felt connected to Kingsley, bonded by our supernatural circumstances. We had much in common. Two outcasts. Two creatures ruled by the night, in one way or another.

A car was coming. I ducked down a side street and moved along a row of old homes. Heavy branches arched overhead. With my enhanced night vision, I deftly avoided irregularities in the sidewalk—cracks and upheavals—places where tree roots had pushed up against the concrete. To my eye, the night was composed of billions and billions of dancing silver particles. These silver particles illuminated the darkness into a sort of surreal molten glow, touching everything.

I turned down another street, then another. Wind howled over my ears. I entered a tougher part of town, running along a residential street called Bear. Bear opens up to a bigger street called Lemon. I didn’t give a crap how tough Bear Street was.

Yet another side benefit: unlimited courage.

My warning bells sounded, starting first as a low buzz in my ears. The buzzing is always followed by an increase in heart rhythm, a physical pounding in my chest. I knew the feeling well enough to trust it by now, and I immediately began looking for trouble. And as I rounded another corner, there it was.

Three men stepped out of the shadows in front of me. I slowed, then finally stopped. As I did so, four more men stepped out from behind a low-rider truck parked on the street. Next to the house was an empty, dark school yard. As if reading their collective minds, I had a fleeting prognostication of my immediate future: an image of the seven men dragging me into the school yard. Then having their way with me. Then leaving me for dead.

A good thing the future isn’t written in stone.

I smiled at them. “Hello, boys.”

16.

Four of the seven were Latinos, with the remaining three being Caucasian, Asian and African-American. A veritable melting pot of gang violence. I studied each face. Most were damp with sweat. Eyes wide with anticipation and sexual energy. Details stood out to me like phosphorescent black and white photos, touched by ghostly silver light. One was terrified, jerking his head this way and that, like a chicken on crack. All of them around same age—perhaps thirty—save for one who was as old as fifty. A few had bed-head, as if they had been recently roused from a drunken stupor.

I could smell alcohol on their breaths and sweat on their skin. The sweat was pungent and laced with everything from fear and excitement, to hostility and sexual frustration. None of it smelled good. If mean had a scent, this would be it.

A smallish Latino stepped forward. A switchblade sprang open at his side, locked into place. For my benefit, he let the faint light of the moon gleam off its polished surface. He was perhaps thirty-five and wore long denim shorts and a plaid shirt. He was surprisingly handsome for a rapist.

“If you scream, I’m going to hurt you.” His accent was thick.

“Gee, what a romantic thing to say,” I said.

“Shut up, bitch.”

I kept my eyes on him. I didn’t need to look at the others. I could feel them, sense them, smell them. I said, “Now what would your mothers all think of you now? Ganging up on a single woman in the middle of the night. Tsk, tsk. Really, I think you should all be ashamed.”

The little Latino looked at me blankly, then said simply: “Get her.”

Movement from behind. I turned and punched, extending my arm straight from my body. Jacky would have been proud. My fist caught the guy in the throat. He dropped to the ground, flopping and gagging and holding his neck. Probably hurt like hell. I didn’t care.

I surveyed the others, who had all stopped in their tracks. “So what was the plan, boys? You were all going to get a fuck in? The very definition of sloppy seconds—hell, sloppy thirds and fourths and fifths. Then what? Slit my throat? Leave me for dead? Let some school janitor find me stuffed in a dumpster? You would deny my children their mother for one night of cheap thrills?”

No one said anything. They looked toward their leader, the slick Latino with the switch. Most likely not all of them spoke English.

“I’ll give you once chance to run,” I said. “Before I kill all of you.”

They didn’t run. Some continued looking at their leader. Most were looking at the man rolling on the ground, holding his throat. Switchblade was watching me with a mixture of curiosity, lust and hatred.

Then he pounced, slashing the blade up. Had he hit home, I would have been cleaved from groin to throat.

He didn’t hit home.

I turned my body and the blade missed. I caught his over-extended arm at the elbow and twisted. The elbow burst at the joint. He dropped the knife. I picked him up by the throat. Screaming and gagging, he swung wildly at me with his good arm, connecting a glancing blow off the side of my head. I simply squeezed harder and his flailing stopped.

His face was turning purple; I liked that.

I raised him high and swung him around so that the others could see. They gaped unbelievingly.

“You may run now,” I said.

And they did. Scattering like chickens before the hawk. They disappeared into the night, around hedges and into dark doorways. Two of them just continued running down the middle of the street. All of them were gone, save for one, the fifty-year-old. He was pointing a gun at my head.

“Put my nephew down,” he said.

“It’s always nice to see gang raping and murdering kept in the family,” I said.

I put his nephew down. Sort of. I hurled the kid with all my strength into his uncle. The gun went off, a massive explosion that rattled my senses and stung the hell out of my hyper-sensitive ears.

When the smoke cleared so to speak, the old man was looking down with bewildered horror.

Switchblade was lying sprawled on the concrete sidewalk, blood pumping from a wound in his chest. Spreading fast over the concrete. A black oil slick in the night.

Blood.

Something awakened within me. Something not very nice.

The older man looked from me to Switchblade, then at the gun in his hand. A look of horror crossed his features and tears sprang from his eyes. Then he fled into the shadows with the others, looking back once over his shoulder before disappearing over someone’s backyard fence.

I was left alone with Switchblade. His right hand was trying to cover the wound; instead, it just flopped pathetically.

“Well,” I said to him, kneeling down, “nice set of friends you have.”

And as I squatted next to him, the flopping stopped and he looked at me with dead eyes. I checked for a pulse. There was none.

Aroused by the gunshot, house lights began turning on one by one. I looked down at the body again.

So much blood....

17.

We were alone in an alley behind some apartments.

The early morning sky was still black, save for the faint light from the half moon. I was nestled between a Dumpster and three black bags of trash filled with things foul. A small wind meandered down the alley. The plastic bags rustled. My hair lifted and fell—and so did the hair on the dead guy.

After my runs, I usually feed on cow blood. The cow blood is mixed with all sorts of impurities and foul crap. I often gag. Sort of my own private Fear Factor with no fifty grand reward at the end of the hour.

Before me lay Switchblade, the punk who had no doubt organized the gang bang. I had ferreted him away before anyone could investigate the shooting and now he lay at my feet, dead and broken.

I looked down at his chest, where blood had stained his flannel shirt nearly black.

Blood....

I ripped open his flannel shirt, buttons pinging everywhere. His chest was awash in a sea of caked red. The hole in his chest was a dark moon in a vermilion sky.

His blood would contain alcohol, as he had been drinking. I didn’t care. The blood would be pure enough. Straight from the source. The ideal way to feed. Then again, ideal was relative. Ideally I would be feasting on turkey lasagna.

I dipped my head down, placed my lips over the massive wound in his chest, and drank....

* * *

I returned the body to the same house, left it where it had fallen. I drifted back into the darkness of the school grounds, where I knew in my heart they were going to drag me off to be raped.

It was still early morning, still dark. No one was out on the streets. Curious neighbors had gone back to sleep; there were no police investigating the sound of a gunshot. Apparently gunshots here were a common enough occurrence to not arouse that much suspicion.

The attackers themselves were long gone. They were scared shitless, no doubt. One of their own had been shot by one of their own. Each would awaken this morning with a very bad hang over, and pray to God this had all been a very bad dream.

Instead of their prayers being answered, they were going to awaken to find the body. What happened next, I didn’t really know or care. I doubted a group of men would even attempt to identify me, lest they reveal the nature of their true intentions the night before.

At any rate, using a half empty can of beer from the nearby dumpster, I had cleaned the wound of my lip imprints. Let the medical examiner try to figure out why someone had sloshed beer all over the gunshot wound.

As I stood there in the darkness, with a curious phantasmagoric mist nipping at my ankles, I remembered the taste of his blood again.

God, he had tasted so good. So damn good—and pure. The difference between good chocolate and bad chocolate. The difference between good wine and bad wine. Good blood and bad blood.

All the difference in the world.

I left the school grounds and the neighborhood as a slow wave of purple blossomed along the eastern horizon. I hated the slow wave of purple that blossomed along the eastern horizon. The sun was coming, and I needed to get home ASAP.

Already I could feel my strength ebbing.

Since my belly was full of Switchblade’s blood, I did not want to cramp up and so I kept my jog slow and steady. On the way home, as the guilt set in over what I had just done, I held fast to one thought in particular as if it were a buoy in a storm:

I did not kill him; he was already dead....

I did not kill him; he was already dead....

18.

The kids were playing in their room and Danny was working late. Tonight was Open House at the elementary school, and he had promised to make it home on time.

The words “we’ll see” had crossed my mind.

I had spent the past two hours helping Anthony with his math homework. Math didn’t come easily to him and he fought me the entire time. Vampire or not, I was drained.

All in all, I just couldn’t believe the amount of work his third grade teacher assigned each week, and it was all I could do to keep up. Didn’t schools realize mothers want to spend quality time with their children in the evenings?

So now I was in my office, still grumbling. It was early evening and raining hard. Occasionally the rain, slammed by a gust of wind, splattered against my office window. The first rain in months. The weatherman had been beside himself.

I liked the rain. It touched everything and everyone. Nothing was spared. It made even a freak like me feel connected to the world.

So with the rain pattering against the window and the children playing somewhat contentedly in their room, I eventually worked my way through all of Kingsley’s files. Only one looked promising, and it set the alarms off in my head. I’ve learned to listen to these alarms.

The case was no different than many of Kingsley’s other cases. His client, one Hewlett Jackson, was accused of murdering his lover’s husband. But thanks to Kingsley’s adroit handling of the case, Jackson was freed on a technicality. Turns out the search warrant had expired and thus all evidence gathered had been deemed inadmissible in court. And when the verdict was read, the victim’s brother had to be physically restrained. According to the file, the victim’s brother had not lunged at the alleged killer; no, he had lunged at Kingsley.

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. Then 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.

I used the call box by the front gate. A man answered. I gave him my name and told him I was a private investigator and that I would like to speak to Rick Horton. There was a moment of silence, then the gate clicked open. I pushed it open all the way and followed a red brick path through a neat St. Augustine lawn. All in all, this brooding and romantic Victorian-era home seemed a little out of place in Tustin, California.

Just as I stepped up onto the entry porch, the door swung open. A small man with wire-rim glasses leaned through the open door. “Please come in,” he said. “I’m Rick Horton.”

I did and found myself in the main hall. To my right was a curving stairway. The ceiling was vaulted and there were many lit candles. The house was probably dark as hell during the day, perfect for a slumbering vampire.

I followed the little man through an arched doorway and into a drawing room. I’ve only been in a few formal drawing rooms, and, unlike the name suggests, there wasn’t a single drawing in the place. Instead, it was covered in landscape oils. I was asked to sit on a dusty Chippendale camelback sofa, which I did. The sofa faced a three-sided bay window with diamond-pane glass. The window overlooked the front lawn and a marble fountain. The fountain was of a mermaid spouting water. She easily had double-D breasts, which were probably a distinct disadvantage for real mermaids. Just outside the window three classic fluted Doric columns supported a wide veranda.

He sat opposite me in a leather chair-and-a-half, which was perfect for cuddling. I wasn’t in the cuddling mood. Rick Horton wore single gold studs in each ear. He seemed about twenty years too old to be wearing single gold studs. Call me old-fashioned. He was dressed in green-plaid pajamas, with matching top and bottom. He had the air of a recluse. Maybe he was a famous author or something.

“Do you have a license I can see?” he asked. As he spoke, he looked a bit confused and out of sorts, blinking rapidly as if I were shining a high-powered light into his eyes.

I held out my license and he studied it briefly. I hated the picture. I looked deathly ill: face white, hair back, cheeks sallow. I looked like a vampire. The make-up I had been wearing that day seemed to have evaporated with the camera’s flash. The picture was also a little blurry, the lines of my face amorphous.

He sat back. “So what can I do for you, Ms. Moon?”

It was actually Mrs., but you choose your battles. “I’m looking into a shooting.”

“Oh? Who was shot?”

“My client; shot five times in the face.” Horton didn’t budge. Not even a facial twitch. “And I think you shot him, Mr. Horton.”

That was a conversation killer. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock ticked away, echoing along the empty hallways, filling the heavy silence.

“You come into my house and accuse me of murder?” he said.

“Attempted murder,” I said. “My client did not die, which is how he was able to hire me in the first place.”

“Who’s your client?”

His attempt at moral outrage was laughable. His heart just didn’t seem into it.

“Kingsley Fulcrum,” I said.

“Yes, of course, the defense attorney. It was on the news. Watched him hide behind a tree. It was very amusing. I wished he had died. But I didn’t shoot him.”

I analyzed his every word and mannerism on both a conscious and subconscious level. I waited for that psychic-something to kick in, that extra-sensory perception that gives me my edge over mere mortals, that clarity of truth that tells me on an intuitive level that he’s our man. Frustratingly, I got nothing; just the fuzziness of uncertainty. His words had the ring of truth. And yet he still felt dirty to me. There was something wrong here.

“Did you hire someone to shoot Kingsley?” I asked.

“Maybe I should have an attorney present.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Maybe you’re wired.”

“I’m not wired.” Weird, but not wired.

He shrugged and sat back. “I can’t express to you how happy I was to see that son-of-a-bitch get what he deserved. Trust me, if I had shot him I would be proud to say I had. But, alas, I cannot claim credit for what I didn’t do.”

“Did you hire someone to kill him, Mr. Horton?”

“If I had, would I tell you?”

“Most likely not, but never hurts to ask. Sometimes a reaction to a question speaks volumes.” More than he realized.

“Fine. To answer your question: I did not hire someone to kill Kingsley Fulcrum.”

“Where were you on the day he was shot?”

“What day was it?”

I told him.

“I was here, as usual. My father left me a sizable inheritance. I don’t work. Mostly I read and watch TV. I’m not what you would call a go-getter.”

“You have no alibi?”

“None.”

“Do you own a .22 pistol?”

He jerked his head up. Bingo. “I think this interview is over, Ms. Moon. I did not shoot Mr. Fulcrum. If the police wish to question me further, then they can do so in the presence of my attorney. Good night.”

I stood to leave, then paused. “Hewlett Jackson was found dead today, shot nine times in the head.”

Horton inhaled and the faintest glimmer of a smile touched his lips. The look on his face was one of profound relief. “Like I said, the police can interview me with my attorney present.”

I found my way out of the creepy old house. I love creepy old houses. Must be the vampire in me.

24.

You there, Fang?

I’m here, Moon Dance.

I visited a suspect tonight, I wrote. When I instant message, I tend to get right to the point.

The one you thought might be the shooter?

Yeah, that one, but now I’m not so sure he was the shooter.

Fang paused, then wrote: Doesn’t feel right?

I’m not sure.

You’re getting mixed signals.

Yes, I wrote. Fang was damn intuitive himself, and often very accurate in his assessments of my situations. I loved that about him. But he feels dirty, though.

Well, maybe he’s connected somehow.

Maybe. When I mentioned the gun, I got the reaction I was looking for.

There you go. Maybe his gun was used, but he wasn’t the killer.

Maybe.

There was a much longer pause. Typically, Fang and I chatted through the internet as fast as two people would talk. Perhaps even faster.

I have a woman here, he wrote. She wants my attention.

I grinned, then wrote: Have fun.

I plan to. Talk to you soon.

* * *

It was time for my feeding.

I checked on my children; both were sound asleep. I even looked in on Danny. He once slept only in boxers. Now he sleeps in full sweats and a tee-shirt. His explanation was simple: He didn’t like brushing up against my cold flesh.

Screw my cold flesh. I never asked for this.

I walked quietly through the dark house. I didn’t bother with the lights because a) I didn’t need them and b) I didn’t want to disturb the others. Danny recently commented that the thought of me wandering through the house at night creeped him out. Yeah, he said creeped. My own husband.

Screw him, too.

In the kitchen, I paused before the pantry. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the cupboard and reached for what I knew would be there: A box of Hostess Ding Dongs. I opened the box flap. Inside, two rows of silver disks flashed back at me. There was something very beautiful about the simplicity of the paper-thin tinfoil wrappings.

As I removed three of them, saliva filled my mouth. My heart began to race.

I sat at the kitchen table and unwrapped the first Ding Dong, wadding the foil wrapping tightly into a little silver ball. Before me, the chocolate puck gleamed dully in the moonlight. My stomach churned, seemed to turn in on itself, roiling like an ocean wave.

The first bite was small and exploratory. Christ, the chocolate tasted so damn good I could have had an orgasm. Maybe I did. Rich and complex and probably fake, the cocoa flavor lingered long after the first bite has been swallowed.

There was no turning back now.

I quickly ate the first Ding Dong and tore into the second. When I finished it, the third. Finally, I sat back in the wooden chair and felt like a royal glutton. Granted, most of my tastebuds were gone, but chocolate somehow made it through loud and clear.

Outside, through an opening in the curtained window over the sink, the sky was awash with moonlight. Tomorrow was a full moon. Tonight it was almost there, but not quite. I wondered if the almost-but-not-quite full moon had any affect on Kingsley. Maybe a few extra whiskers here and there. Teeth and nails a bit longer than usual.

I giggled about that and considered calling and teasing him, but it was two in the morning. Life is lonely at two in the morning.

My stomach gurgled.

Here it comes, I thought.

I wondered again how long Kingsley had been a werewolf. I also realized he never really admitted to being one. Perhaps he was some variant of a werewolf. Perhaps a were-something else. Maybe a were-kitty.

I shifted in the chair to ease the pain growing in my stomach. Some serious cramping was setting in.

How old was he? Where was he from?

I suddenly lurched forward, gasping. I heaved myself out of the chair and over to the kitchen sink. I turned on the faucet just as the Ding Dongs came up with a vengeance, gushing north along my esophagus with alarming ferocity.

When done, I wiped my mouth and sat on the kitchen floor. I checked my watch. I had kept the Ding Dongs down for all of ninety-three seconds.

I wanted to cry.

25.

I don’t sleep in a coffin.

I sleep in my bed, under the covers, with the blinds drawn. I go to bed the moment the kids head off to school, and wake up a couple of hours before they get out. Ideally, I could sleep through the entire cycle of the day, but I’m a mom with kids and ideally is out the window.

My sleep is deep and usually dreamless. It’s also rejuvenating in ways that I can’t fully comprehend. Prior to closing my eyes, usually minutes after my children have left for the day, I am nearly catatonic with fatigue. So much so that I sometimes wonder if I am dying—or perhaps nearly dead—and the deep sleep itself revives me, rejuvenates me, rebuilds me in supernatural ways that I will never understand.

And the moment my head hits the pillow I’m out cold. That is, until my alarm goes off at its loudest setting. I awaken grudgingly and exhausted, fully aware that I should still be sleeping, and that I should never, ever be seeing the light of day. Nevertheless, I do get up. I do face the light of day, and I keep trying to be the best mom I can.

My sleep is usually dreamless. But not always. Sometimes I dream that I am a great bird. I fly slowly, deliberately, my powerful wings outstretched, flapping slowly. I never seem to be in a hurry.

Sometimes I dream of my kids, that I infect them with my sickness and they become like me: Hungry for blood, shunned by society, living a secret life of fear and confusion and pain. I usually wake up crying.

Today, I did not wake up crying. Today, I woke up with a smile on my face. Yes, I was still exhausted and could have used a few more hours of sleep, but nonetheless I woke up with a happy heart.

Today, I dreamed of a man. A great hulking creature of a man with the broadest shoulders I’d ever seem and a mane of hair as thick as any wild animal. A man whose eyes glowed amber under the moonlight and whose grin was more wolf than human. In the dream, Kingsley had been stalking me in the deep dark woods. Sometimes he was half-man, and sometimes he was all wolf. The biggest wolf I’d ever seen.

In the dream, I was hiding from him, but it was a game, and I had no fear of the man-wolf. I was hiding behind the trunk of a massive pine tree as he searched the forest for me.

We seemed to do this forever, playing, and I had a sense that we could do this forever, if we so desired. That nothing could stop us. Ever. Finally, I stepped out from behind the tree and just stood there on the wooded path. Kingsley, the man, came to me, hunger in his amber eyes. I had forgotten about such hunger. Pushed it aside. I had assumed such a look would be forever lost to me, replaced only by Danny’s disgust and horror.

But not with Kingsley. He hungered for me.

More important: He accepted me.

Then he was upon me, pouncing, taking me up in his great arms and lowering his face to mine. And as he did so, something flashed out of the corner of my eye. The golden amulet, the same one worn by my attacker years ago. I tried to ask Kingsley about the amulet but he lowered his face to mine and took me completely and wholly to a place I had never thought I would go again.

And that’s when I awoke, smiling.

Wow.

A minute later when I had regained my senses, I got out of bed and, averting my eyes from the light sneaking in through the blinds, made my way into the living room. There, under the china hutch, I found the box and opened it. Inside was the medallion with the three ruby roses.

I reached in and turned it over. There was blood on it. A tiny speckle that I had missed.

Why had Kingsley refused to discuss the medallion in my dream? Then again, how could he have even known about the medallion?

Then again, I reminded myself, it was just a dream.

Better yet, why are you dreaming of another man? You are a married woman. Dreams like that could lead to trouble.

A lot of trouble.

I returned the medallion to the box, closed the lid and smiled again.

It had been, after all, a hell of a dream.

26.

Before I became a full-time creature of the night, I was a federal agent for the Department of Housing and Urban Development, or HUD. Although its acronym was not as sexy-sounding as the FBI, my ex-partner and I busted our fair share of bad guys; in particular, real estate scam artist and loan swindlers and those who preyed on the poor.

Anyway, Chad Helling and I had been partners for just over two years when I had been forced to quit and find a night job. He understood. Or, rather, he understood the given reason.

He and I were still close, and through him I used the federal government’s resources for all they were worth. In exchange, I did some pro bono investigating work for him.

Chad answered his cell on the third ring. “Hey, sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” I asked.

“Sorry. Poor choice of words. What’s up?”

“I need some help,” I said.

“What else is new?”

I ignored that. “The name’s Rick Horton out of Tustin. I need to know if he has a twenty-two caliber pistol registered to his name.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s it.”

“You got it, Sunshine.”

“Asshole,” I said, but he had already hung up.

It was late evening. I tried Kingsley at his office number, but was not surprised to discover that Kingsley had called in sick since this was the night of the full moon. I tried his home number. It was answered immediately.

“Tonight’s the big night,” I said. “Arooo!”

“Who’s this?” asked a stuffy voice.

Whoops!

“I’m, uh, Samantha Moon. May I speak to Kingsley?”

A pause on the other end. I thought I heard a noise from somewhere in the background. Perhaps my imagination was playing tricks on me, but, son-of-a-bitch, I thought I had heard the howl of a dog.

Or a wolf.

“Master Kingsley is...indisposed at this time. I’ll tell him you rang.”

Master Kingsley?

“Please do,” I said, trying to match the upper crust voice. I think I warbled perhaps a little too long on do. The line was disconnected, and not by me.

Almost immediately my cell vibrated in my hand. I looked at the face-plate. It was my ex-partner.

“Yup, a twenty-two caliber pistol is registered to one Rick Horton,” said Special Agent Chad Helling. “If you knew that why did you need me?”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “I surmised.”

“That was a hell of a surmise. We could use someone like you at HUD. Too bad you keep such strange hours.”

“Thanks, Chad. I owe you one.”

“Or two; I’ve lost track.”

27.

It was 6:30 p.m., and the kids were playing at a neighbor’s house.

I was in my study going over my notes and reviewing the internet video feed of Kingsley’s shooting. Despite myself I laughed as I watched Kingsley ducking and dodging the bullets. Although immortal, each shot must have hurt like hell, and, at the time, the bullets had done serious enough damage to render him almost useless.

I paused on the clearest image of the shooter, which was still pretty grainy. Unfortunately, due to the poor quality of the image, it was impossible to tell if the shooter had been Rick Horton. Whoever it had been was wearing a generic warm-up jacket and a red ball cap. Seemed obvious to me that the shooter was wearing a fake mustache, too, but I couldn’t be sure. It just seemed too prominent, and in one frame it even stuck out at an odd angle, as if the glue had come undone. This, too, was noted in the police file.

I now knew Horton owned a .22, and a .22 was used in the crime. Where did that get me? Not much, but at least it was a start.

I felt uneasy, unrested, undead.

Shrugging my shoulders, which at this time of the day suddenly seemed twice as heavy, I absently rubbed—or sought—an ache in my neck that seemed always to move just beyond my fingertips. Like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands. Since my attack, since my change, my body ached in places and in ways I had never thought possible.

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 think 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.

And, according to his notes, I was next on his list.

I could kill him now and never worry that he might make an unwanted appearance with my children present. But I do not kill people, especially people defenseless in their sleep. Better to let the law handle this.

I slipped away into the night.

31.

It was early afternoon, and I felt like crap, and I would continue to feel like crap until the sun disappeared in a few hours. We were at Hero’s again, where very few people knew our names, but at least the bartender remembered our drinks.

“A glass of chardonnay and a martini?” he asked, giving us a warm smile. He had cute dimples around his mouth. Thick lips, too. Thick, juicy lips.

“You bet,” Mary Lou said, beaming. He winked and moved down the bar to pour our drinks, and Mary Lou continued smiling at his back, or perhaps at his backside. “Isn’t he just amazing? What a memory!”

“Down girl. It’s his job to remember,” I said. “He does well to remember.”

He returned with our drinks. Mary Lou handed him her credit card, although she probably would have preferred to slip it inside the waistband of his Jockey shorts. She sipped carefully from her glass and finally looked over at me. “So what’s the latest news with your case?”

“Are you done undressing our bartender with your eyes?”

“Not yet. Wait. Okay, now I am.”

“You’re a married woman, with kids,” I said.

“I know. Your point?”

“Married women shouldn’t be undressing bartenders with their eyes.”

“Show me that in the rule book.”

“There is no rule book.”

She looked at me. “Exactly. Now tell me about your case.”

I gave her an update, and to her credit she forgot about the bartender and his buns and focused on me.

“Well, Horton’s obviously your guy. What a fucking creep.” She shuddered slightly.

“Do you talk this way around your kids?”

“No, just you. I let it all out around you.”

“Lucky me,” I said.

“And you were next on his list?” she asked.

“You know, to silence the pesky private eye.”

“You are kind of pesky, aren’t you?”

“The peskier the better.”

“So what’re you going to do?” she asked.

I sipped some wine. I tasted nothing, literally, but at least I didn’t double over with stomach cramps. Sipping from the wine glass gave me some semblance of normalcy. “I’m going to have a talk with Detective Sherbet this evening.”

“But what can he do?” asked my sister. “He can’t just barge in there and arrest the guy without probable cause.”

“You’ve been watching too much TV, but you’re right. Not without a search warrant. And one needs evidence to obtain a search warrant.”

“So breaking into this guy’s house and finding evidence hidden under his bed won’t fly with a judge, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“So what will you do?” she asked.

“The detective and I will figure something out.”

“Will you tell this detective about your break-in?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Will he like it?”

“Probably not.”

We were silent, and I decided now was the time to tell her about the attempted rape and the death of the gang banger—and about the sucking of blood. So I did. The story took a few minutes, during which Mary Lou said nothing although I noted she had quickly finished her drink.

“That was very reckless of you,” she said when I was done.

“I know.”

“And you really drank his blood?”

“Yes.”

She was silent. I was silent. The noises of the bar came floating to my ears, the chink of glasses being washed in the sink, the sound of laughter behind me, the snapping opening of the cash register drawer.

“What if this somehow causes you to lose control, Samantha?”

“I love my kids too much to lose control.”

“Then you took a foolish chance by drinking that man’s blood.”

“Yes, I did. But the situation had gotten quickly out of control. Before I knew it, I was holding a corpse.”

“You should not be jogging so late.”

I drank my wine. Sometimes Mary Lou was impossible to talk to.

“When is there a better time? I’m a goddamn vampire.”

“The early evening.”

“In the early evening I have the kids and work.”

“Then why do you need to jog at all?”

“Because it helps me stay sane.”

We were alone at this end of the counter. As we spoke, my eyes constantly scanned the crowd, making sure we had no eavesdroppers. “I walk a fine line, Mary Lou. Everything around me is threatening to crumble away. Something like exercise is within my control. I need control right now.”

“Maybe you need help.”

We had gone through this before. “There’s no one to help me.”

“Maybe you need to speak to a therapist, someone, anyone.”

“You think this is in my head?”

“No. It’s real. I know that.”

“The moment I tell a therapist that I’m a vampire, they’ll lock me up and take away my kids. Is that what you want?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

“Is that what you want, Mary Lou?”

“No, it’s not what I want, but I also think your kids are not living a very healthy and normal life.” She sighed and reached out and held my hand. “You are a good mother, I know that. I know your kids mean everything to you, but I think they are in an unhealthy environment.”

“I see it as a different environment,” I said, then studied her concerned face. “Wait. Do you worry for their safety?”

She said nothing.

“Do you worry that I will have a craving and drink from my own children?”

Nothing.

“You do, don’t you?”

She sucked in some air. “No, of course not. But if you keep behaving recklessly you might, you know, someday lose sight of who you are. Sam, you’ve fought for so long to keep things together. I don’t want to see your life crumble around you just because you found the taste of one man’s blood particular good.”

I studied her and she looked away. I suddenly had an insight. “You’ve been talking to Danny, haven’t you?”

She reddened. “Yes. He called me the other night to apologize for not picking up the kids. He’s worried about the kids.”

“Oh, really? And he shows this by coming home at midnight?”

She shrugged. “He worries that you will have a negative influence on their lives. I told him that was ridiculous. No mother loves her kids more than you.”

We were silent. It was just before dusk, and I was irritable and cranky and tired. I wanted to sleep.

“He’s screwing someone else,” I said.

“You know for sure?”

“No. But I’m going to find out.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

“So am I. But it was bound to happen, right? Who wants to be married to a freak?”

“You’re not a freak,” she said, and then cracked a smile. “Well, okay, maybe a little freaky.”

I laughed. She reached out and took my hand. I reveled in the warmth.

She said, “So what are you going to do, Sam?”

“Follow him,” I said. “I am, after all, an ace detective.”

32.

The sun had just set, and I was in Detective Sherbet’s office. I felt good. Most important, I felt cognizant and lucid.

I sat in the visitor’s chair in front of his desk and noticed for the first time that Sherbet was a handsome man. His arms were heavily muscled and tan, with dark hair circling his forearms. I didn’t usually go for arm hair on men, but on Sherbet it seemed fitting and a little exciting. He seemed like a man’s man, powerful and virile. No wonder it galled him to think his kid might be gay.

“So how did the basketball game go the other day?” I asked.

There was a greasy bag of donuts sitting on top of a very full trash can. The scent of donut oil was foul, and slightly upsetting to my stomach. I fought through it.

“Kid was horrible. He actually took a shot at the wrong basket. Hell, he almost even made it. I nearly cheered. The coach benched him after that.”

“Did your boy have fun?”

“No. He was miserable.”

“Did you have fun?”

“No. I was embarrassed.”

“So what are you going to do? Keep forcing him to play?”

“You sound like my wife.”

“Your wife sounds like she might be the only reasonable parent in your household.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with that kid.”

“Just love him.”

“I do.”

Our section of the police station was empty and quiet. The detective had his hands clasped over his rotund belly. Although his stomach could have been flatter, the roundness sort of added to his manhood, pronouncing him as a real man who wasn’t afraid to eat.

“You’re looking at my fat belly,” he said.

“I would call it rotund,” I said.

“Rotund? Are you trying to get on my good side?”

“Maybe.”

He rubbed a hand over the curving sweep of his belly, then played with one of the clear plastic buttons. His face turned somber. “Samantha, I know you were assaulted six years ago, here in Fullerton. It’s in your record. You were found in Hillcrest Park, half-dead. Your throat torn open. Although there was little blood at the scene, you had almost bled to death. At first it was believed that you might have been attacked by an animal, a dog or coyote. But later you told investigators that it had been a man. He was never found.”

“Detective, I don’t want to talk about—”

“Now, I understand you might not want to talk about it, but there’s something strange going on here in my town, my backyard, so to speak. My beat. I would appreciate if maybe someday you could help me understand.”

“Someday,” I said. “Just not today.”

“Okay, fine. On to item number two. What do you have on the Fulcrum case?”

Relieved to be talking about anything else, I told him everything I knew about Horton. When I got to the part about breaking and entering Horton’s home, I said, “Are you going to arrest me?”

“Not yet. Keep going.”

“Horton had files on Hewitt Jackson and Kingsley Fulcrum, not to mention a new file on me. In these files are detailed information on Jackson’s and Fulcrum’s movements. A date and time was circled on Jackson. In fact, it was the exact date and time he was murdered.”

Detective Sherbet’s eyes widened a little. For Sherbet, this was the next best thing to him jumping up and down and yelling yippee! “Then he’s our man.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“You think so? Hell, he had everything but the smoking gun. And he might still have that, as well, once we serve a search warrant.”

“He just doesn’t feel right.”

“Is that your gut talking?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my gut says he’s our man.”

“How are you going to convince a judge to issue a warrant?”

He sat back, laced his fingers behind his thick head of salt and pepper hair. “Good question. Any ideas?”

“You’re the homicide detective.”

He thought about that. “How about a trash run?”

“As in dig through his trash?” I said.

“Sure. It’s public domain. We find something incriminating we can convince a judge to issue a warrant.”

I blinked. “We?”

“Yes, I’m not going to dig through his trash alone.”

“The trash went out last night,” I said. “I saw the barrels.”

“It’s settled then. Next Thursday we go out to Horton’s place and dig through his trash.”

“Sounds like a date.”

“Let’s just hope we find something.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something,” I said. “Let’s just hope we find the right something.”

33.

The kids were in karate class together, so I used the opportunity to work-out at Jacky’s. It was late evening, and the sun had set. I was feeling strong and healthy. At the moment, Jacky was taping my fists. We were both silent. I think he sensed I was in one of my moods. Occasionally, he would look up into my face, then quickly avert his eyes.

“I’m not going to bite you, Jacky.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” he asked. “Well, I am.”

I rubbed his shining head with my already-taped right hand.

In fact, I was having a hard time letting go of my conversation with Mary Lou. I was trying to comprehend the fact that she had been secretly speaking to Danny. Discussing what an unfit mother I was.

“Whatever’s eating at you,” said Jacky, “take it out on the punching bag. That’s my motto.”

And so I did. Pummeling the thing until I was dripping sweat. We worked in three minute drills, with Jacky screaming at me to keep my hands up. I would finish each round in a flurry of punches, rapid-fire body shots to the punching bag. During one of these flurries, I caught Jacky’s expression as he steadied the punching bag. It was one of profound pain. The punches were reverberating through the bag and into him. The Irishman was taking a beating, but he seemed to love it.

At the end of the sixth round I dropped my hands to my side. The gloves felt like bags of cement. Jacky staggered away to get some water.

I leaned my forehead against the punching bag. I was still thinking about Danny. It seemed to me that he was building a case against me. Of course, building a case against me couldn’t be easier. Hell, in my current condition, even I knew I was an unfit mother. But I was doing my best and I loved my kids with all my heart. You could never replace that. Ever.

At the far end of the gym, I noticed a tall boxer working out with one of Jacky’s long-time trainers. The boxer was young and blond and very muscular. His punches were rapid and precision-like. His muscles stood out on his hot skin.

Jacky came back, holding a little Dixie cup full of water. The cup was shaking in his hands.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about those Dixie cups,” I said. “We pay good money to join your gym, and the best you can give us are these paper thimbles in return?”

“Ah, lass, you pay for the atmosphere.”

I nodded toward the young, hotshot boxer. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Desmond Beacon. A boxing champion in the Marines, went undefeated. He’s turning pro.”

“I want to box him.”

Jacky’s eyes brightened briefly—perhaps with excitement—and then he came back down to earth and shook his head. “Look, kid, I know I built your hopes up and all that, but that ain’t going to happen. Maybe we could arrange a fight with another broad.”

“Broad?” I said. “Maybe I should box you.” I looked again at the ex-Marine. “I want to fight him.”

“No, lass. I’m sorry.”

“So he kicks my ass. At least it’ll give me something else to think about.”

Jacky looked at me and sighed. “Your day that shitty, huh?”

I thought of Danny cheating—or possibly cheating—and I thought of possibly losing my kids. “Yeah,” I said. “Hell of a shitty day.”

He sighed again and said, “Hold on.” He went over to the Wonder Kid and his trainer, spoke briefly, pointed at yours truly. Desmond Beacon shook his head, said something, and they all laughed. All of them, that is, except Jacky. He got into the tall Marine’s face. By got into his face, I mean, Jacky looked up from the man’s chest. I had no doubt that Jacky could have taken the Marine in his day. But his day was long past him. They stared each other down for another ten seconds and then the Marine turned away, dismissing Jacky with a contemptuous smirk.

“What was that all about?” I asked when Jacky had hobbled back.

“Fucking prick,” said Jacky. “I have a mind to kick his ass.”

“What did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“He doesn’t want to fight me?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It’s because I’m a woman.”

“He said something about that,” said Jacky, looking back at the Marine, who had gone back to shadow boxing. “Actually, he said something about doing something else to you, but I ain’t gonna repeat it to you.”

“Is that when you stuck up for me?”

“The kid’s disrespectful. Someone needs to show him a lesson.”

“I agree.”

“Samantha...I get nervous when I see that look in your eye.”

But I wasn’t listening. I was already marching over to the six foot four Desmond Beacon, who was shadow boxing near the ring. When he saw me coming he stopped, nudged his trainer, and grinned. A wolfish sort of grin. When I got to him, I looked him in the eye, smiled sweetly, and promptly kicked him square in the balls.

Hope he’s wearing a cup.

His eyes bulged and a look of confusion swept across his face and then he dropped to a knee, groaning and turning red.

Guess not.

His little trainer shrieked like a monkey. He grabbed my shoulder and tried flinging me around, but I don’t fling easily and he lost his balance. Instead, he settled for getting in my face. “What the hell are you doing, Missy? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Just maybe,” I said. I pushed the trainer aside and looked down at the boxer kneeling before me. I felt like a queen. “Will you fight me now?”

Desmond Beacon looked up. His face had gone from red to green.

“You bet your ass,” he croaked.

34.

Jacky and I were in a corner of the ring.

The little Irishman was doing some last minute adjustments to my head gear. The headgear felt big and clunky. I didn’t think I needed it, but having it on seemed to make the others happy. The Marine, in the opposite corner, was also wearing head gear. I assumed he, too, felt the gear was unnecessary.

I stared down at Jacky’s bald head as he now worked on my gloves. From this angle I could just make out some old boxing scars above his brow. Many, many old boxing scars. There was a wicked little gleam in Jacky’s eye whenever he looked up at me; he was breathing hard and fast, face red with excitement.

“Remember what I always tell you,” he said, “keep your gloves up.”

“Keep them up? Or down? I get confused.”

But Jacky wasn’t listening. In fact, he had this sort of dreamy look on his face. Perhaps he had regressed back to the backroom fighting halls of 1950s Belfast, when he was a young prize fighter with something to prove. His fighting days were long gone and I had a feeling I was his outlet, but that was okay. I wanted to fight. I wanted an honest-to-God slugfest. Sometimes you just need to beat the crap out of something.

“Focus on your jabs, doll.”

“Don’t call me doll, and I’ll focus on whatever I want. This isn’t a real fight. I’m just going to beat the crap out of him and then pick up my kids.”

Jacky pushed me away and held me at arm’s length. “Don’t get too cocky, kid. You’re strong as hell, and to be honest, a little freaky, but this guy knows the fundamentals. I’m not sure you realize what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“We’ll see.”

Jacky held up a white towel. “I’m throwing this in if things turn ugly.”

“For me or him?”

“Either.”

* * *

“Ding ding,” said Jacky.

Desmond Beacon stood nearly a foot taller than me. In the center of the ring we touched gloves. Now that the pain was gone from his groin, he didn’t look so eager to fight a woman—especially now that we had a few female onlookers.

So, to get him back into the spirit of things, I hit him with a quick jab that landed on his chin and snapped his head back. When his head settled back into place, there was a suitable look of irritation in his eyes.

Behind me, Jacky screamed, “Yes, yes!”

Desmond now bounced on his toes and worked his neck, and suddenly flicked his glove out at me much quicker than I was prepared for. I tried to dodge right, but there was no escaping it. His glove hit me square in the jaw and I staggered backwards and promptly landed on my ass, skidding to a halt near the ropes.

“Sammy, you okay?” Jacky’s worried, ruddy face peered down at me through the lowest rung of rope.

I got up. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t like this, Sammy. He’s too good.”

“Don’t call me Sammy.”

“Then what the hell do you want me to call you?”

“Just Sam.”

We touched gloves again. Desmond wasn’t smiling. In fact, he didn’t seem to be enjoying any of this. I think he was hoping I would’ve gone away by now. We circled each other. I was wary of his hand speed. His face was expressionless, although his cheeks were pinched together because of the headgear. He kept his gloves up like a good boy. His fist shot out again, another jab. I blocked it with my own glove, but the force of the punch knocked my own glove back into my forehead. Luckily the head gear is thickest at the forehead. He jabbed again. I blocked it and side-stepped. He was waiting for me to side-step. His next punch rung my bell, and I staggered backward again.

I caught a glimpse of Jacky. Or, rather, two Jackys. The old Irishman looked stricken. His interest in seeing a real fight had long ago dissipated. He was holding the white towel up. I shook my head at him, and he reluctantly lowered it.

Back in the ring, Desmond looked a little surprised to see me still on my feet. We circled each other some more. It seemed apparent to me that the Marine and his manager, and perhaps even Jacky, had agreed that I would only receive jabs. Harmless enough, and not too brutal. Wouldn’t bode well for Jacky’s female clientèle to watch a woman get pulverized by a semi-professional male boxer.

Now even more people were watching. A small crowd of mostly women were standing around the sparring ring, all dripping sweat, their workouts finished or abandoned. They were talking amongst themselves and watching me closely. I didn’t like close scrutiny, but I needed to pound something, and the Marine was the biggest thing in the gym.

I focused entirely on the Marine. Sweat dripped steadily down his cheeks and into his headgear. The muscles in his right shoulder flexed and I took a step back just as his lightning-fast jab swished through the air. Focus on the shoulder. The deltoid muscles flinched again and I moved back again and avoided the next punch as well. We circled, and he stopped bouncing on his feet and lowered his hands. The moment he lowered his hands, I delivered a combination of left jab and overhead right. Both landed. I am quick when I want to be and strong when I want to be, and I wanted to be both now. The punches staggered him backward and he landed against the ropes. A chorus of cheers erupted from the milling crowd of sweating women. The Marine pushed himself off the ropes and approached me, fists raised. He was looking at the crowd of women out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t know what to do. He was in a hell of spot. He didn’t want to hurt a woman, yet here was a woman in front of him who was hurting him. I decided to make that decision for him, and came at him like a bull. I faked a left jab and then came hard over his gloves with a straight right that hit him square on the nose. His knees buckled. I hit him again. He gathered himself and quit looking at the crowd. Good. Now he danced around the ring like he meant it. Good. He lifted his gloves and delivered a powerful combination that I used my gloves and arms to absorb. His punches hurt. He was throwing them hard. He didn’t give a damn who was watching him now or how bad this might have looked. He was tired of some woman taking potshots at him.

Except I wasn’t some woman.

Even with the sun still out in the late afternoon sky, my reflexes were better than average. But only slightly better. I still felt weak and sluggish—and that damn sun couldn’t set fast enough.

The Marine suddenly threw a wild punch that veered off my shoulder and I used that opening to deliver a rocking uppercut. I caught him under the chin and his head snapped up. He might have even lifted off the mat. Either way, he landed hard on his back. The crowd went wild. Alright, maybe not wild, but definitely a few cheers. The Marine got up and we touched gloves in the middle of the ring again. His eyes seemed a little unsteady. The big boy had taken a few hard blows to the head from a very healthy vampire. He raised his fists, did a little boxing dance, and sort of refocused himself.

And came out swinging.

Holy crap! Hell hath no fury like a man embarrassed by a woman. His punches were powerful and numerous; some landed, but most missed entirely. I soon found myself backed up against the ropes. Spit and sweat and blood flung from the Marine. His arms were a blur of punches. I heard gasps behind me. Surely this looked horrible to Jacky’s female clientèle: a woman being beaten to a pulp by a hulking Marine. I’m sure Jacky was about to throw in the towel, when it happened.

I didn’t see it happen, granted.

But I felt it.

The late afternoon soon had finally set, and I felt alive.

So damn alive.

I slipped under his onslaught and backed into a corner. He was about to follow me in but must have seen something in my eyes and paused. He should have kept pausing. Instead, he charged ahead. As he came at me, I timed my punch perfectly. A hard right to the jaw.

Too hard.

Never had I hit something so squarely and so hard. I floored him. No. I lifted him off his feet and over the surrounding ropes. He landed in a heap on the padded floor. Women screamed and rushed over to him. I saw Jacky run over to the Marine, too. He looked at me, horror on his face.

What had I done?

I stood dumbly in the center of the ring as the Marine lay on his back, unmoving.

35.

I almost killed a man today.

Tell me about it.

So I wrote it up for Fang. As usual, he read like a demon on crack, and posted his reply almost instantly.

The Marine might be re-thinking his boxing career.

I suddenly felt indignant, perhaps to mask my guilt. Good. He was a pig, and boxing’s certainly no way to make a living. Getting your brains beaten to a pulp day in and day out.

I see, so by knocking him out of the ring, you actually did a service to him.

Yes. He could think of it as career counseling.

Through the school of hard knocks.

Haha.

I think you are trying to assuage your guilt, Moon Dance, to justify your actions.

Okay, fine. I feel horrible! You happy?

No. At least you can admit your guilt.

He didn’t deserve what I did to him.

Probably not. Then again, he sounded like he might have needed to be taught a lesson. Did you really kick him in the balls?

Argh! I’m horrible!

Yes, wrote Fang. You were today.

You don’t let me off easy, do you?

Do you want me to let you off easy?

No, I wrote, thinking about it. I want you to always be dead honest with me. It’s why I keep you around.

Gee, thanks. So what happened to the Marine?

They took him away in an ambulance. The paramedic said it looked like a concussion. I sent him flowers and a card apologizing.

Perhaps you should find other outlets for your anger, wrote Fang.

Perhaps.

You might have to be a little more, um, discreet with your gifts. You don’t want to keep attracting unwanted attention.

I think you’re right. I paused. But why call it a gift, Fang?

It’s how you choose to view it, Moon Dance. You could focus on either the negative or the positive. As in all of life.

Thank you, Tony Robbins.

No, I’m not Tony Robbins but I’m certainly as tall.

Really? What else do you look like? I wrote, eager for more information.

As usual, he ignored any personal questions. Let’s take a look at these gifts of yours. You have enhanced strength, night vision, speed and endurance. Not to mention the ability to shape-change.

Whoa! I wrote, sitting back. No one’s ever said anything about shape-changing.

You’ve never shape-changed, Moon Dance?

Ever recall me mentioning turning into a bat?

There was a long pause, then he wrote: Most texts, resources and personal accounts are unanimous about this. You should be able to shape-change. Into what exactly, is open to debate.

I found myself laughing at my computer desk. Well, if your resources can tell me how to shape-change, then I’ll give it a shot.

I’ll look into it. Maybe you should look into it, too.

How?

Another pause: Maybe you need to look into yourself.

The doorbell rang. The babysitter was here.

Goodnight, Fang.

Goodnight, Moon Dance.

36.

It was late and I was restless.

Earlier in the day, I’d dreamed of Kingsley again, and now I couldn’t get the big son-of-a-bitch out of my thoughts. In my dream, we were in the woods again, but this time we weren’t playing a game. This time he had captured me early on and I was on my back. I distinctly remembered the pine needles poking into my bare back and the sound of small animals scurrying away in the woods. Scurrying away in fear. Kingsley was in his half man/half wolf mode, dark shaggy hair hanging from his huge shoulders, down his long arms. A tuft of it sticking up along the ridge of his spine like a hairy stegosaurus. He was on all fours and he was above me. I was pinned beneath him, distinctly aware that he was far too strong for me to push off. I was submitting to him. Body and soul.

In my dream, he was still wearing the medallion, hanging freely from his thick neck, suspended just inches above my face. Whenever I opened my mouth to ask about the medallion, he simply shook his great head and I knew I was not to discuss it, and so I didn’t, although I wanted to. Badly.

Then he lowered his face to mine, a face that was still magnificently human and handsome, although in bad need of a shave. His breath was hot on my neck, my ears, through my hair. He was touching me with his lips or tongue, I didn’t know which, nor did I care. I only knew I had not felt this good in a long, long time.

Then the alarm went off, and I could have cried.

A hell of a dream, I thought. I think you might like the big guy.

Ya think?

The question was: what did I do about it? I didn’t know. Even though I knew in my heart my marriage was over, I still felt guilty for having feelings for another man.

You shouldn’t. Your husband is long gone. You can’t keep living like this, and nor can he.

But the moment I quit living like this—the moment my husband and I officially separated—would be the moment my kids are taken away from me, and I can’t have that.

I can’t have that.

So quit thinking about Kingsley.

Easier said than done.

It was late, and I was restless and I couldn’t for the life of me keep Kingsley out of my thoughts. Damn him. What right did he have kissing a lonely and hurting woman? What right did he have of putting me through this?

I nearly laughed. It had, of course, been just a dream.

37.

“You home?” I asked.

“Of course I’m home,” said Kingsley, “it’s two-thirty in the goddamn morning.”

“Don’t sound so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? If anything I sound tired.”

“I’m coming over. Where do you live?”

There was a long pause. I wondered if Kingsley had fallen back to sleep. Then a thought occurred to me, maybe he had a woman with him. If so, I didn’t care. I wanted to talk, and not with a mortal. Either way, last night had been the full moon, so tonight Kingsley should be his old self.

“Okay,” he said, and gave me directions. “Oh, and remind me when you get here that there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“That makes two of us.”

Kingsley lived in Yorba Linda, just a few cities over. At a quarter to three, I drove east down Bastanchury Blvd. The night was still and quiet. To my left were empty rolling hills. Beyond was the county dump, well hidden from curious eyes and sensitive noses.

Here on Bastanchury was some of the best Orange County had to offer. Beautiful homes slightly removed from the hustle and bustle of the county.

I turned left into a long driveway, drove through a tangle of shrubbery along a crushed seashell drive. The seashell drive, reflecting the near full moon, was as bright as a yellow brick road to my eyes. The driveway continued for perhaps an eighth of a mile, until it curved before a massive estate house.

I parked in front of the portico, and briefly admired the huge structure. It was a Colonial revival, complete with two flanker structures on either end. Nearly the entire facade was covered in dark clapboard, and the windows were enclosed with paneled shutters. All in all, a fitting home for a werewolf.

Shortly after I rang the bell, a porch light turned on and a very tall and dour man appeared at the door, who looked down at me from a hawkish nose. He was frowning. Probably wasn’t in his job description to be receiving guests at 3:00 a.m. There was something disjointed and odd about the man. It took me a second to realize what it was. One ear was clearly larger than the other.

“This way,” he said. “Master Kingsley is waiting in the conservatory.”

“With Professor Plum and the candlestick?” I asked.

Big Ear was not amused.

38.

Kingsley was lounging on a leather sofa with a drink in hand.

He looked like hell: scruffy beard, hair in disarray, serious bags under his eyes.

“Um, you look good,” I said.

“Like hell I do.”

“Just what I was thinking.”

The conservatory was octagon-shaped and faced the expansive backyard which spread out into the hills beyond like a vast estate. Through the French window, I could make out an alabaster fountain gurgling away, depicting a naked nymph blowing water through her cupped hands. The sculptor went a little crazy with her breasts. Men and breasts. Sheesh.

“Would you like a drink?” Kingsley asked.

“Sure. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Kingsley motioned to his butler. A moment later, a drink appeared before me.

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said.

Kingsley grinned. “His name is Franklin.”

“Franklin the butler?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t have quite the same ring.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Kingsley said, “but he’s a good butler, and can pour a hell of a drink.”

“It’s true,” said Franklin. “I almost never spill.” His enunciation was clear and precise with a slightly lilting accent that could have been English. When he spoke, his face appeared completely still, as if the muscles were inert, or deactivated. I couldn’t help but notice an ugly scar that ran along his chin and extended back to his hairline, as if Franklin had at one time or another lost his entire head.

Kingsley said, “Thank you, Franklin. That will be all. Sorry to rouse you out of your sleep in the dead of night.”

“I am made to serve.”

“And you do it so well. Off you go. Good night.”

Franklin the Butler nodded and left. Curious, I watched him go. His strides were long and loping, as if his legs were disproportionate to his body.

“Franklin is an interesting fellow,” I said when he was gone.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Must have survived a hell of an accident, scarred like that.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Where did you find him?”

“He was recommended by a friend.”

I sipped the alcohol. It had no flavor at all, and no effect. The ice rattled in the tumbler.

“What do you know of vampire shape-shifting?” I asked suddenly.

Kingsley blinked, then thought about it. “Not a whole hell of a lot, I’m afraid. Why?”

“It’s been coming up lately.”

“I see.”

“So, can vampires turn into, you know, things?”

He laughed, “They can indeed turn into...things.”

My heart slammed in my chest. “What sort of things?” I asked.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“Would I be asking if I did?”

“And you’ve never tried shape-changing?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“You could always try jumping off a tree branch and see what happens.”

“And think like a fruit bat?”

“Is that the gay bat?”

“You’re not helping.”

“That’s just it. I don’t know how to help. My own transformation sort of takes place uninvitingly.”

“I understand. So back to the question: what sort of things can vampires turn into?”

“Vampires turn into...something big and black.” He paused and grimaced as if he had just bitten into something sour. “Something ugly and hideous. Something with massive leathery wings. A sort of hybrid between man and bat.”

“You’ve seen one?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And that’s all I know.”

“Who was the vampire?”

“I’d rather not discuss it right now.”

“Why?”

He inhaled. His handsome face was mostly hidden in shadows, although that posed little problems for me. I could see the fine lines of his nose and jaw.

“Because he killed my wife.”

I breathed. “I’m sorry, Kingsley.”

“Hey, it’s in the past.”

“I ask too many questions. It’s the investigator in me. I don’t know how to turn it off sometimes.”

“You didn’t know.”

I wanted to ask him more about his wife. Why was she killed? Was she a werewolf, too? If not, then how did they make their marriage work? How long had they been married? And kids? Moreover, who was this vampire? But I held my tongue, which was something I didn’t do well. Therefore, I found myself thinking of flying around the city of Fullerton like a super-sized bat out of hell. The image was too crazy. I mean, I’m a mother of two. I went to a PTA meeting last week. I washed twelve loads of laundry over the weekend. Real people don’t turn into giant bats, right?

“So basically,” I said after a suitable time, “I turn into a monster.”

He eased off the sofa and headed to the bar. He poured himself another drink.

“You’re not the only one,” he said. “Once a month Franklin keeps me locked up in a special room where I won’t hurt myself or others.” He swirled the contents of his glass. Some of the contents splashed over the rim. He didn’t seem to notice or care. “Only monsters need to be locked up.”

“But you have taken measures to control the monster within you. In my book, that makes you very much not a monster”

“By practicing safe-transformation?” he asked.

I laughed. “Precisely.”

As he sat, I noticed a particularly thick tuft of hair at the back of his hand. The hair hadn’t been there a few days before. I slipped out of my chair and to his side. I took his hand in my own and ran my fingers through the fur.

“Just what are you doing?” he asked. He didn’t move. I could feel his pulse in his wrist. His pulse was quickening. I pulled on the fur.

“It’s real,” I said.

“Of course it’s real.”

“You really are a werewolf.”

“Yes.”

“Can I call you Wolfy?

“No.”

A glint of amber reflected in his irises. I could have been looking into the eyes of a wolf staring back at me from the deep shadows of a dark forest.

The forest. My dream. His hot breath. His hotter lips.

I looked away. God, his stare was hypnotic. No wonder he won so many court cases. What juror could resist those eyes? I noticed then that the couch had a light sprinkling of what appeared to be dog hair. The hair was now on my clothing.

“You’re shedding,” I said.

“Yes, I tend to do that.”

“How old are you Kingsley?”

“You will not be denied tonight, will you, Samantha?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps by understanding more about you, I can understand more about me, about who I am and where I’m going.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’m seventy-nine.”

“Is that in dog years?”

“I’m going to bed,” he said.

“Wait. What did you need to talk to me about?”

He nodded solemnly. “There’s someone looking for you, Samantha.”

“Who?”

“A vampire hunter.”

“A...what?”

“A vampire hunter, and he wants you dead.”

I choked on my drink. “Why?”

“Because you’re a vampire and killing vampires is what he does.”

“How does he kill vampires?”

“A crossbow, I think. Apparently arrow bolts have the same affect on vampires as stakes.”

“When did you find this out?”

“Tonight.”

“How did you find out?”

“I’m privy to such information. Through associates. From others like me.”

“Werewolves.”

“Yes.”

I thought about that, and then told him about the man from the other night with the night-vision goggles. Kingsley shrugged.

“It could have been him. Perhaps he’s been following you.”

“No one’s been following me.”

“How do you know?”

“I watch for tails. It’s a habit of mine.”

“A good habit,” he agreed.

“Speaking of tails—”

“I’m going to bed,” he said again.

“Wait. What do you propose I do about this vampire hunter?” I asked.

“Kill or be killed. That’s where I come in. Let me help you get rid of this guy.”

“No,” I said. “I’m a big girl and this is my problem.”

“He’s a trained killer.”

“And I’ve been trained to protect myself.”

He didn’t like it, but said no more. We sat together on the couch, our shoulders touching.

“Why are you with him, Samantha?”

I knew who he was talking about. Danny. “It’s none of your business why.”

“Yes,” he said, “it is.”

“How so?”

“Because I think I’m falling in love with you.”

39.

It was late.

The kids were with my sister, and I was alone in a parking lot, hidden behind some bushes and beneath an overhanging willow. The digital clock on the car radio read 11:22 p.m. Too late for an attorney and his secretary to be working cases.

The engine was off, and the windows were cracked open. Even vampires need to breathe. Actually, I wondered about that. I held my breath, timing myself. A minute passed. Two minutes. Three. Four. Five. I let out my breath. Well, hell. You learn something new everyday.

Just what dark voodoo was keeping me alive then? Didn’t my brain and blood need oxygen, too? Maybe I just didn’t need as much, and the only reason I seemed to breathe on a regular basis was that my automatic nervous system didn’t know enough to shut off. I felt my heart. It was beating, very slowly. I timed the beating. Ten beats a minute. Ah, hell. I should be dead a hundred times over.

But I wasn’t. I was very much alive. But how, dammit?

Maybe it was better not to think about it.

I was alive. Perhaps I should have died six years ago, but I didn’t. Something kept me alive, and for that I was thankful. Now, not only could I watch my kids grow up but I would probably outlive my grandchildren and their children’s children.

Jesus.

I ask again: what the hell kind of dark magic is keeping me alive?

Danny’s firm is a small firm. He owned it with a partner, where it occupied the entire second floor of a very plain professional building. Danny specialized in auto accidents. A classic ambulance chaser. He made good money at it, but sold his soul.

I used to give him crap about it long ago, until I realized he actually enjoyed the work. He enjoyed sticking it to the insurance companies. Now he enjoyed sticking it to his secretary.

The night was cool. Trees above me swished gently. The partial moon appeared and disappeared through a smattering of clouds.

There seemed to be a hint of light coming from one of the building’s upstairs windows, but it was difficult to tell as the blinds were shut. I sipped from a water bottle. The water was lukewarm. I discovered that I liked lukewarm water, which was a refreshing change from the nightly dosage of chilled hemoglobin.

I thought of the vampire hunter. For the past few days I had been watching my tail, and was confident no one was following me.

Staking out anyone—even your husband—can be boring work. I held up my hand and studied it. My skin was white, almost translucent. Purple veins crisscrossed the back of my hand. My nails were thick and hard. Like my hair, they tended to grow slowly. I touched the center of my palm with my left index finger. The sensation sent a slight shiver up my right arm. Flesh and bone. I was three dimensional. I could feel. I could laugh. I could love my kids.

So why couldn’t I die? And what gave me my unnatural strength?

I turned the rearview mirror my direction.

There was nothing in the mirror. Nothing at all, save for an image of the driver’s seat headrest. My clothing moved as if occupied by the Invisible Woman. Fairly disconcerting. It was as if the mirror refused to acknowledge my existence. I turned it away in disgust.

“Well, I’m here, dammit,” I said to the mirror. “Whether you like it or not.”

Or perhaps I was saying this to Danny. Or the world.

So a creature called a vampire had attacked me one night. It tainted my blood with his. Because of that taint I was forever and irrevocably changed.

It had to do with the blood. I thought of blood now. It was the lifesource. Without it, we die. Well, without a lot of other stuff we die, too. Without your head you die. Without your heart you die.

How could something in my blood change me forever?

Blood connected everything, flowed through everything. Blood infused throughout the entire body.

The blood, I realized, was the key. My blood, my tainted blood, was keeping my body unnaturally alive—and would, apparently, keep it unnaturally alive for all eternity.

My God, I thought.

And then I wondered: was I still a child of God. Or was I rendered into something evil?

I didn’t feel evil.

The street was quiet, but not empty. Across the street, the door to my husband’s building opened. Two figures emerged. One of them was my husband and the other was a woman. I didn’t recognize the woman. He had mentioned acquiring a new secretary a few months back. I hadn’t met her. This girl was tall and angular, with straight, blond hair. She wore a very tight white skirt.

They walked together into the adjoining parking lot. He led her to a little red convertible with its top down. At her door my husband put his arms around her waist and gave her a very long, and very deep kiss. They held that position for well over a half a minute. Then she disentangled herself from him, got in the car and drove away. He watched her leave, then turned toward me, and I held my breath. For one brief second I thought he might have been looking at me. Then he turned away, reached for his keys in his pocket, got into his Escalade and left. To drive home to his wife and kids.

Numb, I stayed where I was, the engine off. I was surprised to discover that my hand had unconsciously reached inside my jacket for a gun that wasn’t there.

40.

Danny and I were lying in bed together.

He was under the covers and I was on top of them. As usual. He was naked and I was completely clothed. As usual. Heat from his recently-showered body emanated from his skin. He had removed the scent of her. What a guy. In the dark, I could see his pale shoulders clearly. I could also see that he was looking away from me, eyes open and staring up.

I rolled from my side onto my back, staring up at the ceiling along with him. The ceiling crackled and swirled with the secret particles of light that only I could see.

“I saw you with her tonight,” I said.

“I know.”

“You haven’t kissed me like that in a long time.”

He said nothing. The particles of light seemed to react to the tension around us, swirling faster, agitated.

I said, “You knew I was there and you kissed her in front of me anyway?”

“I saw you immediately when we stepped outside.”

“So you gave her a particularly long kiss.”

“Yes.”

“Why even bother coming home?”

“My kids are here.”

My voice started shaking, and I could not hide the fear and the hate. I wanted to rise up and pound his goddamn chest, make him hurt as much as he was hurting me.

“Do you love her?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know. I used to.” He paused. “I do not think I can love what you have become. I’ve tried. I honestly tried. But....”

“I repulse you.”

“Yes,” he said. “You sicken me and scare the hell out of me, and when I touch you it’s all I can do to not gag.”

“Words every wife wants to hear.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I really am. I’m sorry that you were attacked. I’m sorry it has come to this. But a marriage is between a man and a woman.”

“I am not a woman?”

“I don’t know what the hell you are. A fucking vampire, I suppose. And what is that?”

“I’m still the same person.”

“No, you’re not. You drink blood in the garage like a ghoul. I have nightmares about you. I dream that you attack me in the middle of the night, that you attack our children—that you just lose it and slaughter us all.”

I was crying now. Sobbing and crying and completely out of control. This was my worst fear, and it had come to pass. The love of my life was leaving me, and I didn’t blame him for one second.

He ignored my crying. In fact, he turned his back to me.

And then I lost it. Just lost it.

In a blink of an eye I was on top of him. Both hands snaked down around his throat, faster than any cobra, faster than he could defend himself. I pinned him to the bed. “You fucking take my kids and I will kill you, you son-of-a bitch. Do you understand? I will hunt you down and kill you and tear you into fucking shreds.”

My voice was hysterical, shrieking, piercing. I saw my hands around his muscular neck—my narrow, pale, strong hands. His own were struggling with mine, trying desperately to pry me loose, but no luck. I didn’t know if he was getting any air, and I suddenly didn’t care. He kicked and convulsed, and still I strangled him, still I cursed and screamed at him. Now my arms shook with the effort. One more second, one more pound of pressure per square inch, and I would have killed him, and I would have enjoyed it. At least, in that moment.

Then I released my hold and he rolled off the bed, falling, coughing and gagging and spitting up. His body wrenched with the effort to breathe.

My heart was racing. “Don’t you ever take my kids away, Danny,” I whispered. “Ever.”

41.

Danny was sitting up against the headboard, his knees drawn up against his chest. A sort of guy version of the fetal position. He was watching me with wary eyes. Who would blame him?

Although the room was dark, I could see the red welts around his neck. He had regained his breath and I had calmed considerably. The fury that overcame me had nothing to do with the vampire in me, and everything to do with the mother in me.

“I have given strict instruction to my attorney to release sealed information concerning your...disease,” he said. His voice was ragged and torn, as if he were speaking through a very old microphone. Or a very damaged throat. “That is, should anything suspicious happen to me.”

“What do you mean?” I was sitting on the edge of the bed. A sick realization came over me. Danny, despite my threats of bodily harm, would have the upper hand in this situation.

“I’ve completely detailed everything about your vampirism. Everything. From your attack six years ago to your account with the butchery in Norco.”

“No one will believe it. They’ll think you’re crazy.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“What does that mean, Danny?”

“I’ve included in the packet two additional items. A video of me holding a mirror up to you while you slept, and a vial of your own tainted blood.”

“Are you insane?” I asked.

“Maybe. But I want the kids, and I want them safe, and I want you to stay away and keep your filthy hands off me—and them.”

We were silent again as I absorbed all of this. I was stuck. Whether or not anyone believed his story or bothered to test the vial of blood was debatable, but one I could not chance. I had known early on that I could never, ever risk being exposed.

“What about the kids?” I asked.

He took a deep breath and drew his knees up higher. “I’m taking the kids, Samantha.”

I needed a clear mind for this. He was leaving, that much I understood, that much I could try to deal with. But to take the kids....

When I spoke again, I was the voice of reason and calm. “Danny, baby, listen to me. We’ve lived like this for six years. I’ve given them nothing but love. I would never harm anyone, not a living soul, especially not my kids. They need their mother.”

He snorted. “After what just happened? My God, Sam, I thought you were going to kill me.”

“I was furious, Danny. You’ve been cheating on me. Hell, you practically flaunted it in my face. Anyone woman—any mother—would have reacted the same way.” I paused. He rubbed his neck and winced. “They need their mother, Danny.”

“I agree, which is why I will allow you to see them every other weekend. Supervised.” He inhaled deeply, raggedly. He knew what he was doing to me, he knew he was killing me, but he continued on. “Don’t fight me on this either, Sam. Don’t make me expose you for the monster that you are, because I will. I will do it to save the kids.”

“Danny, please.”

“I’m sorry. I truly am. You never deserved this to happen to you, and you never asked for it. Neither did I. Neither did the kids. But I am determined to keep them safe. I stuck it out this long, Sam. I did it for the kids. I think they’re both old enough now to understand that mommy and daddy’s relationship isn’t so good anymore.”

In a flash of rare compassion, he reached out and took my hand. I noticed he didn’t recoil in horror, or hold it limply. He held it firmly and compassionately. “This is for the best, Sam. Now you can live...your life, however you need to live it. You don’t have to worry about picking the kids up from school anymore, or about going to parent/ teacher conferences, or about staying up with the kids during the day if one is sick. You can be free to be who you are, to be what you are, whatever that is....”

He kept talking, but I wasn’t sure if I was listening. I could only think of my children growing up without their mother. I could only think of not seeing their faces everyday. Worse, I realized there was nothing I could do short of kidnapping them, and I would never do that because what kind of life would that be? Danny continued talking, extolling the virtues of being on my own, unhindered by the kids and the daily grind of being a mother; he continued stroking my hand, and I knew that my kids were lost to me. Every other weekend seemed an eternity. Suddenly, the daily grind of being a mother never looked better, and every time I tried to state my case the words failed me, because, in my heart, I knew he was right.

I am a monster. I am unnatural. They deserve better.

Bullshit. I’m their mother.

No matter what.

I had always known this day was coming. I had fought against it so hard. I had tried to do everything right and it still wasn’t enough.

“If I promise not to fight you, if I promise to give you the kids to raise with whomever you choose, can I ask you one favor?”

He said nothing. Lying next to me, I could almost see him biting his lower lip, as he always did when in deep thought. This hesitation coming from a man who once proposed to me in a hot air balloon even though he had been terrified of heights.

“Please, Danny, just one favor.”

“Maybe.”

“That I see them every weekend, unsupervised.”

He thought about it long and hard. He let out a long stream of breath. “Okay, Sam, every weekend. But I’m afraid I must insist the meeting be supervised.”

“Thank you, Danny,” I said quietly, my voice full of emotion and pain, unrecognizable even to my own ears. “When will the three of you be leaving?”

And the moment I uttered those words, I realized my mistake. They weren’t going anywhere.

“We are not leaving, Sam. You are leaving, and I want you out by tomorrow night.”

42.

In the late evening, I was standing on the ninth floor balcony of the Embassy Suites Hotel in Brea.

It had been a rough day. My sister had come over to help me move, although there wasn’t really much to move. Mostly she was there for moral support. Danny was there, too, but he wasn’t there for moral support. Instead, he watched over me like a prison warden.

Since it was my last day with the children, I had let them stay home from school. Earlier, I tried explaining to them why mommy was going away. I told them it wasn’t their fault, that mommy and daddy could not live together anymore, that mommy and daddy still loved each other but not in that special way. They both cried. So did I.

At the hotel, Mary Lou helped me unpack, even the packets of chilled blood, which we stored in the suite’s mini-refrigerator. I caught her studying one of the packets. Her face, I noted, had turned white. To her credit, she didn’t say anything about the blood, and I silently thanked her for that.

We sat together on my bed and she rubbed my neck and shoulders and gently stroked my hair. Her touch, her warmth, her compassion gave me strength. She didn’t think I should be alone and wanted to stay the night with me. I thanked her and told her I wanted to be alone. She didn’t like it, but relented, and when she was gone I found myself alone—really alone—for the first time in years.

The suite had a small balcony with two canvas folding chairs and a circular table. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony, and was immediately blasted by cold wind. The city was so breath-takingly beautiful from up here. Twinkling lights spread in all directions, as far as the eye could see.

In one swift motion, I pulled myself up onto the balcony’s wall and hung my feet hung over the ledge. I kicked my feet absently like a kid hanging from a swing.

Cars sped by on the little street that separated the hotel from the nearby mall. Its various parking lots were jammed with cars. Malls and Orange County sort of went hand-in-hand.

I was hungry and, at the same time, sick to my stomach. Sometimes those two went hand-in-hand, as well.

Wind pulled and tugged at me, moaning softly over my ears. It was just after 8:00 p.m. It had been a hell of a shitty day, and I hadn’t slept a wink.

The attack six years ago had cost me so much. It had cost me my job, my sunny days, my home, my husband, my kids and my life.

I watched people entering and leaving the big mall, eager to spend their hard earned money at over-priced stores. Even from nine stories up, I could make out details of clothing and facial expressions. Most appeared to be in relatively good moods. Just living the American dream. Nothing better than spending an evening at the mall with the family. Shopping for nice things in nice stores with nice-looking kids. One person, returning a JCPenny bag, didn’t look so happy.

Like a hawk watching field mice, I watched it all from above, sitting on the ledge, feeling increasingly separated from the human race.

I stood suddenly, pulling my feet up, balancing easily on the wide ledge. The wind seemed to pick up, but not enough to threaten to knock me off.

I looked down at the narrow street below, at the bustling mall, the streaming cars, the distant city lights. Sounds and smells came at me, too. The occasional, echoing honk of a car horn in an enclosed parking garage. The murmur of voices. The murmur of children’s voices.

I took a deep, worthless, shuddering breath.

I had nothing to lose, really. My kids had been torn from my life. Hell, my life had been torn from my life.

The ground was far, far below. Nine stories up looks like a hundred and fifty stories up, especially if you are thinking of jumping. And I was thinking of jumping.

I closed my eyes, then leaped off the balcony.

43.

Time seemed to slow.

I arched up and out into the night and stretched my arms to either side. I lifted my face to the stars and felt the wind in my hair and experienced a profound and uncommon silence, as if all noise in the world had suddenly been muted. Slowly, I tilted down into a natural dive.

And then I plummeted.

Only then was I aware that perhaps I should have ditched the clothing. I didn’t want to be a bat trapped in a cardigan sweater.

By all rights I should die in the next few moments. No one should be able to survive such a fall, perhaps not even a vampire.

A flash of yellow light erupted in my head. And within that light was an image of something black. Something with wings. Something large and alien and frightening.

And then the image disappeared.

The world began to accelerate. The floors to the hotel swept past me. Some of the curtained windows were open. One man dressed only in his tighty-whitties turned suddenly, as if he had seen something in his peripheral vision. He had—a falling woman. But I had swept past him before he could complete his full turn.

The image of the winged creature reappeared, but this time taking on greater detail. It was vaguely humanoid with great leathery wings. I felt an immediate and powerful affinity for the creature.

A sliver of sidewalk, once only a silver thread from high above, now rapidly grew into a very real sidewalk. A very real cement sidewalk. Picking up speed, I past a few more floors. Unfortunately for me, the hotel was running out of floors.

I spasmed suddenly.

The ground rose rapidly to greet me.

I had only seconds.

My clothing burst from my body. A huge set of thickly-membraned wings flapped from my arms and legs like a failed parachute.

The ground was upon me.

I changed position, altered my body.

The flapping skin, stretching from my wrists to somewhere around my mid-thigh, caught the wind and snapped taut. My arms shuddered and I held them firm and veered over the sidewalk with just a few feet to spare. I swept up, instinctively knowing just what I had to do.

My right hip slammed into a No Parking sign.

I lost control, tumbled through the air. And as if some ancient memory of flight had been re-born within me, I somehow regained control and righted myself, and flew low and fast over the mall parking lot, skimming over the roofs of a few dozen gleaming SUVs. I lifted my head and gained some altitude, and very quickly I was above the mall.

I was flying.

Flying.

Born from an innate knowledge I didn’t comprehend or question, I skillfully flapped my wings and propelled myself up into the night sky.

44.

I was dreaming, of course.

I had to be. I mean, this really couldn’t be happening to me, right?

Any minute now I was going to wake up and discover that I wasn’t flying five hundred feet above the city of Brea. That I was back in my hotel room, alone, and miserable.

Dream or no dream, I might as well enjoy the ride.

A blast of wind hit me. I lost control and fumbled through the air. I panicked, until my on-board navigational system kicked in again and I adjusted my wings and lowered my shoulder and smoothed out the ride.

As I flew, and as my panicked breathing returned to normal, I looked over to my right arm. Make that wing. The arm appendage was thin and black and deeply corrugated with hard muscle. A thick membrane of leathery skin was attached to my wrist and ran down below my waist.

Below was Randolph Street. I followed it for a few minutes before lowering my right arm, raising my left, and making an arcing turn to starboard. The ability to turn came naturally to me, as if I had been doing this all my life.

Brea was bustling at this hour; it was still early evening, the streets crowded with vehicles. I flew over a section called Downtown Brea, alive with hundreds of people, all moving purposefully from one shop to another. The sky was cloudless, just a smattering of stars. Against this backdrop, my black skin would have been almost invisible to the human eye. Surprisingly, southern California was ideal vampire country.

I decided to experiment.

But first I wanted to see what the hell I looked like. I found a suitable office structure made entirely of glass. I swept past the second floor in hopes of seeing my reflection—and was dismayed to see nothing at all. Same old story.

I swept back up into the sky, flapping hard, gaining elevation. The motion was already fluid and effortless for me. I continued climbing and suddenly wondered how high I dared to go. Already I was many hundreds of feet above the city.

So I continued up, climbing higher and higher.

The sky darkened. The city lights diminished. The wind and cold increased. I felt I could continue forever, tirelessly, across time and space, to other worlds, other stars, other universes. I felt free and alive and for a first time in a long, long time, I did not curse my fate.

I finally stopped ascending and hovered, stretching my arms out, soaring on the currents of space. Orange County shimmered far below. Far off I could see LA and Long Beach. To the south the great black expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

The wind was powerful and relentless. I rocked and absorbed the punishment, battered about like a demon kite. A demon kite with no strings. In this form I knew I could travel the earth. Travel anywhere and everywhere.

I had lost my kids on this day—but gained unlimited freedom. In more ways than one.

I tucked in my wings, the membranes collapsing in upon themselves like twin Geisha fans. I rocketed down like a blood-sucking meteorite. The city lights rapidly approached. Adrenalin rushed through my blood stream. I found myself screaming with delight; or, rather, screeching with delight. Wind pummeled me. I shook and vibrated and kept my eyes barely above a squint. Natural folds along my cheekbones and brow ridges did wonders to keep my vision clear.

Downtown Brea came back into view, seemingly rising up to meet me. The details of the busy street came rapidly into view, and only at the last possible second did I pull up, lifting my head and opening my arms. The sheer gravitational force on me should have been enough to rip my leathery wings from my arms, but they didn’t rip. Instead, they performed wonderfully and I swept down the middle of the crowded street, barely above the roofs of the many SUVs and minivans.

People saw me. Many people. They pointed and turned and spilled their drinks and ice creams. But I was already gone, turning hard to port and disappearing down a side street.

The side street led back to the hotel, where I carefully settled on my balcony. At least, what I hoped was my balcony. I was breathing hard. Apparently, I did need oxygen.

My arms were still long, slender and black. The flying membranes, attached to each side of my body, hung behind me like twin capes. As I stood there on my balcony, wondering what the hell I was supposed to do next, a vague image of me as a human appeared in my mind.

I opened my eyes and looked at my arms. They were aglow with pink flesh. I looked down and was not surprised to see that I was entirely naked.

I was back.

45.

I flew tonight.

I was typing on my laptop, one of the few possessions, outside of clothing and makeup, that I had brought with me. The hotel provided wireless connections, which was one of the reasons I had picked it. That, and because it had nine floors. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I was planning on making my leap, and the taller the hotel the better.

You did!? came Fang’s immediate response.

Yes!

You figured this out on your own?

Yes.

But how?

I told him the sequence of events leading up to my decision to leap from my balcony. Or, rather, my impulse to leap from the balcony.

I am sorry about your marriage, Moon Dance. Maybe someday you can marry me. I promise to be accepting.

I’m not in the mood for jokes, Fang.

No joke.

Then I’m not in the mood to be propositioned.

Sorry. He paused, then typed: What was it like, flying?

Heavenly. Rapturous. Nothing like it in the world. I will definitely be doing that again.

What exactly did you turn into?

Something scary. Something nightmarish.

But you were still you, right? You could think, feel?

Yes, I never left. It was still me, just in the skin of something horrific.

Describe it.

I did, as best as I could. I told Fang that there was really very little of me I could see, other than the image I had in my mind. The image was scary enough.

What am I? I asked him when I was through.

You are a vampire, Moon Dance.

But am I even one of God’s creatures? Am I something evil? Am I even truly alive?

Do you feel alive?

Yes.

Do you feel evil?

I thought about that. I feel like such an aberration, a mistake. Something forgotten. Something to be ignored. Something to fear.

Moon Dance?

Yes?

We all feel that way. You are just different. He paused. Do you believe in a Creator?

I paused, then wrote: I don’t know. I believe in something.

Well, do you think that Something has suddenly decided to ignore you because you were attacked and changed into something different against your own free will?

I don’t know, Fang.

There was a long pause. I don’t. I don’t think a god of creation has suddenly decided to ignore you, Moon Dance. I think, in fact, you have been granted a rare opportunity to do things some people have never thought possible, to express yourself in ways that many people will never, ever experience. You could choose to see this as an opportunity or as a curse. Do you choose to see the good or the bad?

So there is good in me?

More good than most.

So I have not been forgotten?

Who could forget you, Moon Dance?

Thank you, Fang. Thank you for always being here for me.

Always. And Moon Dance?

Yes?

Take care of yourself. There are people out there who love you. A long pause. I waited. And I am one of them.

Thank you, Fang, that means a lot. Goodnight.

Goodnight, Moon Dance.

46.

On a Thursday night just a little past 9:30 p.m., Detective Sherbet picked me up outside the Embassy Suites. A light rain had been falling and I hadn’t bothered with an umbrella.

“Trash night,” he said when I slid in next to him. Sherbet was driving a big Ford truck with tinted windows. “Hey, you’re all wet.”

“I enjoy the rain.”

“So enjoy the rain with an umbrella. You’re getting my leather seats all wet.”

“Get over it. It’s just a truck.”

“It’s not just a truck. It’s my baby.”

“There’s more to life than trucks.”

“Someone in a bad mood?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He grinned and pulled out into traffic. The truck had a throaty roar. The detective, I quickly discovered, drove like a mad man. He pulled into traffic with reckless abandon, confident that his truck could survive any impact. I found his driving exciting. Maybe I was a closet adrenalin junkie.

“So do you have termites or something?” he asked after a cacophony of horns had subsided behind us.

“Excuse me?”

“Is that why I’m picking you up at a hotel in Brea? Does your house have termites?”

“Oh,” I said. “Sure.”

“Speaking of Brea, did you hear about the flying creature last night?”

“No.”

“Police call centers got swamped last night. About a hundred total. Apparently something dropped out of the sky and swooped down the middle of Downtown Brea.”

“Maybe it was a bird,” I said distractedly. I didn’t feel like talking. I was missing my children, and could not fight the horrible feeling that they were forever lost to me.

“This was no bird.” He chuckled and made a right onto State College Blvd. A minute later we were waiting at a stoplight to turn left onto Imperial. Through the side window I noticed a few teenage boys gawking at the truck.

“The boys love your truck,” I said.

“They should. It’s bitchen.”

I laughed, despite myself.

Sherbet continued, “Witnesses say it was black and massive and flying almighty fast.”

“What happened to it?”

“Made a right onto Brea Blvd and was gone.”

“Did it at least use its turn signal?”

The light turned green. He gunned the truck as if he were in a drag race. He looked over at me and smiled. “You don’t seem to believe any of this.”

“No,” I said. “Do you?”

“Hard to say. A hundred witnesses is a lot of witnesses.”

“Mass hallucination?” I suggested.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe they really saw something.”

Sherbet pulled behind a long line of cars waiting for the freeway on-ramp. I had the distinct—and exciting—feeling that Sherbet would have preferred to go over the cars.

“You hungry?” he asked suddenly.

“No.”

“You sure? You look like you could eat.”

“I’m sure.”

He pulled out of the line of cars, hung a suicidal turn back onto Imperial Blvd, and headed into a nearby Wendy’s drive-thru.

“That was frightening,” I said.

“Then why are you smiling?” he asked.

“I guess I like frightening,” I said.

He ordered his food and pulled up in line. He said, “The wife tonight made a German dish called machanka. She thinks I like it. I haven’t had the heart to tell her that I quit liking it fifteen years ago.”

“You must love her.”

“With all my heart,” he said.

“Lucky her,” I said.

“Lucky me.”

He got his food. Two bacon burgers, an order of fries, and a king-sized Coke.

“That’ll kill you,” I said.

“True,” he said. “But on the flip side: no more machanka.”

Shoving fries into his mouth, he recklessly made a left into traffic, into a break of traffic that was virtually non-existant. He looked at me and grinned around the fries.

I grinned, too.

Soon, we were heading south on the 57 freeway.

47.

It was after 10:00 p.m. when we parked on a street that ran perpendicular with Horton’s massive Gothic revival.

A thin sheet of rain obscured the street. We sat in the cab of his truck with the engine and wipers off. Moving wipers attracted attention, as did an idling car. So we ate in the cold and wet. The house before us was massive and brooding. Its towering gables spiked the night sky. Hawthorne would have been pleased. The truck’s tinted glass made the world darker than it really was. I liked darker.

After a moment, Sherbet shook his head. “Who could live in something like that?” Sherbet shuddered. “Like something in a fucking Dracula movie.”

“I like it,” I said.

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Nothing. Just being a wise guy.”

Sherbet was still sipping on his king-sized Coke. Occasionally some of the sips turned into loud slurps. The remnants of his greasy meal were wadded into a greasy ball and shoved into the greasy bag. The strong smell of burgers and fries suffused the interior of the truck cab. My hungry stomach was doing somersaults.

Easy, girl.

“That your stomach growling?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Haven’t noticed.”

He shook his head and slurped his Coke. The street was mostly empty. Occasionally a big car would splash past, and since tomorrow was trash day, most of the residents already had their trash cans out by the curb. Rick Horton’s trash cans were nowhere to be found.

“Maybe he forgot tomorrow was trash day,” said Sherbet.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe he’s one of those procrastinators who runs out just as the trash truck pulls up, dragging their trashcans behind them, beseeching the truck drivers to wait.”

“Beseeching?” I said.

“It’s a word.”

“Just not a word you often hear from a cop with a dollop of ketchup on his chin.”

He hastily swiped at the dollop, but missed some of it. He licked his finger. “You have good eyes,” he said.

“And you have a bad aim.” I used one of the napkins to clean his chin.

The rain picked up a little. The drops were now big enough to splatter. Overhead, the weeping willows wept, bent and shuddering under the weight of the rain.

“I could use some coffee,” the detective said. “No telling when this guy is coming out with his trash.”

So we got some coffee at a nearby Burger King. Or, rather, Sherbet did. He bought me a bottled water.

“You’re a cheap date,” he commented as he mercifully decided—at the last possible second—that an incoming bus was too close to dash in front of.

“And you’re the reason fast food establishments stay in business.”

“On second thought,” he said. “I would never date someone as grouchy as you.”

“It’s been a bad week.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

He didn’t push it. We pulled back up in front of Horton’s Gothic revival. Nothing much changed. Horton still hadn’t taken out his trash, which was, at least tonight, the object of our interest.

So we waited some more. Investigators are trained to wait. We’re supposed to be good at it. Waiting sucks. The interior of the truck was filled with the soothing sound of rain ticking on glass and sheet metal. I sipped some water. Sherbet was holding his coffee with both hands. Steam rose into his face. A light film of sweat collected on his upper lip. The coffee smelled heavenly. Coffee was not on my list. Rivulets of rain cascaded down the windshield. The shining street lamps, as seen through the splattered windshield, were living prisms of light. I watched the hypnotic light show.

“What’s it like working for the feds?” Sherbet suddenly asked.

“Safe, secure. Often boring, punctuated with the occasional thrill. My days were endlessly fascinating. I loved my job.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Hard to say. I miss the camaraderie of my partners. My job now is a lonely one. When I get the chance to work with someone else I often take it.”

“Even with an old dog like me?”

I looked at him. The truck was mostly silent. I heard him breathing calmly through his nose. Could smell his aftershave. He smelled like a guy should smell. Moving shadows from the rain dribbling down the windshield reached his face. The man seemed to like me, but he was suspicious of me. Or perhaps just curious. As a homicide investigator, he had his own highly-attuned intuition, which worried me because I was obviously causing it to jangle off the hook. But I had committed no crime, other than draining a corpse of blood, which I didn’t think was a crime, although I’d never perused the penal code for such an article.

“Sure,” I said. “Even an old dog like you.”

“How reassuring.”

Through Horton’s wrought iron fence I saw a figure struggling with something bulky. The fence swung open and Horton appeared in a yellow slicker, struggling to wheel a single green trash can. The can appeared awkward to maneuver. Or perhaps Horton was just clumsy. As he deposited the can near the curb, his foot slipped out from under him, sending him straight to his back. I voted for clumsy.

Sherbet shook his head. “Smooth,” he said.

48.

“Let’s wait a few minutes,” said Sherbet after Horton had dashed inside. Horton ran like a girl.

“Doesn’t look like much of a killer,” I said.

“No,” said Sherbet. “They never do.”

The rain came down harder, pummeling the truck, scourging what appeared to be a custom paint job. Sherbet seemed to wince with each drop.

“Aren’t you a little too old to be into cars?” I asked.

“You can never be too old.”

“I think you’re too old.”

“Yeah, well how old are you?”

“I’d rather not say. Not to mention you’ve looked at my police record and already know.”

“Thirty-seven, if I recall,” he said. “A very young thirty-seven. Hell, you don’t even have a wrinkle.”

“I’m sure it will catch up to me someday,” I said, and then thought: or not. But I played along. “And before I know it, I’ll look into the mirror one day and find a road atlas staring back at me.”

He snorted. “Welcome to my world.”

We waited some more. The rain continued to pound. Some of the water collected and sluiced along the windshield in shimmering silver streaks. Sherbet and I were warm and secure in our own little microcosm of leather, plastic, wood, and empty Wendy’s bags. Here in this mini-world, I was the vampire queen, and Sherbet was my noble knight. Or perhaps my blood slave, from whom I fed.

“Your name always reminds me of ice cream,” I said. “I like your name.”

“I hate it.”

“Why?”

“Reminds me of ice cream.”

A light in Horton’s upstairs window turned off. The house was dark and silent. So was the street.

“You stay here while I procure the target’s trash,” Sherbet said. “We’re going to have to adhere to some protocol if we hope to get a search warrant out of this.”

“Lot of fancy words to basically say you’ll be the one getting wet.”

“Oh, shut up,” he said.

I grinned. “Procure away, kind sir.”

“Okay,” he said, pulling on his hood. “Here goes.”

He threw open his door and dashed off through the rain. His nylon jacket was drenched within seconds. He moved surprisingly well for an older guy. He reached Horton’s trash can, pulled open the lid, and removed two very full plastic bags. I was suddenly very much not looking forward to digging through those. He shut the lid, grabbed a bag in each hand, and hustled back to the truck. He deposited both in the bed of his truck.

“You’re dripping on the leather,” I said when he slid into the driver’s seat.

“I know,” he said, starting the truck. “It saddens the heart.”

49.

We drove until we found an empty parking garage adjacent to an ophthalmologist college. The lights inside the garage were on full force and a white security pick-up truck was parked just inside the entrance.

We pulled up beside the truck. The guard was out cold, wrapped in his jacket, hugging himself for warmth, the windows cracked for air. Sherbet rolled down his window. The sound of thumping rain was louder and more intense with the window down. The guard still hadn’t moved.

“Hey,” said Sherbet.

The man bolted upright, accidentally slamming his hand against the steering wheel. The horn went off and he jumped again, now hitting his head on the cab’s ceiling.

Sherbet turned to me. “Night of Ten Thousand Fools.”

“An Arabian farce.”

The detective leaned out the window, producing his badge from his jacket pocket. “Detective Sherbet, Fullerton PD. We need to, um, commandeer your garage for a few minutes.”

“Of course, detective.” The guard’s voice was slightly high-pitched. He was fortyish and much too small to be taken seriously as a guard. His neck was also freakishly long. “It’s the rain, you know. Knocks me out every time. My bosses found out I was sleeping again, they’d fire me.” He looked sheepish.

“Don’t worry about it, pal,” said Sherbet. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He brightened, his job secure. “Is there maybe something I can do for you? You know, maybe help you out?”

“Sure,” said Sherbet. “Guard this entrance with your life. No one comes in.”

“You got it, detective!”

Sherbet rolled up his window and we eased into the parking structure and out of the rain.

“Commandeer the garage?” I said.

“Sounds important.”

I looked back. The guard had positioned his truck before the garage’s entrance. “Good of you to give him something to do,” I said. “But what happens if someone wants to come in?”

“Then they’ll have to deal with Flamingo Neck.”

I snorted. “Flamingo Neck? Thought he looked more like a stork.”

“Whatever.” Sherbet pulled into a slot. “You ready to dig in?”

“As ready as ever.”

The covered garage was mostly empty, save for a few desolate vehicles. These vehicles had the look of semi-permanence. Sherbet handed me a pair of latex gloves.

The bags were sodden. One of them stank of rotten dairy. I gave that one to the detective.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I’m a lady,” I said. “Ladies don’t dig through smelly trash.”

“They do when they’re on my shift.”

“Yeah, well, luckily I don’t work for you.”

“Luckily.”

With legs crossed, I hunkered down on a parking rebar. I untied the my bag and was immediately greeted with what must have been last night’s chicken teriyaki. My stomach growled noisily. My stomach seemed to have missed the memo about my new diet. My new blood diet.

No chicken teriyaki for you, my friend. Ever.

I removed the big stuff first. An empty gallon of milk that, because it was sealed, had bloated to half again its normal size. Boxes of cereal, an empty jar of peanut butter, many cardboard cases of beer. Someone liked beer. A smattering of plastic Coca-Cola bottles. I sorted through it all, leaving a careful pile to my left.

At the bottom nook was a batch of papers which proved to be torn mail, the majority of which were credit card applications. Smart man. Debt, bad.

“Nothing over here,” I said.

I looked over at the detective who was squatting down on one knee. His hands were smeared with gelatinous muck. He looked a little green, and for a homicide detective, that’s saying a lot.

“More of the same,” he said. “Nothing.”

Beyond, the security guard was pacing in the rain before his truck. Occasionally he stole glances at us.

“Same time next week?” Sherbet asked.

“Yes,” I said. “More fun.”

“And Mrs. Moon?” he said, looking down at his rancid ichor-covered latex gloves. “Next time you get the smelly bag.”

50.

Sherbet dropped me off at the hotel and suggested that I take a shower because I smelled like trash. I told him thanks. At the hotel lobby, the doorman greeted me with a small bow. I could get used to that. Then he crinkled his nose. Maybe I did need to take a shower.

Conscious of my stench, I took the elevator to the ninth floor and inserted my keycard into the lock and pushed the door open and my warning bells went off instantly.

Someone was inside.

Movement down the hall. I turned my body, narrowing it as a target, just as an arrow bolt struck me in the shoulder, slamming me hard into the open door, which in turn slammed shut. I ducked and peered through the darkness and there, standing near my open balcony, was a man. A good-looking man. Tall and slender. Silhouetted in shadows. But I could see into shadows. His spiky blond hair looked like a frayed tennis ball. He was staring at me down the length of a cocked crossbow.

I knew him. It was the UPS man.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Simply stood there with his crossbow trained, sweat gleaming on his forehead. His hands were unwavering. A flask of clear liquid was at his hip. There was a cross around his neck and a strand of garlic. He adjusted his sights imperceptibly, and I realized he was searching for a clear shot at my heart. I was determined not to give him that clear shot. I looked at him from over my shoulder.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“You don’t need to know.”

“Then why are you doing this?” My breath came in short gasps. I needed to do something about the shaft in my shoulder, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off the man. The strand of garlic was bullcrap. Hell, I cooked with garlic all the time. But the water on his hip—holy water, no doubt—was troubling. I hadn’t dared experiment with holy water.

“It’s nothing personal,” he said.

“The bolt in my shoulder makes it personal.”

“It was meant for your heart.”

Behind me I heard voices. Someone was getting off the elevator. The voices were mixed with drunken laughter.

Although I hadn’t taken my eyes off the hunter, I had unwittingly shifted my weight to the sound of the voices. Apparently I had exposed my heart. He saw the opening he was looking for, and fired.

I heard the twang and snap of the bolt leaping from the crossbow. I saw it coming, too. Clearly. Rotating slightly in the air. My world slowed down. Much as it had when I leaped off the balcony.

As it rotated, its metal tip gleaming off of light unseen, my hand was coming up. And just before it buried itself into my heart, I caught the damn thing in the air, snagging it just inches from my chest.

The hunter gaped at me in disbelief, then flung himself backward through the open French doors and vaulted the railing. I pushed away from the doorway, stumbled through the suite and out onto the balcony. It was still raining. I peered down over the ledge and saw a man rappelling down the facade of the building. The rope was attached to the roof above. He dropped down into some foundation brush and unhooked himself. He looked up at me briefly and then dashed off. I watched him disappear around the corner of the hotel.

Back in my suite, out of the rain, I gripped the fletched end of the arrow shaft and winced. Okay, this is going to hurt. I inhaled deeply and pulled slowly. The pain was unbearable. I gasped and stumbled into the bathroom. The mirror revealed empty clothing, animated clothing, a miracle of special effects. An arrow protruded from the blouse’s shoulder area. A thick wash of blood was spreading down from the shoulder. The sight of the bloodied disembodied clothing was surreal.

I closed my eyes, continued pulling. White flashes appeared behind my eyelids. I pulled harder, screaming now. I looked down once and saw that the metal tip was almost out. I also saw that it was bringing with it a lot of meat from my arm.

Tears streamed from my eyes and I heard myself whimpering and still I continued to pull, and finally the bolt came free, followed immediately by a great eruption of blood.

It was then that I fainted.

51.

Sometime during the night I awoke in the bathroom to find myself in a pool of my own blood. I was cold and not very shocked to see that the wound in my shoulder had healed completely. I stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed into bed.

I slept through the day and awoke at dusk. I felt like hell, groggy, disoriented. I had to remind myself where I was. I bolted upright. Shit! I had forgotten to pick up the kids!

I was just about to hop out of bed until I remembered it wasn’t my job to do so anymore. Danny’s mother picked them up now. I slumped back into bed, immediately depressed.

My daytime obligations had vanished. Perhaps that was a good thing in away, since I did not operate well during the daylight hours. And, for the first time since the kids had been taken away from me, I felt—which was immediately accompanied by a lot of guilt—a sense of freedom. No kids to pick up. No dinners to cook, no husband to attend to or worry about.

Freedom and guilt, in just that order.

I stretched languidly on the bed, reveling in the surprisingly soft mattress. Why had I not noticed how soft the mattress was? A moment passed, and then another, and then my heart sank.

I had no children to pick up from school and no one to cook for! I missed my kids—but not my husband. Knowing I repulsed him helped sever my emotional ties to him. Yes, I missed the good times with Danny. But I wouldn’t miss these past few years.

But I would see my children this weekend. It sucked, but there was nothing I could do about it now, although I vowed to get them back.

Somehow.

For now, though, there was nothing to do but lie here and hurt—and wait for true night to fall. The drapes were thick and heavy and kept out most of the setting sun. My window dressings at home were, in fact, the same heavy curtains found in hotels. Early on, right after my attack, I had wanted to board up the windows, but Danny resisted and we compromised with the heavy drapes.

I massaged my shoulder. Although it still ached, there was no evidence of a wound. Another few inches over and I would have been dead. My only saving grace had been a last-second alarm that went off in my head, a warning that told me to turn dammit.

I thought of the vampire hunter. I couldn’t have him taking potshots at me whenever he damned well felt like it. I had to do something about him, and short of killing him—which was a definite option—I just wasn’t sure what yet.

First things first. I needed to figure out how the hell he kept showing up without me spotting him. I always check for tails, a good habit for an investigator to have. So I was certain he wasn’t following me.

Of course, there are other ways to keep tabs on people, especially tabs on vehicles. In fact, at HUD, we had employed such techniques. Tracking devices.

As I waited for the sun to set, I turned on the boob tube and flipped through some news channels and a re-run or two until I came across an Angels game. I couldn’t recall the last time I watched an Angels game. I loved baseball, especially the leisurely pace of the game. I liked the quiet moments when the pitcher stepped off the mound and gathered his thoughts while the world waited. My father was a minor league pitcher in Rancho Cucamonga. He was good, but not great, which is why he never made it past single-A ball. Still, surrounded by my three older brothers, I learned to love the game at an early age.

The Angels were up 3-2. Tim Salmon had just hit a line-drive single up the middle.

Those childhood memories seemed to belong to someone else. Someone I barely recalled, yet remembered in detail. I was a different person now. The pre-attack Samantha as opposed to the post-attack Samantha were two different people. Hell, two different species.

Salmon had a nice butt. So did most baseball players.

I rubbed my shoulder again as I watched the game. So how the hell did it heal so quickly? What caused this to happen? Ancient magic? If so, was this the same magic keeping me alive? Was I even truly alive? Or was I dead and didn’t know it?

Bengie Molina, the Angel’s catcher, ripped a line drive back to the pitcher. The pitcher doubled-up Salmon at first. End of inning.

Perhaps I was nothing more than a spirit or a ghost who didn’t have enough sense to move on. But on to where? I didn’t feel dead.

It was the eighth inning, and the Angels brought in their closer, El Toro, the bull. Percival was a big man with big legs. He looked like a bull. I liked the way he squinted and curled his tongue. He looked like a gunslinger. Except this gunslinger slung baseballs. He struck out the first batter in four pitches.

Perhaps I was a plague on the earth, an abnormality that needed to be cleansed. Perhaps the world would have been better off if the vampire hunter’s arrow had hit home.

More squinting from El Toro. I heard once that Percival needed to wear glasses but he chose not to while pitching, forcing himself to focus solely and completely on the catcher’s signals, blocking out all other distractions. On his next pitch, the batter popped out to center field.

Perhaps I didn’t need to know what kept me alive. Perhaps my existence was no more a mystery than life itself. Hell, where did any of us come from? That thought comforted me.

Percival struck out the next batter and pumped his fist. It was the bottom of the eighth inning.

I was suddenly content and at peace with myself. I would have ordered room service if fresh plasma was on the menu. Instead, I sipped from a bottle of water and let the day slip into night. And when the sun finally set, when my breathing seemed unrestricted and my body fully alert, I was ready to take on the world.

Oh, and the Angels won.

With all the time on my hands, maybe I’ll catch a night game this season.

52.

I first headed over to an auto repair shop in Fullerton.

The young mechanic came out to meet me as I pulled in front of an empty service garage. He wore a light blue workshirt with the name Rick stitched on a patch over his chest.

“Sorry, we’re closing,” said Rick when I rolled down my window.

I pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “All I need for you to do is lift my van.”

“Why?”

“I want to have a look underneath.”

“You want to? Why?”

“Because this is how I spend my Friday nights. Just lift the van for a few minutes, let me have a look underneath, and the twenty is yours.”

Rick thought about, then shrugged. “Hey, whatever you say, lady,” he said and took the twenty.

He motioned me forward. I drove into the narrow space, straddling the lift. I got out and Rick manipulated some nearby controls and soon the above-ground lift was chugging into action. The van rose slowly, wheels sagging down. A few minutes later, now at eye level, I thought the minivan looked forlorn and sort of helpless, like a wild horse being airlifted from an overflowing river.

“Okay,” Rick said. “Have at it. Just don’t hurt yourself. You need a flashlight?”

“No,”

“So what are you looking for?” he asked, standing next to me.

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

The underside of the van was a mess of hoses, encased wires and steel shafts and rods. I walked slowly along the frame until I found it. Held in place by magnets and twisty-ties, the tracking device was about the size and shape of a cell phone.

“What the hell is that?” asked Rick.

“My TV remote,” I said. “Been looking everywhere for it.”

“No shit?” he said.

“No shit.”

53.

It took two nights of waiting before I saw the hunter again.

I had left the minivan parked in an alley behind a Vons grocery store. I knew the hunter would eventually investigate, and to do so he would have to physically enter the alley. A typical ambush, and I’m sure he suspected a trap. If so, he would be right. This was a trap.

I sat on top of the grocery store roof, near a huge rotating vent. My great, leathery wings were tucked in behind me. The night was warm, but the breeze cooled things down. My skin was thick and rubbery. My new hide did wonders for keeping me warm, especially in the higher altitudes. I had discovered that I could remain in this form for as long as I wished. This was a good discovery, as it was nice shedding my old skin for this new one. People should try it sometime.

The alley was dark and mostly forgotten. My minivan attracted very little interest, even from hooligans. So that’s why when the bum appeared I perked up.

In my new form, my eyesight was razor sharp and eagle-like, an obvious necessity to high-flying predators. (And thinking of myself as a high-flying predator was almost too weird to, well, think about.) The bum was pushing a shopping cart filled to overflowing with what appeared to be junk. I immediately recognized the handsome face, the rugged jaw, the striking blue eyes, and the spiky blond hair shooting out from under a dirty and warped Dodger cap.

Nice costume, asshole.

As an added touch, he even dragged his leg a little behind him. The hunter was putting on quite a show, even hunching his shoulders now Quasimodo-like. I couldn’t help but smile. At least, I think I smiled. It was hard to tell; plus, I wasn’t even sure I had lips. At any rate, I intended to smile. Anyway, his shopping cart was, in fact, filled to the brim with soda cans. I wondered if he had purchased the cart and cans from a real bum, or collected the cans himself.

Probably just stole it, I thought.

He continued slowly down the alley, his head sweeping from side to side. Unfortunately for him, he never thought to look up. About fifty feet from the van, he removed a camouflaged crossbow from inside his tattered jacket. He armed it quickly with a bolt,. And then held it out in front of him like a gun.

He approached my van very, very carefully, leaving behind his cart full of cans. He went slowly from window to window, peering inside with a flashlight. I noted he had forgotten to limp.

I stayed put and waited for my opening.

He tried the doors, discovered they were locked, then popped one open with a Slim Jim. He goofed around inside a bit. Reappearing again, frowning. He seemed a bit perplexed. If anything, I had successfully confused the bastard.

The back door to the grocery store suddenly opened, yellow light splashing out into the alley. A kid appeared, hauling a big blue trash can. The hunter, distracted, turned toward the kid.

Now!

I leaped from my perch above.

54.

I tucked in my arms and shot down.

The hunter’s back was still to me. Wind thundered in my ears. The ground came up fast. More importantly, the hunter’s broad shoulders came up fast.

At the last possible second, I spread my wings wide. The leathery hide snapped open like a parachute. The hunter turned at the sound, swinging his crossbow around, but he was too late. My outstretched talons snatched him up by the shoulders. He cried out, screaming like a school girl. The crossbow tumbled away, skittering over the ground. I beat my wings powerfully, once, twice and finally lifted him off his feet and then slowly up out of the alley. He weighed a lot. More than I was prepared for. My arms and wings were strained to the max.

He struggled, kicking, as his arms were now pinned to his sides. He kicked the air futilely. We rose slowly into the sky together. I looked down in time to see the kid running back into the store. I think he wet himself.

Up we went. I was growing stronger, getting used to the added weight. The air grew colder. The hunter should be warm enough thanks to his homeless costume, which consisted of many layers of clothing.

I looked down just as he looked up. His face had drained of all color. He looked terrified. He should be terrified. A creature from his nightmares had snatched him away and for all he knew I was going to drop him into an active volcano. Not that there were many active volcanoes in Southern California.

Orange County spread before us, its hundred of thousands of blinking lights evidence that Thomas Edison had certainly been on to something. We flew over Disneyland, which glittered like its own happy constellation. Perhaps park guests would later report seeing a parade float gone amuck.

We reached the beach cities and finally the black ocean itself. Without the city lights, we were plunged into darkness. He stiffened here, and I think he might have whimpered. No doubt he thought I was going to drop him in. I still hadn’t ruled it out.

Much later, perhaps assuming he was safe, the hunter relaxed and sagged onto my talons. He spoke to me now, his voice rising up to me along with the smell of sea salt and brine, “How is your shoulder, Samantha Moon?”

The sound of my own name startled me. That this flying creature had a name was hard to believe. I didn’t bother answering. Even to my own ears my voice was nothing more than a shriek.

He went on, “I suppose you can’t speak in your changeling form. That’s fine, I’ll do all the talking. I know you’ve had a hell of a shitty week. I saw your children get taken away from you. And probably the last thing you needed was an arrow in your shoulder. So I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry.”

Apology accepted, I thought. I was nothing if not forgiving.

I continued at a steady pace, wings flapping smoothly and effortlessly, propelling us over the eternal black ocean. I adjusted endlessly to the varying wind conditions.

“I’ve never seen a vampire with a family before. You have two beautiful children. At first I thought the family was just a facade. Perhaps you were just courting these mortals for your own nefarious means. A new angle, you know, to acquire blood. So I assumed you were hideous and vile to formulate such a scheme. Until I saw that this was indeed your family. The little girl is your spitting image.”

He stopped talking, and the silence that followed was filled with the rippling of water over the ocean’s surface, and something else, something deep and unfathomable, perhaps the sound of millions upon millions of megatons of water turning and roiling and moving over the face of the earth. The ocean’s song, if you will, and it was beautiful and haunting.

The hunter told me about himself. His name was Randolf, and his brother, years ago, had been killed by a vampire. Randolf devoted his life to finding his brother’s killer, and in the process to kill every vampire he came across.

Ambitious, I thought. But problematic for me.

His search eventually led him to an old vampire living in a mansion in Fullerton. Randolf ambushed him, killing him with a bolt through the heart. In going through the old vampire’s papers, Randolf had come across my name.

He had, in effect, found the vampire who had attacked me.

Not just found him. Found him and killed him. Saved me a lot of trouble.

Randolf continued, “But he was not my brother’s killer. I still have some unfinished business.” He paused. “You are not like other vampires, Samantha. May I call you Samantha?”

I nodded; I’m not sure he saw me nod.

“In your hotel room I found packets of cow and pig blood in your refrigerator. You are not a killer. Not like the others.”

I glanced down. He was still wearing the dirty Dodger cap. His spiky blond hair trailed over his ears. His face was purple with cold.

I continued steadily out to sea. I found that distinguishing the black water from the black sky was difficult, but my innate compass kept us on a clear course, and my equally innate horizontal balance kept us from plunging into the ocean. I thought of the old joke: I just flew in from Chicago, and boy are my arms tired....

But my energy seemed limitless, even hauling a full grown man. Still, I didn’t want to fly too far out to sea; I needed to provide for enough time to safely return before the sun’s ascent.

In the far distance, on the surface of the ocean, I spied the twinkling of lights. I altered course and headed toward the lights. Randolf snorted from below. I suspected he had been dozing. A hell of a rude awakening for him, no doubt, hanging from the claws of a flying beast.

The lights turned out to be a ship. In fact, it was a cruise ship.

“You’re taking me to the ship,” he said.

Smart boy.

“I get the hint,” he said, laughing. “You want me to stay away. And thank you for not killing me.”

There was a lot of activity on the deck of the cruise ship, so I circled the control tower, and set the hunter on the roof of the cabin. Whether anyone saw a black shape descend from the sky remained to be seen.

Randolf scrambled to his feet, no worse for wear. As I hovered above, as he held down his baseball cap against the downdraft of my wings, his astonishing blue eyes caught the starlight. He really was kind of hunky—even to a creature of the night.

He called up to me, “Have a safe flight home, Samantha Moon. Oh, and any idea where I’m headed?”

I had no idea.

I circled once and headed back home.

55.

Kingsley looked far more robust and pink than when I had last seen him.

We were at Mulberry Street Cafe in downtown Fullerton, sitting next to the window. It was raining again and the sidewalk was mostly empty of pedestrians. The rain had a trickle-down effect, if you will. Mulberry’s was quieter than normal.

Kingsley was wearing a long black duster, and leather Sole gloves, which he removed upon sitting. His dark slacks were darker where the rain had permeated. His face had a rosy red hue and his hair was perfectly combed. He was clean shaven and smelled of good cologne. He was everything a man should be. Gone were the tufts of hair along the back of his hand.

Pablo the headwaiter knew me well. He looked slyly at Kingsley, perhaps recalling that my husband was usually the man sitting across from me. The waiter was discreet enough not to say anything. He took our drink orders and slipped away.

“I’m impressed,” said Kingsley, glancing out the window. “Whenever I come here they seat me in the back of beyond.”

“They happen to like me here.”

“Pretty girls get all the breaks.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Yeah,” said Kingsley. “I do.”

“Even for a vampire?”

“Even for a vampire.”

Our drinks came. Chardonnay for me and bourbon and water for the counselor. Kingsley ordered shrimp tortellini and I had the usual. Steak, rare.

“You can eat steak?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “But I can suck the blood out of the carcass.”

“Should make for an interesting show.”

“Yes, well, it’s the only way I can participate in the human dining experience.”

“Well, you’re not missing much, “said Kingsley. “Food nowadays is entirely processed, fattening and just plain horrible for you.”

“Does it still taste good?”

“Wonderful.”

“Asshole.”

He laughed. I drank some of my wine. Kingsley, no doubt due to his massive size, often garnered curious glances from both men and women. I think, perhaps, he was the strongest-looking man I had ever seen.

“Are we human, Kingsley?” I asked suddenly.

He had been raising his glass to his lips. It stopped about halfway. “Yes,” he said, then raised it all the way and took a sip. He added, “But are we mortals? No.”

“Then what makes us immortal? Why don’t we die like everyone else? What keeps us alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Surely you must have a theory.”

He sighed. “Just a working hypothesis.”

“Let’s have it.”

“I think it’s safe to say that you and I hover on the brink of the natural and the supernatural. So therefore both natural and unnatural laws apply simultaneously. I believe we are both human...and perhaps something greater.”

“Sounds lofty.”

“Do you suspect we’re something less?” he asked.

I thought about that. “No. We are certainly not less.”

The waiter came by and dropped off some bread. I didn’t touch it, but Kingsley dug in. “You mind?” he asked.

“Knock yourself out,” I said. “So what are we, then? Some supernatural evolutionary hybrid?”

He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Maybe we are super humans.”

“Maybe.”

“But during the day I certainly don’t feel super. I feel horrible.”

“Because our bodies are still governed by some physical laws, along with...other laws. Mystical laws perhaps, laws unstudied and unknown to modern science.” He looked at me and shrugged. “Who put these laws into place is anyone’s guess. But they’re there nonetheless. For instance, one such law dictates I will turn into a wolf every full moon cycle; another dictates you drink only blood.”

Kingsley spread liberal amounts of honey butter over his bread. He seemed particularly ravenous. Maybe it was the animal in him.

“Perhaps we are the result of a powerful curse,” I suggested.

“Perhaps.”

“That makes sense to me, to some degree.”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure anyone really knows.”

I suspected someone out there might know something. Be it vampire, werewolf or something else, something greater perhaps.

I said, “The curse angle could be why holy water debilitates a vampire.”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

“So to sum up,” I said. “We are both natural and supernatural, abiding by laws known only to our kinds.”

“And even much of that is open to speculation. For all I know you are part of one long, drug-induced dream I’m still having in the sixties.”

Our food came. Kingsley watched me cut a slice of meat from the raw steak, swirl the slice in the splatter of blood, raise the dripping piece to my lips, and suck it dry.

“Sort of sexy,” he said. “In a ghoulish way.”

I shook my head, then told him about my adventures with the vampire hunter.

He slapped his knee when I was finished. “A Carnival cruise ship?”

“Yes, headed for Hawaii, I think.”

“Then let’s hope he stays there.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s hope, although he was kind of cute.”

“Oh, God.”

I reached down into my purse and pulled out the medallion. It was wrapped in a white handkerchief. I unwrapped it for him.

“What’s that?” Kingsley asked.

“It was worn by my attacker six years ago.”

“Your attacker?”

“The vampire who rendered me into what I am now.”

“How did you get it?”

I told him about the vampire hunter, his dead brother, and the UPS package. When I was finished, Kingsley motioned toward the medallion. “Do you mind?”

“Knock yourself out.”

He picked it up carefully, turned it over in his hand. The gold and ruby roses reflected brightly even in the muted light.

“So why did he give you this?” asked Kingsley.

“I think he was sort of feeling me out, seeing what he was up against. To him, the medallion had no meaning.”

“And to you it does?”

I told Kingsley about my dreams. I left out the part where he ravaged me in the woods.

“Those are just dreams, Samantha,” he said, studying the heavy piece, turning it over in his big hands. “I’ve never seen this before.”

“But could you look into it for me?” I asked.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Do you mind if I take it?”

“Go ahead.”

He pocketed the medallion. We continued eating. Outside, a couple sharing an umbrella stopped and examined the menu in the window. She looked at him and nodded. He shrugged. They stepped inside. Compromising at its best.

“Sometimes I think God has forgotten about me,” I said.

“I know the feeling.”

“That, in fact, I have somehow stumbled upon the loophole of life.”

“Loophole?”

“Like you being a defense attorney,” I said. “You look for an ambiguity in the law, an omission of some sort, something that allows you to evade compliance.”

He nodded, “And being a creature of the night is the ambiguity of life?”

“Yeah. I’m the omission.”

“Well, that’s certainly one way of looking at it.”

“What’s another way?”

“To make the most of the life we’re given,” he said. “To see life—even for the undead—as a great gift. Imagine the possibilities, Samantha? Imagine the good you can do? Life is precious. Even for those who exist in loopholes.”

I nodded, thinking of Fang. “Someone told me something like that recently.”

“It’s good advice,” said Kingsley. “In fact, it’s good advice for everyone.”

“So we are like everyone?”

“No,” he said, reaching across the table and taking my hand. His was so damn warm...mine must have felt like a cold, wet, limp noodle in his own. Self-conscious, I almost pulled my hand away, but he held it even tighter, and that warmed my cold, bitter heart.

He said, “No, Sam. We are not like everyone else. I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and you’re a blood-sucking fiend. Granted, a very cute, blood-sucking fiend.”

56.

On a Wednesday night I broke back into Rick Horton’s Gothic revival.

I found the same box under the same bed. The file on me now contained a photograph of my home and a picture of me getting into my van. The picture was taken with a telephoto lens from a great distance away. I studied the picture closely; I so rarely saw myself these days. My face was, of course, blurry, but my body looked strong and hard. A diet of blood will do that to you. The picture was taken during the day, and I could see the sunscreen gleaming off my lathered cheeks. My hair was hidden in a wide straw hat. I had probably been on my way to pick up the kids from school.

In another file, the same one I had seen the first time I broke in, I found a computer print-out that chronicled in excruciating detail the day in the life of Hewlett Jackson, Kingsley’s now-murdered client. The paper had notes written in the margins. One of the handwritten notes said: “Not at work. No access.” Another note said: “Not in front of his children.”

Yeah, this would do nicely.

I pocketed it and returned the box under the bed. In the backyard, with his ferocious guard dogs cowering in the bushes, I wadded up the note in my gloved hands and carefully stuffed it in an empty cereal box in Horton’s trash can.

Tomorrow was trash day.

* * *

The next night, Sherbet and I were in the same parking structure being guarded by the same rent-a-cop. The same two vehicles were in the same two parking slots. The only difference tonight was that there was no rain.

I extracted the wadded up piece of incriminating evidence from the cereal box and made a big show of it.

Sherbet took the crinkled paper from my hand and studied it closely. He then squinted at me sideways, studying me closely, suspicious as hell. I innocently showed him the cereal box where I had found the note. Finally, after some internal debate, a slow smile spread over his face.

“I think we’ve got our man,” he said.

“I do, too.”

“And you had nothing to do with this note?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, detective.”

“Let’s go,” he said. And go we did.

57.

I was leaving the hotel suite to see my children for the first time in a week when my cell phone rang. It was Sherbet.

“You did good work, Mrs. Moon.”

“What do you mean?”

“Based on the evidence in the trash can a judge granted us a search warrant. We went through the house yesterday and today we arrested Rick Horton. We found enough incriminating evidence to convict two men for murder.”

“I’m not sure that analogy makes sense.”

“It doesn’t have to. You know what I mean.” He paused. “You are a hell of a detective.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“So why don’t you sound happy?” he asked.

“I am very happy. One less killer walking our streets.”

We were silent. Sherbet took in some air. “You don’t think we got the right guy, do you?”

“I was hired to find out who shot Kingsley Fulcrum,” I said. “Did you get Horton’s phone records?”

“Of course.”

“Could you fax them to me.”

“Why?”

“Just humor me.”

There was a long pause. Static crackled over the phone line. Finally, I heard him sigh deeply. “Where do I fax them?”

I gave him the number to the courtesy fax machine at the hotel’s business center.

“How many months back do you want?” he asked.

“Four months.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “The case is closed.”

“I know,” I said. “But this detective never sleeps.”

“Well, not at night, at least. And Mrs. Moon?”

“Yes?”

“Someday we’re going to discuss the eyewitnesses that claim to have seen a man rappel down from your balcony.”

“Sure.”

“And we’re definitely going to discuss the kid who worked at Vons who reported seeing a winged creature carry off a man.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t have any idea what the fuck is going on, but we will talk again.”

“I understand,” I said. “And detective?”

“Yes?”

“You might have a better idea than you think.”

He paused, then hung up.

58.

It was the first time I had been back to my home in over a week.

The house itself sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, with a chain link fence around the front yard. Early on I had hated that ugly chain link fence and wanted it torn down. Danny argued against it stating it might prove useful. He was right. The fence kept my young children away from the street, corralled puppies and kittens, bikes and loose balls, and was perfect for stringing Christmas lights along. It was also used as a sort of giant pegboard. We attached posters, artwork and ribbons to it. Advertised their lemonade stands and the birth of any puppies or kittens. I missed that damn fence.

Last year, Danny made us get rid of our dog and cat. The kids were traumatized for months. I think Danny secretly feared I would kill our family pets and feed from them, although he never admitted his concerns to me.

Anyway, now the fence was bare and there were no children playing in the yard. No balls, and certainly no puppies or kittens. Danny’s Escalade was parked dead center of the driveway. Usually he parked to the far left half to give my minivan room on the right. He didn’t have to worry about that now.

I parked on the street, headed up to the house. The sun was still out and I felt weak as hell, but that wouldn’t stop me.

Danny yanked open the door as soon as I reached the cement porch. He stared down at me gravely. He couldn’t have seemed less happy to see me. He was as handsome as ever, but that was lost on me now. I only saw his fear and disgust.

“I only have a few minutes, Samantha. These meetings are terribly inconvenient for me.”

“Then leave,” I said.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

He stepped in front of me. “For the protection of my children, that’s why.”

I pushed him aside and entered my house. “Where are they?”

“In their room. You have only a few minutes, Sam. The babysitter will be arriving and I am leaving on my date.”

I tried to ignore his hurtful words. Mostly, I tried to keep calm and my voice from shaking. “We had agreed on two hours, Danny.”

“Things change, Sam,” he said dismissively, and I caught the undercurrent of his words. Things change...and so do humans. Into vampires.

He led the way forward and rapped on the children’s door. “Kids,” he said stiffly. Danny never had a way with our kids. They were always treated like junior assistants, interns or paralegals. “Your mother is here. Come along.”

The bedroom door burst open. Little Anthony, with his mess of black curls, flung himself into my arms. Tammy followed a half second later. Their combined weight nearly toppled me over. Squatting, I held their squirming bodies in my arms. Anthony pulled away and I saw that he was still clutching his Game Boy. Neither hell nor high water would separate him from his Game Boy.

“When are you coming back, Mommy?” Anthony asked.

Before I could answer, Danny stepped in. “I told you, son, that your mother is not coming back. That she is sick and she needs to stay away.”

I almost dropped the kids in my haste to stand and confront Danny. “Sick? You told them I was sick?”

He pulled me away into a corner of the living room, out of range of the children. “You are sick, Samantha. Very sick. And if I had my way I would report you and have you committed—for your safety and the safety of everyone around you.”

“Danny,” I said carefully. “I am not sick. I am a person like you. I have a problem that I am dealing with. The problem does not control me. I control it.”

“Look, whatever. It’s easier for the children to accept that you are sick. I’m going to have to demand that you play along with this, Sam.”

I stared at him some more, then headed back to the kids. The three of us sat together on the edge of Tammy’s bed while they both chattered in unison. They wanted assurance that I would not die, and I guaranteed them that I would never, ever die. Danny rolled his eyes; I ignored him.

And much too soon, I was back in my minivan driving away, crying.

59.

My sister came by my hotel suite, bearing with her a bottle of merlot.

Now we were sitting on my bed, legs tucked under us, sipping from our glasses. Mary Lou was on her second glass and already buzzed. I was nowhere near being buzzed. In fact, my last buzz had been when I sucked the blood out of the gang-banger.

“So your case is over?” said Mary Lou.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” she asked. “It was in the paper. The police found their man. Your name wasn’t mentioned of course. Although that hunky detective had his mug on the front page. Sherbert or something.”

“Sherbet,” I corrected. “And he is kind of hunky, huh?”

She shrugged. “In a grizzly bear sort of way.”

“Sometimes that’s the best way.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “So why do you suppose?”

“I think we got the wrong guy.”

“The detective seems to think you got the right guy.”

“We’re missing something, I’m not sure what.”

“Tell me about it?,” she said, topping off her glass. “Walk me through it, maybe I can help you.”

“Perhaps you could have helped before you started on your third glass.”

“You know I’m very lucid when I drink. Give me a shot. Lay it on me.”

And so I did. Everything, from working through the files with Kingsley’s secretary, Sara, to the multiple break-ins and the subsequent arrest.

“Other than the fact I don’t agree with you tampering with evidence,” said Mary Lou, “I don’t see any holes here. Horton had the evidence, the files. He had the motive, and he even had a similar weapon registered to him.”

“I have no doubt he killed Kingsley’s client,” I said.

“You just don’t think he was the shooter who attacked your attorney.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Why?”

“For one, they don’t look alike.”

“He was wearing a disguise,” said Mary Lou, over enunciating her words, as she always did when she drank. “Anyone who’s seen the video knows that was a fake mustache.”

“Horton was clumsy,” I said. “Sherbet and I watched Horton struggle with a trash can, and then slip and fall on his ass. He was as athletic as a warthog.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The killer was athletic. Damn athletic. At one point in the video, he leaps smoothly over a bench—”

“And shoots him,” said Mary Lou. “Yeah, I remember that. I re-watched the video after you took this case. That stood out. Wow, you’re good, sis.”

I shrugged. “Still don’t know who he is.”

“Maybe it’s not a he,” said Mary Lou.

Something perked up within me. “What do you mean?”

“What about his sister? Didn’t you mention Horton had a sister?”

I nodded. “She lives in Washington state and is currently recuperating from a broken ankle she suffered a month ago. She was in no condition to shoot and jump over a bench.”

“How do you know this?” she asked.

“I’m not considered a super sleuth for nothing.”

“Do you think Horton was working alone?”

“I don’t know,” I said. My gut told me no, but I didn’t say anything.

“You going to drink that?” asked Mary Lou, motioning for my glass. I gave it to her. She poured the contents of mine into what was left of hers. “And, since I know you like the back of my hand, you won’t rest easy until you find the shooter.”

“No,” I said, “I won’t.”

“Perhaps you won’t have to wait long, especially if he has an accomplice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were third on the hit list. Perhaps the accomplice will find you.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “And for the record, I never rest easy.”

60.

An hour after Mary Lou left the hotel phone rang.

I had been staring down at the lights of Brea, lost in my own thoughts, when the phone rang, startling me. I nearly jumped out of my pale, cold skin at the sound of the ringing phone. I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Moon?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the front desk. We have a fax waiting for you in the lobby.”

“Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.”

With the fax in hand and back in my hotel room, I hunkered down in one of the straight-back chairs and started reading. The cover letter was printed in tight, unwavering letters. Very cop-like. No surprise since the fax was from Sherbet. In his cover letter, he reminded me that the information contained within was confidential. He also reminded me that the case was closed, that he was looking to retire soon, and the last thing he needed was for me to make his life more difficult. He signed his name with an awkward happy face: the eyes were off-set and the mouth was just a long ghoulish gash, a sort of perversion of the Wal-Mart happy face. I wondered if this was Sherbet’s first happy face. Ever.

The rest of the fax consisted of Rick Horton’s phone records spanning the last four months. Riveting reading to be sure, so I settled in with a packet of chilled hemoglobin. I flipped through the records methodically, because I am nothing if not methodical. Anyone with eternity on their side damn well better be methodical. I read each number. I looked at dates and times and locations. Most of it was meaningless, of course, but some information began to emerge. First, Rick Horton was obsessed with his sister. A half dozen calls were made to his sister in Washington state each day. Second, Horton had made a handful of calls to Kingsley’s office. In fact, eighteen calls in all. Prank calls? Or had Kingsley been in personal contact with Horton?

Next, I searched for key dates and key times and was not really surprised to discover that an hour or so before both Kingsley’s shooting and the Hewlett Jackson murder a telephone call had been placed to the same unknown number. It was a local number.

I dialed the number from my hotel phone, which should be untraceable. I waited, discovered that my heartbeat had increased. I was calling the true killer, I was sure of it. In fact, I felt more than sure. I just knew.

The line picked up.

A generic voice mail message. I hung up. Maybe I should have left a nasty little message. Then again, I didn’t want to scare the killer away, as ironic as that sounds.

Instead, I flipped open my address book and called my ex-partner, Chad Helling. He didn’t answer. Typical. I left Chad a voice mail message asking for a trace on the cell number. Once done, I stepped back to the window, pulled aside the curtain and continued staring down at the city.

61.

An hour later, still at the window, my cell rang.

The name that popped up on the LCD screen said it was Sara Benson, Kingsley’s receptionist. “Mr. Kingsley Fulcrum requests a meeting tonight at the Downtown Grill in Fullerton at ten thirty.”

“Oh, really?” I said, rolling my eyes. “And why doesn’t Mr. Kingsley Fulcrum call me himself?” I emphasized Kingsley Fulcrum. I mean, who has their secretary set up dates for them? Not only was I falling for a werewolf, I was falling for a werewolf with a massive ego.

“He’s in a meeting at the moment.”

I checked my watch. Geez, defense attorneys kept weird hours. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

“Fine,” I said. “Tell Kingsley I’ll be there.”

“I’m sure he will be pleased.”

More than likely this was a business meeting, but since this was Friday night, who knows, maybe Kingsley had something more on his mind.

As I was getting dressed for what might or might not be a date, my cell rang again.

“Funny how you only call when you need something,” said the deep voice immediately. It was Chad.

“Would you prefer I called if I didn’t need something?”

“Would be a pleasant change.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“How’s that skin disease working out for you?” he asked.

“Very well, thanks for asking.”

“Anytime,” he said. “You want the name and address for that cell number?”

“Would be nice,” I said, very aware that the name he was about to give me could very well be the shooter.

He gave me the name and address. I used the hotel stationery and pen. By the time I finished writing, my hand was shaking.

I clicked off and stared at the name.

62.

I parked in the half full parking lot. Ever the optimist.

I was wearing flats, which slapped loudly on the swath of cobblestones that led up to the rear entrance of the restaurant. The night was clear and inviting, and I had a sudden surge of hope, and love of life. I felt that all was right in the world, or would be, and for the first time I actually believed it. Hell, I almost felt sorry for people who were not vampires, who did not get to experience this side of the night. I was lonely, sure, but that could always change. Loneliness is not permanent.

The cobblestone path ended in a short alley. The alley was kept immaculately clean, for it provided convenient access to the many shops and restaurants. At the moment, the alley was empty and dark. The lights were out. Or broken. I was willing to bet broken. I had long ago lost my fear of dark alleys. My footfalls reverberated off the high walls of the surrounding businesses. I passed behind the back entrance to a used bookstore, a comic book shop, a stationary store and a pet store. The Downtown Grill was the only establishment open at this hour. Music pumped from the restaurant’s open door. Fire escapes crowded the air space above the alley like oversized cobwebs.

Sitting on the fire escape was a woman. Pointing a gun at me.

There was a flash, followed immediately by a muffled shot. Something exploded in my chest and I staggered backward. I kept my balance and looked down. Dark blood trickled from a hole in my dress. Next came two more muffled shots—and the impact of two more bullets turned me almost completely around. The bullets had been neatly placed in my stomach. Some good shooting. My red dress was ruined.

The woman walked casually down the fire escape. I saw that there was a silencer on the gun. No one would have heard the muffled shots, especially above the din of music pumping from the restaurant. The fire escape creaked under her weight.

From out of the shadows emerged Sara Benson, Kingsley’s receptionist. She paused in the alley and held the gun in both hands like a pro. Her hair was pulled back tightly, revealing every inch of her beautiful face. Her eyes were wide and lustful, and tonight she appeared particularly radiant. Her shapely legs were spaced evenly at shoulder width. A good shooting stance. Any attorney should be so lucky to have such a beautiful receptionist.

Except this receptionist had gone over the edge.

“How could you help that animal, Mrs. Moon?” she said. Her voice was even, and calculating, as if her words had been planned well in advance. I could hear again the undercurrent of rage and hatred, and now I understood fully who that anger was directed toward.

I assumed she was talking about Kingsley. “He’s not an animal,” I said. Actually, technically, she might have had a point there.

She paused, no doubt surprised that I was still speaking. Her surprise quickly turned into indignant, self-righteous rant. “Not an animal? Murderers have been set free, rapists have been let loose. The man has no conscience. He’s manipulative and horrible.”

“He’s just doing his job.”

“He does it too well.”

“Perhaps. But that’s neither for you nor I to decide. There are safeguards put into place in the law to protect the innocent. He upholds these safeguards. Not everyone in prison belongs in prison.”

She shook her head, and continued moving closer. I could see tears streaming down her face. Why the hell was she getting so emotional? Wasn’t I the one getting shot here?

“I love him,” she said. “There is something so different about him, and I wanted to be part of that. I would have done anything for him. I gave him everything in my heart, but still he left me. And now he has you.”

“Let me guess. If you can’t have him, then no one can?”

She cocked her head and fired her weapon again. My head snapped back. Blood poured down the bridge of my nose. I’ll give her this much: she was a hell of a shot. Which didn’t surprise me much, since she was also a hell of an athlete.

And able to leap small park benches in a single bound.

For a brief second, my vision doubled and then even trebled, then everything righted itself once again. Three seconds later the bullet in my head emerged and dropped into my open palm.

Let’s see Copperfield do that.

Sara stared at me in dumbfounded shock.

From the opposite end of the alley, coming up from the Commonwealth Avenue entrance, another figure appeared. A very large and burly figure. He was standing in a small pool of light from the alley opening.

“Stop!” shouted Detective Sherbet. “Drop your weapon. Now!”

But Sara didn’t drop her weapon. Instead, she swung her arm around with the gun.

I jumped forward. “Sara, don’t!”

Too late. She didn’t get all the way around. Three gunshots exploded from Sherbet’s end of the alley. His shots weren’t muffled by a silencer. The echoes cracked and thundered down the narrow corridor, assaulting the eardrums.

Sara pirouetted like a ballerina, spinning on one heel. Her gun flung off in one direction and her shoe in the other. And as the sound of Sherbet’s pistol still reverberated in the alley, Sara’s last dance was over and she collapsed.

Sherbet dashed over to us. He was out of breath and looking quite pale. As he reached down for Sara he called for backup and an ambulance.

Then he looked up at me for the first time.

“You okay, Sam—” And then he stopped short. “Sweet Jesus. You’ve been shot.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“The ambulance is on its way.”

“Won’t be necessary.”

He was silent for a long time. In the distance, I heard the coming sirens.

“We will definitely be talking, Samantha.”

“I expect so, Detective.”

63.

Rain drizzled outside Kingsley’s open French windows.

Water gurgled forth from the fountain with the breasts. Kingsley and I were sitting together on his leather couch. Our shoulders touched. There seemed to be a sort of kinetic energy between us. A sexual energy. At least, there was a sexual energy in me.

“Tell me how you figured out Sara was the shooter,” he said.

“Three things. First, Horton was in constant contact with her, especially in the hours prior to each shooting. Second, she contacted me from her cell number, claiming she was calling from work, which I found odd. Third, I recalled the picture on her desk, the one taken at the office Halloween party. She went as a pirate.”

Kingsley smacked his forehead with his palm. “The mustache. Good Lord, I’ve seen that picture a hundred times.”

“It’s the spitting image of your shooter.”

“But why didn’t you suspect her earlier? I thought you had some sort of ESP thing going on?”

“I do. But it’s not an exact science. I sensed a lot of anger from Sara, but I assumed that anger was directed at her failed relationship with you.”

“Granted most of my relationships have been failures since the death of my wife, but how did you know about Sara and me?”

“I’m an ace detective, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“She hinted at it.”

“Okay, yeah, we dated. We hit it off initially, but things didn’t quite take.”

“Ya think?”

We drank some more wine. Our shoulders continued touching.

“Speaking of dating,” I said. “Danny’s secretary dumped him.”

“Is that why you can’t wipe that smile off your face?”

“It’s one of the reasons,” I said. “Not to mention Horton has admitted Sara approached him with a proposal to kill you and your client. He provided the gun and surveillance. She did the shooting.”

“Then why attack me in broad daylight, in front of so many witnesses?”

“That was calculated. The shooting was scheduled between security shifts; her getaway truck was parked nearby, the plates removed. Horton was waiting a few blocks away, where they swapped cars. The truck was then concealed in a parking garage.” I paused and sipped from my Chardonnay. Even vampires get dry mouths. “Now, with Sara dead and the game up, Horton confessed to everything. He will stand trial as an accessory to murder and attempted murder.”

We were silent. Kingsley reached over and gently took my hand. His hand was comforting. And damn big. The rain picked up a little and plinked against the French windows.

“You did good work,” said Kingsley. “You were worth every penny.”

“Of which you still owe me a few.”

“When I get my new secretary I’ll have her write you a check.” He took my wine glass and walked over to his bar and filled me up. From the bar, he said, “I did some research on the medallion.”

I perked up. “And?”

“The medallion is rumored to be connected to a way of reversing the effects of vampirism.”

“Reversing?” I said, “I don’t understand.”

“The medallion,” he said, “can reverse vampirism.”

“You mean—”

“You would be mortal again, Sam. That is, if we’re talking about the same medallion, which, by the way, is highly coveted, so you might want to keep this on the down low.”

My head was swimming with the possibilities. To be human again. To be normal again. To have my kids again.

I looked over at Kingsley and there was real pain on his face. He was hurting.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked.

“You think that if I choose to be mortal...” my voice trailed off.

“I would lose you,” he said, finishing. “And I wouldn’t blame you for one second.”

I stood and came to him, this beautiful, massive man who made me feel alive again, who made me feel sexy again, who made me feel human again, even when I was at my lowest. I sat down in his huge, warm lap and put my arms around his huge, warm neck. I leaned in and pressed my lips softly against his.

When I pulled away after a long moment, I said, “And what if I told you I was falling in love with you?”

“Then that would make me the happiest man, or half-man, on earth,” he said. “But what about being mortal again?”

“We’ll look into that another day.”

“Good idea.”

And he kissed me deeply, powerfully, his lips and tongue taking me in completely.

It was a hell of a kiss.

64.

Did I catch you at a good time, Fang?

It’s always a good time when I hear from you, Moon Dance.

No girls over tonight?

No girls for awhile. So what’s new in your world, Moon Dance?

So I told him. I wrote it up quickly in one long, mangled paragraph.

More type-o’s than a blood bank, he answered when I had finished. I think Sara truly loved Kingsley, at least in her own twisted way.

Loved him and hated him.

And it drove her to a certain madness.

Yes, I wrote, remembering Sara’s pirouetting body. Watching her land in a heap as a pool of dark blood spread around her. I had stared deep into that dark pool, and felt a hunger.

Fang wrote: She thought Kingsley morally reprehensible, which justified her attempt on his life. And she would have succeeded had he not been immortal. You immortals get all the breaks.

Some of them, I wrote.

Rejection can make you do some crazy things.

Like jump off a hotel balcony, I added.

Yes. But not everyone has wings.

So why no girls for awhile, Fang?

Because I was in love with another woman.

So who’s the lucky woman?

There was a long delay. A very long delay. I wrote: Fang?

And then on my computer screen appeared a single red rose, followed by the words: I love you, Moon Dance.

I stared at my monitor. More words appeared.

I fell in love with you instantly. I know this sounds crazy because I’ve never met you, but I have fallen in love with the image I have created of you in my mind. There will never be a woman on the face of this earth who can compare to this image. All will fall short.

He stopped writing, and I read his words over and over again. Finally, I wrote my response.

We are both crazy, Fang. You know that, right?

Yes, I know that.

Goodnight, Fang.

Goodnight, Moon Dance.

The End

Samantha Moon returns in:

Vampire Moon

Vampire for Hire #2

Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback * Audio Book

Return to the Table of Contents

DARK HORSE

Jim Knighthorse #1

Copyright © 2009 by J.R. Rain

All rights reserved.

Dedication

To my sister Elaine, who loves mysteries. Love you, sis.

Acknowledgments

Also, a big thank you to Eve Paludan and Sandy Johnston (again!).

Dark Horse

Chapter One

Charles Brown, the defense attorney, was a small man with a round head. He was wearing a brown and orange zigzagged power tie. I secretly wondered if he went by Charlie as a kid and had a dog named Snoopy and a crush on the little red-headed girl.

We were sitting in my office on a warm spring day. Charlie was here to give me a job if I wanted it, and I wanted it. I hadn’t worked in two weeks and was beginning to like it, which made me nervous.

“I think the kid’s innocent,” he was saying.

“Of course you do, Charlie. You’re a defense attorney. You would find cause to think Jack the Ripper was simply a misunderstood artist before his time.”

He looked at me with what was supposed to be a stern face.

“The name’s Charles,” he said.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Glad that’s cleared up.”

“I heard you could be difficult,” he said. “Is this you being difficult? If so, then I’m disappointed.”

I smiled. “Maybe you have me confused with my father.”

Charlie sat back in my client chair and smiled. His domed head was perfectly buffed and polished, cleanly reflecting the halogen lighting above. His skin appeared wet and viscous, as if his sweat glands were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

“Your father has quite a reputation in L.A. I gave his office a call before coming here. Of course, he’s quite busy and could not take on an extra case.”

“So you settled on the next best thing.”

“If you want to call it that,” he said. “I’ve heard that you’ve performed adequately with similar cases, and so I’ve decided to give you a shot, although my expectations are not very high, and I have another P.I. waiting in the wings.”

“How reassuring,” I said.

“Yeah, well, he’s established. You’re not.”

“But can he pick up a blind side blitz?”

Charlie smiled and splayed his stubby fingers flat on my desk and looked around my office, which was adorned with newspaper clippings and photographs of yours truly. Most of the photographs depict me in a Bruin uniform, sporting the number 45. In most I’m carrying the football, and in others I’m blowing open the hole for the tailback. Or at least I like to think I’m blowing open the hole. The newspapers are yellowing now, taped or tacked to the wood paneling. Maybe someday I’ll take them down. But not yet.

“You beat SC a few years back. I can never forgive you for that. Two touchdowns in the fourth quarter alone.”

“Three,” I said. “But who’s counting?”

He rubbed his chin. “Destroyed your leg, if I recall, in the last game of the season. Broken in seven different places.”

“Nine, but who’s counting?”

“Must have been hard to deal with. You were on your way to the pros. Would have made a hell of a fullback.”

That had been hard to deal with, and I didn’t feel like talking about it now to Charlie Brown. “Why do you believe in your client’s innocence?” I asked.

He looked at me. “I see. You don’t want to talk about it. Sorry I brought it up.” He crossed his legs. He didn’t seem sorry at all. He looked smugly down at his shoes, which had polish on the polish. “Because I believe Derrick’s story. I believe he loved his girlfriend and would never kill her.”

“People have been killed for love before. Nothing new.”

On my computer screen before me I had brought up an article from the Orange County Register. The article showed a black teen being led away into a police car. He was looking down, his head partially covered by his jacket. He was being led away from a local high school. A very upscale high school, if I recalled. The story was dated three weeks ago, and I recalled reading it back then.

I tapped the computer monitor. “The police say there’s some indication that his girlfriend was seeing someone else, and that jealousy might have been a factor.”

“Yes,” said the attorney. “And we think this someone else framed our client.”

“I take it you want me to find this man.”

“Or person.”

“Ah, equality,” I said.

“We want you to find evidence of our client’s innocence, whether or not you find the true murderer.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“We feel race might be a factor here. He was the only black student in school, and in the neighborhood.”

“I believe the preferred term is African-American.”

“I’m aware of public sentiment in this regards. I don’t need you to lecture me.”

“Just trying to live up to my difficult name.”

“Yeah, well, cool it,” he said. “Now, no one’s talking at the school. My client says he was working out late in the school gym, yet no one saw him, not even the janitors.”

“Then maybe he wasn’t there.”

“He was there,” said Charlie simply, as if his word was enough. “So do you want the job?”

“Sure.”

We discussed a retainer fee and then he wrote me a check. When he left, waddling out of the office, I could almost hear Schroeder playing on his little piano in the background.

Chapter Two

“He was found with the murder weapon,” said Detective Hanson. “It was in the backseat of his car. That’s damning evidence.”

“That,” I said, “and he’s black.”

“And he’s black,” said Hanson.

“In an all white school,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Were his prints on the knife?”

“No.”

We were sitting in an outdoor café facing the beach. It was spring, and in southern California that’s as good as summer. Many underdressed women were roller-blading, jogging or walking their dogs on the narrow beach path. There were also some men, all finely chiseled, but they were not as interesting.

Detective Hanson was a big man, but not as big as me. He had neat brown hair parted down the middle. His thick mustache screamed cop. He wore slacks and a white shirt. He was sweating through his shirt. I was dressed in khaki shorts, a surfing T-shirt and white Vans. Coupled with my amazing tan and disarming smile, I was surprised I wasn’t more often confused with Jimmy Buffet. If Jimmy Buffet stood six foot four and weighed two hundred and twenty.

“You guys have anything else on the kid?” I asked.

“You know I can’t divulge that. Trial hasn’t even started. The info about the knife made it to the press long ago, so that’s a freebie for you. I can tell you this: the body was found at one a.m., although the ME places the time of death around seven p.m. the previous night.”

“Who found the body?”

“A neighbor.”

“Where were the victim’s parents?”

“Dinner and dancing. It was a Friday night.”

“Of course,” I said. “Who doesn’t go out and dance on a Friday night?”

“I don’t,” said Hanson.

“Me neither,” I said. “Does Derrick have an alibi?”

“This will cost you a tunacoda.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

I called the waitress over and put in our lunch orders.

“No alibi,” Hanson said when she had left, “but....” He let his voice trail off.

“But you believe the kid?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. He seems like a good kid. Says he was working out at the school gym at the time.”

“Schools have janitors, staff, students.”

“Yeah, well, it was late and no one saw him.”

“Or no one chose to see him.”

Hanson shrugged.

Our food arrived. A tunacoda for the detective. A half pound burger for me, with grilled onions and cheese, and a milkshake.

“You trying to commit suicide?” he asked.

“I’m bulking up,” I said.

“This is how you bulk up? Eating crap?”

“Only way I know how.”

“Why?”

“Thinking of trying out for San Diego,” I said.

“The Chargers?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your leg?”

“The leg’s going to be a problem.”

He thought about that, working his way through his tuna and avocado sandwich. He took a sip from his Coke.

“You wanna bash heads with other men and snap each other in the shower with jock straps, go right ahead.”

“It’s not as glamorous as that.”

“Suicide, I say. What’s your dad think?”

“He doesn’t know. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be.”

“What’s Cindy going to say?”

I sipped my milkshake. “She won’t like it, but she will support me. She happens to think very highly of me and my decisions.”

He snorted and finished his sandwich, grabbed his Styrofoam cup.

“I can’t believe I was bribed with a shitty tuna sandwich and a Coke.”

“A simple man with simple needs.”

“I should resent that remark, if it wasn’t so true.” He stood. “I gotta run. Good luck with the kid, but I think it’s a lost cause. Kid even has a record.”

“What kind?”

“Vandalism, mostly. He’s a goner. Hear they’re gonna try him as an adult.”

Detective Hanson left with his Styrofoam cup. I noticed he wasn’t wearing socks. Even cops in Huntington Beach are cool.

Chapter Three

Cindy Darwin is an anthropology professor at UCI. Her expertise is in the anthropology of religion, which, she tells me, is an important aspect of anthropology. And, yes, she can trace her lineage back to Charles Darwin, which makes her a sort of icon in her field. She knows more things about anthropology than she probably should, and too few things about the real world. Maybe that’s why she keeps me around.

It was late and we were walking hand-in-hand along the Huntington Pier. From here we could see the lights of Catalina Island, where the reclusive sorts live and travel via ferry and plane. To the north, in the far distance, we could see Long Beach glittering away. The air was cool and windy and we were dressed in light jackets and jeans. Her jeans were much snugger and more form-fitting than mine. As they should be.

“I’m thinking of giving San Diego a call,” I said.

“Who’s in San Diego?” she asked. She had a slightly higher pitched voice than most women. I found it endlessly sexy. She said her voice made it easier to holler across an assembly hall. Gave it more range, or something.

I was silent. She put two and two together. She let go of my hand.

“They call you again?” she asked. “The Rams, right?”

“The Chargers. Christ, Cindy, your own brother plays on the team.”

“I think it’s all sort of silly. Football, I mean. And all those silly mascots, I just don’t get it.”

“The mascots help us boys tell the teams apart,” I said. “And, no, they didn’t call. But I’m thinking about their last offer.”

“Honey, that was two years ago.”

She was right. I turned them down two years ago. My leg hadn’t felt strong enough.

“The leg’s better now,” I said.

“Bullshit. You still limp.”

“Not as much. And when I workout, I feel the strength again.”

“But you still have metal pins in it.”

“Lots of players play with pins.”

“Have you told Rob yet?” she asked. Rob was her brother, the Chargers fourth wide receiver. Rob had introduced me to Cindy during college.

“Yes.”

“What does he think?”

“He thinks it’s a good idea.”

We stopped walking and leaned over the heavy wooden rail. The air was suffused with brine and salt. Waves crashed beneath us, whitecaps glowing in the moonlight. A lifeguard Jeep was parked next to us, a quarter into the ocean on the pier. All that extra weight on the pier made me nervous.

“Why now?” she asked finally.

“My window is rapidly closing,” I said.

“Not to mention you’ve always wondered if you could do it.”

“Not to mention.”

“And you’re frustrated out of your gourd that a fucking leg injury has prevented you from finding this out.”

“Such language from an anthropologist.”

She sighed and hugged me around my waist. She was exactly a foot shorter than me, which made hugging easy, and kissing difficult.

“So what do you think?” I asked.

“I think you’re frustrated and angry and that you need to do this.”

“Not to mention I might just make a hell of a fullback.”

“Is he the one who throws the ball?”

We had gone over this precisely one hundred and two times.

“No, but close.”

She snuggled closer, burying her sharp chin deep into my side. It tickled. If I wasn’t so tough I would have laughed.

“Just don’t get yourself hurt.”

“I don’t plan to, but these things have a way of taking you by surprise.”

“So are you really that good?” she asked, looking up at me.

“I’m going to find out.”

She looked away. “If you make the team, things will change.”

I hugged her tighter. “I know.”

Chapter Four

I was in a conference room at the Orange County jail in Santa Ana, accompanied by Charley Brown’s assistant, Mary Cho. We were alone, waiting for Derrick Booker to make his grand appearance. Mary was Chinese and petite and pretty. She wore a blue power suit, with the hem just above her knees. She sat next to me, and from our close proximity I had a clear view of her knees. Nice knees. Cho was probably still a law student. Probably worked out a whole lot. Seemed a little uptight, but nothing a little alcohol couldn’t fix. Was probably a little tigress in bed. She wasn’t much of a talker and seemed immune to my considerable charm. Probably because she had caught me looking at her knees.

The heavy door with the wire window opened and Derrick was shown into the conference room by two strapping wardens. He was left alone with us, the wardens waiting just outside the door. The kid himself was manacled and hogtied. Should he make a run for it, Pope John Paul II himself could have caught him from behind.

Mary Cho sprang to life, brightening considerably, leaning forward and gesturing to a chair opposite us.

“Derrick, thanks for meeting us,” she said.

He shrugged, raising his cuffed hands slightly. “As if I had anything better to do.”

Which is what I would have said. I stifled a grin. I suspected grins were illegal in the Orange County jail. Derrick sounded white, although he tried to hide that fact with a lot of swaggering showmanship. In fact, he sounded white and rich, with a slightly arrogant lilt to his voice. He was good looking, with strong features and light brown eyes. He was tall and built like an athlete.

“I have someone here who wants to speak with you,” said Cho.

“Who? Whitey?”

I raised my hand. “That would be me.”

Derrick’s father owned lots of real estate across southern California, and Derrick himself had grown up filthy rich. He was about as far from the ghetto as you could get. Yet here he was, sounding as if he had lived the mean streets all his life. As if he had grown up in poverty, rather than experiencing the best Orange County had to offer, which is considerable. I suspected here in prison he was in survival mode, where being a wealthy black kid is as bad as being a wealthy white kid. Except that he had the jargon wrong and a few years out of date, and he still sounded upper class, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“My name’s Jim Knighthorse.”

“Hey, I know you, man!”

“Who doesn’t?” I said. “And those who don’t, should.”

He smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “How’s your leg? Saw you bust it up against Miami. Hell, I wanted to throw up.”

“I did throw up. You play?”

“Yeah. Running back.”

“You any good?” I asked.

“School is full of whities, what do you think?”

I shrugged. “Some whities can run.”

He grinned again. “Yeah, no shit. You could run, bro. Dad says wasn’t for your leg you’d be in the pros.”

“Still might.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“What about the leg?” he asked.

“We’ll see about the leg,” I said.

We were silent. Derrick was losing the ghetto speak. His eyes had brightened considerably with the football talk. We looked at each other. Down to business.

“You do her, Derrick?”

“Do her?”

“He means kill her, Derrick,” said Cho. “He’s asking if you killed Amanda Peterson.”

“Thank you, assistant Cho,” I said, smiling at her. She looked away quickly. Clearly she didn’t trust herself around me. I looked back at Derrick. “You kill her, Derrick?”

“Hell, no.”

His arms flexed. Bulbous veins stood out against his forearms, disappearing up the short sleeves of his white prison attire. I could see those arms carrying a football.

“Why should anyone believe you?” I asked.

“Give a fuck what anyone believes.”

“They found the knife in your car, Derrick. Her blood was on the knife. It adds up.”

He was trying for hostile bad-ass, but he was just a kid, and eventually his emotions won out. They rippled across his expressive face, brief glimpses into his psyche: disbelief, rage, frustration. But most of all I saw sorrow. Deep sorrow.

“Because... ” He stopped, swallowed, looked away. “Because we were going to get married.”

“Married?”

“Uh huh.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“How old was she?”

“The same.”

“Anyone know about the marriage?” I asked.

He laughed hollowly. “Hell, no. Her dad hates me, and I’m sure he doesn’t think much of me now.”

“I wouldn’t imagine he does,” I said. “You have any theories who might have killed her?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Was she seeing anyone else?”

“No.”

“You were exclusive?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“She loved me.”

“Did you love her?” I asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. The silence that followed was palpable. The ticking of the clock behind us accentuated the silence and gave it depth and profundity. I listened to him breathe through his mouth. The corners of his mouth were flecked with dried spittle.

“Yeah, I loved her,” he said finally. He swiped his sleeve across his face, using a shrugging motion to compensate for his cuffed wrists. The sleeve was streaked with tears.

“That will be enough, Mr. Knighthorse,” said Cho. “Thank you, Derrick.”

She got up and went to the door. She knocked on the window and the two wardens entered and led the shuffling Derrick out of the room. He didn’t look back. I got up and stood by the door with Cho.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think you’re secretly in love with me,” I said.

“I think you’re secretly in love with yourself.”

“It’s no secret,” I said.

We left the conference room and moved down the purposefully bare-walled hallway. Perhaps colorful paintings would have given the accused false hope.

“The kid didn’t do her,” I said. “No one’s that good an actor.”

She nodded. “We know. He’s going to need your help.”

“He’s going to need a lot of help,” I said.

“Let me guess: and you’re the man to do it?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

Chapter Five

On Beach Blvd., not too far from my crime-fighting headquarters, there is a McDonald’s fast food restaurant. McDonald’s is a fairly well-known establishment here in Huntington Beach, California, although I can’t vouch for the rest of the country since I don’t get out much. This McDonald’s features an epic two- or three-story plastic playground, an ATM and DVD rentals.

Oh, and it also features God.

Yes, God. The Creator. The Lord Of All That Which Is And Is Not. The God of the Earth below and the sky above. The God of the Moon and the stars and Cher.

No, I’m not high. At least, not at the moment.

Oh, and he doesn’t like me calling him God. He prefers Jack. Yes, Jack.

Again, I’m not high.

Let me explain: Not too long ago, while enjoying a Big Mac or three at this very McDonald’s, a homeless man dressed in rags and smelling of an overripe dumpster sat across from me. He introduced himself as God, and later, by my third Big Mac, I almost believed him.

God or not, he offered some pretty damn good advice that day, and I have been coming back ever since.

Today, by my second Big Mac and third re-fill of Coke, he showed up, ambling up to the restaurant from somewhere on Beach Blvd. Where he came from, I don’t know. Where he goes, I still didn’t know. Maybe Heaven. Maybe a dumpster. Maybe both.

As he cut across the parking lot, heading to the side entrance, I noted that his dirty jeans appeared particularly torn on this day. Perhaps he had had a fight with the Devil earlier.

Jack went through the door, walked up to the cashier, ordered a coffee.

“Hi, Jim,” he said, after he had gotten his coffee. He carefully lifted the lid with very dirty fingers and blew on the steaming coffee.

“God doesn’t like his coffee too hot?” I asked. I had been curious about this, as he always blew on his coffee.

“No,” he said simply. God, or Jack, was an average-sized man, with average features: His hair was of average color and length (neutral brown, hanging just above his ears), his eyes of average color (brownish, although they could have been green), and his skin was of average tone (perhaps Caucasian, although he could have passed for Hispanic). In short, the man was completely nondescript and nearly invisible to the world at large. He would make a hell of a P.I., actually.

Jack finally looked up from his coffee and studied me with his neutrally-colored eyes, squinting a little. I felt again that he was looking deep within me, into my heart and soul. While he was reading my aura, or whatever the hell it was he was doing, I looked down at his coffee: It was no longer steaming.

“How’s your day going, Jim?” he finally asked me, sipping from the cup, using both hands, cradling the thing carefully, as if it were the Cup of Life.

He always asked me that, and I always said, which I did now: “Fine, Jack. How’s it hanging?”

“Some would be offended to hear you speak to God in such an irreverent, disrespectful manner.”

“Sure,” I said. “Hell, I’m even offended. Can’t you tell?”

He laughed softly.

“As they say, I broke the mold with you, Jim. And they’re hanging to the left. They’re always hanging to the left. Isn’t there anything else you want to ask God?”

“Sure,” I said. “For starters, how do I know you’re God?”

We were mostly alone at the back of the seating area. Behind me, kids played in the massive two-story jungle gym. Such jungle gyms didn’t exist when I was kid. Lucky bastards.

“You have faith, Jim. That’s how,” he said. He always said that to me.

“How about for a lark you perform a miracle.”

“You’re alive and breathing,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Isn’t that miracle enough?”

“No,” I said. “It’s not, dammit.” I was used to these kinds of double-talk answers. Jack seemed particularly efficient at this. “Make a million dollars appear. I don’t even have to keep it. Just make it appear.”

“And that would prove to you that I’m God?”

“Sure.”

“Is it God you seek, or a genie?”

“Genie would be nice, too.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks.”

We were quiet. Jack silently sipped his coffee. Not even a slurp.

“You haven’t been around for a while,” he said.

“Have you missed me?”

“Yes.”

“You have been waiting for me?” I asked, mildly shocked. It had been, perhaps, four months since I’d last visited with him.

“Yes,” he said.

“How did you know I was here today?” I asked.

He grinned.

“There’s something to be said for being omniscient, Jim.”

“I bet,” I said. “Anyway, I haven’t worked on a case in a while. That is, a real case.”

“You only come when you’re working on a case?”

“Something like that,” I said. “You would prefer I came more often?”

He looked at me from over his non-steaming cup of coffee.

“Yes,” he said simply, and I found his answer oddly touching. “So am I to assume you are working on a case now?”

“You are God,” I said. “You can assume anything you want.”

“So is that a yes?”

I sighed.

“I’m working on a case, yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Don’t you already know?” I asked. “Hell, don’t you already know who killed the girl?”

He looked at me long and hard, unblinking, his face impassive. There was dirt in the corner of his eyes, and along the border of his scalp, where his roots met his forehead. He stank of something unknown and rotten and definitely foul.

You’re insane, I told myself for the hundredth time. Utterly insane to even remotely entertain the idea that this might be—

“Yes,” he said. “I do know who killed the girl.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Then tell me.”

“You already know, my son.”

We had discussed such matters before. Jack seemed to think I knew things that I didn’t really know. He also seemed to think that time meant nothing to me and that I could sort of shift back and forth through it as I wished. I kindly let Jack know that I thought it all sounded like bullshit.

For now, I said, “I can assure you, Jack, that I most certainly do not know who killed her—and I most certainly do not want to get into that time-is-an-illusion horseshit, either. It makes my fucking head hurt, and you know it. Do you want to make my fucking head hurt, Jack?”

“Are you quite done?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, sitting back, taking a swig from my fourth or maybe fifth Coke.

He watched me quietly while I drank, then said, “Although you do know who killed the girl, but choose to deny the basic laws that govern your existence—in particular, time—I will give you the answer now if you so desire.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really.”

“You know who killed Amanda Peterson?” I wasn’t sure what my tone was: disbelief, curious, awe, maybe even a little fear. There are no secrets with God.

“Indeed,” said Jack.

“But I haven’t even discussed the case with you.”

“I know.”

“So why did you ask me to discuss the case with you?”

“It’s called small talk, Jim. Try it sometime.” And Jack winked at me.

I took in some air. These conversations were always like this. Circular. Infuriating. Often illuminating. Sometimes silly. But more often than not, just plain insane.

“Fine,” I said, “write it down and I’ll keep it in my wallet.”

“Until?”

“Until the case is over. We’ll see if we came to the same conclusions.”

“Oh, we will.”

“You’re sure?”

“Always.”

I often keep a pen above my ear, and as luck would have it, there was one there now. Jack tore off a piece of my tray liner, wrote something down on it, folded it up neatly and handed pen and paper to me. I deftly slipped the pen back over my ear, was briefly tempted to unfold the paper, but promptly shoved it in my wallet, behind an old condom.

“So how is Amanda?” I asked. Amanda being the murdered girl on my case, of course.

“She is happy.”

“But she was slaughtered just a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, but she is with me now.”

“This is fucking weird,” I said.

“It’s as weird as you want it to be,” said the bum in front of me. I saw that his coffee was nearly gone.

“Want another coffee?”

“Heavens, no. It’ll keep me up all night.”

“I thought God never sleeps.”

He looked up at me and grinned, showing a row of coffee stained teeth.

“Why, whoever told you that?”

“I’ll be back,” I said. “And it won’t be four months this time.”

And as I left, sipping from my large plastic cup, I noticed for the first time the Monopoly guy on the side of the cup, holding in his fist a single million dollar bill.

I looked over at Jack, but he had gotten up and was currently talking with someone else, oblivious to me.

Chapter Six

Fresh from my conversation with God, I parked in front of a single story home with a copper roof, copper garage door and copper front door. I was sensing a pattern here. The front yard was immaculate and obviously professionally maintained. Roses were perfectly pruned under the front bay windows. Thick bushes separated the house from its distant neighbor. The bushes were pruned into massive green balls.

In the center of the lawn was a pile of roses. Mixed with the roses were teddy bears and cards and a massive poster with many signatures on it. The poster had photographs stapled to it. It was a sort of shrine to Amanda Peterson, marking the spot where she had been found murdered just forty-three days ago. The flowers themselves were in different stages of dying, and the grass around the shrine was trampled to death.

A lot of dying going on around here.

I let my car idle and studied the crime scene. The large round bushes could conceal anyone, an easy ambush point. There was only one street light in this cul-de-sac, and it was four houses down. Although upscale, the neighborhood had no apparent security. Anyone could have been waiting for her.

Anyone.

But probably not Derrick.

Then again, I’ve been wrong before.

According to the police report, a neighbor had been the first to discover the body. The first to call the cops. The first questioned. The neighbor claimed to have heard nothing, even while Amanda was being mutilated directly across the street. I wanted to talk to that neighbor.

I yanked a u-turn and parked across the street in front of a powder blue house. The house was huge and sprawling. And silent.

I rang the doorbell and waited. While doing so, I examined the distance from where Amanda was murdered to here. My internal judge of distance told me this: it wasn’t that far.

No one answered. I utilized my backup plan and tried the doorbell again.

Nothing.

Plan C.

I strolled around the side of the house, reached over the side gate, unlatched the lock and walked into the backyard. As if I owned the place. Done with enough chutzpah and self-assurance that even the nosiest neighbor will hesitate to call the police. I was also fairly certain there was no dog, unless it was trained not to bark at the doorbell. Which few were.

In the backyard, pruning roses, was an older lady. She was dressed much younger and hipper than she probably was. She wore white Capri pants, a tank top, shades and tennis shoes. Her arms were tanned, the skin hanging loose. In Huntington Beach no one ages; or, rather, no one concedes to aging. Because she was armed with shearing knives, I kept my distance.

“Mrs. Dartmouth?” I asked pleasantly.

No response. More pruning.

I said her name louder and took a step closer. I was beginning to see how a murder could indeed happen across the street without her knowledge.

But then she finally turned and caught me out of the corner of her eye. She gasped and whipped the shearing knives around, ready to shear the hell out of me. Although thirty feet away, I stepped back, holding up my wallet and showing my private investigator license. A hell of a picture, I might add.

“Jim Knighthorse,” I said. “Private investigator.”

“Good Christ, you shouldn’t sneak up on people around here, especially after what’s happened.”

“Yes, ma’am. I represent Carson and Deploma. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She stood. “You’re representing the boy?” she asked, her voice rising an octave. Not representing the young man. But the boy. She also sounded surprised, as if I were an idiot to do so.

“Yes.”

She thought about that. She seemed to be struggling with something internally. Finally she shrugged.

“Would you like some iced tea?” she asked.

“Oh, would I.”

At her patio table, she served it up with a mint sprig and a lemon wedge, and I suspected a dash or two of sugar. We were shaded by a green umbrella, and as Mrs. Dartmouth sat opposite me, I noticed the shears didn’t stray far from her hand. Didn’t blame her.

“Great tea.”

“Should be. I put enough sugar in it.”

She wore a lot of lipstick and smelled of good perfume. Her hair was in a tight bun, and she watched me coolly and maybe a little warily. Again, I didn’t blame her. I was a big man. A big handsome, athletic and sensitive man.

“Have you talked to many people about Amanda’s murder?” I asked.

She brightened. “Lordy, yes. Reporters, police, attorneys, everyone. I’ve been over it a hundred times.”

She sounded as if she’d enjoy going over it a hundred more times, to anyone who would listen. Probably served a lot of this iced tea in the process. And the sugar kept them coming back for more.

“Well, I won’t ask you anything that’s not already on the police report.”

“Fine.”

“You knew Amanda personally?”

She nodded. “That poor dear. Such a sweet child.”

“Did you know Derrick Booker?”

“No,” she said. “He never dared show his face here. I understand that Mr. Peterson didn’t take a liking to him.”

“Were you aware of Amanda having any other boyfriends?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m not a nosy person.”

I smiled at the lie. “Of course not. How well do you know the family?”

“I babysat Amanda when she was younger. But as she got older I saw less and less of her. They always forget about us old fogies.”

“When was your last conversation with Amanda?”

She took a sip from her tea and watched me carefully. “Two years ago, when she was a freshman in high school, after she had quit the school marching band. She played an instrument. The flute, I think. She loved music.”

“Why did she quit?”

“I hardly think this is relevant to her murder of a month and a half ago.”

“Just fishing, ma’am. After all, like my dad says: you never know what you’ll catch.”

“Well, I do. They caught that boy. And that’s good enough for me.”

“It’s good enough for a lot of people,” I said. “Mrs. Dartmouth, what would you do if your daughter dated a black man?”

“What a silly question to ask.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have a daughter.”

“I see,” I said. “You were the first to come across the body.”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

I waited a moment. “At one a.m.”

“Yes. I was walking. I do that sometimes when I can’t sleep.”

“And at the time of the murder, you saw and heard no one?”

She raised her finger and waggled it in my face. “Nuh uh uh, Mr. Knighthorse. That’s all on the police report.”

I produced one of my business cards and placed it on the glass table. In the background on the card was a photo of the sun sinking below the blue horizon of the Pacific Ocean. The word keen always comes to mind. In one corner, was my smiling mug.

“Should you remember anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

I set my card on the glass table; she somehow managed to not lunge for it. I finished the tea in one swallow and, leaving the way I had come, picked the mint sprig from my teeth.

Ah, dignity.

Chapter Seven

The field was wet with dew, and a low wispy mist hung over the grass. The mist made the morning look colder than it really was. Sanchez and I had been doing sprints along the width of Long Beach State’s football field for the past twenty minutes. Sweat streamed down my face, and I probably had a healthy, athletic glow about me. I tried desperately to ignore the pain in my right leg. But the pain was there. Persistent, throbbing and threatening to become something more serious. But I pushed on.

“You’re pretty fast,” I said to Sanchez. “For a cop.”

“I’ve got to work off the donuts.”

We finished another set of sprints and were now standing around, sucking wind like we had done at UCLA years earlier, when we had both been young and not so innocent. When the world had been my oyster. Before I had shattered my leg, and before Sanchez had become an LAPD homicide detective.

There were now two female joggers circling the track around us, dressed in long black nylon jogging pants and wearing white baseball caps. They moved spryly, their identical ponytails swishing along their angular shoulder blades.

“Sooner or later we’re going to have to run to the other side of the field,” said Sanchez. He spoke with a slight Hispanic accent when he wasn’t careful, or when he was tired. He was tired. He was watching the two joggers. “Unless you prefer to watch them all morning long.”

“Worse ways of spending a morning.”

“How’s the leg holding up?”

I shrugged.

Sanchez grinned. “That good, huh?”

We ran back to the other side of the field, just in time to meet the two women again, who swished past us with a casual glance or two. One of them said something and the other giggled.

“They’re laughing at you,” said Sanchez.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I said. “By the way, I beat you this time. Bum leg and all. How does that make you feel?”

“Maybe I should shoot myself.”

“Got a gun in my gym bag.”

“So do I.”

We raced back and as far as I could tell we were dead even this time, pulling up just past the far sidelines. The throb in my leg was feeling unhealthy. We had done this for the past thirty minutes.

“We’re even on that last run,” said Sanchez. “So I say we call it a morning. Baby steps. This is your first day back in training. Want to take it easy on the leg, especially a man your age.”

“You’re only a month younger.”

“Lot can happen in a month.”

“True.”

We sat on a bench wet with dew. The mist was all pervasive, leaving nothing untouched. I enjoyed the solitude it allowed.

“You going back with me to San Diego?” I asked. “To try out?”

He laughed, and kept his dark eyes on the joggers. “I wasn’t the one they asked to come out of retirement.”

“You could make it.”

“I was good, but not that good,” he said. The mist was dispersing and more light was getting through. There were also more joggers now, three males, but these were not as interesting to look at.

Sanchez checked his watch. “Most people with respectable jobs have to get going now.”

“Luckily, neither of us have respectable jobs.”

“True,” said Sanchez. “So who do you think did this girl?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “That’s the part I’m working on.”

“Isn’t it just your job to get the kid off? And to give a damn who really killed the girl?”

“But I do give a damn who killed her.”

“You always do. But you shouldn’t. It’s not your job, at least not on this case. Your job is to spring the kid before he goes to trial.”

I said nothing.

“I know,” said Sanchez, “I know. You’ll do it your way.”

I smiled brightly. “Exactly.”

Chapter Eight

I was sitting outside Huntington High in my car, on a stretch of road that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. My windows were down and the engine was off; a cool breeze wafted through the car. Life was good at the Beach.

It was three o’clock and school was just getting out. High schoolers nowadays are younger and smaller than I remember, although the occasional curvy creature sashayed by. Most of the girls wore unflattering jeans that rode low on the hip, showed a lot of tanned flesh and a surprising amount of lower back tattoos. The high school boys were spiked, pierced and dyed. Those who weren’t natural blonds, wanted to be. Huntington High probably had a very popular surfing club. My old high school in Inglewood did not have a surfing club. We had metal detectors and hired security that were referred to as The Staff.

More than one Mercedes whipped out of the student parking lot, followed by nineteen different Mustangs, and twenty-two of the new Volkswagen bugs. I saw exactly seventeen near-fatal car accidents in the span of forty-five seconds.

The less fortunate, and those not of driving age, waited in line and boarded the various yellow school buses. Other students walked, some passing my Cobra. I was promptly ignored, being an Old Man, and Not Very Interesting.

I didn’t blame them, although my ego was crushed a little.

All in all, I saw a fair share of Asians and Hispanics, but no blacks.

Teachers on duty did their best to clear out the lingering students from the front halls. The buses pulled away. And the potential smash-up derby that was the student parking lot cleared away shockingly fast and without a single incident. I waited another ten minutes, then left my car there on the hill, and headed up to the administration building at the front of the school.

The building, and much of the school, was old cinder block, bright with a fresh coat of powder blue. A very school-like color. I stepped into the mostly empty admin office. There was a receptionist behind her desk, pen in hand and working furiously. She was young and pretty, probably a school senior. I stepped up to the front desk.

“Hello,” I said.

She jumped. She had been writing a personal letter, probably when she should have been working. Should I be tempted to read her musings, she quickly covered the letter with her folded hands. But not well enough. I saw the words: asshole, love and booty used repeatedly. Further proof that there’s nothing so sweet in life as love’s young dream.

When she had recovered enough to speak, she said, “Can I help you?”

I smiled engagingly and showed her my investigator license.

A hell of a picture.

“Doesn’t look like you.”

“It’s me, I swear.” I struck a similar pose, turning my head a little to the side, and blasted her with the same full wattage smile. “See?”

She shrugged. “The guy in the picture is cuter.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be offended. After all, it was me in the picture, and she was calling that guy cute.

“So you’re a private investigator?”

“Yep.”

She nodded, but her interest was already waning.

“I give autographs, too,” I said.

“I don’t want your autograph.”

“Of course not. Who would I see about gaining permission to access your school?”

“You need to speak with Mrs. Williams.”

“Great.”

“Let me see if she’s in.”

“That would be fantastic.”

“Are you always this cheery?”

“Yes!”

“Hold on.”

“Super!”

She removed herself from her post, snatched up her letter, and stepped down the hall and peeked into one of the open doors. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs lining the wall and made it a point to look cheery as hell. The office was covered with senior year group photographs, dating back to the forties. The photos were lined end to end and circled the room above the windows.

“Mrs. Williams will see you now, Mr. Knighthorse.”

“Keen.”

“Keen?”

“I was running out of superlatives.”

Chapter Nine

The brass nameplate on Mrs. Williams’s desk designated her as vice principal in charge of discipline. Ah, she would be the one the students hated and likened to Hitler, as all students did in all high schools to any vice principal in charge of discipline.

One difference.

She couldn’t have been prettier.

Mrs. Williams stood from behind her desk and shook my hand vigorously. She gestured for me to sit and I did. She was young, perhaps the same age as me. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and I had the impression she had recently set it free from a tight bun. Of course, the three bobby pins sitting next to her computer mouse were a dead giveaway.

I am, of course, a detective.

Mrs. Williams wore a white blouse with a wide collar that fanned across her collar bones. Her face was thin and pleasantly narrow. Of course, the intelligence behind her emerald eyes were the dead giveaway that she was something more than just a pretty face. A lot more. The eyes were arresting and disarming, true. But, good Christ, they were penetratingly cold. Chips of ice. She leveled them at me now and I squirmed in my seat.

“You seem a bit preoccupied, Mr. Knighthorse,” said Mrs. Williams. “You must have a lot on your mind.”

Her voice was a little husky, and a lot of sexy. The chest beneath her blouse seemed full, and heaved slightly with each breath.

“I was just wishing I had had you as my vice principal in high school.”

She did not blush, and her gaze did not flick away from mine.               “What are you implying?”

“You are a looker, Mrs. Williams.”

She cracked a smile, and placed one hand carefully on top of the other. I could see her wedding band clearly. A plain gold band.

“A looker?”

“Means I think you’re swell.”

“Lord. Is this some sort of come-on line?”

“You’re married, and I’m happily dating the love of my life. I am simply warming you up to get what I need.”

“At least you’re honest about your intentions.”

“That, and I think you’re a looker.”

“What do you need, Knighthorse?”

“What happened to the mister?”

“Anyone who calls me a looker loses that formal courtesy.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying I’m warming up to you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I need access to your school.”

“What sort of access?”

Behind her the blinds were open, and I had a shot of an open quad. From here, Mrs. Williams could see much of the school. It was a good view for the vice principal of discipline to have.

“I’m here to investigate the murder of Amanda Peterson,” I said. Her eyes did not waiver. I forged on. “To do so I will need to speak to witnesses.”

“There are no witnesses to Amanda’s murder here.”

“But there are those here who could provide me some assistance, including yourself.”

She leaned forward and looked down at her ring. Her smooth face had the beginnings of crow’s feet. She used her thumb to toy with the ring, spinning it around her narrow finger. I wondered if perhaps she was regretting the ring was on, and thus losing an opportunity to be with yours truly. Or perhaps not.

“I’ll give you access, but not during school hours, and no speaking with students.”

“Agreed.”

“Now what do you need from me?”

“Was Derrick the only African-American in school?”

“No. There are three others. The papers were incorrect.”

“Was he a good student?”

“Exceptional. He carried a 4.0 GPA. Was on his way to USC for a full football scholarship. The world was his oyster.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call USC an oyster, Mrs. Williams. Maybe a parasitic tiger mussel that’s currently infesting the Great Lakes.”

“Nice imagery. UCLA fan?”

“And their best fullback.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I can see that. You are a big boy.”

“Was Derrick capable of killing?” I asked.

She spread her hands flat on the desk and smiled at me. “Derrick was strong and excelled at a violent sport. Physically he could have done it. If you are inquiring about his psyche, you are barking up the wrong tree. Derrick and I rarely crossed paths. He kept his nose clean, as my father would say.”

“And being in charge of discipline, you would know.”

“I would.”

“Can you tell me anything about Amanda?”

“She was more trouble. But petty stuff, really. Nothing serious.”

“Like what?”

“Skipping class, smoking on school grounds.”

“She and Derrick an item?”

“Yes. The whole school knew that. He was our star athlete.”

“And black in a nearly all-white school. Did he ever have any problems with racism?”

“As far as I knew, he was wildly popular among his fellow class mates.”

“Amanda was in the school band?”

She paused, then shrugged. “I do not know. Maybe.”

“I was told she quit. Any reason why?”

“Refer to my prior comment.”

I didn’t like the answer. Mrs. Williams probably had access to Amanda’s file, and certainly would have read it since the murder. Band membership would have been in the official records.

“And Knighthorse,” she said, “I am definitely not the kind of principal you wish you had in high school. Students are never, ever pleased to be sitting where you are now.”

I smiled. “I’m not a student. And it’s not a bad view from here, Mrs. Williams.”

Most women would have blushed. She did not.

I left her office.

Chapter Ten

The campus was sprawling and clean. The hallways were lined with yellow lockers. Most sported combination locks, although a few were padded with locks of considerable fortitude. These were blocks of titanium padlock perfection that were engineered to protect far more important things than school books and pencils.

My footsteps echoed along the now-empty hallway. Just a half hour earlier it had been filled to overflowing with students. Within these hallowed lockered halls, plans for parties had been made, drug deals had gone down, students had been harassed, asses pinched and thoughts of teenage suicide pondered.

In the police report, Derrick claimed to have been working out at the school gym at the time of the murder. He had no alibi. His football coach often left him alone with the keys, trusting Derrick. It was against school rules, but Derrick had proven himself to be reliable, and after all he was the star athlete. The coach probably loved him like a son.

The coach was the last to see Derrick. That had been at 5:45 p.m. on the evening of the murder. The coroner’s report placed the time of murder at 7:00 p.m. According to the arrest report, the detectives figured Derrick left the school weight room shortly after the coach had left and proceeded to ambush the girlfriend he loved and slaughtered her in front of her home. His vehicle had no trace of her blood. There were no wounds on Derrick’s hands or arms. Other than the murder weapon found in his backseat there was nothing to link him to the murder.

The murder weapon was enough.

Had he not blundered and forgotten about the murder weapon, Derrick would have pulled off one amazingly clean murder. I’ve now had a chance to see the crime scene photos. The murder was definitely not clean.

Derrick, of course, claimed he was at the school weight room until 7:30 p.m. that night, like he was every night. A routine that anyone could have caught onto and used against him.

No one believed Derrick’s story. Except his defense attorney Charlie Brown, although he was being paid handsomely to believe his story.

And me. But I was not being handsomely paid. I hate it when that happens.

I moved beyond the hallway, beyond the brick walled central quad, beyond what was probably the school cafeteria, beyond the gym, and toward the athletic department.

It was spring, and so there was no football to be practiced, which was why Derrick had been lifting weights after school, rather than working out with his team. Instead, it was baseball and track season. Beyond a chain-linked fence I could see a varsity baseball game getting under way. Parents and some students filled the small bleachers. To the north of the baseball field was a track field, and it was a beehive of activity. I watched a young girl sprint for about thirty yards and leap through the air, landing gracelessly in a cloud of dirt. She dusted herself off, and then headed back for another leap.

I followed a paved pathway, bigger than a sidewalk, but not big enough to be called a road. The pathway skirted the softball field and headed toward a group of buildings lined with doors. One of the doors was open, and inside I could see shining new gym equipment.

My old high school did not have shining new gym equipment. It had well-used and badly damaged gym equipment. In fact, we just had free weights and a few squat racks, come to think of it.

But it had been enough, if used correctly and religiously. Both of which I had done.

I stepped into the doorway and peaked in, almost expecting to see a membership desk. What a spread. Gleaming chrome equipment covered the entire room. Mirrors were everywhere. Techno rock pumped through loud speakers situated in every corner. Boys and a handful of girls were in there, all taking their workouts very seriously. I was completely ignored. In fact, there seemed to be a melancholy mood to the place, despite the rhythmic pounding of the dance music.

I spied some offices in the back and headed that way, passing two kids lifting an impressive amount on the bench. I calculated the weight. They were benching almost three hundred pounds.

Not bad for a kid.

I came to the first office and knew I had hit the jackpot. The sign on the closed door said Coach.

Only the egocentricity of a football coach, in an entire department of other coaches, went by Coach alone.

I knocked on the closed door. Doing so, the door creaked open, and immediately I sensed something wrong. Very wrong.

Coach was a big man, and from what I could tell he had taken a bullet to the side of the head. Blood and brain matter sprayed the east side of his office. A revolver was still in his hands. The blood had not congealed, and was dripping steadily from the wound in his open head. His eyes were wide with the shock and horror of what he had done to himself.

Music thumped loudly into the office.

No one had even heard the shot.

Chapter Eleven

Sanchez and I were working out at a 24-Hour Fitness in Huntington Beach. It was mid-day, and the gym was quiet. I had worked up a hell of a sweat, and was dripping all over the place. Sanchez didn’t sweat; at least not like a real man. And I let him know it again.

“I save the sweating for the bedroom,” he said, finishing off his third and final set of military presses. “Women like that.”

“You married your high school sweetheart. You don’t know shit about what women want.”

“Fine,” he said, wiping down the machine. “Danielle likes it when I sweat. Shows her I take my lovemaking seriously. Besides, Danielle is a lot of woman.”

“Yes,” I said, “she is.”

We moved over to the incline presses. Together we added weight until we ran out of plates.

“Place is going to hell,” said Sanchez, looking around, then swiping two forty-fives from another bench.

“Yes, but it’s cheap. And apparently open twenty-four hours.”

“You sound like a goddamn commercial.” He handed me one of the plates and we pushed each into place. The bar looked very unstable and heavily overloaded. “We’re attracting attention again.”

I had eased down onto the incline bench. In the mirror I could see that two or three young guys, including some gym trainers, were now watching us. I ignored them. So did Sanchez, who spotted me by standing on a steel platform. The forty-five pound bar was sagging. Weight clanked as I went through my twelve reps. I focused on the Chargers training camp, which was coming up soon. This motivated me, pushed me to lift more and work harder. I focused on looking good for Cindy. This motivated me as well. Only on the last rep did Sanchez lend some help. Then he guided the barbell into place.

“Didn’t need your help on the twelfth,” I said.

“Sure you didn’t,” he said.

A voice said: “Hey, man, how much weight is that?”

We both turned. He was a surfer. Bleached hair and some minor muscle tone. He had a piercing in his nose, and some idiotic Chinese pictographs up and down his arm.

“You too stupid to do the math?” asked Sanchez. He turned to me. “Kids nowadays.”

“Kids nowadays,” I added sagely.

The surfer looked at the weight we were hefting and decided that he would not take offense. He left. Good decision.

Sanchez did his twelve reps, and to be a dick I helped him with the last two. After two more sets each, we sat down on opposing benches and sipped from our water bottles.

“He leave a suicide note?” asked Sanchez.

“Nothing,” I said. “But he had been fired earlier that day.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “He’d been taking a lot of shit about leaving Derrick alone on the night of the murder.”

“Hell of a thing to be fired over.”

“Uh huh.”

“Papers say he was a hell of a coach,” said Sanchez.

“Three CIF championships.”

“Why do you think he popped himself?”

“Hard to say,” I said. “Detective Hanson tells me the man was divorced earlier in the year. They say divorced men are the highest risk for suicide.”

“Thank you for that useless bit of fucking trivia.”

I ignored him, and continued.

“Add to that your best athlete being accused of a heinous murder, and compound it with losing your job....”

I shrugged again.

“You shrug a lot for a detective,” said Sanchez.

“I know. It’s part of the job description.”

We moved over to the squat rack. We slammed on as many forty-fives as we could find, then some thirty-fives.

“You know,” said Sanchez, “people here think we’re freaks. Maybe we should go to a real gym.”

“I like it here,” I said, hunkering down under the bar and placing my feet exactly the width of my shoulders. “Besides, it’s open twenty-four hours.”

Sanchez shook his head.

Chapter Twelve

He was watching me knowingly with those nondescript eyes. Nondescript only in color, that is. Everything else about them was, well, very non-nondescript.

He knows what you’re thinking.

The words flashed across my mind, along with the popular Christmas tune, and a chill went through me.

I was having another Big Mac. Or three. He was drinking another coffee. Lukewarm and black. Just like I like my women. Kidding.

“So have you told anyone about me?” he asked.

“That I speak to God in a McDonald’s?”

“Yes.”

“Everyone I know. Hell, even people I don’t know. In fact, I just told the sixteen-year-old gal working behind the counter that I was meeting with God in a few minutes and could she hurry.”

“And what did she say?”

“Said she was going to call the cops.”

Jack shook his head and sipped some more of his coffee. I noticed he still had the same streaks of dirt along his forehead.

“So your answer is no,” he said.

“Of course it’s no, and if you were God you would know that.”

He said nothing; I said nothing. A very old man had sat in a booth next to us. The old man smiled at Jack, and Jack smiled back. The man leaned over and spoke to us.

“I’m coming home soon,” he said.

“Yes,” said Jack. “You are.”

“I’m ready,” said the old man, and sat back in his seat and proceeded to consume a gooey cinnamon roll.

“What was that about?” I asked Jack, not bothering to lower my voice. Hell, the man was as old as the hills, no way he could overhear us.

“He’s going to die tonight,” said Jack, rather nonchalantly, I thought.

“Well,” I said after a moment, “his heart could only take so many cinnamon rolls.”

Jack looked at me and sipped his coffee carefully, cradling the paper cup in both hands. He said nothing.

“Why do you drink with both hands?” I finally asked.

“I enjoy the feel of the warm cup.”

“And why do you look at me so closely?”

“I enjoy soaking in the details of a moment.”

We had gone over this before.

“Live in the moment,” I repeated. “And all that other bullshit.”

“Yes,” he said. “And all that other bullshit.”

“There is no past and there is no future,” I continued, on a holy roll.

“Exactly.”

“Only the moment,” I said.

“You’re getting it, Jim. Good.”

“No, I’m not, actually. You see, Jack, I know for a fact that there is a past because a young girl got slaughtered outside her house. In the past.”

“You have taken a personal interest in the case, I see.”

“And now someone has killed themselves. A coach at the same high school—but, of course, you know all of this.”

Jack sat unmovingly, watching me closely.

“I saw his brains on the wall and I saw the hole in his head,” I continued. “Damn straight this case has gotten personal.”

We were silent. I could hear myself breathing, my breath running ragged in my throat. I had gotten worked up.

“You know, it’s damn hard having a conversation with someone who claims to know everything,” I said, concluding.

“I never claimed to know everything. You assume I know everything.”

“Well, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, fuck me. There you go.”

“But you’re forgetting something,” said Jack patiently. He was always patient, whoever the hell he was.

“No,” I said. “Don’t tell me.”

“Yes,” he said, telling me anyway. “You, too, know everything.”

We had gone over this before, dozens of times.

“The answers are always within you,” he said.

“Would have been nice to know during algebra tests.”

“You knew the answers then, just as you know them now.”

“Bullshit.”

He smiled serenely.

“If you say so,” he said.

“Fine,” I said, “So how is it that I know everything, when, in fact, I don’t feel like I know shit?”

“First of all, you know everything because you are a part of me,” he said.

“Part of a bum?”

“Sure,” he said. “We are all one. You, me and everyone you see.”

“So I know the answers because you know the answers,” I said.

“Something like that,” he said. “Mostly, you know the answers because the answers have already been revealed to you. Would you like an example?”

“Please.”

“What’s the Atomic symbol for gold?”

“Wait, I know this one.” I rubbed my head. “Fuck. I don’t remember. Wait, I’ll take a stab at it: G-O?”

“No, it’s A-U.”

“At least I was close.”

“What’s the Atomic symbol for gold?” he asked again.

“A-U,” I said without thinking. “Wait, I only know that because you just told me.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, I didn’t know a few seconds ago.”

“Are you living now, or are you living a few seconds ago?”

“I’m living now, of course, but if I didn’t have you here to give me the answer—and by the way, I’m not convinced A-U is the right answer—I still wouldn’t know the answer.”

“Shall we try another example?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but this time don’t give me the freakin’ answer.”

“What’s the Atomic symbol for Mercury?”

“No idea,” I said.

“None?”

“Nope. M-E?”

“No.”

“See, told you I didn’t know the answer.”

“You were right,” he said. “And I was wrong, apparently.”

“Fuck. I’m going to go look it up tonight on the internet, aren’t I?”

He shrugged.

“And then when I do, I’ll have the answer.”

He took a sip from his coffee.

“But I still don’t have the answer now, but I will soon,” I said.

He yawned a little.

“And since time doesn’t exist, that means I always had the answer.”

He shrugged again and drank the rest of his coffee.

“I’m still not buying any of this shit,” I said.

Chapter Thirteen

According to homicide investigators, Amanda Peterson had been returning home from a high school party on the night of her murder.

Returning home at 7:30 p.m.

Isn’t that about the time most parties get started? Perhaps she was going home to fetch something she had forgotten. Perhaps not. Either way, I sniffed a clue here.

Thanks to Mrs. Williams, vice principal extraordinaire, I now had a small list of Amanda Peterson’s known friends from high school. To help facilitate my investigation, Mrs. Williams gave me the home addresses to the three names on the list. I thought that was a hell of a nice gesture on her part, and reminded myself to repay her with one of my most winning smiles.

The first house on the list was a massive colonial with a pitched roof, numerous gables and a wide portico. I pulled into the wrap-around driveway.

The doorbell was answered by a cute teenage girl wearing matching sweatshirt and sweatpants that said UCLA. A girl after my own heart. She was blond, pretty, and quite small, no more than five foot two. Her big blue eyes were filled with intelligence.

“Can I speak with Rebecca Garner?” I asked.

“You got her.”

“My name’s Jim Knighthorse and I’m a private investigator.”

She smiled broadly, and her eyes widened with pleasure. I turned around to see who the hell she was smiling at. Turns out it was me.

“A real private investigator,” she said, clapping.

“In the flesh.”

She turned somber on a dime. “You’re here about Amanda.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Williams called and asked if it was okay to give out our address. So I knew you’d be coming by.”

“Are your parents home?”

“No, I’m alone, so maybe we should talk out here.” She stepped through the doorway and shut the door behind her. “My parents said it would be okay for me to talk to you.”

She led me to a wooden rocking bench facing the street. Rebecca, utilizing the full use of the bench, rocked us back and forth. A minute later, I was feeling seasick. I stopped the rocking.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never talked to a real live detective before.”

“Well, you’re doing a great job of it so far.” I pointed at the UCLA logo. “Obviously you’re highly intelligent and wise for your age if you intend to go there.”

She looked down. “My dad went there.”

“He must be highly intelligent and wise himself.”

“He’s a doctor. Intelligent, but I don’t know about wise. Anyway, he’s never home, so I really wouldn’t know.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“You’re a junior?”

“Yes.”

We were silent. She started rocking again, and I put my foot out to stop it again. She ducked her head and said, “Oops.”

“Were you with Amanda on the last day she was alive?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about the party.”

“We got there around seven. Amanda and I went together because Derrick was working out at the gym, as usual. He’s so boring. He never likes to party. All he ever did was work out, play sports and hang out with Amanda.”

“Did he love Amanda?”

She shifted her weight. The bench creaked slightly. I kept my foot firmly planted. No more swinging today. Rebecca looked away, brushing aside a blond strand that had stuck to her shiny lip gloss.

“Oh, yeah. He loved her a lot.”

“You think he killed her?”

“No.”

“You say that pretty quick.”

“He loved her so much. He would have done anything for her.”

“Was Amanda seeing someone else?”

“No. But at the time, there was another guy who wouldn’t leave her alone.”

“Who?”

“Chris, the guy who threw the party. He’s always liked her.”

“Did she fool around with Chris?”

“No. She never cheated on Derrick. They really did love each other. It was sweet watching the two of them together. They were always together and holding each other and kissing.”

“Tell me about Chris.”

“He’s a senior. Used to play football, but got kicked off the team because he’s an asshole. You like football?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t understand it. Just a bunch of boys jumping on each other.”

“That about sums it up.”

“They kicked him off the team because he was a partier and did drugs and probably never showed up for practice.”

“That’ll do it.”

“He always had it pretty bad for Amanda. I mean, you’ve seen her picture. She is—was—so pretty. A lot of guys at school liked her.”

“Especially Chris.”

“Especially Chris. He hated Derrick. Hated him.”

“Why?”

She looked at me as if I were the beach idiot. “Because Derrick had his girl, and because Derrick was black. He was always making comments to Amanda.”

“Racially insensitive comments?” I offered.

“Yes,” she said. “Those kinds of comments. Everywhere she went, he let her know it. It was horrible.”

“Then why go to Chris’s party?”

She shrugged. “It’s high school, it was the only party being thrown that night. Plus Amanda said that Chris personally invited her and had apologized for being such a jerk.”

“So what happened at the party?”

“Chris was drunk when we got there. He was being a real dick. Usual Chris, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“You know him?”

“No, I’m just being supportive.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You’re kind of funny.”

“Kind of.”

“So anyway, we get to the party and almost immediately Chris hits on Amanda. You know, puts his arm around her and tries to kiss her, just being an asshole.”

“What did Amanda do?”

“She pushed him away.”

“How did Chris react?”

“Same old shit. Put her down, put Derrick down.” She grinned. “Derrick’s already kicked Chris’s ass once for giving Amanda a hard time.”

“Sounds like Chris needs another ass kicking.”

“Hard to do that from jail.”

I nodded. “So what happened next?”

“Amanda was pretty upset and left the party. I offered to go with her, but she refused, saying she wanted to be alone.”

I didn’t add that if Rebecca had been with Amanda, that Amanda stood a better chance of being alive today. Then again, there might be two dead teenage girls instead of one.

“That was the last time you saw her?”

She was looking away, blinking hard. “Yes.”

“After Amanda left, what did Chris do?”

“I don’t know. He took off in his car.”

Oh?

“Did you tell the police this?” I asked.

“The police never came by.”

“The police assume Derrick did the killing,” I said.

“I don’t blame them,” she said. “But I think someone set Derrick up.”

“I do too.”

“Someone who doesn’t like him very much,” she said.

“I agree. Where does Chris live?”

She told me, and I gave her my card.

“Nice picture,” she said.

“Like I said, you are obviously a bright and intelligent young lady.”

I left her rocking alone on the bench swing.

Chapter Fourteen

According to Rebecca, Chris’s house was three streets down. Look for the broken garage door and red mailbox. Turns out the house was seven streets down. She was close. Okay, not really.

There was no one home, so I waited in my car, which really was my home away from home. I had wasted more time sitting in it than I care to dwell on. One of these days I was going to wise up and keep an emergency novel in the glove box for just such an occasion. I turned on the radio and listened to various sports radio programs. There had once been a time when I was the subject of sports radio. At least locally. Maybe again someday. I looked at my watch. An hour of my life had passed. I turned off the radio and put my seat back. The police hadn’t investigated Amanda’s murder very thoroughly. That much was obvious. They were confident the killer was Derrick. They had no reason to believe otherwise, and they did not look for a reason. Looking for a reason made their job harder than it had to be, especially when a kid with a knife was looking them straight in the face. According to the homicide report, an anonymous caller had tipped the police that the knife was in the backseat of Derrick’s car. Convenient.

Two hours later, after a fitful nap, a silver Corvette squealed around the corner and bounded into the driveway. A lanky kid hopped out and stared at me.

More than ready for a little action, I leapt out of my car and, perhaps a little too eagerly, approached him. The kid backed up a step.

“Chris Randall?” I asked.

He was about an inch shorter than me, about half the width of me, and certainly not as good looking. Not everyone can be me.

“Who are you?” he asked.

I told him.

“You have a badge or something?” he asked. There was mild humor in his voice, and a whole lot of cockiness. I’ve been told the same.

“Or something.” I showed him my investigator’s license. “Can I talk to you about Amanda Peterson?”

His shoulders bunched at the mention of her name. He recovered and walked around to the Vette’s trunk and popped it open with the push of a button on his keychain. He reached inside and pulled out a ratty backpack. His hands were shaking. When he spoke again, the humor was gone from his voice, although there was still an underlying tone of arrogance. My question had unsettled him. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“She was last seen leaving your party.”

He slung the pack over a bony shoulder. “Probably should have stayed, huh?”

“Probably. You were also seen leaving the party shortly thereafter.”

“Yeah, so.”

I smiled broadly, just your friendly neighborhood detective. “So where’d you go?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Have you talked to the police yet?”

“No.”

“Then they would be interested to know that prior to Amanda leaving the party that you had verbally abused her and made racially insensitive remarks about her boyfriend Derrick.”

He looked at me some more, then shrugged. “I went on a beer run.”

“Where?”

“Corner of Eighth and Turner.” He leaned a hip against the Vette’s fender. The mild amusement was back. His eyes almost twinkled. “You think I killed her?”

I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“They found the knife in Derrick’s car.”

“Knives can be planted,” I said.

“Why would I kill her?”

“You tell me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I liked her a lot.”

“Maybe you were jealous.”

“Of the nigger?”

“Of the African-American. Yes. He had Amanda, and you didn’t.”

“Then why not kill him? Doesn’t make sense.”

“No,” I said. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Well, fuck you.” He turned and headed up to his front door.

“Have a good day,” I said. “Study hard.”

Without turning, he flipped me the bird.

Kids these days. They grow up so fast.

Chapter Fifteen

Sanchez and I were in the backroom of the Kwik Mart on Eighth and Turner. We had convinced the reluctant owner, a small Vietnamese man named Phan, to allow us to review his security tapes on the night of Amanda’s murder. We informed him that he had sold alcohol to a minor, and that we could prove it, but in exchange for his cooperation, he would receive only a warning. He obliged.

When Phan was done setting up the VCR, he handed me the remote control. The store owner left us alone, mumbling under his breath.

“You speak Vietnamese?” asked Sanchez.

“Nope.”

“What’s the chances he’s praising us for our diligent investigative work?”

“Slim to none.”

We both leaned back in a worn leather love seat, the only seating available in the back room.

“Just because we’re in a love seat,” said Sanchez, “doesn’t mean I love you.”

“Sure you do,” I said. “You just don’t know it yet.”

I had the remote control and was fast forwarding through the day of her murder. In the bottom right corner was the time.

At seven thirty I let the tape play in real time. Sanchez put his hands behind his head and stretched.

“Should have brought some popcorn,” he said.

“They have some in the store. I think Phuong might be inclined to give us some on the house.”

“His name was Phan, and that would be abuse of power. We would be on the take.”

“For some popcorn, it would be worth it.”

“But only if buttered.”

We watched the comings and goings of many different people of many different nationalities, most of them buying cigarettes and Lotto tickets, all slapping their money down on the counter. The camera angled down from over the clerk’s shoulder, giving us a clear shot of each customer’s face.

“Oh, she’s cute,” said Sanchez.

“The brunette?”

“No, the blond.”

“What is it with you and brunettes, anyway?” he asked.

“Brunettes are beautiful. Blonds are pretty. There’s a difference.”

“You’re blond.”

“There always an exception to every rule.”

At seven thirty-eight a young man approached the counter carrying two cases of Miller Genuine Draft. Tall and lanky. The owner studied him carefully, then shrugged, and took the kid’s money.

“That our boy?” asked Sanchez.

“Yes.”

“The time of death was seven thirty?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Kid can’t be in two places at once.”

“No,” I said.

“The kid didn’t do her.”

“No, he didn’t.”

I stopped the tape and we sat back on the sofa.

“Which means someone was waiting for her at her house,” I said. “So how did this someone know Amanda would be leaving the party early?”

We were silent. Two great investigative minds at work.

“Don’t know,” said Sanchez.

“Me neither,” I said.

“Maybe she was followed home.”

“Or just a random killing.”

Sanchez looked at me and grinned. “Seems like you’ve got your work cut out for you, kiddo.”

Chapter Sixteen

It was a late April morning in Huntington Beach, California, which meant, of course, that the weather was perfect.

Why the hell would anyone want to live anywhere else?

I was sitting at my desk, reviewing a sampling of the San Diego Chargers playbook, a sampling that Rob, Cindy’s brother, had just faxed to me. Rob let it be known that this was Highly Classified material, and that his job was on the line. I reminded him that I was boffing his sister, and that practically made me family. He told me that he never wanted to hear the words boffing and his sister in the same sentence again and that he was going to get drunk at our wedding and make a nuisance of himself. I told him there would be no wedding because his sister wasn’t marriage material. He told me to fuck off, and hung up.

The plays were complex, but not rocket science. The majority faxed to me involved the fullback position, which was my position. I studied them with interest, making my own notes along the borders.

And that’s when the guy with the gun showed up.

* * *

I heard the door open, and when I looked up the Browning 9mm was pointed at my head. I hate when that happens.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Shut the hell up, fuck nut.”

“Fuck nut. The one nut Home Depot doesn’t carry.”

The man was probably in his fifties, gray hair sleeked back with a lot of gel. He wore a gold hoop in his left ear, pirate-like. Indeed, in his misspent youth he probably always wanted to be a pirate or a buccaneer, only I didn’t really know the difference between the two. Had it been fashionable, he would have worn a patch over his eye. His face, all in all, was hideous, heavily pock-marked, sunken and sallow. The gun never wavered from my face.

“What’s the difference between a pirate and a buccaneer?” I asked.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I don’t know either. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

His eyes, for all intents and purposes, were dead. Lifeless. Lacking sympathy, compassion, or caring. The eyes of a killer, rapist, suicidal bomber, genocidal dictator. His eyes made me nervous, to say the least. Eyes like that were capable of anything. Anything. They kill your family, your babies, your children, your husbands and wives. I only knew one other man who had eyes like that, and he was my father.

The Browning never wavered from my face. “You’re working on a case,” the man said.

“I’m working on a few cases. It’s what I do. See that filing cabinet behind me, it’s full of pending cases. The shelf on the bottom is full of my closed cases.”

There was a heavy silence.

“You’re going to call me a fuck nut again aren’t you?” I said. “It feels like a fuck nut moment, doesn’t it?”

He pulled the trigger. My ear exploded with pain. I tried not to flinch, although I might have, dammit. If he had chosen that moment to call me a fuck nut I might have missed it...due to the excessive ringing in my head.

The bullet had punctured a picture frame behind me. I heard the glass tinkling down. I did not know yet which picture it had been, although it would have been one of the featured articles about yours truly.

That’s when I felt something drip onto my shoulder. I touched my ear. Blood. The bullet grazed my lobe.

“You shot me,” I said.

“We want you off the Derrick Booker case,” he said. “Or the next shot won’t miss.”

“But you didn’t miss. You shot my earlobe. Get it straight.”

“I heard you would be a smart ass.”

“Sometimes I am a smart ass. Now I’m just pissed. You shot me.”

“We meet again and I kill you.”

“You shot me,” I said. “We meet again and I owe you one.”

He grinned and proceeded to shoot out five or six framed pictures behind me. I didn’t move. The cacophony of tinkling glass and resounding gunshots filled my head and office.

He pointed the gun at my forehead and said, “Bang, fuck nut.”

He backed out of my office and shut the door.

And I went back to my playbook. My ears were ringing and my earlobe stung.

The fuck nut.

Chapter Seventeen

On the way home from the office I stopped by the local liquor store and bought a bottle of Scotch and some Oreos. The Scotch was for getting drunk, and the Oreos were for gaining weight. At two-hundred and ten pounds I was still too small for an NFL fullback.

Cindy was away tonight at UC Santa Barbara’s School of Anthropology giving a guest lecture on what it means to be human.

Hell, he thought, I could have saved everyone a trip out to Santa Barbara. Being human meant walking into any liquor store from here to Nantucket and buying a bottle of Scotch and a bag of Oreos. Let’s see the chimps pull that one off.

Cindy Darwin was a favorite on the guest lecture circuit. Any anthropology department worth their salt wanted Cindy Darwin’s ruminations on the subject of evolution. Really, she was their messiah, their prophet and savior.

She had wanted me to come with her up the coast, but I had declined, stating there were some leads I needed to follow.

Which was bullshit, really. True I had made a few phone calls prior to leaving the office, but I could have done those on my cell. I wasn’t proud that I had fibbed to the love of my life. The only lead I needed to follow was my nose to the scotch and Oreos.

Cindy did not know the extent of my drinking. And if it meant fibbing to keep it that way, then fine. I drank alone and in my apartment. I harmed no one but myself and my liver.

I lived in a five story yellow stucco apartment building that sat on the edge of the Pacific Coast Highway, and overlooked Huntington State Beach. I parked in my allotted spot, narrowly missing the wooden pole that separated my spot from the car next to mine. And for training purposes only, I hauled my ass up five flights of stairs. The bag of Oreos and the bottle of scotch were heavy on my mind.

Those, and the prick who took a pot shot at my earlobe.

Inside my apartment, surrounded by shelves of paperback thrillers and my own rudimentary artwork, I tossed my keys and wallet next to the stove, grabbed my secret stash of cigarettes and pulled up a chair on my balcony.

I had a wonderful view. And should probably be paying a lot more for this apartment, but the landlord was a Bruin fan and he appreciated my efforts to beat SC through the years. So he gave me a hell of a deal, and in return he often showed up at my apartment to drink and relive the glory days. I didn’t mind reliving the glory days. The glory days were all I had.

Now I hoped to make new glory days with the Chargers.

We’ll see.

I opened the bag of Oreos and commenced my training, bulking up with one Oreo after another. I washed them down with swigs from the bottle of scotch, as a real man should.

When I was tired of the Oreos, after about the thirtieth, I took out a cigarette and tried like hell to give myself lung cancer.

I watched the ocean. Flat and black in the night. The lights of Catalina twinkled beyond a low haze. Further out the lights of a half dozen oil rigs blinked. And somewhere below the water was a cold world filled with life. The secret world, where sharks ate seals, where manta rays glided, where whales sang their beautiful songs.

Sometimes I wanted to jump into that cold world and never emerge, especially after the destruction of my leg.

That’s when the drinking began. Few knew about my drinking. I did it alone and I did it hard, and I did it until I could drink no more. Until I could forget what was stolen from me by one fluke play by a son-of-a-bitch who chop blocked me.

My goddamn leg had been throbbing ever since Sanchez and I had been running sprints every morning for the past week. I was a step slower. I could feel it within me. Sluggish. Maybe too slow for the NFL.

And I had a goddamn kid in jail for murder one. And he was innocent. Because if he was guilty the asshole with the slicked back gray hair would not have felt it necessary to pierce my ear with a 9mm.

I had to stop drinking. I had to reclaim what was mine. And the smoking didn’t help, either.

But on this night I continued to drink. And smoke. And eat the Oreos. Gluttony at its fucking worst.

The lights continued to blink on the ocean.

The night was slipping away with each swallow from the bottle and hit from the cigarette. I heard music and voices coming from Main Street below my apartment. Lots of laughter.

I didn’t feel like laughing.

Chapter Eighteen

It was Sunday evening. Cindy and I were at my place. We were waiting for Restaurant Express to deliver our food. I don’t cook, unless you count cereal or PB&J’s. The last meal I cooked, an experimental spaghetti with too much of everything from my spice rack, was promptly emptied into the garbage disposal. We considered my cooking a failure and decided that I was more useful in other areas.

We were sitting next to each other on my leather couch in my living room, with my blinds open to my patio. We had a good view of clear skies and open water. Bob Seger crooned in the background. Our knees touched. When our knees touched I usually became excited. I was excited now, and that was nothing new. Cindy had brought her orange Pomeranian named Ginger. Ginger was likely to pee on me when she got excited. Unfortunately she got excited every time she saw me. I have learned to make it a point for her to see me first outside.

“So am I still useful in other areas?” I asked Cindy now.

“Are you harkening back to what we have come to think of as The Great Spaghetti Debacle?”

“Yes.”

Cindy was dressed in jean shorts and a yellow tank top. Both showed off her naturally wonderful tan. She had a lot of Italian in her, which accounted for the coloring. Her brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her face was smooth and without make up. She didn’t need make up, anyway. But when she did...Lord help me.

“Hmm. You have your purposes,” she said, sipping her glass of chardonnay.

“Is one of those purposes my usefulness in the bedroom?”

“I have uses for you in the bedroom.”

“We have time before our dinner arrives.”

She looked at her watch. “Should be here in ten minutes.”

“Like I said, we have time.”

She didn’t need much more encouragement than that. With Ginger on the pergo floor below, running laps around the bed, I served one of my useful purposes.

Twice.

* * *

We were now on the balcony. The balcony was devoid of last night’s cigarette butts and Oreo crumbs. We were sharing a glass patio table, eating cheese tortellini and drinking chardonnay.

“Does Sanchez have any idea who threatened you?” asked Cindy.

“He doesn’t recognize him, but Sanchez works primarily in L.A. He’s going to ask his cop buddies around here.”

“Who do you think this guy works for?” she asked.

“I’m willing to bet for someone who doesn’t want me to find the true killer.”

“So you think the boy’s innocent?”

“Now more than ever.”

“What do the police think?”

“They think I’m a nuisance. Nothing new. They think this is an open and shut case and resent the fact that I’m poking around on their turf. In essence, calling them fools and liars and incompetent.”

“Are you?”

“In this case, yes.”

“Will you call your father?”

I felt my shoulders bunch with irritation, but let it slide. She was only trying to help.

“No.”

She patted my arm, soothing me. “Of course not. You don’t need him. You are your own man. I’m sorry if I offended. I just worry about you.”

“I know.”

We were quiet. Ginger was chasing a fly that was almost as big as her.

“The man who came to your office, he was a hired killer?”

“Yes.”

“You could see it in his eyes?”

“He looked like a shark. Dead eyes.”

“You sometimes get that look,” said Cindy, pushing her plate away. She had eaten most of it, but had left exactly three tortellinis. I was still hopeful they would go forgotten. But the woman had a bottomless stomach, to my chagrin.

“You mean in the bedroom when my eyes roll up during the final throes of passion.”

“Final throes of passion?”

“Means before I climax.”

“Thank you for that clarification. No, I’m referring to the bar fight in Matzalan. I thought you were going to kill the guy. But you emerged from that look, sort of came back to your senses. I always considered that man lucky to be alive, lucky that you found yourself before you killed him.”

I said nothing. I remembered that night. A barroom fight, nothing more. The man had felt up Cindy on her way to the bathroom. Bad move.

She suddenly leaned over and kissed my ear above the scab. It was a heartbreakingly sweet thing to do. She took my hand and led me into the living room, to my sofa. We sat together.

She said, “You were a devastating football player. And you may very well be again. It is a violent sport that you excel at. I would not love you if you were not always able to come back down from whatever heights you need to scale to fight and even kill.”

We were silent for a few minutes.

“Almost makes you think I am at the apex of evolution,” I said. “A handsome, physically imposing, intellectually stimulating, emotionally sophisticated brute.”

She put her head on my shoulder.

I was on a roll. “I will even permit you to take me to your classes for show and tell, as an example of a well-evolved human being. And in contrast we can take your last boyfriend and have him stand next to me.”

“Are you quite done?”

“Quite.”

“Will you need protection?” she asked, wrapping her arm through mine and holding me close to her chest.

“I can take care of myself.”

She patted my hand. “I know.”

Ginger was jumping up and down, doing her best to leap onto the couch, but missing the mark by about a foot. I reached down and picked her up and set her in my lap. She turned three circles quickly, and then found a nook and buried her cold nose where our arms intertwined.

“How is your leg?” she asked.

“I am worried about my leg.”

When I looked down at her hand, I saw that she was holding something between her thumb and forefinger. It was a black cap. The cap to my scotch. She had said nothing, simply held me, and let me know that she knew about my drinking. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

I held her close. She quit playing with the cap and held it tight in her fist.

Chapter Nineteen

I parked my car in front of the murder site. The same decayed heap of flowers still marked the place where Amanda had been found slain. There might have been a new teddy bear in the front row, but it was hard to tell. Anyway, he was a cute little guy holding a red heart balloon that said: “I Miss You.”

I got out and headed up the stone pathway through the grass, passing a limestone circular fountain that was currently turned off. Leaves were collecting in the drain, and I suspected it might be a while until the fountain, with its gurgling expectations, would be turned on again.

When I reached the door, it swung open as if on its own volition.

Actually, not on its own volition. A cute little girl, perhaps eight, was standing in the doorway, staring up at me. She was the spitting image of Amanda.

“Is your mom or dad home?” I asked.

“You’re big.”

“I know.”

“You’re bigger than daddy.”

“I’m bigger than most daddies.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh.”

She giggled.

A cute little black cat worked its way through the little girl’s ankles. A blue bell jingled around its neck. The cat came right up to me and I scratched it between its ears. It was purring before I even touched it.

“That’s Tinker Bell,” said the little girl.

“He’s cute.”

“I love him.”

“I bet you do.”

“Alyssa honey, where are you?” There was a note of panic in the woman’s voice.

“There’s a policeman at the door, mommy.”

“I’m not a policeman,” I said.

The door was pulled all the way open and a woman folding a pair of briefs appeared. She was the older version of Amanda. The original version. She stared at me with eyes that were too blank, too red, too distant and too dead. She was dressed in a gray T-shirt and white shorts that revealed a fading tan.

“Mrs. Peterson?” I asked.

She paused, the white briefs hanging over her hand. “Who are you? You’re not a policeman.”

“I’m a private investigator,” I said. “Can I speak with you? About Amanda.”

She looked at me some more. A minute passed. Finally, she turned and disappeared into the darkness of her own home.

She left the door open. I took a deep breath and followed her in.

* * *

After asking if I would like a cup of coffee, and with my answer being in the affirmative, she promptly brought me one and set it in front of me. I needed something to do with my hands, because Amanda’s mother was making me nervous. She was in a bad place, a place I had emerged from years ago after the murder of my own mother. I knew what she was going through, but I did not want to empathize too much. I did not want to return to the bad place myself.

I was sitting in a thick sofa chair that matched the massive sofa near the fireplace, where Mrs. Peterson now sat. She reached into her black purse, which sat at her feet like an obedient dog, and removed a metal flask. She promptly poured a finger or two of something dark and bourbony into her coffee.

“More medicine, mom?” said the younger version of Amanda, who trailed in from the kitchen.

“Yes, dear. Now leave the adults alone.”

She did. Sort of. She grabbed a pink Barbie backpack, plopped on the floor near the rear sliding glass door, and proceeded to remove a Barbie and Ken doll from the bag. I noted that both were nude.

“How can I help you, Mr. Knighthorse?” asked Mrs. Peterson. She was looking down at one of my nifty business cards on the coffee table before her. But before I could answer she moved on. “Are you Indian? Your name sounds Indian.”

“My great grandfather was Apache. Apparently grammy had a taste for savages.”

“I wouldn’t call them sava—oh, I see, you’re kidding.”

“Yes, ma’am. But the Native American in me is diluted. Mostly, I’m German and Welch and a whole lot of man.”

She looked up at me and almost smiled. “You certainly are a whole lot of man. I should have guessed the German: blond hair, tall and muscular. Would have done Hitler proud.”

“I would have done anyone proud, ma’am.”

“A true knight in shining armor.”

She might have sounded flirty if her words were not empty and devoid of meaning. Like listening to a corpse speak from the grave.

“You’re here to try to clear Derrick?” she said.

“Yes.”

She drank from her spiked coffee. “So what the hell can I do for you?”

“First of all, I would like to express my condolences.”

“How very sweet of you.”

“Do you feel the police have found your daughter’s killer?”

“You get right to it.”

“I’m sorry if I offended.”

“No. I like it. No reason to dance around the subject. My daughter was torn apart just inches from our front door by a goddamn animal.”

Her voice never rose an octave. She spoke in a monotone, although her lower lip quivered slightly.

“Mrs. Peterson, did you ever meet Derrick?” I asked.

She nodded and looked away. She was watching Alyssa play with her oddly nude dolls. “Call me Cat. For Cathy.” She continued to watch Alyssa. Now Ken and Barbie were kissing in her hands. Butt naked.

“What did you think of Derrick?” I said.

“I thought he was wonderful. Charming, energetic. He seemed to really care about Amanda.”

“I liked him, too,” said Alyssa suddenly. Her voice echoed slightly in the darkened room. The upbeat child-like quality seemed out of place, but somehow appreciated. At least by me.

“Why did you like him?” I asked her.

“He made me laugh. Amanda loooved him.”

“That’s enough,” said her mother quietly. Then to me: “Yes. He seemed to love her as well.”

“But he was not permitted to come around?” I asked.

“No. Her father had strict rules about her dating African-Americans.”

“Did you agree with the rule?”

“I wanted peace in my house.”

“Did Amanda ever come to you about Derrick?”

“Yes. Privately, quietly. We would often talk about Derrick. She had more than a crush on him. They had been dating for over a year. She might have loved him, if you want to call it that.”

“Love knows no age.”

She didn’t say anything.

“So you didn’t condone her secretly seeing Derrick?”

“No. I encouraged her.”

She almost lost it right then and there. Her lip vibrated violently, but stopped when she bit down on it.

“Mrs. Peterson, you did not condemn your daughter to death by encouraging her to see Derrick.”

She turned and faced me. Her eyes were full of tears. A red splotch was spreading down from her forehead. She was getting herself worked up. Before she could unleash some unholy hellfire in my direction, I quickly added, “Cat, I was threatened by an unknown killer a few days ago to stay away from this case. The killer, I assume, represents the true murderer of your daughter. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I believe Derrick is innocent.”

She blinked. The splotch receded. “But you are not backing off the case,” she said.

“No.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for trying to help. I never believed in Derrick’s guilt, but aren’t you afraid?”

“I am a big guy. I can take care of myself.”

And that’s when the front door open and Mr. Peterson came in.

The first thing I noticed was that both Cat and Alyssa shrank back into themselves. Especially Alyssa. The cute little girl disappeared. Replaced by something cold and wet, and left out in the rain to die.

Chapter Twenty

He strode quickly into the living room, head swiveling, trying to take in everything at once. He was wearing black slacks, cordovan loafers and a black silk shirt. Sunglasses rode high on his graying head of curly hair. His roaming, pale eyes finally settled on me.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said to me.

“Richard....” said Cat, but her voice was weak, her words trailing.

I stood, “I’m Jim ‘the fuck’ Knighthorse.”

I held out my hand. He didn’t take it. Little Alyssa was right. I was bigger than her father, had the guy by about two inches. It was clear that he lifted weights: thick chest and small waist. But he lifted for show. I know the type.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked.

Richard Peterson turned to his wife, who flinched unconsciously. Or perhaps consciously. Maybe he preferred the women in his life to flinch in his presence. He next turned to his daughter. She was looking down, pressed against the glass of the sliding door.

I said I was here to investigate the murder of his daughter.

“Who hired you?”

I told him.

“Get out,” he said. “Get the fuck out.”

I didn’t move at first. He then turned and looked at the little girl.

“Go to your room,” he said. “Now.”

Alyssa jumped and ran away, leaving her Barbie’s where they lay, with Ken on top of Barbie. I saw that there was a small puddle of urine where she had been sitting. A door in the back of the house slammed shut.

I turned and looked at Mrs. Peterson. Only then did I notice the purplish welts inside her legs.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” I said calmly.

“Don’t you people have any decency?” He said to me, then turned on his wife. “And you, Cat. You let him in. How could you? He’s representing the boy who murdered our Amanda. He’s trying to set him free.”

“But Richard—”

“Shut the fuck up, Cat. You.” He turned to me. “Get the fuck out or I’ll call the police.”

I looked at Cat and she nodded to me. That’s when I saw a picture of another girl on the mantle above the fireplace. This one older. She had her arm around her mother and was wearing a blue and white UCI sweatshirt. A third daughter.

I left the way I had come, and he slammed the door shut behind me. I paused a few minutes on the porch but could hear nothing. I had the feeling he was standing behind me, waiting for me to leave.

There was nothing to do but leave.

So I did.

Chapter Twenty-one

“We should probably call the police,” said Cindy, after I told her about my encounter with Richard Peterson. Whom I now referred to as Dick.

“A few bruises and a terrified child does not a case make,” I said. “Someone would need to come forward.”

She sighed. “And most victims of domestic violence are hesitant to report the abuse, for fear of repercussions.”

It was just past 10 p.m. Cindy’s evening class had just ended. We were sitting at a small cafe in the UCI student union. I was eating a chocolate chocolate muffin—yes, chocolate chips in a chocolate muffin—the way it should be eaten: big bites that encompassed the stump and the top. Cindy was sipping hot cider. The cafe was surrounded by a lot of glass and metal. Couches and chairs lined the walls and filled the many adjoining rooms, filled with students studying and working and not making out or sleeping, as I would have done in my day.

“We are surrounded by over-achievers,” I said.

“UCI is a tough school to get into,” she said. “Same with UCLA. Were you not once an over-achiever?”

“On the football field, yes. In the classroom, my mind wandered.”

“Where did it wander?”

“To the next game. The next girl. I was a big man on campus.”

She looked at me over her cider. “You still are,” she said.

“Are you flirting with me?” I asked.

“If there wasn’t a chocolate chip on your chin, the answer would be yes.”

She reached over and scooped it off and ate it.

“Does that count against your diet?” I asked.

“I’ll jog an extra lap tomorrow morning.”

She sat her cider down carefully in front of her. She adjusted the mug so that the handle was facing at a forty-five degree angle. Precision and exactness was her life. And I loved her for it.

I reached over and moved the handle a little to the left.

“Hey,” she said, slapping my hand. She adjusted it back. “So what are you going to do about the brute?”

“About Dick? First, I need to speak with the eldest daughter, and confirm my suspicions.”

“Your suspicions are generally pretty accurate.”

“In this case, I want confirmation. I need to speak to the eldest daughter.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to ask.”

“And how am I supposed to find her here at UCI if you don’t know her name?”

“I know her last name is Peterson. Or at least I assume it to be. The other two daughters’ names both started with an A. So I would begin there. Perhaps an Alicia Peterson, or an Antoinette Peterson.”

“You realize this isn’t part of your job description, at least not on this case, resolving domestic violence.”

“I know.”

“And what if she confirms your suspicions of abuse?”

“Then Dick Peterson and I are going to have a talk.”

Chapter Twenty-two

“So why is God dressed like a bum?” I asked. “Isn’t that a little cliché?”

“I invented cliché,” said Jack.

I rolled my eyes. He continued.

“But to answer your question: This is how you perceive me.”

“As a bum?”

“Not exactly. You figure that if God came to earth, he would do so in a nondescript way.”

“So as not to attract attention.”

“Perhaps.”

“So you appeared in just such a way.”

“Yes.”

“Or maybe you are just a bum, after all.”

“Maybe. Either way, you are getting something out of this, am I right?”

I looked at the man. We were sitting opposite each other at the back of the restaurant. At the moment, we were the only two people in McDonald’s.

“Yeah, I’m getting something out of it, although I’m not sure what, and I still don’t know why you’ve come into my life.”

“You asked me into your life.”

“When?”

“The day I first arrived.”

I was shaking my head, but then I remembered that day: The twentieth anniversary of my mother’s murder. I had spent a good deal of that day cursing God.

“You asked me to come down and face you,” said Jack. “I believe you wanted to fight me.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was very angry.”

“And so I came down not to fight you, but to love you, Jim Knighthorse.”

“You do this for everybody?”

“Not so dramatically, but often, yes.”

“Why me?” I asked.

“Why not?”

I was drinking a Coke. Big, bubbly Coke that was the perfect combination of carbonation, ice and cola. Damn. I love Coke.

“I miss my mother,” I said.

“I know, but she has been with you every day of your life.”

I suspected that, but didn’t say anything about it now.

“You know who killed her?” I asked.

The man in front of me—the bum in front of me—nodded once.

“Her case is unsolved,” I said.

He watched me carefully.

“And I’m going to solve it,” I said. “Someday.”

“Yes,” he said, “you will.”

“And when I do, I’m going to kill whoever killed her.”

Jack said nothing, although he did look away.

Chapter Twenty-three

I was sitting with my hands behind my head and feet up on one corner of my desk. This is a classic detective pose, and I struck it as often as I could. Mostly because it was a good way to take a nap without appearing to do so. I did my best to keep my shoes off the desktop’s gold tooled leather.

There was a knock on my office door. Thanks to Fuck Nut, I kept the door locked these days. I took out my Browning, held it at my hip and opened the door.

The man I found standing before me was perhaps the last person I expected to see. Hell, I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in two years. It was my father. His name was Cooper Knighthorse.

* * *

He studied me for a few seconds, then looked coolly at the gun in my hand. “You could scare off clients with that thing.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not a client, and someone’s sicced a hitman on my ass.”

He stood easily six inches shorter than me, which put him around five ten. His shoulders were wider than mine, and he had freakishly large hands, hands which had pummeled my backside more than once. But it was his eyes that drew one’s attention. Ice cold and blue. Calculating and fearless. Devoid of anything living. Eyes of a corpse.

He smiled slowly, the lips curling up languidly. When most people smile their eyes crinkle, giving them crow’s feet over time. My father would never have to worry about crow’s feet. His eyes didn’t crinkle. Hell, they didn’t know how to crinkle. When he smiled, as he did now, it was only with the corners of his mouth. Needless to say, the smile radiated little warmth.

“Well,” he said. “Are you going to invite me in?”

I stepped aside and he moved past me smoothly, carrying himself easily and lightly. He stepped into my four hundred square foot office which paled in comparison to the monster he oversaw in L.A. He stood in the middle of the room, surveying it slowly, taking in the pint-sized refrigerator on one wall, the well-stocked trophy case adjacent to it, my sofa, the sink, and finally the desk.

His assessment was over embarrassingly quick. He turned to face me with no emotion on his face. Did he approve of the place? Or not? Was he proud of his only son, or disappointed? Impossible to tell. Did I need his approval? Impossible to tell. But probably, and it galled me to admit it.

He was wearing a western-style denim shirt and khaki carpenter pants with a hammer loop. There was no hammer in the loop. His evenly-distributed silver hair was perfectly parted to one side. He was the picture of fitness and vitality, health and ruggedness. Just don’t look at the eyes.

“So,” he said, “who wants you dead?”

I stepped around him, slipped into my leather seat and motioned toward the Mr. Coffee. He shook his head and eased himself down carefully into one of the three client chairs. The chair, which usually creaked, didn’t creak this time.

“Someone wants me to back off a case.”

“Any idea who that someone is?”

“Not yet.”

“Would be good to know that. Better for your health. Who’s the hitman?”

“Older guy, wears a hoop earring. Hell of a shooter. Eyes like a shark.” I neglected to say: eyes like yours.

My father leaned back a little and allowed his cold eyes to spill across my face. They settled on my damaged ear. “He do your ear?”

“Yes.”

“He’s one sick motherfucker.”

“You know him?”

“Runs a kiddie porn magazine. Would be good for society if he disappeared.” He paused. “I can take care of him.”

“No.”

He studied me for a moment. I refused to turn away from his gaze. “Is he a better shooter than you?” he asked.

“We’ll find out.”

“Or you can just drop the case,” said my father. “And he’ll leave you alone.”

“Or not.”

He smiled. “Or not.”

We sat together in silence. Muted street sounds came through the closed window. My refrigerator kicked on and hummed away. My father lifted his gaze without moving his head and scanned the wall behind me. He was looking at the pictures, the articles, the bullet holes in the wall. I could kiss my security deposit goodbye.

“I watched every game,” he said.

This was news to me, but I remained silent.

“I was there for every game. At least every home game. I always sat in the back rows. How did you get so goddamn good?”

“Must have been all those special moments we spent playing catch in the park on Sunday afternoons.”

“There are some things I regret in this life,” he said. “Not being a father to you is one of them.” He reached inside his pocket and removed a pouch of photographs. “These were taken on the last day your mother was alive.”

Something froze within me, as if my stomach had suddenly been dropped into a bucket of ice. My father, the great Cooper Knighthorse, detective extraordinaire, set the packet on the table.

“I loved her the best way I could, Jim.”

“Why are you giving me these pictures?” I asked.

“Because I want you to see her happy. I want you to see us happy. We were trying, Jim. I was trying.”

“You were trying to fuck anything you could get your hands on.”

If I shook him, he didn’t show it, although the corners of his lips quivered slightly. His pale eyes stared at me.

“We’ve all made mistakes, Jim. There’s something else in the pictures.”

“What?”

But he didn’t answer me. Didn’t even acknowledge my simple question. He simply looked at me a moment longer, stood, then walked out of my office. He shut the door carefully behind him.

I stared at the closed door for a long, long time.

Chapter Twenty-four

I didn’t worry about locking the office door after my father left. I could give a shit about the hitman. I had my Browning on the desk in front of me. Woe to anyone who walked unannounced into my office at that moment.

The packet of photographs was yellowing, the flap torn. On it was a little boy blowing soap bubbles with the word KODAK inside a particularly large bubble. The packet wasn’t very thick, containing perhaps twenty-four pictures in all. I had never seen these pictures, and, in fact, did not know of their existence.

I poured myself a cup of coffee with extra cream and sugar.

Heat seeped through the porcelain cup and scalded my palms, but I kept them there, feeling the heat, ignoring the heat, unaware of the heat.

Lifting both hands, I took a sip. Tasted the coffee, but didn’t really taste it. Same fucking routine.

I was ten years old when I found her dead. She had bled to death all over her new bedroom set. My father and I had gone to pick up a pizza and rent a movie. I was the first through the front door, carrying the pizza box, excited because my father was in a particularly good mood.

Once inside I called her name, told her the pizza was here and to get it while it was hot. The light was on in her bedroom, but there was no movement, no sound. I set the pizza box down on our dining room table, was about to open it when my father told me to get my mother first.

I headed down the hallway separating the dining room from the master bedroom, calling her name. There was no response. I slowed my pace when I saw her hand lying on the floor. Her hand was completely covered in something red. At first I thought it was a red glove. A wet, gleaming glove, although it wasn’t entirely wet. Only parts of it were. It was blood, and it was drying rapidly, congealing over her hand.

I stepped through the doorway and into a nightmare. Blood was everywhere, sprayed across the entire room. It reached everything, touched everything, infused everything. She was lying on the wooden floor in a great puddle of it. Her pink nightgown was soaked. Face-down, her head turned away, looking beneath the bed. The last thing she had seen in the world was a box of my childhood clothing. She kept the box because she always wanted another baby. The box read: Jimmy’s Stuff.

There was a bloodied hand print on the box where she had reached for it.

Chapter Twenty-five

I opened the packet and removed the small pile of pictures. A quick count gave me twenty-two in all.

On the last day of my mother’s life, I had been at Pop Warner football practice, and then later at a friend’s house for a pool party. I know now my parents had used the opportunity to renew their marriage and spend some quality time together. My mother wanted us to be a happy family. She wanted my father to take an interest in me, rather than viewing me as an obligation. She had gotten pregnant at a young age, and they had married in their late teens. They were not in love.

Early in the marriage, my father joined the military and spent much of that time fighting in secret wars. I would learn later that he was an expert sniper. Expert and deadly. Apparently, my own marksman skills with a gun had been inherited from him. When he came home from his various assignments, flush from his recent kills, he was never really home. He was restless and horny as hell. I had caught him in various parts of town with different women, once in the backseat of our car parked around the corner of our house. I had thrown a brick through the window and scared the hell out of them. I stood there defiantly as he looked up at me through the window. He never said a word about it, never apologized, and had the window replaced the next day.

At first glance, you would never believe that the smiling couple in the picture were unhappy, or that the man with the pale blue eyes was a trained killer or that the woman would only have hours more to live. They were both happy and carefree, hugging and waving. They could have been on a honeymoon.

The majority of the pictures were at the Huntington Beach pier, just a hop skip and jump from my condo. In one picture my mother was sticking her slender backside out seductively toward the camera. My father zoomed in on it tightly. I found myself smiling. They were flirting with each other, and it was nice to see. It was perhaps the most fun I had ever seen them have with each other. For that alone, I was thankful my father had given me the pictures.

He was wearing jeans, carpenter’s boots and a yellow T-shirt that said JEEP across it. My mother had on a red blouse, jean shorts and leather sandals. Her legs were slender and naturally tan. Her hair was dark brown and cut short. Her features were slender and sharp. Full red lips and deep brown eyes. She looked like Audrey Hepburn, only prettier.

There were pictures of them along the pier, next to a statue I didn’t recognize, standing next to two young men, one of whom was holding a freshly caught sand shark. In that picture, my mother secretly giving my father rabbit ears behind his back.

I went through all of the pictures, my heart heavy and sad. I never recovered from her loss. Mother’s Day is hell on me, and I often go into seclusion. How does one replace a mother’s love? I lived briefly with an aunt and uncle and they did their best to give me love and attention, but it wasn’t the same.

So what else was in the pictures?

What was I missing? What had my father seen that I was missing? Of course, the fact that he had seen it with no prompting was an irritating thought at best.

I went through the pictures again and again, almost setting them aside. Then I found it, and my mouth went immediately dry.

I carefully removed the three photographs and placed them in chronological order on the desktop before me. I noticed my hands were shaking. I linked my fingers together to stop the shaking. I’m not sure it worked.

The first in the series of three pictures was of my parents and the two young men with the sand shark. In the second, my mother was alone and waving to the camera, all smiles, enjoying my father’s company for the first time in a long time. Beyond her and up the pier a ways, the two young men with the sand shark were walking away. The brunette dangled the shark over one shoulder, while the bleached blond was looking back toward my mother. The third picture had been near the bottom of the stack, thus near the end of the roll of film, and thus near the end of their day. In that one, my parents were in a souvenir shop in Huntington Beach. The shop was still here to this day. My father had on a goofy baseball cap with a big piece of dog crap on the bill—the hat said Shit Happens—while my mother was wearing a colorful straw hat. They were holding each other tight. Behind them was a young man with bleached blond hair. He was watching them, alone this time, about three rows back. He was not smiling, and he did not look too happy.

If I had to guess, I would say he was stalking them.

Chapter Twenty-six

The sun had set and the ocean was black and eternal. We were running along the hard-packed sand, passing cuddling lovers who really ought to have gotten a room. There was a dog loose on the beach and I called it over. It followed us briefly, then veered off to chase a hot dog wrapper skimming over the sand. It was humbling to know that we were less interesting than trash.

“So how are you holding up?” Cindy asked. Her breathing was easy and smooth. She kept pace with me stride for stride.

“My leg?” I asked.

“That and the news about your mother.”

“Well, running on sand is a good thing, easy on the leg. As far as my mother,” I paused, shrugging. Because I was wearing a nylon coach’s jacket, I doubted Cindy could see me shrug, especially in the dark. “I don’t know. All I have are a series of pictures featuring a young man who seemed to have taken an inordinate amount of interest in my parents.”

“On the day she was murdered.”

“Yes.”

We were running along an empty stretch of sand now, no lovers or wandering dogs. We were alone with the crashing waves and the black sky. The moon was nowhere to be found; then again, I wasn’t looking very hard for it.

“Why did your father give you the pictures now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he keeping them from you for any reason?”

“I don’t know.”

I was favoring my bad leg, but that was nothing new. Based on the angle and depth of my shoeprints in the sand, a good detective could probably deduce that I had once broken my right leg.

“So what are you going to?”

“There’s only one thing to do.”

“You’re going to look into your mother’s murder.”

I nodded. “It’s something I have always known I would do.”

“But you weren’t ready yet.”

“No.”

“Are you ready now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has your father looked into her murder?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “We have never discussed it.”

“I think, maybe, it’s time that you do.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

I was alone in my car overlooking the ocean. I was in a turn-off above the Pacific Coast Highway. Below me was a straight drop of about five hundred feet. My engine was running.

With no leads, my mother’s case had been closed. It seemed like another random killing. There had been no sign of sexual trauma, and there were no fingerprints, or blood, other than my mother’s. My mother had no known enemies. The only person on the face of the earth that even remotely resented her was my own father. The source of his resentment was me, of course, but we had been together at the time of her murder.

My mother had no family. No brothers or sisters, and both parents were dead. She had only a handful of acquaintances in our neighborhood. In all reality, I was her only family, her only friend, her one true love.

She used to call me her little angel.

I gripped the steering wheel. The leather groaned in my hands. I could hear the blood pounding in my skull. I fought to control my breathing.

After her funeral, she had been all but forgotten. By the police, by her friends, the media, and even her own lackluster husband. She had been forgotten by everyone accept me.

I care that you were killed. I care that someone stole your life and cut your throat and hurt you so very badly. I care that you were taken from this earth before your time. I care that you felt the fear of death, the pain of the knife, the hot breath of your killer on your neck. You have not been forgotten, and your little angel is not so little any more.

This was going to take time, I knew. The case was cold. I would investigate it on the side, around my paying work. There was no reason to rush. It’s been twenty years, and no one was going anywhere.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The next morning, Sanchez and I were at Cal State Fullerton’s defunct football field. The school had spent millions on a fashionable new stadium, hoping to lure big name schools to compete against their smaller program, and then mysteriously decided to pull the plug on football altogether a year later. I sensed a conspiracy.

Still, the bleachers were massive and made for an invigorating stadium workout. It was also hell on my leg. The pain was relentless and disheartening. I was accustomed to my body working through kinks of pain. But this was no kink. This was a pain that encompassed the entire leg. It was a pain that registered in my brain as something very wrong, and that perhaps I should stop doing stadiums.

I didn’t stop.

I was determined.

Football is all about learning how to live and deal with the pain. Football was in my blood. My father played in college, but he was too small for the pros. I am not too small. I am just right.

Sanchez followed me as we wended our way up and down the narrow concrete stairways between the bleachers. We had been doing this steadily now for thirty-two minutes. I was soaked to the bone. Sanchez had a minor sweat ring around his shirt collar.

The man was a camel.

At thirty-five minutes, my target time, I stopped at the top of the bleachers, gasping for air. Sanchez pulled up next to me, gasping, I was pleased to hear, even louder.

“You need a respirator?” I asked.

“You need a towel?”

We both had our hands on our hips, both wheezing. I had done perhaps ten minutes more than my leg could handle. It was throbbing alarmingly. I tried to ignore it.

We had a great view of Cal State Fullerton’s sports complex. I could see the baseball field, built by Kevin Costner, an alumnus of Cal State Fullerton and a hell of a fan and athlete in his own right. Baseball was this little-known university’s pride and joy, having won three national championships.

Baseball wasn’t a bad sport.

It just wasn’t football.

I told Sanchez about Dick Peterson and his daughters. For now, I left news about my mother to myself.

“So you want me to bust this guy?” asked Sanchez when he finally found his wind. “Dick who’s-this.”

“That would make it worse,” I said. “He’ll just come back more angry than ever.”

“You think he could have killed his own daughter?”

I shrugged. “Anyone who terrifies the youngest one to the point she loses control of her bladder might be capable of doing anything. But he didn’t kill her. He was with his wife; they were eating dinner together at the time of the murder.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Talk with the older daughter. Confirm my suspicions.”

“And then what?”

The pain in my leg did not subside. It was a constant force. A reminder of what I had lost. But I decided to view it as my one and only obstacle to achieving my goal. It was the only thing standing in my way to becoming what I most wanted. At least, I thought it was what I most wanted. Sometimes the pain made me waver. I hated wavering.

“I will convince him to stop his nefarious ways,” I said.

“Nefarious,” said Sanchez. “Shit. You’ve been reading too much.”

We walked down the bleachers. I could have used a handrail, to be honest.

Sanchez said, “You sure this is all worth it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re in pain.”

“I thought I could hide the pain.”

“No one’s that good of an actor.”

We reached the clay track that surrounded the football field. We were completely alone this morning.

“Why is all this shit you’re putting yourself through worth it?”

The morning was still and cool. Steam rose from our bodies. In the distance, on another field, I could see the university’s soccer team stretching together.

“It’s something left unfinished,” I said.

“Maybe some things are meant to be left unfinished.”

I thought about that, and had no answer.

Chapter Twenty-nine

After the stadiums I headed straight to 24 Hour Fitness and soaked in their Jacuzzi for half an hour. Now, I was in my office and the pain in my leg was down to a dull throb. I could almost ignore the pain. Almost.

Although my office is in Huntington Beach, it’s inland and in a tough area. I fit in nicely here. I grew up in Inglewood, the only white kid in an all black neighborhood, as was my story through elementary school and junior high. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I was no longer the only white student. There were five white students at East Inglewood High.

Anyway, I’m at home in tough neighborhoods. Plus the rent’s cheaper here.

I sat down in my leather chair and opened a bag of donuts. An NFL fullback weighed anywhere from two-twenty-five to two-fifty. Just to hit the minimum weight I still had to gain another ten pounds. Ideally the weight is added on as muscle and not fat. Well, I had plenty of muscle. I never stopped lifting weights, even for a single day. Except when I was sick, which is different. Your body deserves to rest when sick.

There were five donuts in the bag. I just couldn’t bring myself to eat a half dozen. I started on them with a half gallon of whole milk in hand to wash them down. By the third chocolate long john I was beginning to notice a rank smell from within my office. By the time I finished the donuts, the stench was getting worse and I was sure something had died in my office.

I opened a window.

The last thing I wanted to do was disgorge all the precious fat calories I had just consumed. I inhaled some fresh air. My office was on the third floor of a professional building filled with accountants and insurance agents and even a used bookstore that I often perused.

When I was sure I would not launch my donuts into the parking lot below, I turned back into my office, determined to find the source of the stink.

Maybe a possum had died between the walls. Christ, that was going to be a bitch if that were so.

I sniffed away until I found myself back at my desk. Perhaps under? I looked under. Nothing.

I opened my top drawer—and stepped back.

It was there in my drawer. A cat. It had not died of natural causes. No, it had been cut neatly in half, just under the rib cage. A black cat with a cute little blue bell around its neck. Paws were thrown up over its head, like a referee giving the touchdown signal. Its eyes were wide, and it appeared devoid of blood. Just skin, fur and bones.

Tinker Bell.

A piece of greasy paper, stained with ichor and other bodily fluids, was neatly folded and shoved into its chest cavity. I extracted it carefully, and unfolded it. There were just three words on the note:

Last warning,

Meow.

And that’s when my fax machine turned on, startling me. Shaken, I got up, leaving the severed cat where it lay in my drawer. The fax was from Cindy. It was a short list of three names, all of them A. Petersons from UCI. Their class schedules were included. The last faxed page was a photocopy of Cindy’s small palm pressed down against the glass of the copy machine. Written below her palm were the words: I like your touch.

I needed that.

Chapter Thirty

I went to Huntington High in search for clues. That is, after all, what detective do. In particular I went searching for someone, anyone, who might be able to corroborate Derrick’s story.

It was almost 7:00 p.m., about the time Amanda had been murdered. I wanted to see what kind of staff was on hand at the witching hour.

I cruised through the faculty parking lot, which ran along the west side of the school. It was nearly empty, just six vehicles in total. The student parking lot was fuller, but that could be the result of the outdoor basketball courts and tennis courts that were nearby. The days were longer now than when Amanda was murdered two months ago, so I expected to see more activity in and around the school.

At the moment, the sun was just setting, and much of the school was in shadow. Outdoor lights, many of them flickering chaotically, were perched along the upper corners of the many buildings. A security truck was parked in the visitor’s parking lot near the main entrance. There was someone inside, a large black man, talking on a cell phone. Huntington High was one of the few schools in the area that did not lock down their campus at night, trusting instead to a few tough-looking security guards.

I parked three spaces from the truck, and so that I was official, I clipped my visitor badge to the pocket of my T-shirt. As I stepped out of my car, I had the full attention of the security guard by now. He leaned out the driver’s side window and beckoned me toward him. I showed him the visitor’s badge by sticking out my considerable chest. Perhaps too impressed for words by the size of my chest, he simply nodded once and leaned back in his front seat.

I headed up to the school along a wide concrete path. The main hall was deserted. My sneakers echoed dully off the many lockers. Further along I heard whistling from somewhere. Had I been a puppy dog, my ears would have shot forward, twitching nervously. Unfortunately I wasn’t a puppy dog, though certainly as cute, and did my human best to zero in on the sound.

I turned a corner and came to a bathroom. A girl’s bathroom.

A janitor’s cart was parked out front, filled with cleaners and rags and brooms. Draped over a broom handle was a sweat-stained Anaheim Angel’s baseball cap. The whistler was whistling something I did not recognize, although it sounded sort of mournful. Something you might hear on death row, perhaps.

White light issued from that most hallowed of places: the girl’s bathroom, where periods were discovered, cigarettes smoked and boys gossiped about. At least hallowed to the minds and considerable imaginations of high school boys.

I rapped loudly on the open door.

The whistling stopped. A man’s head jerked around the corner of one of the stalls, eyes wide with alarm, as if he had been caught doing something. Whatever it was he was doing, I didn’t want to know. He was Hispanic, dark complexion, wide brown eyes. Perhaps forty-five. His forehead glistened with sweat.

“Hi,” I said, ever the friendly stranger.

He said nothing. His sewn-on name badge said Mario.

“Do you speak English, Mario?”

He nodded. I held up my badge proclaiming me as an official visitor. He relaxed a little. I stepped into the bathroom and he flinched. I handed him one of my cards, holding it before him, until he finally tore his gaze off me and took the card. He looked at it carefully.

“Nice picture, huh?” I said. I turned my head to the right and gave him the same smile that was on the card.

“You...you a private detective?” he said in strangled English.

“The very best this side of the Mississippi. Just don’t tell my pop that. He hates competition.”

He looked at me expressionlessly.

“Never mind,” I said. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

He shrugged, which was the correct response if my question was taken literally. I dunno, his shrug seemed to say, can you ask me a question?

“Much work to do,” he said.

“I bet.”

I reached inside my pocket and gave him a hundred dollar bill. He took it without realizing what he was reaching for. Then he shook his head vigorously and tried to give it back.

“Keep it,” I said.

“No, señor.”

He thrust it back into my pocket. Sometimes money talks, sometimes it doesn’t. I asked, “Were you here on the night Amanda Peterson was murdered?”

He blinked up at me. Whether or not he understood I didn’t know.

I forged bravely ahead. “On the night Amanda Peterson was murdered, could you verify whether or not Derrick Booker was in the school’s weight room?”

He said nothing. Sweat had broken out on his brow. He was looking increasingly troubled. “Please, señor. I know nothing.” His voice was pleading, filled with panic.

I studied him, watching his agitated body movements, and on a hunch I asked, “Has someone else been here to speak with you?” I asked. “An older man, perhaps? Gray hair, an earring.” I gestured to my ear. “A golden hoop?”

He was gasping for breath. “Please, señor. He scare my family.”

Bingo. I walked over to him and took my card from his trembling hands and placed it carefully in his overall’s pocket at his chest.

“I’m going to take care of him, Mario. I promise.”

He said nothing. We stared at each other. His eyes were wide and white.

The hitman had come to see him. Warned him to shut up. Threatened his family. No wonder Mario was terrified.

“It’s going to be alright, Mario. No one’s going to hurt you or your family.”

He said nothing more.

I left the way I had come.

Chapter Thirty-one

The day was bright and there was a chill to the air, but that did not stop eighty-three percent of the female college students at UCI from wearing tiny shorts and cut-off T-shirts that revealed many pierced belly buttons.

I had already tried one of the classrooms, using the schedule Cindy had faxed me, but I did not see a single young lady who looked like the framed picture on the Peterson’s mantle.

Now I was standing outside a classroom in the Humanities building. I was on the seventh floor and had a great shot of what the students here called Middle Earth, a beautiful central park located within the campus.

One of the problems I was running into were that many of the girls could have been A. Peterson. Hell, most of them were cute with dark hair.

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind me.

I turned away from the window. I saw that the class across the hall had just let out, and I had already missed a few faces. Damn. But standing in front of me was clearly A. Peterson. Cute face, cute button nose. But the cuteness ended there. Everything else about the girl was anything but cute.

“Miss Peterson?”

She nodded, frowning. “Are you the private investigator that came to see my mom?”

She looked haunted. No. She was haunted. Her pale eyes were empty, troubled and suspicious. A heavy backpack weighed her down, and she was hunched forward to support some of the weight. Her arms were crossed in front of her, her hands holding her bony shoulders. Her hair was dyed pitch black, skin pale and milky. She had a nose, tongue and brow ring. Had she decided to wear make-up, she would have been able to cover the dark rings around her eyes.

“How did you know me?” I asked.

“My mom described you. She called me last night. Said a tall muscular man with a full head of blond hair and a tattoo of a black horse on his forearm had come to see her about Amanda.” Her voice was soft and wispy. I strained to listen to her.

“And I fit the description?”

She looked at my crossed arms. The black horse, shooting steam from its nostrils, was clear on my left forearm.

“Plus,” she said, “You’re packing heat.”

She pointed to the bulge under my left armpit. I was leaning against the wall in such a way that the bulge was evident to those who knew where to look.

“You would make a hell of an investigator,” I said.

“Investigative journalism is my major.”

“I couldn’t think of a more fitting job,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Annette,” she said.

“Ah,” I said.

“And you found my classroom, so you’re not so bad yourself.” She might have grinned, but she had probably forgotten how.

“Glad I have your vote of confidence.”

“I assume you’re here to talk with me about my sister?”

“Yes,” I said. “That and more. Is there somewhere we can have privacy?”

Chapter Thirty-two

We were in Middle Earth, surrounded by oaks and pines and a lot of rolling green hills. Students with laptops were banging away under trees nearby. Other students were soaking in the sun, and too few were making out. There was one couple, however, going at it like minks. Good for them. College at its best.

We were sitting on the grass. My back was up against the trunk of a gnarled ash tree, and Annette was leaning against her massive backpack which was filled to overflowing.

“Are you a senior?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you live at home?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I needed to get away. Far away. But I couldn’t leave mother and my sisters. So I compromised with my mother. I live in a dorm here at UCI, and my sisters and mother can come visit me anytime.”

I said, “Your father is abusive.” It wasn’t a question.

“Do you know where my mom called me from last night?”

I had a sinking feeling. “The hospital.”

She nodded. “You are good. Two broken ribs and a broken nose. Said she fell down the stairs. We don’t have fucking stairs.”

“Shit.”

“Shit is right. The man is a goddamn animal and I have hated him my entire life.”

“He abuse you?”

“Often.”

“Sexually?”

“No. Not me. I wouldn’t let him. I fought him. So he settled on beating the shit out of me. Broke my arm twice. In the same fucking place. Loves to grab it and shake until something snaps.”

“Were your sisters sexually abused?”

“I think so, and I’m pretty sure little Alyssa is getting the worst of it now, especially now that she’s alone with him.”

“Has your mother ever tried to leave?”

“No. He tells her he will kill her and her daughters. Classic shit. She’s terrified of him.”

“Has anyone ever gone to the police? Have any teachers ever noticed the bruises, questioned your broken arms?”

“The answer is no. Father is an assemblyman for the county. He can have anyone’s job. He knows it and they know it. Our plight has been ignored.”

“Plight,” I said, grinning at her. “You must be a writer.”

“Someday soon I hope to even make money at it.”

“Would you like your father to stop the abuse?”

“Of course. Stupid fucking question.” She leaned forward, hands flat in the grass. Not surprisingly, her nails were unpainted. “Are you going to stop him?”

I shrugged. “I could give a shit if he’s an assemblyman. I work for myself. I could make most men on this earth bend to my will.”

She actually laughed and clapped, and that pretty much made my day. She said, “That’s such a funny way to describe that you are going to royally kick his ass.”

“Royally.”

“He’s a big guy,” she said. “But you’re bigger.”

“I’m bigger than most. And if I happen to break his arm in the process?”

Her gaze hardened. “Tell him it was from me.”

A Frisbee landed next to us. I flicked it back to an embarrassed young lady. She caught it neatly with one hand and dashed off.

“One more thing,” I said. “Do you know why Amanda quit her school band?”

“Because the band director was a creep.”

“How do you know?”

“He made a pass at her,” she said.

“What did she do about it?”

“Told him to leave her alone.”

“I assume he didn’t.”

“No.”

“And then she quit?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Did she often confide in you?” I asked.

She looked away. “Yeah, we were close.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So am I.”

I gave her one of my cards, and she looked at it.

“Nice picture, Mr. Knighthorse,” she said.

“I know.”

Chapter Thirty-three

It was early morning and the crowd in McDonald’s consisted mostly of old men in tan shorts, white tee shirts and running shoes. Most didn’t look like they did much running.

I was eating a Big Breakfast with Jack at the back of the restaurant. He was sipping his lukewarm black coffee and looking very ungodlike in his bum outfit. Then again, according to him, this is how I expected him to look.

“So who’s running the universe if you’re down here with me?”

“I can be in many places.”

“Convenient,” I said. “Must make waiting in line for Zeppelin tickets a breeze.”

“And makes doing chores a snap.”

“Was that a joke?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“God jokes?”

“Who do you think invented humor?”

“The devil?” I asked.

“There is no devil, you know that.”

“I know that because you told me there’s no devil. I’m still not convinced.”

The man in front of me shrugged and sipped his coffee. I’ve noticed that Jack often didn’t care if I believed him or not. I found that interesting and a little disconcerting.

“Prove to me you’re God.”

“Prove I’m not.”

“Touché,” I said. “What’s the square root of one million?”

“Do you know?”

“No,” I said. “But I will later.”

“Then ask me later.”

“Fine,” I said. “Perform a miracle. A real miracle.”

“Like turning coffee into wine?”

“Yes. That. Or beer. Turn it into ice cold beer and let me drink it.”

“You sound like an alcoholic, Jim.”

“You would know.”

“Drinking is not good for your body. In fact, it’s very hard on your body.”

“Let’s not go down that road.”

“Okay,” he said. “What road would you like to go down?”

“I want a miracle. I want proof that I’m talking to God.”

“One man’s miracle is another man’s reality.”

“Oh, screw that,” I said. “Turn something into something else, and quit giving me shit.”

“And if I performed a miracle for you, that would finally satisfy your curiosity?”

“Yes.”

“No it wouldn’t. You would ask for another miracle, and then another. Always doubting.”

“You’re not going to perform a miracle, are you?”

“No. That is, not in the way that you mean.”

“But you perform other miracles?”

“Every day. Every second.”

“But if you performed a miracle for me now, then I would no longer have to believe, or have to have faith.”

“This is true.”

“I think faith is overrated. Turn something into something else and I will be your biggest follower, I promise.”

“I don’t want a follower. I just want you to listen, to think for yourself and to lead the best life you can. Ultimately, to define who you are and to live by those convictions.”

“And if you performed a miracle for me...”

“Then you will no longer make your own choices.”

“I would blindly do whatever you say,” I said.

“Yes. Exactly.”

“But you are here now, claiming to be God.”

“Like I said, one man’s miracle—”

“Is another man’s reality,” I finished.

We were silent some more. I looked in his half-empty cup. It was still coffee.

Jack closed his eyes, seemed to have fallen asleep, but he did this often, going to wherever God goes.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Very.”

“I’m going to hurt a man,” I said.

“Do what you must.”

“Really?”

“I do not define for you what is right or wrong.”

“Au contraire,” I said. “There’s a whole book out there that defines exactly what we should do.”

“Was that French?” he asked.

“Oh shut up,” I said. “Wait, did I just tell God to shut up?”

“Yes. Would you like for me to shut up?”

“No.”

“Remember, I will not tell you how to lead your life, nor will I tell you what decisions to make, or who or what defines you. These are your choices. Your gifts. The book or books of which you refer, were often inspired by me, but only the parts about love.”

“Love?”

“As in do all things with love.”

“All things?”

“Yes,” he said. “This concept alone would change much of the structure of your planet.”

“There are those who can’t love, or choose not to love.”

“There are those,” said Jack, “who are an unfortunate byproduct of your current state of non-loving.”

“You do realize we are in a McDonald’s?”

“Yes.”

“Am I going crazy?” I asked.

“That is for you to decide.”

“So you really do not care if I hurt another human being?”

“Do you derive pleasure from hurting others, Jim?”

“No. I will be hurting another to protect many more.”

“Are you living and acting and behaving within your own moral standards?”

“Yes.”

“Is this what defines who you are?”

“Yes.”

“And so you are being true to yourself?”

“I guess so, yes.”

“I can find no fault in that.”

“So you approve?” I asked.

“I approve of defining who you are, Jim. There is a difference. And there are many, many people out there who do not have a strict moral code, such as your own.”

“So any moral code would work?”

“Any true moral code, Jim,” said Jack. “Any true code.”

Chapter Thirty-four

Sanchez and I waited in Sanchez’s unmarked police vehicle in a red zone across the street from the offices of Assemblyman Richard Peterson.

“His name has a nice ring to it,” said Sanchez.

We were in the city of Brea, in a shopping zone that called itself Downtown Brea. The stores were all new, and there was not one but two movie theaters. The apartments above the stores were advertised as artists’ lofts. Once, long ago, I wanted to be an artist, until I realized I wasn’t good enough and didn’t have enough patience.

“There are two ice cream shops,” said Sanchez. “I wonder why.”

“They are across the street from each other,” I said. “Downtown Brea is all about convenience.”

“If you say so.”

“There’s our man.”

It was past 6:30 p.m. and Richard Peterson was just leaving the office. He was leaving with a rather pretty blond in a short red dress. She split one way, walking to a nearby restaurant bar, and blew him a little kiss.

“Maybe she’s the secretary,” I said.

“Bet she takes great dictation.”

Peterson crossed the street purposefully, and headed to the parking structure to our right. We watched him ascend the stairs.

“Takes the stairs. Keeps in shape,” said Sanchez. “You think you can handle him?”

“As long as he doesn’t take them two at a time.”

We waited at the mouth of the structure’s exit, and sure enough a black Escalade with Peterson at the helm came tearing through the structure, heedless of babies or speed bumps.

“I could give him a ticket for reckless driving,” said Sanchez.

“For now just follow him.”

Sanchez did, pulling in behind him. Peterson drove like a man drunk or on drugs, weaving carelessly in and out of traffic.

“At least he uses his blinker,” I said.

“Considerate. Where do you want this to go down?”

We were on a street called Brea Blvd. The street was wide and quiet.

“This is good,” I said.

Sanchez, hidden behind his cop glasses, reached under his seat and pulled out a flashing light with a magnetized bottom. He put it on top of his vehicle. I saw Peterson jerk his head up and look in the rearview mirror a couple of times. Finally he yanked the Escalade off to the side of the road. Sanchez pulled in behind him.

I said, “You don’t have to do this. He’s my problem. You could get into a lot of trouble.”

“Justice is justice, Knighthorse. Sometimes street justice can be more effective.”

“And less paperwork.”

“And less paperwork,” said Sanchez. “Wait here.”

Chapter Thirty-five

I watched from the passenger seat. Sanchez spoke with Peterson through the open window. A moment later I heard a lot of shouting, saw a lot of gesticulating, then the Escalade door burst open and Peterson came charging out. He waggled a finger in Sanchez’s face. From here, his finger looked like a worm on a hook.

Sanchez said something and Peterson reluctantly turned and put both hands on the SUV’s hood.

I watched intently.

Sanchez was an old pro. He kicked Peterson’s feet apart and patted him down. Peterson said something over his shoulder and Sanchez pushed him hard against the fender. I heard the thump from here. Peterson’s sunglasses fell from his face.

Sanchez removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, twisted Peterson’s arm back, then cuffed the assemblyman’s wrist. The whole cuffing process took less than three seconds, faster than Peterson could react. Once he realized what had happened, he swung around violently. Sanchez stepped back, removed his gun and pointed it at Peterson’s chest.

Peterson backed off, breathing hard. Sanchez walked him back to the vehicle.

And just like that we kidnapped Mr. Richard Peterson, Orange County Assemblyman, wife beater and child molester.

* * *

He shoved Peterson in the backseat. I took off my shades and turned around.

“Hi, Dick,” I said. “Dick is an acceptable variant of Richard, am I correct?”

Recognition dawned on Peterson’s red and sweaty face. His eyes narrowed and his pupils shrank. “It’s you. The detective. What the fuck is going on?”

I turned to Sanchez. “Do you want me to quiet him up for the ride out?”

“Go ahead, I’m tired of hearing him already.”

I stepped out of the front seat, opened the back door, and punched Peterson as hard as I could. Even from my awkward angle, the blow was still a good one and caught him sharply across the temple, snapping his head around.

Dazed, he didn’t go unconscious, but it sure shut him up.

I turned and headed toward the Escalade.

“Follow me,” I said to Sanchez.

* * *

I followed a street called Carbon Canyon through the city of Brea. Soon the new homes and the massive state park disappeared and we were on a winding road. The Escalade drove like a dream. Shame what was going to happen to it.

I found a dirt turn-off and hung a right. In my rearview mirror, Sanchez followed me closely, although he didn’t use his turn blinker. Damn cops. Above the law. First kidnapping, and now this.

We were now following a small creek, and when we reached a point where the creek dropped off twenty feet below down a dirt embankment, I stopped the Cadillac.

Sanchez pulled up behind me with Peterson in the backseat. I put the Escalade in neutral, and stepped outside. With Sanchez’s help, we pushed the Cadillac down the dirt embankment. It ricocheted nicely off two trees, careened off a pile of boulders, and then splashed down in the middle of the creek, hissing and steaming.

The vehicle was totaled.

“Damn shame,” said Sanchez.

“Yep.”

Chapter Thirty-six

“Let him go,” I said to Sanchez.

Sanchez uncuffed Peterson. The assemblyman was still woozy from the blow to the head. His hair was ruffled and his face was red, and it looked like he might have been missing a button on his shirt. He looked from me to Sanchez, and then at his surroundings. Dawning seemed to come over him as he realized he was not in a good situation. When he spoke, there was real fear in his voice, along with much nastiness.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked.

“You are Richard Peterson, county assemblyman and respected citizen. You are also a wife beater and a child abuser who rapes his own children. Is there anything I missed?”

He looked at me briefly, then lumbered over to the creek and looked down at his Escalade. “You can’t prove any of it,” he said, still looking down. He might have considered bolting if he wasn’t still dazed.

“I’m not here to prove anything.”

“So what’s going on? You want money to keep everything quiet?”

Sanchez laughed and leaned a hip against the fender of his vehicle.

“No,” I said. “You have been tried and found guilty, Mr. Peterson. Now comes the punishment phase. I will allow you to defend yourself.”

“It’s two against one, hardly fair.”

“My compatriot is here for entertainment purposes only.”

“Compatriot?” said Sanchez.

“Yeah.”

Peterson sized me up, eyes darting quickly. Sweat was on his brow, and spreading quickly under his pits.

“You’re bigger than me.”

“I’m bigger than most.”

“Not me,” said Sanchez.

“We’re even,” I said to Sanchez. “Besides, we’ve already had this argument before, which is why I said most.”

I turned back to Peterson. He backed up. If he bolted and was fast enough I could be in trouble with my gimp leg. Sanchez pulled out his gun and pointed it at Peterson again.

“No running,” said Sanchez.

“You didn’t give your children a chance to run, did you?” I asked. “When you beat them or forced yourself on them.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I am here for two things: first, to convince you of the error of your ways, and second to convince you to, um, give up the error of your ways.”

“Poetic,” said Sanchez.

“Shut up, I’m making this up as I go.”

“I can tell,” said Sanchez.

I said to Peterson, “I am going to kick the royal shit out of you. You are going to have a beating unlike anything you’ve ever had in your life. You will tell the authorities you suffered your injuries in a car accident, resulting from your desire to go sightseeing. You will stick to this story or a letter written by your daughter Annette detailing your sexual tendencies toward your own children will be mailed instantly to all the local papers. Do you understand?”

He stared at me blankly, sweating. He looked like he needed a drink of water.

“And if you ever so much as lay a finger on your wife or children again, your next car accident will be your last. Are we clear?”

“Lesson learned, I swear. I mean, hell, you’ve scared the shit out of me. I’m practically peeing my pants here.”

“Practically,” I said to Sanchez. “Then I’m not doing my job.”

“Losing your touch,” said Sanchez.

“Put your gun away,” I told Sanchez.

Sanchez did and continued grinning and watching us. A squirrel ran along a tree branch overhead. We were far from Carbon Canyon Road. The air was fresh and scented with moss and soil and pine.

“I will give you a chance to fight back, which is more than you deserve.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” he said.

“That’s the spirit.”

He looked from me to Sanchez, and then took his shot, his right hand lashing out. I maneuvered myself in time to take the majority of the blow off my shoulder. I countered with something like a jab, which broke his nose.

“Fuck,” he said, holding the bleeding mess.

Next, I did what I do best. I tackled him low. It was a quick movement that combined my football and wrestling skills. He landed hard on his back, and his air whooshed from his lungs like an escaping devil.

I hauled Peterson up and walked him over to Sanchez’s car and placed his left forearm on the fender.

“You broke Annette’s arm. Twice.”

“Fuck you,” he said, holding his nose and gasping. “The bitches deserved everything they got. Fuck you and fuck them.”

I broke his arm quickly, bringing my elbow down hard on his wrist. The snap reverberated throughout the woods. Birds erupted from nearby tree branches.

Sanchez looked away.

Peterson cried out, grabbed for his arm.

But I wasn’t done with him.

No, not by a long shot.

I went to work on him, and when it was finally over, when Sanchez finally pulled me off him, my knuckles were split and bloodied and I was gasping for breath.

Chapter Thirty-seven

The MGD bottle slipped from my fingers and crashed to my cement balcony. Foam erupted among the broken glass shards.

Shit.

I considered grabbing another beer from the twenty-four pack at my feet, then decided to give it a rest for the night. Instead, I began drunkenly counting the empty glass bottles standing like sentries along the tabletop, lost count, started over, lost count again, then decided that I had drunk a shit-load of beer tonight.

I had murders, child molesters, broken arms, dead cats, suicides and death threats on my mind. And now perhaps new information about my mother. Enough to drive any man to drink. But then again I never needed much reason to drink.

Cindy was with her sister-in-law tonight, Francine. They got together once every other week and gossiped about their men, football and the nature of God in society since Francine was a religious studies instructor at Calabasas Junior College near San Diego.

That left me alone tonight. Just me and my beer.

I automatically reached down for another beer. Stopped halfway. Put my hands in my lap, and laced my fingers together.

Good boy.

The night was cool; a soft breeze swept over my balcony. Traffic was thick on PCH. I could smell exhaust and grilling hamburgers.

On its own accord, my hand reached down for another bottle. I stopped it just as it brushed a cold bottle cap.

The bone had snapped loud enough for birds to erupt in surprise.

My knuckles still ached from the beating I gave Peterson. The assemblyman’s solo vehicle accident had made the local papers. Neither I nor Sanchez were mentioned. After the beating, we had dragged Peterson’s limp body down the incline and stowed him in the driver’s seat. I placed a call via his cell phone to 911, pretending to be Peterson, gasping in pain. Hell of a performance. Sanchez was amused, although I noted he looked a little sick and pale.

A horn honked from below, along Main Street, followed by a short outburst of obscenities.

I would have killed Peterson if Sanchez hadn’t pulled me off him.

And, Lord help me, I was enjoying every minute of it.

I reached down and grabbed another beer. This time there was no stopping my hand. I twisted off the cap and drank from it. And it was good, so very, very good.

Chapter Thirty-eight

“How’s the case going?” asked Cindy.

She had just sat down in front of me at the Trocadero, a Mexican place across the street from UCI. She was wearing a casual business suit, and her hair was down. She looked three years my junior, rather than the other way around. Her lipstick was bright red, which was good since I was color blind. Seriously. She wore the bright red for me.

“Other than the fact that I have no idea who killed Amanda, just swell.”

The waiter took our drink orders. An apple martini for Cindy and Coke for me.

“I called you last night,” she said. “Twice.”

“I know,” I said, “and I called you this morning when I got the messages.”

She let her unspoken question hang in the air: so why didn’t you pick up? I let it hang in the air as well. I still felt like shit from the night before. I had drunk the entire case. A new record for me.

“Are you feeling well?” she asked.

“Just great.”

“Bullshit. Your eyes are red and you look pale.” She opened her purse and removed the local edition of the Orange County Register. “Amanda Peterson’s father was in an accident. A bad accident. A broken arm. Three broken ribs. A broken collar bone. And a broken jaw. Jesus Christ, Jim.”

“Like they said, a bad accident.”

“It was no accident.”

“No,” I said, looking at her. “It wasn’t; it was a methodical beating that I gave to a son-of-a-bitch to reinforce the idea that he is to never, ever touch his family inappropriately again. The way I see it, he got off easy. His wounds will heal. The damage he inflicted may never heal.”

“Did your point hit home?” There might have been sarcasm in her voice.

“So far he’s sticking to the accident story. So he’s scared. As he should be.”

The waiter came around and took our order. Salmon for Cindy and two Super Mex chicken burritos for me, extra guacamole and sour cream.

“You’re going to kill yourself before your tryouts,” said Cindy. More sarcasm?

“I’m still about seven pounds from my target weight.”

“Isn’t there a healthier way to gain weight?”

“Is that an oxymoron?”

“I’m serious, Jim. I’m concerned about you. About us.”

She wouldn’t look me in the eye, and sipped her martini faster than normal. Her free hand played with the napkin, repeatedly wadding it and smoothing it out.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I can’t keep doing this.”

“You mean strangling your napkin?”

“No. I mean us.”

I let the air out of my lungs. We had had this conversation before.

“Last time, I convinced you to stay,” I said. “Talked until I was blue in the face. Do you remember what I told you I would do if you did this to me again?”

“Yes,” she said. “You said you wouldn’t try to stop me the next time.”

“Yes.”

The napkin was wasted, rendered perfectly useless. She pushed it aside and drank deeply from her martini. So deeply, in fact, that she finished it. I said nothing. There was nothing for me to say. I was not going to keep having this conversation with her. I loved Cindy with all of my heart, but I was not going to make her do something she did not want to do.

The waiter saw her empty glass and came over.

“Another?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

She still hadn’t looked me in the eye. I studied her closely. She was behaving very un-Cindy like. Small, jerky movements as she tapped on the now empty cardboard coaster. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

I said nothing.

“Jesus Christ, Jim, you beat the unholy shit out of another human being. Your life has been threatened by a hired killer. A dead cat shows up in your office. Cut in fucking two. And now you’re drinking again. It’s not that you’re drinking, really. It’s that you are getting drunk, and doing it in secret, which makes it dirty and dangerous and all-consuming. And, ultimately, sad. Very, very sad.”

I said nothing.

“You didn’t answer the phone last night because you were passed out.”

Her second apple martini came, followed by a second waiter bearing our food. The food was placed before us; it went ignored.

“And now you’re trying out for the Chargers in a few weeks. What if you make the team? I would never see you. I know that’s selfish of me, but it’s true. You would throw your whole life into it, like you do everything else, and the NFL would own your heart and soul. Would there be any room left for me?”

She drank her martini. Her eyes were wet. Hands shaking. She spilled some of the drink, and used the shredded napkin to clean up. The napkin only managed to smear the liquid.

“Christ, aren’t you going to say anything?”

I said nothing.

“And I love you so much, you big sonofabitch. You worked your way deep into my heart like a damn thorn. A thorn that hurts, but has so much love to give.”

I didn’t like the analogy, but said nothing.

“I worry so much about you. But you can take care of yourself. I’ve seen it. And you have Sanchez and your father to help you. The three of you are an amazingly formidable force. And you are so brutal and deadly, but moral and just, and so fucking hilarious. Shit.”

She stopped talking and picked at her salmon. She even went as far as to bring up a forkful, but then got distracted by her own thoughts, and set it down again.

“You are a wonderful man, but you fuck me up.”

She started crying. She brought her hands to her face, and the tears leaked from under her palms. I resisted the strong urge to reach out to her. She needed to make a decision. I was not going to influence her decision in any way. I held on to that thought, no matter how hard it was for me to do so.

“Are you just going to sit there and let me cry?”

I said nothing, and didn’t move, although my hand flinched.

“I think I need to leave,” she said.

She did, getting up quickly and dashing through the dark restaurant. I watched her go, and when she was gone I set aside my Coke and signaled the waiter.

I was going to need something a little stronger.

Chapter Thirty-nine

It was almost 1:00 a.m. when I came home that night.

With a twelve-pack of MGD in hand, I took the stairs two at a time, climbing my way to the fifth floor, where my apartment and drinking sanctuary awaited. I had made it a point recently to always take the stairs, to augment my training. I figured every little bit helped.

I was regretting that decision now. Especially at this hour, and what had happened over dinner.

Maybe I should have said something to her, I thought.

But I was determined not to sway her decision. She needed to decide for herself whether or not she wanted me in her life. Me prostrating myself, switching into used car salesman mode, and listing my strengths and perks did no one any good. It debased me on one level, and clouded her thinking on another.

Cindy and I had been seeing each other steadily since my senior year in college. At the time, she was in the master’s program at UCLA. I had met her through a teammate of mine, her brother Rob. Cindy had come from a football family, and although she made no real effort to understand the sport, she at least understood the men who played it, and we were a good match. She went on to get her doctoral in anthropology, her expertise the anthropology of world religions. Turns out, there’s a lot of world religions out there, and so she keeps fairly busy writing papers and what-nots. She’s only recently been tenured at UCI, which is great because now she really has to royally screw up to be fired. Luckily, she rarely screws up.

After my injury, she had been so supportive during those years of rehabilitation. She had also been supportive of the idea of me following in the footsteps of my father, although I had sworn long ago to never be a detective. I mean, I was destined for a long and rewarding career in football, right? Say ten years in the NFL, another ten in broadcasting, and finish things up as an NFL coach. That had been the plan.

Things change.

Especially when you’re hit by a cheap chop block, and you hear the sound of your bones fracturing in so many places that you still have nightmares over it. It was only later, after my drinking had started, that I found amusement in the fact that the fracturing of my leg had sounded like the popping of popcorn.

I was now on the fifth floor. I was not winded, but there was a healthy burn in my legs. And as I stepped through the stairwell door, I saw a man smoking a cigarette five feet away. He was waiting by the elevator door, and there was a pistol hanging loosely by his side. He did not see me.

It was Fuck Nut.

Chapter Forty

I eased the stairwell door shut, removed the Browning from my shoulder holster and set down the beer. This wing of the fifth floor is reserved for four apartment suites. The elevator lets you out under a veranda outdoors. From there one can choose four different routes: immediate right or left, or straight ahead and then right or left. My apartment was straight ahead and then right. The whole area is flooded with outdoor lighting.

He had been leaning behind a stucco pillar, just feet from the elevator, gun hanging idly by his side, blowing smoke from his cigarette straight into the air. I could smell the smoke.

I had the element of surprise, of course, being that he did not expect anyone in their right mind to walk up five flights of stairs, especially someone with a bum leg. And if Fuck Nut was a professional killer, as I assumed him to be, he had done his research on me; he knew about the bum leg. He was confident I would take the elevator. He did not realize I was a hell of an example of human perseverance in the face of tragedy.

In the least he should have positioned himself to see the stairs and elevator.

Expect the unexpected, as my father would say.

I eased open the door and raised the Browning.

But he was no longer standing behind the pillar. No, he was now waiting off to the side of the elevator. His cigarette, tossed aside, was glowing ten feet away, half finished.

Because the elevator door was about to open.

Shit.

He raised his own weapon. In the glow of the outdoor lights I could see he had a silencer on the end of his pistol. A true killer.

The doors slid open.

Yellow light from the elevator washed across the veranda, and out stepped my Indian neighbor from across the way. My neighbor who had told me his name seven or eight times but I could never remember it. Poorjafar? I always felt like crap asking him to pronounce his name again, so we both accepted the fact that he was known as “Hey!” And I was known as “Jeemmy!” Normally, Jeemmy is an unacceptable variant of my name, but I let it slide in this case.

The man who might be Poorjafar was a big guy who lifted weights, and he stepped confidently out of the elevator, swirling his key ring on his finger and whistling. I didn’t recognize the song, but it had a sort of Bollywood feel to it. And, for effect, Poorjafar stopped, did a little dance, turned around—

And saw the hitman.

“Oh, shit,” said Poorjafar, stepping back, startled.

Fuck Nut said nothing.

“Are you waiting for someone?” asked my neighbor.

“You could say that,” said the hitman.

I knew something about assassins. They didn’t like witnesses. They saw themselves as living outside the real world; in fact it was a fantasy world of their construct, where they were king and God, pronouncing life and death on mere mortals.

The killer had just pronounced death on Poorjafar.

There would be no witnesses tonight, if the killer had his way.

I stepped out of the stairwell, losing my element of surprise, my own gun hidden behind my back. “He’s waiting for me,” I said.

Poorjafar turned. “Jeemmy! How you doing, man?”

“Hey...hey.”

Poorjafar pointed at the man in the shadows. “This is a friend of yours?”

The killer didn’t move, but his eyes wanted to bug out of his skull. He shifted uneasily, but kept his gun out of sight. I kept my eyes on him.

“He’s a recent acquaintance,” I said.

“Well, your acquaintance scared the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, he likes to do that. Of course, it doesn’t help that he’s such an ugly bastard.” I gave a big, fake hearty laugh. The killer didn’t laugh. “Probably scared the shit out of his own mother when he was born.”

Poorjafar laughed, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Shit, Jeemmy. That was a low blow. He’s a friend, man.”

“No, I’m not,” said the man. “I’m very much not his friend.”

And he stepped sideways, keeping his hand behind his back, and stepped into the elevator. He pressed a button; the door closed. He pointed a finger at me and fired a blank bullet. And he was gone. I went back for my beer, and Poorjafar danced and whistled his way into his apartment.

Chapter Forty-one

I was at East Inglewood High, my old high school, practicing hitting drills with my even older high school football coach. Twelve years ago I made a name for myself on this field, where I was loved and worshipped. Isn’t football just swell?

Coach Samson was a big black man, now in his fifties, and I still feared him on some level. But more than fear, however, was deep respect and admiration. He was more of a father figure than my father.

“Jesus Christ, son, you still have it,” he said.

Coach Samson was riding high on the back of a padded hitting dummy. Currently he was getting a sleigh ride across the football field, benefit of my churning legs and sweat. He had agreed to go over the basic fundamentals, because I had been out of football for seven years. And even a battle-scarred old war horse like myself could always use some basic training.

He blew a whistle and I stopped, dropping to my knees. We were alone on the varsity football field, although the school marching band was practicing in an adjacent field. School was still forty-five minutes from starting. The band, as far as I could tell, was one hundred percent African-American.

I might have been the last white to come through here.

Without his prodding, I got down into a three-point stance, and then lunged forward, hitting the padded dummy hard. Coach Samson held on, and I proceeded to push that goddamn thing up and down the field.

The coach instructed and advised as I went, reminding me to keep my head up and my back straight and to keep my legs churning.

I churned and churned all morning long, and I did not once think about Cindy, or that I had not heard from her in two days. And I did not once think about Derrick or the hitman, either.

Instead, I focused on football.

Sweet football.

A sport I had been born to play, a sport that had been taken from me. But I was determined to reclaim it—and my life.

Most of all, I tried to ignore the pain in my left leg.

That endless goddamn pounding.

Chapter Forty-two

My father’s offices are on the fifteenth floor of a major LA skyscraper. I regretted the decision to walk the stairs by the seventh floor. At the fifteenth floor, I found the nearest bathroom and splashed water on my face and neck, then headed through some heavy double doors. Above the door were the words: KNIGHTHORSE INVESTIGATIONS.

A big, bald security guard was waiting behind a desk. He was about fifty. His uniform was neatly pressed. Probably a retired cop, or a retired colonel, a man who commanded respect. I immediately disliked him, partly because he worked for my father, partly because he was glaring at me.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a thick Boston accent.

“You’re pretty big for a secretary,” I said. “Do you also fetch the coffee?”

He frowned and his bushy eyebrows—the only hair on his head—formed one long bristly line. “I’m not a secretary.”

“I’m sorry. Is that not politically correct these days? How about front desk technician? Is that better?”

He stared at me. The hairy caterpillar above his eyes twitched.

“Waddya want?”

“Cooper Knighthorse. He’s the small guy with the creepy eyes.”

“Yes, I’m aware of who he is.”

“So you agree he has creepy eyes?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I thought I would surprise him. Dad always likes a good surprise. Take the time when I threw a brick through the car window when he was screwing a neighbor’s wife in the back seat.” I laughed heartily. “Let me tell you, good times for one and all.”

“Dad?”

I nodded encouragingly.

“Mr. Knighthorse is your father?”

“I see you’re no slouch. In fact, you might make a hell of a detective some day.”

He ignored me. “Didn’t know Coop had a son.”

“Obviously, I’m his pride and joy,” I said. “Now my father usually boffs his front desk engineers in the back room. Perhaps you were unaware of your full job description.”

He made a move to stand up. “Don’t push it, buddy.”

I leaned over the desk. “But pushing it is what I do best.”

He was a big guy, maybe a little soft around the middle. It would have been a hell of a fight if a voice hadn’t come from my left. The voice belonged to my father. “He’s okay, Reginald. He’s a hardass, but he’s okay.”

“Your kid has a big mouth.”

“Always has,” said my father.

I walked around the desk and smiled at Reginald. “I’ll take cream and sugar in my coffee.”

Chapter Forty-three

The entire fifteenth floor was occupied by my father’s agency. His office was big, but not ornately so. There was a leather executive chair with brass nail trim behind a black lacquered desk. Piles of case folders everywhere, and from all indications, business was booming. No surprise there. He sat and motioned for me to do the same in one of his client chairs.

“Why you giving Reggie such a hard time?” my father asked.

“Just making friends and influencing people.”

On his desk, angled in one corner and slightly pushed askew by an errant folder, was the picture of a blond woman and a little boy. I had no idea who they were. A different family, a different life. For all I knew the little boy could have been my half brother.

“Tell me about the pictures,” I said.

He sat back in his chair and studied me silently. His gaze was unwavering. So was mine. Through the open window, in my peripheral vision, I saw a helicopter hover past, then dart away like a curious hummingbird. I tried not to let it distract me.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know why you gave them to me now.”

“I only discovered them a few years ago.”

“Why not give them to me then?”

“Because you were still working here as an apprentice.”

“What does that matter?”

“You didn’t know what the hell you were doing,” he said.

I smiled, realizing what he was getting at. “You waited for me to become a detective.”

“Actually, I waited for you to become a good detective.”

“So you think I’m good?” I hated the fact that this news pleased me.

“That’s what I hear.”

“You’ve been checking up on me.”

He tilted his head toward me and shrugged. “I hear things.”

“Meanwhile you just sat on these photos.”

He shifted in his chair and looked away. “Yes.”

“Tell me more about the photos.”

“When I moved in with Candy,” he nodded toward the blond on his desk, “I found them at the bottom of a box. I flipped through, the first time I had ever done so. To be honest, I don’t know when they were developed or when I picked them up. Probably they were included with some other pictures, and got forgotten.”

Something rose within me. Blood, anger, revulsion, hatred. “These were pictures of your murdered wife taken on the last day she was alive, the mother of your son, and they were forgotten in the bottom of a box?”

“Those were tough times. I really didn’t know my head from a hole in the ground.”

“Not a good analogy. Trust me you did just fine in that department. Remember, I saw first hand.”

We were silent. I did my best to control my anger. On the wall behind him was a picture of a lighthouse. His paperweight was a lighthouse, as were his two bookends. Since when did my dad like lighthouses? There was so much I didn’t know about the man, and so much I didn’t care to know.

“They were fishing together, and one of them appears to have taken an interest in the two of you.”

He sat back. “That’s how I see it.”

“It might have been more than an interest,” I added.

“Perhaps. Could also be a coincidence.”

I said, “Any idea who Blondie is in the picture?”

He shook his head sadly. “No.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Vaguely.”

“Were you aware that he had followed you back to the store?”

“No.”

“Did you see him again at any other time?”

“No.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“I think we did.”

“Do you recall what was said?”

“No, I don’t. I think I commented on the shark.”

“Anything else?”

“Your mother made them laugh with the rabbit ears. They thought she was funny.”

I digested this. “Since finding the pictures two years ago, have you done anything—anything at all—to follow up on your wife’s murder?”

More shifting, as if the plush leather chair could possibly be uncomfortable. He motioned toward the files on his desk. “I’ve been busy lately, too busy, you know....”

“Let me finish for you, father. You were too busy making money to follow up on your wife’s murder. Too busy solving other people’s problems to worry about a woman you never truly loved.”

He shrugged.

I got up and walked around the desk and looked down at him. I stood before him, breathing hard, blood pounding in my ears.

“Do what you’ve got to do,” he said, “and get the hell out of here.”

I backhanded him across the face. The force of the blow almost sent him over the arm of his chair. He regained his balance. A red welt was already forming on his cheek bone. Blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, then trickled out. He said nothing, did nothing, just watched me. His eyes were passionless and empty. No, not empty. There was something there, something deep within, something trying to climb up from the unfathomable depths of his cold soul, but then he blinked and it was gone.

Chapter Forty-four

I was sitting next to a window drinking a large iced vanilla coffee when he appeared in the parking lot from behind a large truck. The day was hot, but he didn’t seem to mind or notice his copious layers of clothing. In fact, he wasn’t even sweating. Maybe he was God.

Once inside, he ordered a cup of coffee and sat opposite me, carefully prying the plastic lid off and blowing on his coffee. Finally, when appropriately cooled, he took a sip.

“So where do you go when you’re not here speaking with me?”

“Wherever I want.”

“And where might that be?”

“It’s not where you are, Jim, it’s how you get there.”

“Wow, that’s nice. You should put that on a bumper sticker.”

“Where do you think I got it?”

“Great, now God’s quoting bumper stickers.”

“It’s an old truth, Jim.”

“The journey and all that,” I said.

“Yes, it’s about the journey,” he said, sipping quietly and watching me with his brownish eyes.

“And what happens once you get there?” I asked. “What happens once the journey is over?”

“That is for you to decide, my son. You can stay there, or you can start a new journey.”

“A new journey?”

“Of course.”

“Are we talking reincarnation here?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Are we?”

“Does reincarnation exist?” I asked.

“The soul lives forever,” said the bum in front of me as if he knew what the hell he was talking about. “But the soul can choose many forms.”

“Okay, it’s too early in the morning for this shit, Sorry I asked.”

“Apology accepted. But there’s a reason you asked, isn’t there?”

There was, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer. I put down my iced coffee and set it aside.

“So where’s my mother now?” I asked. “You know, her spirit, or whatever?”

As I spoke, Jack inhaled the coffee deeply, pausing, taking the scent deep within, making it a part of him.

“She is wherever she wants to be,” he said, exhaling.

“And where would that be?”

“For instance, she is with us now since we are talking about her.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

“And is she sitting next to me?” I asked.

He didn’t answer at first, although he gave me a gentle smile.

“She is in your heart, Jim. Be still, and feel her there.”

I looked at the old man across from me. On second thought, he wasn’t really that old. On third thought, I was hard pressed to gauge just how old he was, although he was certainly older than me. And then another thought occurred to me: My mother. I suddenly remembered a time when she and I had gone to the beach together in the city bus. She let me ditch school and had treated me like a prince that day.

My breath caught in my throat. Fuck, I missed her.

“She misses you, too,” said Jack. “But she wants you to know that she is always with you.” He paused, and that gentle smiled found his weathered face. “And that you will always be her little prince, even though you are a big son-of-bitch.”

And all I could do was wipe my eyes and laugh.

Hi, mom.

Chapter Forty-five

“Last time you were here, Knighthorse, my school was turned upside down. Please, no more bodies.”

Vice Principal Williams’s levity over the tragic suicide of her football coach was a tad alarming, but I let it slide without comment. She had come to the door to shake my hand. Today she was dressed in a white pant suit and a white blouse that was see-through enough to ignite the imagination of any hormone-enraged teenaged boy. And to ignite the imagination of at least one hormone-enraged detective.

“Um, nice blouse,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. She looked down at it. “Or are you just saying that because you can see the outline of my bra?”

“Which qualifies it as a nice blouse.”

She settled into her chair behind her desk. I sat before her. Her gaze did not waver from mine. “I am a married woman.”

I pointed to the rock on her hand. “Not a hard fact to overlook, even for one as highly trained as I.”

“What makes you so highly trained?”

“I apprenticed for two years with my father. And he is the best.”

“You say that almost grudgingly.”

“My father and I have never been close. You could say he was unsupportive in my earlier sporting endeavors.”

“You hold that against him?”

“Yes.”

She studied me some more, and we held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat or two. She inhaled and her chest inflated and the lacy bra pushed out. It was a calculated move.

“Currently my husband and I are separated.”

“I see.”

“What is your situation, Mr. Knighthorse?”

I hesitated. I did not know my situation. Cindy had not called me for two days. As far as I knew she was gone.

“I am in a similar situation,” I said.

“Perhaps we can entertain each other in the meantime.”

“Entertaining is good.”

“How about dinner this weekend?” she asked.

I thought about it. It was getting old drinking alone.

“Mrs. Williams—”

“Please, Dana.”

“Dana, this weekend would be...fine.”

She smiled, relaxed and sat back. She had the attitude of a closed deal. “Now what can I do for you?”

“Where can I find the school band director?”

“Bryan Dawson?”

“If that’s the band director.”

Her fingers drummed the arm of her chair.

“Is there a problem, Dana?” I asked.

She turned in her swivel chair and gazed out her considerable window into the empty quad. I continued to watch her, intrigued by her response.

“Why do you wish to speak to him?”

“Amanda quit the school band unexpectedly. I want to find out why.”

“Seems a reach for your investigation.”

“My job is to reach. Luckily I have a long arm.”

“You can find him here in the mornings. Room one oh seven, around six a.m. Band practice starts at zero period, six forty-five a.m.”

“Is there something I should know about him?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I’m a good detective. Perhaps not as good as my pop, but the next best thing. If there’s something going on with your band director, I’m going to find out about it. But you and I can cut a deal now, and if you make things easy on me, perhaps I will agree to keep things quiet.”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps is the best I can offer.”

“Perhaps is not good enough.”

“Then I will find the truth on my own, and there is no deal.”

She sat back and gazed at me from over steepled fingers. “You are a hard sonofabitch.”

“You have no idea.”

“I just want myself and the school left out of it.”

“I can probably swing that,” I said.

“Probably?”

“Best I can offer right now.”

She got up and shut her door, then sat back down and faced me. She didn’t look me in the eye. Instead she busied herself by adjusting her desk calendar this way and that. She only risked glancing up at me occasionally. Even then she seemed to only focus on my unnaturally broad shoulders. Who could blame her, really?

“Now, there have been some, ah, alleged indiscretions between Mr. Dawson and a couple of his students in the past.”

“Have the allegations been confirmed?”

“No.”

“Was Amanda Peterson one of those who allegedly had an indiscretion?”

“Yes.”

“What did these indiscretions involve?”

“Sexual advances.”

“Has anyone looked into the allegations?”

“I did.”

“And what did you discover?”

“He denied everything and there was no proof, and now one of the girls is dead.”

“And the other?”

“Lives in Washington state.”

“Do you have her address?”

She looked at me blankly. Then turned to her filing cabinet behind her, opened it, and busied herself for the next minute or two thumbing through files. She removed one and brought it to her desk. There she copied some information down on a sticky pad, then passed it over to me. There was a name on it, Donna Trigger, along with a phone number.

Dana sat back. “You are very thorough.”

“No stone unturned.”

“Are you just as thorough in the bedroom?”

“You’ll just have to use your imagination.”

She smiled, and her cheeks turned a little red.

“Oh, I have.”

Chapter Forty-six

I figure if I’m going to haul my ass out to Huntington High by six a.m., then I was going to reward myself with some Krispy Kremes.

Which I did, along with two containers of chocolate milk. I don’t drink coffee, and since I’m still looking to add some weight, whole chocolate milk has the kind of calories I’m looking for.

It was cool enough for the heater, and since I didn’t want to waste all my precious calories shivering, I went ahead and cranked it up. With the ocean to my right, I drove languidly south along Pacific Coast Highway. I was not in a hurry and I had my donuts to keep me company. The ocean was slate gray and choppy this morning, but that did not stop the handful of faithful surfers, who dotted the breakers like so much flotsam.

I turned up a street called Mariner, which, coincidentally, just happened to be Huntington High’s mascot, and neatly finished the last of the Krispy Kremes, slugging it down with the remainder of the chocolate milk. I pulled into the visitor parking spot. My gun had traveled on the seat next to me; these days I kept it particularly handy.

I licked my fingers clean before grabbing the gun and shoving it in my shoulder holster. I just hate sticky gun handles.

* * *

I was waiting outside room 107 when I heard footsteps coming from the adjoining hallway. Instinctively I reached inside my jacket and rested my hand on the handle of the Browning. A man appeared from around the corner. He was young-looking and in his early thirties, thick black hair and a nice build. His face was narrow and clean-shaven. He was a handsome guy; worse, he knew it.

When he saw me, he paused in mid-step.

“Bryan Dawson?” I asked.

He made an effort to smile broadly. It was a good smile, the kind that would melt any impressionable high schooler. However, I was not an impressionable high schooler.

“You are the detective,” he said, brushing past me, knocking a shoulder into mine. It was a calculated shoulder strike, but I didn’t move. He careened briefly off-balance and only recovered by grabbing the door handle.

“Pardon you,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. A little clumsy this early in the morning.”

He had known of me, which I found interesting. Someone had hired the thug, too; someone who had known of me as well.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad your shoulder is okay,” I said jovially. “How do you know me?”

“Someone pointed you out the other day when the police arrived for Coach Castleton. Weren’t you the one who found him?”

“Yes.”

“Must have been awful,” he said. “Seeing his brains and shit all over the place.”

His gaze was unwavering and challenging. I didn’t like him. He was cocky, loud, and too sure of himself.

“It was more awful that he found it necessary to end his life. The murder of Amanda Peterson has had significant repercussions. Not to mention an innocent boy is in jail for the crime.”

“The police don’t seem to think he’s so innocent. For them it’s an open and shut case.”

“Luckily for Derrick, I don’t think it’s so open and shut.”

“Which means what? You’re only a private dick.”

“Means I’m going to find the killer.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“May I come in?”

“No.”

“Did you have a relationship with Amanda?”

“I was her band director.”

“Did you have a relationship with her outside of school?”

“Of course not.”

“Where were you on the night of Amanda Peterson’s murder?”

“I have nothing left to say to you.”

“Of course you don’t.”

And he promptly shut the door in my face.

Jim Knighthorse, master interrogator.

Chapter Forty-seven

It was late and we were at a restaurant called Waters in the city of Irvine. Coincidentally, a small, foul-smelling, man-made lake sat next to the restaurant. I wondered what came first: The lake or the restaurant?

Vice Principal Dana Williams had pushed hard for this meeting, so I agreed to meet her here. I sensed she liked me. I also sensed she was a very lonely woman. So why had I agreed? I didn’t know entirely. She was loosely connected to my case, so I could always justify the meeting in that way. I was also lonely myself. Very lonely. Perhaps we were just two lost souls meeting in the night, at a pretentiously named restaurant.

“Do you talk to your ex-girlfriend much?” asked Mrs. Williams. She emphasized the ex part a little too much.

“She’s not my ex. We’re just taking a break from all the action.”

“What sort of action?” she asked.

“Nevermind,” I said. I didn’t feel like talking about it, especially someone who was all for my break up with Cindy. Anyone who was all for my break up with Cindy was no friend of mine.

“Do you always speak in football jargon?” she asked.

We were seated outside, on the wide, wooden deck that wrapped around the entire restaurant. We had a great view of the fake lake. A duck floated nearby. It could have been fake, too, but I doubted it.

“Yes,” I said simply.

“I see,” she said. She toyed with the red straw sticking out of her margarita. If my lack of enthusiasm for our meeting was making her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. I sensed that she saw me as a challenge. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked suddenly.

Admittedly, the question caught me off-guard. I looked at her from across the table. She was looking ravishing, to say the least. A tight blouse that showed way too much of her chest. Make-up that seemed expertly applied. Hair perfectly framing her pretty face.

“Yeah,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood to dance around the subject.

She beamed, pleased.

Our food arrived. Clams for her. A burger for me. I ate the fries first. She watched me eat. She was about to ask me something, probably something about Cindy, when I cut her off. Enough of the bullshit.

“So how long have you been separated?” I asked.

She shrugged, sipped her drink. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

She leveled her stare at me and I was reminded again that she was very much the vice principal of discipline at Huntington High. When she spoke, she lowered her voice ominously. “I don’t remember, exactly. A few years I suppose. Is that okay?”

“Hey, I’m okay if you’re okay,” I said, and very much wanted to get the hell out of here. Mrs. Williams’s apparent ability to go from flirtatious to bitch was alarming at best.

We ate our food in silence. Actually, I ate and she toyed. I wondered what the clams thought about being killed only to be toyed with.

Probably be pissed off.

“Do you think Derrick killed Amanda?” I asked suddenly. Hey, might as well get some work done. In the least, I could write the dinner off for tax purposes.

“Yes,” she said immediately.

“Why?”

“He had motive and he had the murder weapon.”

“Damning evidence,” I said. “Except that all indications seem to point that he was truly in love with Amanda.”

“Which would make his jealousy all the more unpredictable,” she said. “Wouldn’t it?”

I shrugged. I didn’t like answering leading questions.

We continued to eat. Just beyond, the duck floated unmovingly. I was now certain it was fake. Or asleep.

While we ate, I could sense Mrs. Williams watching me. Her watching me made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Perhaps I sensed in her an unpredictability. She reminded me of my father in that way. Happy one moment, a real piece of work the next.

And for perhaps the hundredth time that evening, I wished with all my heart that Cindy was sitting across from me. I missed her laugh, her smile, her scent. Her everything.

When the bill came, I quickly paid it and we left. As we exited the restaurant, Mrs. Williams looped her arm through mine. I think I shuddered a little.

I walked her to her car, where we stood awkwardly for a few moments. I wanted to leave but she wouldn’t release my arm. Above, the tiny sliver of moon reflected the hollow feeling inside me.

“I had a great time tonight,” she said.

Her words took me by surprise. What date had she been on? I had been miserable.

“We should do it again sometime,” she added.

I nodded dumbly and just wanted to leave. Finally she released my arm and surprised me again by planting a big, wet kiss on my lips. She pulled away and grinned warmly, then got in her massive SUV and drove off.

I stood there in the parking lot, watching her go.

I wanted to run to Cindy.

But I didn’t. Instead, on the way home, I bought a case of beer and drank the night away.

Chapter Forty-eight

I went on a seven mile jog the next morning. I kept an easy pace, and my leg only hurt a little, which was encouraging. I showered and shaved at home, then headed for the office, where I kept my office door locked and the Browning on the desk next to me.

I called Donna Trigger. A girl answered and told me that Donna had classes this morning but I could try later in the afternoon. I said I would, she said cool, popped a bubble and hung up.

Next I called Sanchez on his cell and asked him to run Bryan Dawson’s name through his data base and see what turned up. He said no problem and that if it weren’t for me he wouldn’t have shit to do, nevermind his caseload of homicides to solve. I hung up on him in mid-rant.

I sat back in my chair and realized I had no real clues or suspects, other than two lecherous men with a fondness for young girls. This was so depressing that I felt it necessary to take a nap. I usually don’t need much convincing when it comes to naps.

* * *

The phone woke me. It was just before noon.

“Hi,” said a soft voice. My heart lurched. It was Cindy.

“Hello.”

“Can I see you?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I hung up and sat at my desk for a minute or two until I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly. Within the next few minutes the course of my life would be set. Amazingly, it was out of my hands, and in Cindy’s alone.

* * *

I stood off to the side of my window, looking down onto Beach Blvd, the blinds partly open. Hauling ass down the street and turning dangerously in front of a white pickup, Cindy arrived in her silver Lexus. I could hear the pickup’s angry horn from here.

And trailing behind Cindy was a blue Taurus. Not normally a big deal, granted, but sitting in the driver’s seat was my friend the hitman. He continued on past my building and made a left and disappeared.

He made two mistakes: the first was that I made his plate. The second was that he had involved Cindy.

My phone rang. I grabbed it.

“You’re girlfriend’s cute. Back off, or she’s dead.” The line went dead.

I immediately called Sanchez and got his voice mail. I left the plate number for him to run. Now I was going to owe Sanchez another dinner. So what else was new?

Next I unlocked the door and paced before my couch, trying like hell to get the killer out of my mind and focus on Cindy. To focus on us.

Moving along the cement walkway, heals clicking rapidly along, I could hear Cindy coming.

My hands were sweating; my shoulders were knotted. I resented her for putting me through this. We had been serious for eight years. She knew the dangers inherent to my profession, but she also knew that I could handle them. The only new twist was my interest in resuming my football career; well, and the drinking.

The door to my office opened, and she stood there holding a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers. She came in and set the flowers down on the desk, then threw her arms around me. Her lips found mine and we kissed like lost lovers, which, for a few days, we were. We fumbled our way to the couch, and there we made up for lost time.

And the direction of my life became clear again.

Damn clear.

Chapter Forty-nine

Nestled between a Rite Aide and a laundromat was a little Italian place that I liked, called Frazzi’s. Cindy and I were heading there now for lunch, holding hands. The mid-day sun shone straight down on us, but lacked any real heat, just a bright ornament hanging in the sky.

“So why is Italian your favorite food?” asked Cindy. I sensed she was feeling happy. The weather was nice, and we had just made love, and she wanted to keep things light and fun, at least for the moment. We still hadn’t talked about the heavy stuff, which was fine by me.

“I’ve discovered in the course of my considerable dining experience and extensive travels that a food joint has to work pretty damn hard to screw up Italian food. It’s usually a sure bet.”

“I’ve screwed it up before,” she said.

“Actually, we screwed it up together,” I said.

“Which is why we no longer cook.”

“And why we eat out.”

“Except for you and your damn cereal and PB&Js.”

“Cereal and PB&J’s are my staple. They keep me alive.”

“I know. I think it’s cute.”

Frazzi’s was a narrow restaurant with checkered table cloths and red vinyl seats. We found a booth in the back and sat ourselves. By now Cindy knows to allow me to have the best view of the restaurant, where I keep my eyes on the front door, the butt of my gun loose and free. There wasn’t much for Cindy to look at other than me. Lucky girl.

The waitress came by and we ordered two Cokes.

“So can I say a few things?” asked Cindy.

“Of course.” Here it comes.

“Your drinking worries me. Actually, it’s not the fact that you occasionally get drunk, it’s that you feel you need to drink secretly.”

“Well, it’s not a pretty sight.”

“How long have you been getting drunk?”

I shrugged. “Off and on since I broke my leg.”

“The broken leg was the catalyst?”

“Yes.”

“And nothing else?”

I reached out and took her hand from across the table. She needed to be reassured. I looked at her steadily in the eye. “It’s the only reason.”

“Nothing about me?”

“No.”

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Will you try to stop for me? I’m not asking you to give up drinking altogether, but I’m asking you to stop getting drunk whenever we are away from each other, to stop destroying your liver, to stop feeling so goddamn sorry for yourself.”

“I might need help.”

“I’ll help you.”

Our drinks came, along with some fresh bread and oil.

“The usual, Jim?” asked Mama Lucco. She was Italian and in her mid-forties. I’d been coming here for four years, ever since I set up my agency down the street.

“Make that two,” I said.

When Mama Lucco had moved off, Cindy asked, “What’s the usual?”

“Lasagna, of course.”

“I should have known.”

“So what else is on your mind?”

She took a sip from her Coke, and then tore a piece of bread off, dipped it in oil and gave it to me. I took it, and she repeated the process for herself.

When she was ready, she said, “I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, too, admittedly. I asked myself why couldn’t I have a boyfriend who has a normal job, a job in which his life isn’t threatened by a hired killer, a job that didn’t require you to deal with the dregs of society.”

She paused. I waited.

“But then I realized that you are so goddamn good at what you do, and someone has to set things right in this fucked up world. And if you are willing to do it, then the least I can do is stand by your side, and give you my support.”

I digested this, then asked, “What about football?”

“I don’t know what to make of this football business. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I’ve come to the conclusion that if I go back to you now, I will forever accept you, just the way you are, and deal with whatever comes our way, together. I had a taste of life without you this week, and it was horrible. Just horrible.” She paused and took my hand, and looked me in the eye. “Will you take me back?”

“Yes,” I said.

She kissed my knuckles. “You’ve got me forever, Jim Knighthorse. Or for as long as you can stand me.”

Chapter Fifty

Later, with Cindy teaching an afternoon class, and me wondering how I was going to stay off the booze, Sanchez called.

“I got an address on that plate.”

“Swell.”

“You say it was an older model blue Taurus?”

“Uh huh.”

“How about a green ‘89 Taurus?”

“Green, blue, same difference.”

“Christ, Knighthorse. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“No,” I said. “Greens and blues are tough.”

“That could be the difference in apprehending a felon.”

“We all have our handicaps,” I said. “Mine is coloration. Yours is unattractiveness.”

“Fuck you,” he said, chuckling.

“Perhaps if you were better looking.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Convince the killer to stay away.”

Sanchez was silent. “You’re going to kill him,” he finally said. It wasn’t a question.

“No other way to convince a hitman to stay away.”

“You need help?”

“Wouldn’t that be against the law?”

“Yes.”

“No, thank you. He made it personal. Be better if you stayed out of it, in case something goes wrong.” I paused. “I owe you.”

“Fucking eh, you do. You can start with dinner tonight.”

He gave me the name and address, and hung up. Johnny Bright. I stared at the name for some time.

He should have left Cindy out of it. Would have been healthier for him.

* * *

Next I called Washington state, and this time got hold of Donna Trigger.

“Who’s this?” she asked. Her voice was soft.

“My name is Jim Knighthorse, I’m a private detective down in Huntington Beach. I’m following up on the murder of Amanda Peterson.”

There was silence. Not even a hiss of a connection. “What can I do for you, Mr. Knighthorse?”

“Can I ask you about Bryan Dawson?”

Another pause. “What would you like to know?”

“What was your relationship with Mr. Dawson?”

“He was my band director,” she said evenly. “And my lover.” She caught me admittedly by surprise. But I am a professional, and just as I opened my mouth for the next question, she continued: “And, in the end, my stalker.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“On what?”

“On everything,” I said.

* * *

She did, and when we hung up I had a much clearer picture of Bryan Dawson. And I had no reason to doubt her. Dawson had approached her during her junior year, and she had been flattered because she had always considered him cute. All of the girls did. It began after band camp when he offered to give her a ride home. One thing led to another and they didn’t make it home and she had been honored that he had chosen her out of all the girls. She was seventeen and had been a virgin. She saw him secretly during the next year, but he became possessive and physical and she ended the relationship. He was relentless in his pursuit to win her back. Soon he was following her home, standing outside her windows, calling her repeatedly. And when she began dating someone else, a senior at their school, that someone was brutally attacked one night, leaving the kid with a fractured skull and permanent semi-blindness.

But the stalking had abruptly ended when he found a new girl.

A replacement.

Amanda Peterson.

Chapter Fifty-one

Sanchez and I were across the street from my pad, upstairs at the Huntington Beach Brew Pub.

“Why am I always coming out to O.C. to meet you?” he asked.

“Because I’m worth it,” I said. “What’s Danielle doing tonight?”

“She’s taking a class. Going back to school to get a degree in finance. She’s hit a ceiling at work, needs the degree.”

“It’s about time you let her have a life you chauvinistic Latino pig.”

“Hey, I’m only half Latino.”

We were both drinking the blond house draft, a light, sweet beer.

Sanchez said, “Why is it the blond beer is the lighter beer, and the darker beer gets you drunk faster? Thought blonds have more fun.”

“How long you been thinking that one up?”

“Just came to me. I am, after all, a UCLA-educated Latino.”

Our food came. And lots of it. I had ordered from the appetizer menu, running my forefinger straight down the list and rattling off anything that sounded good. And it all sounded good. Now, plates of nachos, chicken wings, calamari, southwestern eggrolls and even an artichoke were arriving steadily at our table.

“Someone in the kitchen must like you,” said Sanchez, “because they gave you a green flower.”

“It’s called an artichoke, you oaf.”

“Well, your arteries are going to be choking after you eat all that shit.”

Despite myself, I laughed.

“What can I say?” Sanchez said. “I’m on a roll. Can I have any of that shit?”

“Get your own food.”

“Can’t; you cleaned out the kitchen.”

We drank from our beer. The Lakers were playing the Jazz. Shaq was unloading on them.

“So I’ve got news on Pencil Dick.”

“Who’s Pencil Dick?”

“Your teacher friend, Bryan Dawson. Anyone poking high school students is called a pencil dick.”

“I see; what’s the news?”

Sanchez leaned forward on his elbows. “Pencil Dick was involved in another murder up north. In a city called Half Moon Bay.”

“So tell me.”

“A student of his, a band student, disappeared. They found her floating in the San Francisco bay. Pencil Dick was a suspect, but they couldn’t pin anything on him. He quit his job and came down here.”

“Well, then, what do you think we should do?” I asked.

“We tail him. With Amanda gone, he might be looking for new blood.”

Chapter Fifty-two

I found the allegedly green Taurus parked in front of a small woodframe house in Santa Ana. It was 9:00 p.m., and the Taurus still looked blue to me.

Santa Ana is mostly Hispanic and its residents are perhaps the poorest in Orange County. In fact, downtown Santa Ana looks as if it had been lifted whole from Mexico City.

Johnny Bright, as a Caucasian, would stick out in Santa Ana like a sore white thumb.

But one question remained: was Johnny Bright the same guy who took a potshot at my ear? The vehicle could have belonged to a friend. In that case I would follow the friend. Either way, with a paid killer on my ass, I preferred to be proactive in my involvement with him.

I waited in my car around a corner, with a clear view of Bright’s front porch. My own vehicle had nicely tinted windows, and from behind them I watched the house through lightweight high-powered binoculars. I didn’t have many tools of the trade, but this was one of them.

I was listening to Will Durant’s Story of Philosophy on tape. The 5 Freeway arched above the housing tract. Freeway noises, especially the rumble of a Harley, cut through the drone of the tape. I was on my third tape, marching on through Voltaire and the French Enlightenment, when four gang members stopped by the Mustang and looked it over, not realizing I was inside. I rolled down my window and reached under my seat and pulled out a fake police badge.

Another one of my tools....

“Can I help you gentlemen?” I said, flashing the badge.

The first one, a skinny kid with a black bandana tied around his head, shot his hands up as if I had pointed a gun at him. When he spoke he had a long, drawling Hispanic accent, punctuated by jerky hand movements.

“Don’t shoot me, officer, I didn’t mean to look at your killer set of wheels.”

“You can look but don’t touch.”

“Waddya doin’ here?” asked the kid, their obvious leader.

“Watching you boys.”

“Are you gay, too?”

His buddies slapped each other high fives.

Behind them there was movement in Bright’s house, but I couldn’t see because the gang members were in my way. I heard a screen door swing open and slap shut.

“Beat it,” I said.

The three of them waited for their leader. The leader squinted at me and seemed to recognize me. I get this kind of partial recognition a lot. Probably because at one point in their lives they had seen me on their TV screens, or in their newspapers, or sports magazines. But this kid was young, perhaps too young to know of me. But you never knew.

He jerked his head. “Let’s roll,” he told the others.

They sauntered off. One called me a pig. They would be potential witnesses; that is, if the police tried very hard to investigate the murder.

Murder?

Yeah, someone’s going to die tonight.

Across the street, Fuck Nut, with his slicked-back graying hair visible from even here, opened the door to his Taurus and got in.

Chapter Fifty-three

We drove through Santa Ana. I tailed him using tricks gleaned from my father. Once, at a red light, I even turned into a liquor store parking lot. When the light turned green again, I pulled out of the parking lot and continued tailing him.

At least I was amusing myself.

He pulled into a Taco Bell, and I waited across the street. He went through the drive-thru, and when he exited I followed him back to his house.

Across the street, I waited for him to finish his tacos, since it was his last meal. As I waited, I listened to the beating of my heart, filling the silence now that the book on tape had been turned off. The thudding filled my ears, and I focused on that rather than what was about to come. What had to come. I didn’t think of myself as a killer, but sometimes you had to do what you had to do. I needed this guy off my ass and away from Cindy.

When twenty minutes had passed, I stepped out of my car, crossed the street and walked up his front porch. The porch was made of cement, and my footfalls made no sound.

I stood before the door, aimed for the area under the doorknob, lifted my foot and smashed it open. Wood splintered. The door swung open on one hinge, and I kicked it the rest of the way open.

“What the fuck?” came a startled voice from inside.

Johnny Bright, a.k.a. Fuck Nut, was now dressed in a wife beater and blue boxers. On the coffee table before him was a porn magazine. There were little boys on the cover.               He had dropped his soft taco in his alarm, and had just wrapped his fingers around the handle of his own 9mm.

Standing in the doorway, I shot him four times in the chest.

When I was about three miles away, in a city called Fountain Valley, I pulled over to the side of the road and threw up my breakfast, lunch and dinner.

And I kept throwing up....

Chapter Fifty-four

He was waiting for me at the back of McDonald’s. I sat down without ordering. I was still feeling sick to my stomach, and the thought of a greasy McGriddle did little to alleviate the queasiness.

I didn’t look him in the eye, although I could feel his on me. Today, he was smelling especially ripe, as if he had slept in a dumpster. Hell, as if he was a dumpster.

A few minutes of this and I finally risked looking up. He was smiling at me kindly, and the love and warmth in his eyes was almost unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What are you sorry for?” he asked.

“If you are God, you know.”

We were silent some more. I didn’t feel like playing his head games today. If he was God, then let him take the next step. If not, then I was content to sit across from him until the smell of frying bacon made me hurl. Which might be sooner rather than later.

“He was a very troubled man,” said Jack.

“Yes, he was,”

“He made many poor choices.”

I took in some air. The queasiness seemed to intensify as I relived Fuck Nut’s last moments.

“Perhaps his poorest choice was threatening Cindy,” said Jack.

I had never once mentioned Cindy’s name to the man sitting across from me. The fact that he knew who she was should have amazed me, but in my current state of disarray, it was mostly lost on me.

“A very poor choice,” I said.

“And you were forced to take action to protect her.”

“Yes.”

“So what are you sorry for?”

“For killing him.”

“He wanted to die, Jim. He knew this day was coming. He was miserable and lonely and hated every day that he was alive.”

I said nothing. I could not speak. His words did, however, ease some of the queasiness. I sat a little straighter even as I felt a little better.

“Is he going to hell?” I asked.

“He is in a place you do not want to be.”

We’d had this discussion before and I didn’t feel like getting into it now. There was no heaven or hell, but only worlds of our own creations. There was no punishment in the afterlife, only reflection and recreation. Blah blah blah. New age mumbo-jumbo. I didn’t want to hear it. I had killed a man and that was my reality.

“He hurt a lot of kids, too,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Hey, I’ve got a fucking question for you, Jack...God, or whoever the fuck you are. Why the fuck did you allow him to hurt innocent kids? There you go. Answer that question. I’m sure there’s a million mothers out there who’ve lost innocent children who’d just love an answer to that one. Oh, wait, never mind. You’re just a bum and I’m a fucking idiot for coming in to a fucking McDonald’s and entertaining the idea that you might be something more than just street trash.” I stopped, took a deep breath.

“You done?” asked Jack.

I nodded, sitting back, my heart yammering in my chest.

“Nobody dies without the spirit’s consent,” said Jack.

“So a child who’s kidnapped, raped and buried alive gives such a consent.”

“Yes.”

“But they’re a fucking child, Jack. How the fuck could a child make that kind of a decision?”

“The decision was made long ago.”

“Long ago? You mean in a place where time suddenly does exist?”

He ignored my sarcasm.

“Prior to taking on the body, the soul made an agreement with another soul—”

I cut him off; this was just pissing me off.

“An agreement to allow themselves to be raped and killed? How very generous of the soul.”

Jack looked at me for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Very generous.”

“And that’s supposed to comfort a grieving mother? A mother who, say, just lost her child to a sick-ass motherfucker?”

“Such a death serves many purposes, Jim. There is a ripple effect that will touch many, many lives for generations to come.”

“Fine. Many lives are touched. It’s a noble act of sacrifice. But it’s the thought of their child suffering that drives parents mad with grief. The fact that their baby suffered at the hands of an animal.”

Jack said nothing, although he did finally sip his coffee. Glad to see he still had his taste for coffee.

Finally, he said, “You might be pleased to know that a spirit may leave the body whenever it wants.”

“A child could leave its body?”

“Yes.”

“And not suffer?”

Jack looked at me and smiled very deeply and kindly, and I saw, for the first time ever, that there were tears in his eyes.

“And not suffer,” he said.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Chapter Fifty-five

Two days later I was in San Diego, about an hour and a half south from Huntington Beach.

It was 10:00 a.m. sharp and I was sitting alone in a leather sofa in an ornate office overlooking the lush playing field at Qualcomm Stadium. The field, as viewed through the massive window, was empty.

The office was covered with photographs of past personnel and players. I recognized almost all of them, since football was my life. Not to mention, I had taken a particularly keen interest in the San Diego Chargers since their last offer.

I was dressed to the nines in khakis and cordovan loafers and a blue silk shirt that accentuated my blue eyes. At least that’s what I’m told.

A door opened and a little bald man with gold rimmed glasses came in. He saw me, smiled brightly, and moved over to me with surprising speed. Of course, it shouldn’t be too surprising, Aaron Larkin had been free safety for the Chargers for most of his career in the seventies. In the seventies, he had not been bald.

“My God, Knighthorse, you are a big boy,” he said, pumping my hand.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

He laughed and gestured for me to sit. He moved behind his black lacquer desk and took a seat. Larkin leaned forward eagerly and laced his fingers together before him. His fingers were thick and gnarled and some seemed particularly crooked, not too surprising after a full career in football. Between high school, college and the pros, fingers were bound to get broken.

“We are very excited to hear from you,” Aaron Larkin began.

“Excitement is good. I am happy to be here.”

“Well, we had given up on you. Such a tragedy about your leg. But my God you have kept yourself fit. And we need someone like you badly. Hell, who doesn’t need a fullback nowadays?”

“Outside of football, few people.”

He laughed. “We want to give you a private workout in two weeks. If we like what we see we’ll invite you to training camp. We are honored that you’re here, Knighthorse. My God you were an unholy terror on the playing field. Your services could be very, very valuable to us. So how is the leg?” he asked, and his voice was filled with genuine concern, and for that I liked the guy immensely.

“It has healed completely.” I lied. It hurt like a motherfucker.

“An utter miracle. I watched you coming down the hall. There’s no limp to speak of.”

The hallways had been empty. He must have been watching me on some closed circuit TV. A sort of high tech surveillance to monitor my gait.

“Well, I’m a hell of a specimen.”

“Around here, they all are.”

We set a date for my mini-workout, and when I left his office, I waved to the little camera situated in the upper corner of the hallway.

Chapter Fifty-six

“Where the hell is he?” asked Sanchez.

I shrugged.

“Did you just shrug?” he asked. “Because it’s too dark to tell. I mean there’s a hundred reasons why I’m one of the best homicide detectives in LAPD, but seeing in the dark ain’t one of them.”

“Neither is using proper English.”

“Hell you’re lucky I’m using any English at all, being of Latino descent, and this being Southern California.”

“This is America, you know.”

“Unfortunately there ain’t no such thing as speaking American.”

“Too bad.”

“And last time I checked we ain’t in England, so fuck English.”

We were waiting outside of Huntington High in my Mustang. It was past 7:00 p.m., and Bryan Dawson, or Pencil Dick, was still in his office. We had been waiting here for the past four hours. Students were long gone, including most of the faculty. We had watched the sun set over the Pacific.

“I’m hungry,” said Sanchez.

“There’s a Wendy’s around the corner. Why don’t you go get us something to eat.”

“Why don’t you give me the fucking money to go get us something to eat.”

“When was the last time you paid for anything?” I asked.

“The last time you helped me solve a case.”

I gave him the cash. Sanchez left, and the mere thought of a burger and fries made my stomach start to growl. We had been following Pencil Dick for four straight days. So far there was no evidence of any extracurricular activities on the part of the band director, other than his fondness for frozen yogurt.

Sanchez came back with a massive grease-stained bag of food. We ate silently and quickly, drinking from two plastic buckets that were passed off as jumbo drinks. And when we were finished, when the eating noises finally stopped altogether, when the debris had been collected back into the bags, I saw a familiar sight.

Coming down through a side hall, turning into the faculty parking lot, was a handsome man with dark hair. He was carrying a briefcase, and looked far too important to be just a band director. Or at least that was the impression he presented. He got into a red Jetta.

“Let’s roll,” I said.

Chapter Fifty-seven

Bryan Dawson lived in a condo about a mile from the beach. We were currently heading in the opposite direction.

“He’s not heading home,” said Sanchez.

“Astute,” I said.

I was three cars behind the Huntington band director, sometimes drifting back to four or five. To date, he had made no indication that he knew he was being followed.

“You’re following too close.”

“No, I’m not.”

“He’s going to make us.”

“He’s not going to make us,” I said. “And I’m the one who taught you how to tail.”

“But I’m the one who got all the tail.”

“So you say.”

We were heading deeper into Huntington Beach. In fact, we were just a few blocks from my office.

“Know someone works around here,” said Sanchez. “Thinks he’s a detective.”

The Jetta suddenly turned into an empty bank parking lot. I pulled to the side of the road and killed the headlights, giving us a good view of Pencil Dick. From the shadows, a lithe figured stepped away from the building and into Dawson’s car. The Jetta swung around, exited the parking lot and was soon heading back our way. Sanchez and I both ducked.

“You realize that we look like fools,” said Sanchez as the car sped past us. “The windows are tinted. They can‘t see us.”

“They especially can’t see you,” I said.

“Is that a comment on my darkish skin?”

“Your dark skin.”

“I’m proud of my dark skin.”

“Good for you,” I said, peeking up and looking in my rearview mirror. Dawson was heading south, probably home. I flicked on the lights. “And away we go.”

Chapter Fifty-eight

I followed four car lengths behind the Jetta. Judging by Dawson’s preoccupation with his newly acquired passenger, I probably could have followed directly behind him with my brights on, with little fear of being made.

“She just disappeared,” said Sanchez.

“In his lap,” I said.

“You think she’s inspecting the quality of his zipper?”

“She’s inspecting something.”

The Jetta swerved slightly to the right. Dawson over-compensated and swerved to the left. He finally regained some control, although he now drove more toward the right side of the lane and even on the line itself.

“Seems distracted,” said Sanchez.

“Yep.”

“How old do you think she is?”

“No way of telling yet,” I said.

“In the least, gonna nail him for statutory rape.”

“Got the camera?”

Sanchez reached around and grabbed a nifty piece of equipment. It was a high resolution camcorder with night vision capabilities.

“So you know how to work this thing?” he asked.

“No idea. But we should figure it out fairly quickly.”

The Jetta braked and made a right into a massive condo complex. I pulled immediately into a maintenance parking spot near the trash dumpster.

“Okay,” Sanchez said, “I’ve got it rolling.”

“Zoom in on the car.”

I heard the whir of the zoom feature, and watched the lens stretch out like a probing eye. A green light feature indicated that the night vision capability was currently being used.

“Keep it steady,” I said.

“That’s what your mom told me back in high school.”

“I didn’t know you back in high school. Plus, my mom was killed when I was ten.”

He pulled away from the camera. “No shit? How was she killed?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He shrugged, lifted the camera back up to his eye. “Fine.”

I said, “Here they come.”

“Nice choice of words.”

The girl emerged from her position in his lap. We both hunched down. The doors opened. I peaked through the steering wheel. Although the windshield was tinted, it was not as dark as the door glass. Someone looking hard enough could still spot us.

“You need to get a van. This is bullshit.”

“When you talk the camera moves. So don’t.”

They headed our way, laughing and holding hands. Dawson’s shirt was untucked. They continued toward us. Sanchez turned in his seat and followed them. As if on cue, Dawson stopped next to Sanchez’s door, turned the girl around, planted a big kiss on her lips, and felt her up.

“You getting this?” I whispered.

“Oh, yeah.”

“How old do you think she is?” I asked.

They continued up a flight of stairs and disappeared. Sanchez pulled the camera away from his eye.

“Too young.”

I said, “Goodbye, Pencil Dick.”

Chapter Fifty-nine

I was in my office, feet up on my desk, fingers laced behind my head, a classic detective pose. Of course I had just finished doing two hundred military push ups. Let’s see Colombo do that.

When the burn in my arms and chest had resided, I did some tricep dips along the edge of my desk. I’ve been doing these tricep dips every day since I was fifteen. I could do them all day long. I was at two hundred and seventy-one when my fax machine turned on. I cranked out another twenty-nine, because I like things neat and tidy, finishing in a flourish just as the fax machine stopped spitting out its image.

The fax machine sat on top of a short bookcase. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with philosophy textbooks and modern philosophical works of particular interest to me, along with all of Clive Cussler’s novels, my guilty pleasure.

In my fax tray was a grainy photograph. A grainy police photograph, courtesy of Sanchez.

My stomach turned; I felt sickened all over again.

I carefully put the faxed photograph in a manila folder, grabbed my car keys and wallet from the desk’s top drawer and left the office.

* * *

Huntington Beach was paradise. The best weather on earth. Few people would argue with me on that point. I drove south along the coast. Something must have been brewing off the coast, because there were some amazing sets crashing in. Alert Huntington surfers, or, rather, those with no life to speak of, were capitalizing on the gnarly waves. Dude. Their black forms, looking from this distance like trained seals, cut across the waves.

Two miles up the coast I turned left and headed up a small incline and parked in front of Huntington High. My home away from home.

It was 3:16 p.m., school was just out.

I moved up the central artery, past hundreds of yellow lockers, searching down row after row, until I spotted a janitor’s cart parked outside a classroom.

* * *

Mario and I were sitting opposite each other in student desks that were entirely too small. My knees almost touched my ears. Desks seemed bigger in my day.

Mario was studying the photograph, not saying much. The scent of after shave, sweat and cleaning agents came from him.

Finally he looked up at me. “Yes,” he said slowly, enunciating clearly. “That is him.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded. “You killed him?”

I said nothing. He said nothing and looked away.

“He was a motherfucker,” said Mario. “I am glad he is dead. He said he would kill my whole family.”

“I know.”

Mario pointed with a thick finger. “Someone shot him four times in the chest. I would have shot him in his fucking face, too.” He spat to the side. His lower lip was quivering. His accent was thick and heavy, his words now even more difficult to discern. “Why did he threaten my family? He is in hell. Straight to hell.”

The thought of me sending Fuck Nut to hell was a bit burdensome. I decided to change the subject, somewhat.

“But the person who hired him is still free, Mario. We need to find him next. Do you understand?”

Mario nodded.

“Mario, what did you see on the night Amanda was murdered?”

I waited for him. His lower lip continued to quiver, and he seemed briefly unable to speak, but soon he regained some control of himself, and once he did, he told me everything.

And I mean everything.

Chapter Sixty

At 8:00 a.m., on a slightly overcast morning, I was driving south on the 5 Freeway with the windows down. My head was clear and empty, which was the way I preferred it. I had stayed off the booze for over a week and felt pretty good about it. I had had a good week of workouts, even though my leg hurt like hell, even at this very moment.

To me the pain was worth it to play football.

The traffic out to San Diego was heavy but steady. At the rate I was going, I would be in San Diego in two hours.

Two hours.

Despite my desire to keep my head clear, I thought about this aspect of traffic, and realized again I may have to move to San Diego if I made the team. If so, then I would see less of Cindy.

Not a good thing.

All to chase a dream I had given up on. A dream that had been taken away from me. It had been the dream of a young man, a twenty-two year old man.

I was now thirty.

For a fleeting instant the need to pursue an old dream, to re-hash what I had put aside, seemed sad and silly.

But it was the NFL, man. These were the big boys.

I had been on my way to the NFL. College ball had been surprisingly easy for me. I was a man among boys. Perhaps I thought more highly of myself than I should, but I had been pursued by the NFL since my sophomore year, and rarely has a day gone by that I had not wished that I had entered the draft sooner, prior to the injury. But I had chosen to stay in college. I had wanted my body to fully mature, to be physically ready for the rigors of the NFL. Mine was a demanding position, not as glamorous as some, but tough as hell.

At the moment, my leg was throbbing. Going from the gas to the brake pedal was taking a steady toll.

I shifted in my seat to ease some of the pressure.

I had taken three Advils this morning. The Advils didn’t work, although my headache was long gone.

Was I good enough to make it in the pros?

Yeah, probably. College ball certainly couldn’t contain me.

Traffic picked up a little. I entered San Diego county. Signs were posted along this stretch of freeway to be alert for illegal aliens running across the freeway, a picture of a mother holding a child, being led by the man.

I was thirty years old. I had moved on. I had a career as a detective. I was good at it. Hell, I even knew who killed Amanda.

A killer who needed to be stopped at all costs.

I thought of Cindy and our relationship. She had left me for a week, and then had come back to me. One of the hardest week’s of my life. Too hard. Yet she had come back on her own, and I had done nothing to convince her that I was right for her. She had made that decision on her own.

Could I have made the NFL? Yeah, probably.

My leg would continue to throb every day of my pro football career. Football was a twenty-two year old’s dream. I was thirty.

I thought of my mother and her own unsolved murder.

There was much to do.

Time to quit screwing around.

At the next exit, I pulled off the freeway, turned around and headed back the way I had come. It was the start of a new day in my life. A new direction. New everything.

My leg felt better already.

Chapter Sixty-one

On the way back to Orange County I pulled out my cell phone and made a few phone calls, one of them to Aaron Larkin of the Chargers. I left him a voice message thanking him for the opportunity, but I had decided to move on.

He returned my phone call almost instantly, furious. “Move on? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Means I’m not coming in.”

There was a pause, and I knew he was thinking: players would give their left nut for this opportunity.

“I don’t understand. Do you want to reschedule? I’ll reschedule for you, Knighthorse, even though we have a whole crew out there waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What happened?”

“Life happened.”

“You could make our team, Knighthorse.”

“I know.”

“Don’t do this.”

“I have a killer to catch. Hell, two killers to catch. But for now, I will take one.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I have a job to do, and I’m good at it.”

“This is the last time I’m asking, Jim. You walk away from this now and no one, and I mean no one, will give you another opportunity.”

“Good luck with the coming season. Go Chargers.” I hung up, then called Detective Hanson of Huntington Beach Homicide.

Chapter Sixty-two

I arrived at Huntington High later that same day just as Mrs. Williams, the vice principal of discipline, was climbing into her Ford Excursion. The Excursion was raised an extra foot or two, and she looked miniscule sitting there in the driver’s seat, adjusting her skirt. Her skirt rested just above the knees, exactly where most skirts should be.

I patted the fender of the Excursion. “You could conquer a small Baltic country with this thing.”

“But could you take over a small Baltic country with your thing?” She glanced down at my crotch just in case I hadn’t picked up on the innuendo.

I said, “Only if they were susceptible to fits of hysterical laughter.”

She reached out and touched my arm. Her eyes were extraordinarily large at the moment. Green as hell. Or maybe blue. Hell, I didn’t know. Her pupils were pinpricks. I could see the fine lines around her eyes and lips. She didn’t blink.

“A big guy like you. I’m sure you’re being modest.”

“Mrs. Williams, are you flirting with me?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Just as long as we’re clear on that point.”

“Oh, we’re clear.”

Her thigh was about face high. It was muscular, smooth and tan. She moved it toward me, and when she did her skirt rode up, showing more skin.

“You and I need to talk.”

“Oh, we’re going to do more than talk, sugar butt,” she said. “Follow me home.”

And so I followed her.

Sugar butt?

* * *

We drove south along PCH, through Newport Beach and into Laguna. She drove quickly, darting in and out of traffic, her need to see me without my shirt on pushing her to drive recklessly. Or perhaps she had to pee. Luckily the Excursion was big enough to follow from outer space.

She turned into a gated community, then waited for me to catch up. When I had done so, a pair of wrought iron doors swung open, and I followed her in, passing beautiful Mediterranean homes, each more elaborate than the next.

A garage door opened on my right and she pulled the Excursion all the way into what must have been a hell of a deep garage. I parked in the driveway and got out.

The sun was hot on my neck. I was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt, jeans and black hiking boots, although I wasn’t planning on going for a hike any time soon.

She stepped expertly down from the monster truck and beckoned me to follow her through a doorway that led into her kitchen. Once inside she tossed her keys on a counter near the phone and dropped her purse onto the seat of a dining chair. I felt the need to toss something of my own, but decided to hold on to my wallet and keys. The kitchen was paved with tan Spanish tile, and the cabinets were immaculate.

“Vice principals in charge of discipline do well,” I said.

“Oh, they do. Especially for those who do their job well.”

“I imagine you are one of those.”

“Discipline is not something I take lightly, Mr. Knighthorse.”

“I see. Does anyone oversee you, Mrs. Williams?”

“Dana, please.” She took hold of my hand and led me out of the kitchen and into a much larger room. She hit the lights. “The answer is no one oversees me. Not really. If I failed to do my duties the school board would consider a demotion, but in actuality I am judge, jury and executioner at Huntington High.”

“An interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, I don’t lay a hand on them,” she said.

“But do you want to?”

“Always,” she said without hesitation. “Some of them need to be beaten into submission.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She laughed. “What would you like to drink?”

“Soda water is fine.”

The room was very adult. There was a zinc-topped bar in one corner, filled with all sorts of alcoholic delights. Dana was there fixing us a couple of drinks. Off to the right was a large cigar box sitting on a delicate end table. Original artwork from local painters adorned the wall. I walked over to one and studied it. It was a stylized surfer hanging ten.

She walked over with my drink, took hold of my hand again and led me to a leather couch in the middle of the room. I sipped the soda water. She had spiked it with scotch. I didn’t say anything, just set it down on a coaster on the glass coffee table. She was watching me closely.

“Do you like your drink?” she asked.

“It’s very nice.”

“I have never held the hand of someone so goddamn big before. Look at your hand, it dwarfs mine.”

“You should see my feet.”

“And you know what they say about that.”

“I guess you could say I stepped into that one.”

She giggled and drank deeply from her glass, then got up and made herself another. She seemed to be drinking something green on the rocks. Perhaps a Midori sour. She came back and sat closer to me. Our legs were touching. I was not aroused.

“How long have you been separated, Dana?”

“Does it matter?” she asked, leaning over and kissing my neck.

“Well it might should your husband use this moment to show up and make amends.”

“Oh, please. You could handle him with one hand behind your back. However, he won’t be coming home anytime soon. Does that put you at ease, sweetums?”

Sweetums?

“How long have you been separated?” I asked. “Six months? A year? Five years?”

She started unbuttoning my shirt. “Let’s not go down that road right now, sugar butt.”

As she reached for the next button, I grabbed her hand and pulled it away. “You’re not separated are you?”

A small sound escaped from her lips.

“In fact, you are divorced, and have been from Bryan Dawson, current band director at Huntington High, for the past seven years.”

“So what do you want, a fucking reward?” When she spoke, she glanced at the ornate end table. There was a small drawer within the end table. The glance was fleeting, then settled back on me. She leaned over and drank more of her Midori sour.

“Why did he divorce you?”

She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him that.”

“I will. But I want to know why he divorced you when in fact he was the one cheating on you.”

She shrugged again. “Apparently he was scared of my temper. Pussy.”

“Why didn’t you leave him?”

“It’s called love, Knighthorse. I forgave him.”

“But he was having sex with his students.”

“None of us are perfect.”

“You lived up north. How did you both end up here at Huntington High?”

She was sitting at the edge of her couch, her empty glass dangling from her hand. The ice cubes had a greenish hue to them. Her jaw was tight and rigid. There was a deadness to her eyes that might have been caused by the alcohol. Might.

“I came down first, once I realized the marriage was over. Tried to start over. I have a masters in educational administration. Never wanted to be a teacher, always wanted to someday work on the school board, where the money is. Because of sexual allegations, he lost his job up north, then couldn’t find work anywhere. Said if he came down here and if I helped him get a job that he would go straight and we could start over again. I still loved him; the idea appealed to me.”

“So you got him a job at your school?”

“Yeah. I had enough clout to push his application on through. There are some people who fear me.”

“Imagine that.”

“So he came down, hired on as a history teacher, and soon worked his way to band director. I was using my maiden name, and we kept things quiet about our divorce.”

“But you started things up again romantically?”

She smiled faintly and looked away, looking back into her past. “Yes. It was nice. I felt the love again, you know. Real love. It was nice to have him back.”

“Why do you claim to be separated, when, in fact, you are divorced?”

“Being divorced doesn’t look good in my field. Makes you look unstable and less than desirable to oversee school policy.” She got up and refreshed her drink.

“But then the allegations about Bryan started again,” I said.

“Yes. The little bitches throw themselves at him.”

“Is that what he tells you?”

“That’s what I know. Have you seen him? Christ, he’s good looking.”

“A real treat to the eye,” I said. “So you blame the girls and not him?”

She turned on me, her drink sloshing over the rim and down her hand. “Of course I blame them.”

“Amanda Peterson tried to leave Dawson, but he stalked her. Same with Donna Trigger. He stalked them relentlessly.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Amanda was seeing Derrick steadily. She considered her relationship with Dawson a mistake, but he would not let her go.”

“Fucking bullshit. She was obsessed with him.”

Her eyes darted around the room unsteadily, restlessly. She was twisting her hands in her lap. Her eyes repeatedly came to rest on the end table.

I continued, “I have a man, a certain janitor, who tells me he saw you put something in the back of Derrick Mason’s car on the night of Amanda’s murder. This janitor was later threatened by the same thug who threatened me.”

She was breathing quickly. “Fucking nigger comes to my school, bringing with him his fucking nigger attitude.”

“I assume you’re speaking of Derrick Booker?”

“The fucking nigger.”

“Yes, we’ve established that. Derrick loved Amanda.”

“Or so he says.”

“What did you put in the back of Derrick’s car?”

“Why would you believe I put something in his car?”

“Because the witness is credible.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like me.”

“Hard to believe,” I said. “Did you put something in the back of Derrick’s car?”

She looked at me, and her eyes were alight with tears and something strange. Something akin to triumph. “The knife I used to kill Amanda. Killed two birds with one stone really. Got rid of the skank-whore and the nigger in one fell swoop.”

I took in some air. I knew she had also hired the hitman, but that was a subject I was reticent to bring up, since the death of Johnny Bright was still an on-going murder investigation. The less said, the better.

“Why did you kill Amanda?”

“So she would leave my Bryan alone, the fucking skank-whore.”

“Did you kill any others?”

She tilted her head and smiled. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Boy, can I.”

“There was one up north.”

“What was her name?”

“Tabitha something-or-other.”

“You disposed of the body in the San Francisco Bay?”

“My my my, you are a good detective aren’t you?”

“That’s why I make the big bucks.”

“Do you really?”

“No. Not really.”

“So you just lied to me.”

“It was meant to be witty repartee.”

“I hate liars.”

She spun away rapidly, reached for the end table drawer, yanked it open. I was at her side in three long strides. I lifted my foot and kicked the drawer closed just as her fingers curled around a revolver. She screamed in pain and frustration, turned and lashed out at me. I avoided the swipe, managed to keep my foot on the drawer, trapping her.

She clawed at my leg, but jeans are a wonderful thing: snug, tight and protective. Finally, she pounded on my poor injured leg until she sagged to the ground, whimpering.

We stayed like that until Detective Hanson, listening in on the wire strapped to my chest, burst in through the front door.

Chapter Sixty-three

The black and white kitten was stalking my pencil eraser. It had white paws and a patch of white fur on its chest. It was slowly picking its way across my cluttered desk, around a Vicks Chloraseptic, over the latest James Rollins novel, and finally peering around my water bottle. From there it had a good view of the pencil eraser, which, coincidentally was twitching invitingly in my fingers. Now within perfect pouncing range, the kitten dug its hind paws into the grain of my pine desk, wound itself tight as a drum, then sprang forward, pouncing like a true champion. The eraser didn’t stand a chance. The kitten and pencil rolled together across my desk in a furry ball of black and white.

My door opened, and in came defense attorney Charlie Brown and his faithful assistant Mary Cho. Charlie was bald as ever and Mary Cho’s skirt still hung just above her knees. Nice knees. I looked up at her; she was frowning.

Caught again.

Charlie walked over and dropped an envelope on my desktop. The kitten pounced on the envelope. Charlie jumped back, surprised as hell that something on my desk actually moved. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat, tried his best to look venerable. When he spoke, he kept his eye on the feline just in case it should make an attempt on his jugular.

“A bonus,” he said to me. “For catching the bad guy.”

I looked at the envelope, which at the moment was feeling the unholy wrath of the furry critter. “You don’t give a shit about the bad guy. Your client’s free, and that’s all that matters to you.”

“I do give a shit, and I resent you saying that. That’s slander.”

“So sue me. Know any good attorneys?”

“Fuck you, Knighthorse. If you quit being such a hardass, I might throw you some more cases, seeing as you performed above expectations on this one.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Charlie,” I said.

He sighed. “Charles.”

I picked up the kitten and thrust it toward the attorney; he jumped back, stepping on his assistant’s toes, who stifled a scream.

I said, “Would you like to hold him, Charlie?”

“No, godammit. And it’s Charlie. I mean Charles. Fuck.” He turned and left.

“Assistant Cho, how about you: would you like to pet my kitty?”

“You’re a pig.”

When they were gone, I brought the kitten to my face and kissed his little wet nose. “What did I say?”

* * *

Cat Peterson left her abusive husband and she and her daughter moved in with her sister in a modest Spanish-style home in a city called Temecula, in a neighboring county called Riverside, a county made popular in many a Perry Mason novel. I pulled up in front of the house and, kitten in hand, walked up to the front door and rang the bell. As I waited, the kitten made every effort to kill my nose.

“It’s been fun having you around,” I said to him. “But you’re going to grow up with a little girl now. You take good care of her, okay?”

He gnawed on my thumb, purring.

The door opened and once again I found myself staring down at little Alyssa.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said.

“Tinker Bell ran away.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

I bent down and handed her the kitten. She gasped, then ripped the little booger from my fingers and hugged it with everything she had. The kitten, perhaps realizing that it had met its energetic match, submitted to the unabashed love. She twirled him around and around and dashed inside the house screaming for her mother to look at Tinker Bell Jr.

If ever a kitten was destined to be gay, it was Tinker Bell Jr. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that.

Footsteps echoed along the tiled entryway, and Cat Peterson appeared in the doorway. She was smiling, shaking her head.

“How did you know her cat ran away?” she asked me, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. There was a hint of a smile on her face.

“Might be better if you didn’t know.”

She nodded, suddenly somber. “I see.”

I was motionless; she wasn’t looking at me. Suddenly, and with surprising speed, she threw herself into my arms and thanked me over and over again for finding her daughter’s killer. She didn’t let go and I let her hold me and cry on me, and we stood like that for a long, long time.

Chapter Sixty-four

It was a rare spring storm.

Cindy and I were sitting together on my sofa, my arm around her shoulders, looking out through my open patio doors. The rain was coming down steadily and hard, drumming on my glass patio table. In the distance, above the rooftop of the restaurants, the sky was slate gray, low and ominous.

“You like this kind of weather,” said Cindy.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s different. Don’t you ever get tired of the never-ending sunny days?”

“No.”

“Don’t you ever think that it’s nice for the land to replenish itself?”

“Only when you bring it up.”

“Wanna walk in the rain?” I asked.

“I thought your leg hurt in this kind of weather.”

“It does.”

“But it’s nothing like the hurt you’ve been putting it through these past few weeks,” she said.

“I was blinded to the pain,” I said, “pursuing an old dream.”

“You’re not blinded now?”

“No,” I said. “The blinders are off. And now my leg just hurts like hell.”

“What about your dream?”

“The dream was there for the taking. I didn’t take it.”

“Why?”

“People change. Dreams change. Life goes on. If I really wanted it, I would pursue it.”

“So you don’t really want it? Is that because of me? God, I feel horrible.”

“Not because of you. When I was twenty-two, I wanted to prove I could play in the NFL. I wanted to prove I was tough enough. I had no other goals in life, no other conceivable ambition. Then, suddenly, I was forced to rethink and refocus my life, and I discovered that I could live without playing football.”

“But you’ve always been...bitter towards being a detective. Because it was something your father did. It was something that caused him not to be in your life when you were growing up.”

“Father runs a big agency. I am determined never to be that big. But you’re right, I was bitter towards my job. It was not my first choice. But then something happened.”

“You discovered you were good at detecting,” she said. “Damn good.”

“Yes.”

“What about proving yourself in the NFL?”

“Maybe some things are better left unproven.”

“But you think you could have made it?”

“In a heartbeat.” I said. “Wanna go for that walk?”

“Okay.”

I knew she didn’t want to get wet, but she did it for me. We got our coats on. I grabbed an umbrella for her. I didn’t mind getting wet.

Outside, in the rain, we moved slowly along Main Street. The shops and stores were all open, and a trickle of tourists, looking confused at this unprecedented Southern California weather, moved past us. I heard one of them say: “We can get rain at home.”

“Can’t please everyone,” I said to Cindy.

“No.”

“Want some chocolate?” I asked.

“Mmm, sounds yummy.”

We ducked into The Chocolatiers. A massive peanut butter cup for me and a sugar-free almond rocca for Cindy.

“Sugar-free?” I asked, when we stepped outside again.

“You can’t taste the difference.”

“Sure.”

“Plus it’s half the calories.”

We sat down on a bench under an awning and ate our chocolate and watched the rain.

“How’s Derrick doing?” asked Cindy.

“His family is moving east. Hard to have a normal life after being accused of murder. Kid will be looked at differently, no matter how innocent he is. UCLA is interested in giving him a scholarship.”

“Did you have anything to do with that?”

“I happen to know a few people there.”

“So your work here is done?”

I looked away, inhaling deeply.

She reached out and placed her hand on top of mine. It was warm and comforting.

“You’re thinking of your mother,” she said.

I kept looking away. “Her killer is still out there.”

The rain continued to fall. She continued holding my hand. She squeezed it.

“You’re going to find him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know what I will do to him when I find him.”

“Does that worry you?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then it doesn’t worry me.”

Chapter Sixty-five

Jack was drinking a non-steaming cup of coffee. I was drinking a bubbling Coke. The dining room was empty. A very large teenage boy was filling some straw containers behind the counter. Minutes before closing.

I was toying with the scrap of folded paper.

“One thing I don’t get,” I said, turning the paper over in my fingers, “is why you always blow on your coffee. I mean, couldn’t you just snap your fingers and it would be instantly cool? Or, a better question: how is it even possible that God could burn his lips?”

“That’s more than one thing,” said Jack.

“You’re not going to answer, are you?”

He drank more of his coffee. His eyes were brownish, maybe with a touch of green. Maybe. What the hell did I know? I was colorblind.

“Could you heal me of my colorblindness?” I asked.

“Heal yourself.”

“Heal myself?”

“Sure. I gave you a big brain for a reason.”

“They say we’re only using ninety percent,” I said.

“If that much.”

We were silent some more. I was thinking about my big brain...surely mine was bigger than most, since I was always being told I had a big head. Or were they referring to something else? I held up the folded piece of paper.

“I’m going to open this now,” I said.

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve wanted to for quite sometime.”

“I’m sure you did, but you didn’t.”

“No,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to find the answer myself.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.”

The kid behind the counter walked over to us and told us we had five minutes. I said sure. Jack didn’t say anything. And when the kid was gone, I unfolded the paper and looked down at the single word: Dana.

“Lucky guess,” I said.

Jack laughed.

“So why did you come to me,” I said. “Why are you here now?”

“You asked me here.”

“Fine. Now what do I do with you?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I’m thinking about writing a book.”

“Good for you,” said Jack.

“It’s going to be about this case.”

“Would make a good book,” said Jack.

“I want to put you in it,” I said.

“I’m honored.”

“That is why you came to me, right?”

“That is for you to decide.”

We were silent some more. The kid behind the counter was turning off the lights, banging stuff loudly so we’d get the hint.

“I feel we’ve only scratched the surface here,” I said.

“That’s why there’s something called sequels.”

“You mentioned something earlier about loving me.”

“I did.”

“So do you really love me?” I asked, a hell of a strange question for one grown man to ask another grown man. Especially a man as tough as myself.

He said, “More than you know, my son. More than you know.” He reached out and put his hand on my hand. Radiating warmth spread through me instantly. “I am with you always. Remember that.”

Something caught in my throat. “Then why do I feel so alone?”

“Do you feel alone now?”

“No,” I said. The lights went out, and we got up together from the table. “No, I don’t.”

The End

Knighthorse returns in:

The Mummy Case

Jim Knighthorse Series #2

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Return to the Table of Contents

THE VAMPIRE WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO

The Spinoza Trilogy #1

Copyright © 2011 by J.R. Rain

All rights reserved.

Dedication

To my lovely sister, Bekky.

Acknowledgments

Once again, a big thank you to Eve Paludan and Sandy Johnston for all their wonderful help.

The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

Chapter One

Her name was Gladys Melbourne and she was crying.

We were sitting together in my office, with the door closed. Outside, the street sounds came through my partially open window. A particularly loud Harley rumbled by so loudly that the fillings in my teeth nearly rattled out.

Gladys ignored the Harley. She was looking away and wiping tears from her high cheekbones.

Women crying in my presence wasn’t something new to me, and so I calmly waited it out. Meanwhile, my natural shyness to people in general prevented me from saying the soothing words she no doubt needed to hear.

I waited. She buried her face in both hands. I looked at the ceiling and sat back in the chair, and silently wished I could find it within me to say something, anything.

She continued crying.

Outside, a street person yelled something. I thought I recognized the voice. I knew most of the street people. When I’m feeling generous, especially when work is steady, I usually gave abundantly to the local homeless.

A bird squawked outside my window. I was sure it was a crow, although it could have been a raven. I wasn’t sure which was which, although both struck upon some primal fear within me. Perhaps in a past life I had my eyes pecked out by such a bird. A black, soulless, pitiless bird.

Gladys’s shoulders quaked. A tissue appeared in her hands. She used it to dab her eyes. She looked up at me and I promptly looked away.

Her breathing was harsh and ragged. She was still not ready to speak.

On my desk was a closed laptop, a clear plastic cup of half-finished iced coffee, a pen, my car keys and my cell phone. Next to the laptop was a picture of my dead wife and son. As I looked at them, I smelled again their burning flesh. I would never, ever forget the smell, or the image of their blackened bodies. I kept the pictures up on my desk to remind myself that they were so much more than blackened lumps of charred flesh.

But it never worked. Always, I saw them burning, burning.

I closed my eyes. The smoke stung them all over again.

As I rubbed my eyes, I finally remembered the forgotten dream I had had just this morning, the haunting memory of which had been plaguing me all morning. And so now the memory of it came blazing back into my consciousness, awakened by the woman’s heartbreak and the psychosomatic scent of burning flesh....

I was in a forest with my son, holding his hand. Massive tree trunks punctuated the earth, rising up like magnified hair follicles. A sticky mist lay over the forest and the sound of falling water was nearby. We were heading to the falling water. I sensed our great need for water. For hydration. No, I sensed it for my son’s benefit. He needed the water. Desperately. And now I was recklessly crashing through the forest like a bear drunk on fermented elderberries, dangerously towing my son behind me. I looked down at him but his sweet, angelic face was blank, his lips parched and dry and white. The forest opened into a clearing and there before us was a beautiful waterfall, cascading down through the mist as if falling from heaven itself. And when I looked down again, I saw that I was holding my son’s dead and blackened hand. The water crashed idyllically just a few feet away. I held his scorched hand and sat in the high grass and wept.

The woman in front of me was breathing normally again. When I came back from the forest, when my wet vision cleared again, I saw that she was watching me curiously. I tried to smile, but smiling never came easy to me.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I need help.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry for crying.”

She needed encouragement. She needed to know it was okay to cry in my presence, that everything would be okay. I said nothing. I was never very good at small talk. I was never very good at much, and sometimes nothing was okay. Sometimes things crashed around you, and they kept on crashing for years to come.

“My granddaughter ran away,” she said. “Step granddaughter.”

I sat back. I thought the woman was going to cry again, but she held it together. Thank God. Instead, she gazed at me steadily, her wet eyes unwavering.

She went on, “I was told you specialize in finding the missing. Missing children, in particular.”

I did find them. And sometimes I found them dead. But I did not tell her that. With a runaway, there was still hope.

“When did your granddaughter run away?” I asked quietly, taking out a notepad and a pen from my top drawer.

“A week ago. Six days ago, to be exact.”

“Who told you I could help you?”

“Detective Hammer. He said it wouldn’t hurt to see you. That you had a knack for this sort of thing.”

I did. When it came to finding missing children, one needed to be dogged and relentless. No stone left unturned. Having good instincts helped, too. But the funny thing about instincts was that one never knew when they would kick in. That’s where the dogged and relentless part came in.

“How old is your granddaughter?” I asked. Always use the present. Never, ever refer to a child in the past tense.

“Sixteen or seventeen. I’m not really sure. Her birthday is next month.”

My son’s birthday would have been next month, too, but I didn’t say anything about that. There was enough heartache in this room without bringing that up. He would have been thirteen. Instead, he died when he was nine.

At the thought of my son’s birthday, my breath caught, and I was briefly back in the forest, sitting in the short grass, holding his charred hand as the nearby water bubbled with life.

Presently, a small breeze made its way through the open window behind me. Los Angeles smelled of exhaust and oil and burned rubber.

“Has she run away before?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you have a photo of her?”

“Yes.”

She reached into an oversized purse and pulled out a manila file. “At Detective Hammer’s suggestion, I put together a package for you. Everything about her is in here, pictures, friends, her likes and dislikes, favorite places to hang out, anything and everything I could think of. There’s even a list of her favorite books. All vampire books.”

I took the proffered file, flipped through it. I got to the list of vampire books. She seemed to prefer one author in particular.

“Thanks,” I said. “This will help a lot.”

Gladys nodded. “I have some more information that might help you, Mr. Spinoza.”

I waited.

“Her parents were killed three years ago. She’s lived with us off and on ever since.”

She waited, as if expecting a reply. None came. She went on awkwardly. “Yes, well, there’s something else you should know about her. Something that worries me a great deal.”

I waited some more, although I did nod encouragingly.

She went on, “Veronica is a little...different.”

“Different how?”

I was imagining a slower child. Perhaps one with autism. Some sort of disability. Gladys was looking increasingly uncomfortable. She took in some air and leveled her stare at me.

“She sort of lives in her own fantasy world, Mr. Spinoza.”

“What does that mean?”

“She calls herself a slayer.”

“A slayer?” I said. “As in dragons?”

“No, as in vampires.”

Gladys blinked slowly, but didn’t look away. I think my mouth might have opened, but no words came out. Finally, I nodded.

“You mean like in Dungeons & Dragons,” I said. “Or that World of Witchcraft, or whatever it’s called. A slayer is like her—what do they call it?—her avatar?”

Gladys smiled gently. “I’m not sure I understood half of what you just said, Mr. Spinoza, but what I do know is that she really thinks she’s a vampire slayer.”

“Do you have her on any medication?”

Gladys shook her head. “She won’t see a doctor, and won’t go to school.”

“So she just stays with you?”

“Yes.”

I thought about that. “How did you meet her, Gladys?”

“Veronica just...appeared at our house one day. Bloodied and in a horrible mess. She always refused to talk about where she came from or what happened to her. But I later understood her parents had been in a horrible accident.”

I rubbed my temples. If I had known that by putting a simple ad in the Yellow Pages I would be meeting the world’s whackos, I might never have gotten into this business.

Not true, I suddenly thought. Getting into this business was something I had to do. Needed to do. Looking for the missing was, in fact, the only thing I could do.

I asked, “Are you on medication, Gladys?”

“Many,” she said, smiling. “But not the kind you’re thinking of. I assure you, Mr. Spinoza, everything I have told you is true.”

“And this girl is sixteen?”

“Give or take a few years.”

“What does that mean?”

“She would never tell us her exact age.”

I thought about that. “When she appeared at your house, did you report her to the authorities?”

“She warned us that if we did, she would run away and we would never see her again.”

“And you didn’t want her to run away.”

“No. It was so...nice having someone in the house with us. Jack is in a wheelchair, you see, and she was always so helpful, even from the beginning.”

“You enjoyed her company,” I said.

“We loved having her around. She was a breath of fresh air, despite...despite her problems.”

“Problems?”

“You know, typical teenage stuff. Always sad, depressed. Of course, back then we didn’t know why she was so sad and depressed. But later we figured it was about her parents. We didn’t ask her too many questions. She didn’t like questions.”

“And you didn’t want her to run off because you liked her company.”

“We loved her company. We loved her. She was like a real granddaughter to us.”

“Do you have any kids, Gladys?”

“One. But we do not speak anymore. She disowned us decades ago. All over a fight. One single fight.”

And now she did weep again, although softer than before. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, which squeaked under my considerable weight.

“Veronica was our last chance to do it right, and she was our gift from God.”

We were silent. Outside my office window, the streets of Los Angeles weren’t silent. I studied Gladys. She seemed sane enough. But I have been fooled before.

She went on, “Since we didn’t know her exact age, my husband and I agreed that she was at least eighteen, and so we felt comfortable about not reporting her. Of course, we would have preferred to contact the proper authorities, or her parents, but she wasn’t giving us many options. In the end, we wanted her safe and well fed and properly cared for.”

I nodded, wondering if Veronica’s best interests were really being considered. I looked down at my notes. “And Veronica has lived with you for the past three years?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Sometimes? What does that mean?”

“It means that sometimes she disappears for a few days and nights.”

“Days and nights?”

“Yes.

“Where does she go?” I asked, and already I was dreading the answer. My feelings of dread weren’t unfounded.

“Hunting vampires,” said Gladys. She said the words so calmly, so conversationally, so pleasantly, that I nearly burst out laughing. Hearing the words “hunting vampires” come out of this sweet, elderly lady nearly made me question my own sanity.

Maybe I’m the one going insane.

“That’s what I get for asking,” I said, mostly to myself. Gladys looked at me curiously.

“Excuse me?” she said.

I waved off my comment. “Never mind. So when she’s not out hunting vampires, where do you think she really goes? A boyfriend’s house? Parties? Weekend drinking binges in Vegas?”

Gladys shook her head to all of the above. “No,” she said. “I believe she really hunts vampires.”

“Of course you do.” I took in some air. I nearly asked her to leave my office. Nearly. “And she’s been missing a week?”

“Yes.”

“How long does it usually take to hunt a vampire?”

“Three days, tops.”

“Of course,” I said. “So this latest vampire hunt is lasting longer than usual.”

She nodded and reached a shaking hand into her purse, removing a badly wrinkled and very used tissue. Crazy or not, Gladys was a woman in need, and my heart went out to her. It always did. To everyone. I may not always be able to voice my concerns or sympathies, but I did the next best thing. I helped people with my actions. I knew in my heart I would help her. One way or another, I would give this crazy old woman peace of mind.

“Mr. Spinoza,” she said. “Veronica was a gift from God. An angel, if you want to know the truth. What she’s involved in, I don’t know. How she became involved with it, I don’t know, but I love that girl, and I need someone to help me find her.”

I sat back and steepled my fingers in front of me. I had two pending cases sitting on my desk. Both were cheating spouse cases. Oh, joy.

I had, of course, already made my decision.

“I will do all I can to help you, Gladys.”

She nodded and smiled and cried, and finally I was able to force myself to stand and walk around the desk, and give the old woman a deep hug.

Chapter Two

I was sitting with Detective Hammer inside a donut shop on Glendale Avenue. Hammer seemed right at home in a donut shop, and I told him as much.

“Very funny, asshole,” he said.

Hammer and I had been working missing cases together for the past few years, ever since I got into the business and had made finding missing children my specialty. Hammer was a lead detective at the LAPD Missing Persons Unit, and he was damned good at what he did. I happened to have a knack for it, too, and we made a good team.

We had also become friends, which is a rarity in the private business. Mostly, cops looked at us private dicks as irritants. Not to mention, I rarely, if ever, went out of my way to make friends, which was partly due to extreme shyness, and partly due to my desire to just be left the hell alone. The fewer the people who knew me, the fewer the people who could remind me about what a fuck-up I was.

Anyway, Detective Hammer and I were sitting in the far corner booth, which gave the detective a good view of the glass door, and the donut case behind me.

“How come I never get to watch the door?” I asked.

“Because you’re not a real cop,” he said.

“How do I know you’re really watching?” I asked. “And not just planning your next donut?”

“Because I’m a highly trained detective in the LAPD. I can do both,” he said. “So far, the coast is clear, and I’m thinking I’ll have a maple bar next.”

And he did just that. A moment later, he returned with said donut and a chocolate milk.

I said, “When you’re done with that, there’s cubes of sugar over there that you can snack on.”

“Maybe,” he said, and I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. “So which case are you working on?”

I told him about it, although I left out the part about Veronica being a vampire slayer. Which was probably for the best, since I wouldn’t have been able to say it with a straight face, anyway.

Hammer nodded and took a bite of his donut. “The runaway who’s been living with the old couple.”

I nodded.

“We put this case on the back burner,” he said. “We’ve got more important things to do than look for a runaway who ran away again.”

“Or so it seems.”

“She’ll turn up alive and well, trust me. Probably out on some party boat in Havasu. She’ll come back to the old folks when she’s partied out.” He finished his donut and sucked on his fingers. “Anyway, to put the old lady’s mind at ease, I told her to go see you, since you’ve got nothing better to do.”

“That, and I happen to be the best.”

“Maybe, maybe not. There’s a guy here in town who gives you a run for your money. An old guy. Looks a little like Elvis.”

“Lucky bastard.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, he’s pretty good, too. Maybe better than you.”

“That’s one thing I don’t mind being second best at. Maybe he and I could touch bases sometime.”

“Sure,” said Hammer. “I’ll give you his number. Then you and Elvis can solve crimes together—call yourselves Starsky and Hubba-Hubba.”

“When you’re done clowning around,” I said, “maybe we can think about finding a missing girl. And I don’t give a shit if you think she’s just another runaway. Even so, runaways find themselves in more shit than anyone. She needs help, no matter.”

“Fine. Quit busting my balls.”

“Did you do any work on this case?”

“Enough to know that it looks like she skipped town.”

“What else do you know?”

“That’s it. I told grandma to put together as much information as possible on the girl and to give it to you.”

“She did.”

“Then you now have twice as much info as we’ve got.”

We were quiet. As Hammer was about to bite into his maple bar, his bristly mustache sort of quivered in anticipation.

“When you eat,” I said, “Your cop mustache quivers like a randy mouse.”

“Does it do it in a sexy way or a creepy way?”

“A disgusting way.”

“Probably why my old lady never sleeps with me.” He wiped his mouth. “Did Gladys mention, um, anything else to you?”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Something, you know, odd?”

“Maybe.”

He said, “You ask me, she’s off her rocker.”

“Maybe.”

“You got anything else to say other than maybe? And if you say maybe again, I’m going to go ape shit on you.”

I grinned. “She might have mentioned something about the girl being into some weird goth shit.”

“No, it wasn’t weird goth shit,” said Hammer. “And might have and maybe is the same fucking word, asshole.”

I grinned again.

“What did she tell you?” I asked.

“That the girl was some sort of a vampire slasher.”

“Slayer,” I said. “Vampire slayer.”

“Thank you for clearing that fucking up,” said Hammer. “Now I can rest well tonight knowing I have it fucking straight.”

“So what does your gut say about this case,” I said. In this business, instincts were everything, and we often asked this question to each other.

Hammer, for the first time in quite a while, looked legitimately perplexed; his mustache even sagged a little. “I’ll admit, it’s weird enough that it’s worth looking into, which is why I sent the old lady your way.”

“That, and because I’m the best.”

He ignored me and went on, ticking points off on his fingers as he spoke, “So, this girl Veronica shows up at the old lady’s door one day, bleeding and hurt, but won’t tell Gladys where she’s from or how old she is, and warns the old lady not to call the cops or she’s gone. The old folks are so desperate for excitement in their pathetic lives that they happily take on this degenerate.”

“Way to look on the bright side,” I said.

“There ain’t no bright side to what I do,” he said.

“I do it, too,” I said.

“But not as good.”

“Go on.”

He said, “So they take this girl in, treat her as if she’s their own for a few years. Meanwhile she disappears every now and then to hunt werewolves.”

“Vampires.”

“Whatever. Look, someone here is clearly nuts.”

“Nuts or not, we have a missing girl, who’s most likely a minor.”

“I still say she’s a runaway. A runaway of a runaway is low priority for a prestigious law enforcement agency like the LAPD.”

“But not for me.”

“Do I really need to answer that?” he said. “Anyway, since you get paid to do this shit, you’re the lucky bastard who gets to look into it further.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky me.”

Chapter Three

I spent the next two hours in my office poring over the file Gladys had given me. I was on my own with this case. The LAPD had effectively shelved the case, and, quite frankly, I was Gladys’s only hope.

Perhaps Veronica’s only hope, too.

No pressure or anything.

There was a time when I was without hope, too. A pathetic, hopeless drunk. There had also been a time when I couldn’t have been happier. A wonderful marriage. A sweet little son. Within a matter of years, two tragic accidents, and a lot of alcohol later, it was all lost to me. My wife, my son, and my freedom. I had spent a year in prison, sobering up.

Vehicular manslaughter.

With that afternoon’s donuts still churning sluggishly in my digestive system, I locked up my office and decided to hit the first name on the list.

According to Gladys’s notes, the first name was Veronica’s best friend. Gladys didn’t have a number for the girl, but she knew where she worked. She car-hopped at Industrial Burger in Hollywood.

“Oh, goody,” I said to my empty Camry. “More grease.”

* * *

I was in luck. And luck is imperative in my business.

In this case, my luck consisted of catching Veronica’s good friend, Nicole, on the right day at work. According to the manager, (after, of course, I showed him my P.I. license and slipped him a $20 bill), her shift would start in just under an hour.

Happy that the investigation was off to a good start—not always the case, trust me—I ordered a Diet Coke and sat in my car and waited.

While I waited, I did some research on my iPhone; in particular, I Googled vampire slayers. I was disheartened to see nearly three million hits came up, most about Buffy, the Vampire Slayer.

I adjusted my search parameters: vampire slayer -Buffy.

Better. Only five hundred thousand. So I settled in with my diet soda and spent the next hour or so reading about all things undead and those who hunt them.

My conclusion after an hour of reading?

Well, outside of popular literature, no one took vampires or vampire hunting very seriously. There seemed, in fact, to be very little evidence of real vampires anywhere. Outside of a vampire hunting kit on display at the Ripley Museum in Niagara Falls, NY, and the ludicrous incident of the Highgate Vampire Hunt in England, which featured a couple of goofballs running around a cemetery claiming to be hunting vampires, there was remarkably little information about honest-to-God vampire hunters. Unlike ghost hunters, whole groups of which numbered in the tens of thousands around the world.

So what was I to make of this?

Apparently, more people saw a need to hunt ghosts than vampires. In fact—a quick Google search later—there were no legitimate vampire hunting groups out there.

Conclusion: obviously more people believed in ghosts than vampires.

I sat back in my hot seat and thought about it. So why in the hell would a teenage girl claim to be a vampire slayer?

I opened Gladys’s file next to me and took out the two blown up pictures I had of Veronica. Included with the two pictures was a hand written note apologizing that these were the only two pictures she had.

The girl in the picture was not small. In fact, the girl seemed to have grown three or four inches between the two pictures. One featured a defiant-looking young teenager at a BBQ, holding a paper plate overflowing with food. She was looking at the camera with a smoldering look, daring the picture taker to take another shot. Her hair was pitch black, short and completely straight. She was wearing shorts and sandals and a lot of attitude.

The second picture couldn’t have been more different. Her short hair was now long. Gone was the attitude, now replaced with an underlying confidence. In the picture she was standing with Gladys, her arm around the elderly woman’s shoulders. Veronica had perfect posture, shoulders thrown back, back perfectly straight, easily a half a foot taller than her adopted grandmother. Veronica wasn’t smiling in this picture, either. Most interesting, she seemed like a young lady who was very secure in who she was.

A rare feat if you ask me.

She also didn’t look crazy. She wasn’t dressed in the typical goth fashion, either, which I had suspected she would. If anything, she looked like the captain of her high school volleyball team or the center for the basketball team. She radiated calm and poise and great inner strength.

Again, a rare feat for a girl so young

Hell, if this girl in the picture told me she was a vampire hunter, I’d almost be inclined to believe it.

Which brought me back to Gladys. The old lady was looking more and more like she was, as Detective Hammer put it so eloquently, off her rocker.

It was at that moment, as I sat there perplexed and sweating, that a young lady skated smoothly across the baking pavement and rolled expertly up to my window.

“Bobby said you wanted to speak with me?” she said.

Nicole was still in high school. She was fit and athletic and seemed to have this skating thing down pat. I would have killed myself many times over.

I showed her my P.I. license. “I’ve been hired to find your friend Veronica.”

She leaned down and studied the picture, then looked at me and studied me. She nodded. Apparently, I checked out. Oh, goody.

“Did Gladys hire you?” she asked.

“Yes, and please tell me she’s just a crazy old lady whom I shouldn’t take seriously.”

Despite her youth, the girl smiled at me knowingly. “Unfortunately, she’s probably the sanest of us all.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

She grinned. “I think we need to talk.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“Then you need to order something, or my boss will be all over my ass.”

I said sure and she handed me a menu. I scanned it.

“You have anything here that won’t give me a heart attack before we’re done talking?”

“We have side salads.”

“Fine. Then get me two of those with some extra ranch.”

She laughed and rolled away. The waitresses here all wore bright yellow shiny spandex pants that made them look like life-sized gold statues. Perhaps that was fitting here in Oscarland.

A few minutes later, Nicole returned with only a single salad and one small container of low-calorie vinaigrette. I looked at the meager offerings.

“This is what you meant to order,” she said, setting the containers on the window tray.

“But I thought the customer was always right,” I said.

“You were right,” she said, “until you opened your mouth and ordered.”

I sighed and drizzled the dressing over my salad, and while I dug into my rabbit food, she told me what she knew. She and Veronica were pretty close, as they had been for these past few years. Yeah, Veronica was different. I asked how different, and she asked how much did I know about Veronica? I said I knew enough that Veronica was running around telling people she was a vampire slayer. Nicole opened her mouth to reply but then a car pulled up a few slots down. She told me to hold on and I did, finishing off the rest of the salad. Would have been better with cheese and extra ranch.

I looked down at my gut. Probably not better for my gut, though. It wasn’t a huge gut, granted, but it was big enough to be on my mind. I worked out when I could, jogging and walking and lifting weights at home, but the gut seemed impervious to my efforts.

It’s hell hitting 38.

Nicole skated across the parking lot to turn in the driver’s order. She returned a moment later with another Diet Coke.

“How did you know I had diet?” I asked.

“I didn’t.”

“Is my gut that big?” I asked.

“Big enough.”

“Ouch.”

“Where were we?” she said.

“You were going to tell me the difference between a vampire hunter and a vampire slayer.”

“There is no difference. But probably slayer is the most accurate.”

“Accurate in what way?” I asked.

Nicole leaned a hip against my Camry and seemed to consider what to say next. I’m sure the sheet metal was piping hot in the California sun. Maybe her shiny pants were just as hot. Maybe there was going to be some sort of nuclear reaction. Or not.

“Slayers kill vampires. And that’s what Veronica does. You know, on the side. Not all the time. Mostly, she’s looking for one vampire in particular.”

I stared at her. She stared at me. The sun stared down, too.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Serious as a heart attack.”

“And Veronica is a vampire slayer?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Another car pulled up, but Nicole ignored it. Luckily, another girl wearing flaming yellow pants appeared to take the order. I could feel the sweat dribbling down between my brows. I studied the young girl’s face. A small film of sweat coated her brow and upper lip. Had it been me out there on skates, I would have been a sweating mess, and would have soaked my yellow spandex pants. Probably why they hired girls and not overweight middle-aged men.

I finally said, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then maybe you should let this go and walk away.”

“I can’t do that,” I said. “A girl is missing.”

“This girl can take care of herself, trust me.”

“I’ll decide that for myself, no offense.”

We sat staring at each other some more. We sweated some more, although her not so much.

I said, “And why on God’s green earth would she kill vampires?”

“She has her reasons, apparently.”

I took a breath. If I hadn’t been given good money by a kindly old lady who really seemed to need help, I would have been certain someone was pulling my leg. Hell, I still wasn’t entirely certain someone wasn’t pulling my leg. I exhaled.

I asked, “How many people has she told this to?”

“Not many.”

I said, “And you believe her?”

Nicole looked at me hard, and she suddenly looked ten years older. She bit her lower lip, struggling with something internally. Finally, she said, “I’ve seen her when she...returns.”

“Returns from where?”

“Doing what she does.”

“Killing vampires?”

“Yes. She’s...she’s covered in blood. Everything is covered in blood. It’s disgusting.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to think. I did know that I wanted something a lot stronger than a Diet Coke. I drummed my fingers on my steering. I thought some more, then decided to try a different angle.

“When was the last time you saw Veronica?”

“A week ago. We were shopping together.”

“What was the last thing you two discussed?”

“That she was going on the biggest hunt of her life.”

Deep breaths, I thought.

“And where would that be?” I asked.

Nicole smiled at me as another car pulled up. And as the car pulled up, I heard her boss bellow at her to get moving.

“She wouldn’t tell me,” said Nicole. “She never does. Says it’s safer that way. Okay, I gotta go.”

“She’s been missing a week,” I said. “Aren’t you worried about her?”

Nicole looked back and grinned mischievously. I almost didn’t see her grin due to the sun reflecting brightly off her yellow spandex pants and searing my retinas.

“It’s the vampire that needs to be worried,” she said, and turned and quickly skated away.

Chapter Four

I was with my new girlfriend, Roxi.

We were sitting at a French bistro called French Quarters sharing an angel hair carbonara. My new girlfriend wasn’t quite sure what to make of me. I was a mess, and she knew it. Why she was sticking it out, I wasn’t sure, but I had decided not to delve too deeply into that line of inquiry. Better to let sleeping bears lie. Instead, we were talking about Veronica.

“And no one knows her age?” asked Roxi.

“Anywhere from fifteen to seventeen.”

“And she just appears one day out of the blue?”

“Yes, at the old folks’ home.”

Roxi slurped some noodles. “And she claims to be a vampire hunter?”

“Slayer.” I corrected. “Hunters don’t necessarily slay.”

“So she’s delusional.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Roxi, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” I quoted.

“Are you saying vampires are real?”

“Actually, I was just playing the devil’s advocate. I’m with you. It’s all nuts.”

“But this friend believed her.”

“Like attracts like,” I said. “Batshit attracts batshit.”

“Did her check clear?”

“It did. I deposited it immediately.”

Roxi bit her lip. She was younger than me by six years. She was also Irish, and had the world’s cutest accent. Unlike me, she did not have a gut and kept herself in fairly good shape. She was a struggling screenwriter, hustling her way through Hollywood. Presently, she earned her money doing freelance editing work for other writers. She hated it.

“I don’t get it,” she said, sitting back.

“I’m not hired to get it,” I said. “I’m hired to find a missing girl, and that I do get.”

“How long has she lived with the old folks?”

“Nearly three years.”

“And this is the longest she’s been gone?”

“Apparently.”

I had only recently started dating Roxi, and already I was loving how she threw herself into my cases, and made them practically her own. She was proving to be an excellent sounding board.

She drank some more red wine. I watched her drink with a mixture of envy and horror. I hadn’t touched alcohol in a few years, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to.

Be strong. My daily mantra.

I said, “Her friend, of course, doesn’t think she’s missing. Her friend thinks she’s hunting a vampire.”

“This is nuts.”

“I don’t choose the cases,” I said. “They choose me.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Find her. Get her real story. Convince her to come home.”

“Even is she doesn’t have a real home?”

“The old folks take care of her,” I said. “That’s home enough.”

“Will you call the police?”

“Depends on the answers she gives me. Depends on the state I find her in. Depends on who I find her with.”

“Fair enough. But that if she’s even alive.”

“True.”

“So what’s your next step, Mr. Private Dick?”

“No clue.”

* * *

Outside, I kissed Roxi lightly on her cheek and helped her into her car. She asked when she would see me again, and I told her I didn’t know. She hadn’t known me long, but already she knew that in a missing person case, time was of the essence. She took my hand and squeezed it and told me to be careful. We were not quite to the “I love you” phase of our relationship, but I sensed her love for me. I told her to go write the hell out of her new screenplay and she smiled and drove off.

* * *

It was late.

I was sitting in my car, studying the file Gladys had given me, going over the list of acquaintances. Unfortunately, Gladys had only known the first names of Veronica’s friends. So prior to leaving Industrial Burgers, I had called Nicole one last time and asked her if she had recognized any of the other names on the list. She had, one of them. Roy, the only male on the list, was a bartender at a dive in Hollywood called Coffins.

A goth bar.

Sitting in my car I sighed and Googled Coffins on my iPhone. A moment later, I was heading off into the night to my first vampire bar.

Lucky me.

* * *

Coffins was dark and gloomy. Go figure.

I surveyed the place from the front door. It was a Wednesday evening and Coffins was about half empty. Maybe all the vampires were still asleep.

The walnut paneling was empty of pictures or any references to the undead. Thank God. There were, however, three or four coffins arranged around the room. Coffee tables. Cute. And weird.

Sometimes I was amazed at where my job took me. Three weeks ago, a twisted trail of clues had led me to Jamaica, where I had helped rescue a kidnapped child.

Tonight, they led me to Dracula’s lair.

I had never planned on being a private investigator. In fact, I was perfectly content working as an insurance claims investigator. As a claims investigator I had worked with a few private eyes. Admittedly, I had always been intrigued by P.I.’s. They were a small group of men and women who lived outside the norm, working for themselves, their own man, so to speak. The lone wolves of our day. Helping people, following people, finding people, catching people. The profession itself was as honorable as one wanted it to be, or as sleazy.

Just like in life.

After the death of my son, I re-evaluated my entire life. I came to two conclusions. The first was obvious: I had to give up drinking. The second wasn’t so obvious. After a lot of soul searching, I realized that although I couldn’t bring back my sweet baby boy, I could help bring back other children. Missing children.

In insurance claims, I always had a knack for finding witnesses, for seeing through the lies, for massaging random information into meaningful clues.

It was a gift, and I would use it to help find the missing.

I could never bring back my baby boy, but I could bring back other baby boys. Baby boys and girls. And teens. And even adults. I found them all. One way or another, I brought them home. Doggedly, relentlessly, whatever it took.

Veronica, in my mind was no different. A lot weirder, granted, but no different. She was missing, and I had been hired to find her, and goddammit, I was going to find her.

I didn’t pick my cases. They picked me.

I stepped over to the bar while a few sets of eyes followed me from the dark sofas scattered around the coffins. The bar top was also shaped like a very long coffin.

When the bartender came over to me, I rested my hands on the coffin-lid bar top, and said, “I’m sorry, I seem to be lost. I’m looking for a place called Coffins?”

“Very funny, wise guy. What can I get you?”

“The smooth, sweeping neck of a fair maiden.”

“No fair maidens here, and the blood is in the back.”

“I hope to God you’re kidding,” I said.

The tall bartender studied me, and then cracked a smile. “Of course.” he said. “What can I really get you?”

“Tonic water and a guy named Roy.”

He nodded and reached under the counter, rummaged around, and came up with a bottle of tonic water, opened it, and put it in front of me.

“Here’s your water and what can I do for you?”

“You Roy?”

“Yup.”

Roy was younger than me, and a lot more handsome. He had dark brown eyes and dark brown eyebrows and dark brown hair. I sensed a pattern.

“I’m looking for a girl,” I said.

“Ain’t we all.”

“Her name is Veronica.”

Roy’s dark brown eyebrows narrowed so dramatically that they came to together to form one long dark brown unibrow. He looked around. I watched him as he looked around. We were alone at this end of the coffin-shaped counter.

“What about her?” he asked.

I showed him my P.I. license. He squinted at it.

I said, “I’ve been hired by the old lady she lives with to find her.”

“Gladys,” he said.

I nodded. “That would be her.”

“Gladys worries too much.”

“Nothing wrong with that, when you’re dealing with a kid.”

“Veronica’s no kid.”

“Oh, yeah? How old is she?”

“No idea, but, trust me, she ain’t no kid.”

“Fine,” I said. “Kid or not, I’ve been hired to find her, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Roy placed two extremely large hands on the bar counter. His thick eyebrows were still pressed together like a fat, hairy sausage.

“This is none of your concern,” he said.

“What’s none of my concern?”

Roy, who had seemed good-natured and willing to laugh at my stupid joke earlier, suddenly seemed not-so-friendly.

“Veronica’s fine. She’s just...busy.”

“Slaying vampires?”

He squinted at me, and seemed about to shush me, but there was really no one close enough to us to hear. Besides, the thumping techno-music in the background would have drowned out our words.

“This is none of your concern,” he said again.

“I heard you the first time,” I said. “Except I’ve already deposited a check from a very concerned woman who hired me to make it my business.”

He leaned forward, placing more weight on those big hands. I think the gesture was meant to be intimidating. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, bro. Would be safer for you to return that check.”

There was a creaking sound from behind me. Maybe one of the caskets was opening. Eager to see a real-live vampire, I turned and looked. Nope, just two goth-looking, pale-faced girls stepping into the bar. They didn’t look happy. They seldom did.

I looked back at Roy, and as I did so, I grabbed both of his wrists and pulled. He fell forward in a blink, hitting the counter hard, his forehead bouncing off the scarred wood casket lid. A chair scraped behind me.

I ignored whoever was behind me, but I didn’t ignore Roy, whose face was now just inches from mine. I still held him by his wrists. “You know something about a missing girl, Roy. And that makes you a person of extreme interest to me. Tell me what you fucking know or I’m going to bring some unholy hell down upon you and your fucking weird bar. Bro.”

“Okay, man. Okay. Take it easy.”

“What the fuck is going on around here, Roy?”

“Just let me go and I’ll tell you.”

I released his wrists slowly and he stood. There was a shiner already forming on his forehead. I glanced around me. Two guys were standing behind me. Thin guys. Dark hair. Pale faces. Both wearing white, untucked, long-sleeved shirts. They looked like Dracula’s minions. Or his house boys.

“Beat it,” I said to them.

They didn’t move. From behind the counter, Roy said, “It’s okay, guys, we’re cool.”

The two dumbasses shuffled off.

I looked at Roy. His hair was disheveled. So were his bushy eyebrows, which had somehow gotten tweaked when his forehead had done its best impression of a basketball.

I said to him, “We’re very much not cool until you tell me what the fuck is going on around here.”

Roy nodded and motioned to one of the whip-thin punks. “Watch the bar, man. I’ll be back in a few.”

Roy nodded toward me.

“Follow me,” he said.

Chapter Five

We were sitting in a backroom, in an unused part of the bar that might have been used to host parties or wedding receptions or even blood lettings. Roy and I were alone.

He asked if I wanted a drink and I held up my tonic water. I was fine, although I’d had booze on the mind throughout the day. Booze on my mind was not a good thing.

Let it go, I thought. And I did. It was, after all, easy to let it go. All I had to do was think of my dead son.

“Veronica is not like other girls,” Roy began. His shiner was now more than a shiner. It looked like a science experiment gone bad.

“I’m getting that impression,” I said.

Roy was sitting in a black leather sofa, one arm draped over the camel hump back. His legs were crossed. I noticed red marks around his wrists where I had pinned him down. I think he was making a concertive effort not to rub them in front of me. Probably didn’t think it would look cool to rub them.

He asked, “How much did the old lady tell you about Veronica’s parents?”

“That they had been killed in a car accident.”

Roy nodded. He unconsciously reached for his wrists but stop himself. He said, “That’s only partially true. They were found in a car, burned to death.”

“Go on.”

“Veronica would kill me for telling you this, but I have a feeling you’re not going to go away unless you know the truth.”

“Good thinking.”

I might have a gut, I might be a royal mess, and I might be a recovering alcoholic with serious issues, but I could fight my way out of anywhere, and I was packing heat, too. There were very few things that made my blood run cold, and Slim Jim here with his crazy eyebrows wasn’t one of them.

He said, “They were having a picnic in Echo Park, near Dodger Stadium. It had been late. Too late, obviously. The way Veronica describes it, a man suddenly appeared. A man with a long, winding dragon tattoo up and down his right arm. Veronica, who had been throwing away their garbage and was off on a side trail, had heard screaming and shouting. She ran toward her parents and watched just as the man was in the process of tearing out her father’s throat, like a fucking lion. He did the same to Veronica’s mother. Both attacks happened within seconds. Veronica didn’t even have time to scream, which was probably a good thing. She would have been next.”

Roy fished a cigarette out of his pocket. “You mind?”

“Kill yourself all you want,” I said.

He grinned weakly and lit up. He exhaled a long, slightly erratic plume.

He went on. “Her parents were dead instantly. I have no clue what she must have felt watching this animal attacking her parents, but it must have been horrible. Worse, she watched from the woods as he huddled over both bodies, drinking deeply from them. Sometimes he would look up, glance around, sniff the air, and then bury his face back into their torn necks.”

Roy shook his head some more, and I wondered idly what drugs the man was on. Probably one or two, although he didn’t seem high. Still, he seemed skittish as hell. Paranoia? Good old-fashioned weed? Or was he just scared of me?

He went on, “And what the man did next is really no surprise. She watched from the woods as he proceeded to drag her parents across a grassy area to their nearby car. He then used their lighter fluid to set fire to the car and the immediate area.

“Veronica had scrambled away, higher into the hills, in shock and horror, no doubt. She told me the last thing she saw was her parents’ bodies blackening in the burning car.”

Roy finished the cigarette and seemed to debate having another. Apparently, he decided against it. He went on, “In twenty minutes, this girl went from having a normal life with happy, loving parents, to watching their corpses burn into charcoal.”

He stopped talking and his words hung in the air. The room smelled now of cigarette smoke. It had smelled of something else, too. Something coppery. And if I had to guess, I would say the smell was blood. Old blood.

But that could have just been my imagination.

“Who else have you told this story to?” I asked.

“No one, you’re the first. Well, the first outside our group of friends.”

“I’m honored,” I said. “So how long did it take you to make up that bullshit?”

Roy’s eyebrows knitted together irritably, the uni-brow making its grand re-reappearance. “It’s the truth, man.”

“Fine. When did this happen?”

“Three years ago,” he said.

“I’m going to look this story up, Roy. Something like this would have made the news, and if I discover you’ve been lying to me, or have played any part in Veronica’s disappearance, I’m coming back for you.”

His eyes never wavered. “Look it up, man. Three years ago. Echo Park.”

“Fine. Where is she now?”

He looked down. Always a sign of deception.

“Tell me, motherfucker.”

“Look. I don’t know, okay? All I know was that she wasn’t...successful down here, and so she’s up north.”

“What the unholy fuck does that mean?”

Ron looked truly agonized. I knew this because his uni-brow was arched halfway up his forehead. “Look. She’s meeting with someone.”

I didn’t like his answer, mostly because I knew it was bullshit. I hit Roy hard with the back of my hand. It’s amazing how much kinetic energy you can generate with a simple backhand swing. Roy felt it. He stumbled backward and yelped.

“Jesus, what the fuck was that for?”

“What’s she doing up north?”

“Look, I don’t—”

I didn’t like the beginning of that answer, either, and my other hand shot out, low. It caught him in the gut and he doubled over. I grabbed the back of his hair and pulled him up to face me. His nose was trickling blood. He was gasping hard as if he had just run a marathon and it took all my willpower not to slap him again just because I hated his stupid eyebrow.

“Talk. No lies. Or this starts going very badly for you.”

He gasped, sucking wind. I could feel his heartbeat reverberating up through his hair.

“Look, she’s...she’s searching for the thing that killed her parents.” Suck, gasp. “He’s somewhere up north.”

“Who is he? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. She never tells us anything. She only drops, you know, clues. Says it’s better that we don’t know anything.”

His words jived with Nicole’s. They also had the ring of truth. I always listen for the ring of truth. It’s there, if you know how to find it. I let him go, and he collapsed in a big velvet chair. He looked defeated and fucked up. Good.

“And how did you meet Veronica?” I asked.

He smiled weakly. “Anyone looking for vampires eventually ends up here,” he said, spreading his arms.

“Do you have any clue how fucking lame that sounds?”

“Do you have any clue what you’re talking about?” he countered, and wiped his bleeding mouth and stared down at the blood on his hand. The word longingly came to mind.

“And what do people do in here?” I asked, motioning to this back room.

Roy licked his hand.

“Anything they want, man.”

I stood, sickened.

“You’ll be seeing me,” I said, and left.

* * *

I was sitting in a Starbucks a few streets away.

Adrenalin was still pumping through me. I still felt a strong desire to kick someone’s ass. The name Roy popped into my mind. Maybe later.

I had no clue what was going on, and that was the frustrating part. I’ve been frustrated on cases before, trust me, but this one was taking the cake.

Seriously, what the fuck was going on?

Sipping on a latte of some sort and eating a scone of some sort, I waited while my laptop fired up. Starbucks was mostly empty. No surprise there since it was coming on to midnight. My hands were still shaking a little. Adrenalin does that to you. Sometimes it takes me a little while to come down from my ass-kicking high.

Finally online, I did a quick Google search and came up with nothing. I sensed a very thorough beating in Roy’s immediate future. If that weird, blood-sucking asshole lied to me....

A few tries later, after trying different keywords, I came upon the article I wanted. For now, Roy was spared.

The article was in the L.A. Times. There had, indeed, been a car fire in Echo Park, one that had burned nearly half the hillside. Two charred bodies had been found inside a Cadillac. No indication of foul play, and no mention of the daughter who had witnessed the attack. The article gave the couple’s names: Jeremy and Tonya Fortune.

I quickly accessed my various data mining websites, proprietary sites available only to licensed private investigators, and found them soon enough. Jeremy and Tonya Fortune out of Reseda, California. The valley. About an hour north of Los Angeles. It had to be them because all their personal information abruptly stopped three years ago. I even verified the Cadillac.

I dug deeper.

Jeremy and Tonya Fortune had one daughter. Valerie Fortune.

Valerie? Veronica?

It was her, I knew it. Why she had changed her name, I didn’t know. Just as I didn’t know why she had not come forward to report her parents’ murder.

Maybe she feared no one would believe her.

Believe what? That a vampire killed her parents? If so, then she was right. No one would have believed her.

I checked her date of birth, then did the math. Valerie—or Veronica—was indeed seventeen. Which put her at fourteen at the time of her parents’ death.

So what did I have here?

Two dead bodies, and a girl who witnessed something. What she witnessed, exactly, I didn’t know. But a car with her parents inside didn’t just go up in flames on its own.

I sat back and drummed my fingers on the table. Veronica’s story was credible. But it was hearsay. I needed to talk to the source.

I needed to find Veronica. Or Valerie.

I packed up my laptop, polished off the latte thingy, and decided to start fresh in the morning.

After all, I had had enough of vampires for one night.

Hell, for a lifetime.

Chapter Six

We were in bed together.

Roxi had wanted to make love, and I had just wanted to talk. I know, lame. Of course, all it took were a few seconds of persuasion and I soon saw her side of things.

Now, panting and sweating and feeling as if I might very well have a heart attack, I turned on my side and looked at her. Roxi was lying on her back, panting a little herself. Her skin glowed softly from the ambient light coming in through the partially open blinds.

I said, “There’s something screwy going on here.”

“There was a lot of screwy going on here, babe.”

“Of the investigative kind.”

She told me to tell her about it and I did. I had never felt that sense of shyness with Roxi. Ever. It’s one of the reasons why I thought we might just have a chance of making it. I caught Roxi up to date on the case. As always, she had listened with complete attentiveness. Another reason I was falling in love with her. That, and she always called my big stomach a “donut”. You gotta love that.

When I was finished, Roxi said, “Lots of people are talking about vampires here, but no one’s talking about a girl who is no doubt seriously delusional.”

“Or perhaps somehow suffering from the traumatic and horrific events of the night her parents were killed.”

“Perhaps Veronica had been hurt, too. Didn’t Gladys tell you she showed up at her door bloodied and bruised?”

I said, “But the cuts and bruises could have just as easily been from running through the wooded park at night.”

“Fine. So let’s say she witnessed something horrific happen to her parents,” said Roxi. She crossed her hands behind her head and stared up. “Why is she going around telling people it had been a vampire attack?”

“Maybe what happened to her parents was too horrible to deal with, especially for a fourteen-year-old girl,” I said. “And to make sense of it she replaced the reality with something fantastical.”

Roxi nodded, somehow following my logic. “With something that did make sense to a fourteen-year-old girl.”

“But vampires?” I asked.

“Who knows. They’re everywhere these days. Not to mention we don’t know the depth of her psychosis.”

We were quiet for a few minutes. Outside her apartment I heard a lot of street noise. But the noise was steady, soothing. I felt my eyes growing heavy.

I said after a while, “So now she’s hunting vampires.”

“Or what she thinks are vampires.”

“And somehow convinces a few fanatics that she’s a vampire slayer.”

“Wish fulfillment,” said Roxi. “These are vampire lovers, and now they have a girl in their midst who claims to not only have seen one kill her parents, but to hunt them as well. She’s practically their hero.”

“Much like I’m your hero?”

She rubbed my donut. “Something like that.”

“So, if we can agree that there’s no real vampires, then what the hell is she hunting?”

“That,” said Roxi, rolling over and kissing me lightly on the cheek, “is the million-dollar question.”

* * *

I woke up, gasping and weeping.

My son again. Same mad dash through the forest. The smell of burning flesh. The tormenting sound of running water. His blackened hand.

Jesus.

The mad dash through the forest was only in my dreams, of course. The reality had been far different. Twisted car metal, the smell of gasoline, people screaming, my son trapped...reaching for me. A fire under the hood, spreading rapidly. Myself half-unconscious, but too drunk to help my own son....

Sweet, sweet Jesus.

I wept some more, quietly, so as not to disturb Roxi, who slept contently on her side. A few minutes of this later, I realized grimly that Veronica and I were not so different. After all, we had both seen loved ones burning....

Burning....

Oh, God.

We have something in common, I thought. Something two people should never, ever have in common.

And as I sat there in bed, with fresh tears on my cheeks and complete hopelessness in my heart, I suddenly remembered something Roy had told me. Something that hadn’t made sense at the time.

“Her first attempt failed.”

I focused my thoughts, tearing them way my son. So what the hell had Roy meant by that? And now Veronica was apparently up north. How far up north? And what attempt had failed? Had she tried to kill a vampire and the attempt failed? Was she following a vampire north, somehow?

I got quietly out of bed and padded into the kitchen. There, I opened my laptop, fired it up, and soon I was online, jacking into Roxi’s wireless network.

I didn’t know what I was looking for. I didn’t even know what to Google. Hell, I had the complete World Wide Web at my fingertips, and I didn’t even know where to begin.

And so I tried random phrases:

Vampires. Seattle.

Oh, sweet Jesus. That turned up more than I bargained for. Apparently, this was Twilight country. If Veronica was up there, then any information I had hoped to garner was lost to me. Still, I waded doggedly through fifty or so pages, but nothing stood out.

I tried Washington, vampires. I told Google to remove any mention of the word Twilight or Stephenie Meyer. Good, better. Not quite so many hits, and many of these pages were new to me. Still, after about a half hour of searching, nothing stood out. I moved on.

Portland, vampires.

I scanned and scanned. Same shit. This was feeling like a big waste of time. Needle in a haystack came to mind. I predicted that a serious beating was in Roy the bartender’s immediate future. He wasn’t telling me something, and I was going to kick the shit out of him until he gave it up.

I typed in: San Francisco, vampires.

And on about the tenth page, something turned up. An article from the San Francisco Chronicle about a book signing taking place tomorrow. A popular vampire author. Not necessarily the break I was looking for, since I had by now come across a shitload of articles about vampire writers. But it was the title of the article that caught my eye.

“Security Beefed Up For Popular Vampire Author”

Oh? I read on. The author, James P. Storm, had apparently been attacked by a fan four days earlier at the Glendale Barnes & Noble. According to the article, his assailant had been wielding a silver stake. The article went on to state that the attacker had escaped, and because of this, security had been heightened at all of Storm’s signings.

With my heart now pounding steadily in my chest, I scrolled down and found a picture of Mr. Storm signing books. He was smiling at one such fan as he handed back a book. The man’s skin was unusually tan. Almost golden. Hell, he practically glowed. But there was something else. Although he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, something seemed to be reaching down to partially cover the back of his hand. A tattoo.

I right-clicked and saved the picture. I next uploaded it into my photo viewer. Blew it up twice as big.

Indeed, it was a dark tattoo, but the picture was too pixelated to tell for sure what it was. But if I had to guess, I would say that I was looking at something that looked like a claw.

A dragon’s claw?

As I stared at the picture, completely and utterly fascinated, I found myself wondering if I was looking at an actual vampire....

Chapter Seven

It was early. Too early for someone who’s his own boss. But if I wanted to make it to San Francisco with plenty of time to spare by the 2:00 p.m. book signing at Borders, well, I had to get moving.

Roxi had barely stirred when I got up to dress. I kissed her on the cheek and told her I would be back tomorrow. She murmured that she loved me, which was news to me.

I smiled down at her and told her I loved her, too, but I think she was already asleep.

Now I was on the road with a Starbucks mocha between my legs and a belly full of scone. What the hell is a scone, anyway? I’ll Google it later.

The sun was rising to my right, in the east, as I headed steadily up the 5 Freeway. Or, as my friends in San Fran call it, 5 Freeway, minus the article the.

San Franciscans are weird.

Cool, but weird.

So I was heading up the 5 Freeway, listening to the wind whistle across my partially open window, and wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

Maybe I should have listened to Roy.

Maybe I should have laid off the case. After all, wasn’t Veronica, or Valerie, nearly an adult now? Hell, hadn’t she basically been on her own since witnessing her parents’ murder three years ago.

Yes, and yes, but one thing shouldn’t be forgotten here: More than likely Veronica was delusional. More than likely she had erroneously pitted the blame on an innocent writer of vampire fiction. And if she had attacked him with a fucking silver stake, well, she was still a threat to the man.

For his safety, she needed to be stopped.

For her mental health and her own safety, she needed to be stopped.

And I was just the guy to do it?

Apparently so. After all, I didn’t pick the cases, they picked me.

As the sun came out in full force, I dropped my shades and headed steadily north.

On the 5 Freeway.

* * *

I called Detective Hammer of the LAPD Missing Persons Division. He picked up on the fourth ring.

“So I’m a fourth-ring friend now?” I asked.

“Since when were you a first-, second-, or even a third-ring friend?”

“Now that’s just mean.”

“I happen to be a busy man, Spinoza. You’re lucky I picked up at all. Now what the hell do you want? I’ve got a mother waiting outside my office who hasn’t seen her seven-year-old in five hours.”

My own stomach plummeted at the thought and my heart went out to her. I made a mental note to check up on her and offer my services.               I said, “I need you to put me in contact with a buddy of yours on the San Francisco PD.”

“You think just because I’m with LAPD that I have friends around the country?”

I waited.

“Okay, you’re right. I don’t have time to fuck with you. What’s this about?”

“Our friend the vampire slayer.”

“Talk to me. Fast.”

I quickly caught him up to speed. When I was finished, Detective Hammer whistled lightly. “Yeah, a real nut job. Here’s a name and number. Detective Sparks. A good man.” He gave me his number and added, “So this guy really writes vampire novels?”

“Yes, apparently.”

“Aren’t most vampire novels about teenage girls running around and, you know, acting retarded?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “But you seem to be some sort of expert.”

He said something derogatory about me and my hygiene, reminded me once again that I was nothing more than a glorified mall cop, and hung up.

* * *

I called Detective Sparks with the SFPD and caught him up to speed. I did my best not to mention the words “vampire slayer” until the very end. And when I finally did—because I inevitably had to—I could practically see the detective’s eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. I had never met Sparks or heard of him, but I had a mental image of a man shaking his head and his eyes rolling up.

“Vampire slayer?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“As in, you know, vampires?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, now I’ve heard everything.”

“Sadly, now you have.”

“And you have a picture of this girl?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Swing it by the station and we’ll give it to our guys.”

“See you then.”

We hung up, and I continued driving north through the heart of California, past acres and acres of farmland. I had heard once that California farms fed most of the world. Out here, driving up this empty stretch of highway, it was easy to believe.

And as I sat back and dug in for the rest of the drive, I idly considered the possibility that perhaps Veronica had really witnessed her parents being killed by a vampire.

Now I almost regretted not working the cheating spouse cases. Almost. No matter what, Veronica was a minor and she needed help.

One way or another, I was going to help her.

* * *

Four hours later, and using my GPS navigation to direct me through the busy streets of San Francisco, I soon pulled up to the SFPD Main Station. Shortly after that, I was directed up into Detective Sparks’s office.

The detective was pretty much as I had imagined: average-sized, thick around the neck and shoulders, and balding. We shook hands, chatted briefly. He took Veronica’s pictures and made colored copies of them and gave them to one of his men. The images were then uploaded and broadcasted to various officers. Within minutes, Veronica’s mug was everywhere.

I left the station, feeling as if I had somehow betrayed the girl, denying her the chance at retribution.

Maybe, I thought. But more than likely she was going to hurt someone, including herself.

I checked the time. 1:00 p.m.

The book signing was in one hour.

Chapter Eight

Apparently this James P. Storm was a pretty popular guy. A line filled mostly with titillated women wended itself through the store, out the front door, and around the building.

I was in the wrong business.

Many of those standing in line were clutching various books. I noted that most of the covers were darkish and gloomy and seemed to scream vampire.

Inside, the Borders was everything a super bookstore should be, and perhaps a little more. This one, it seemed, had three stories. That’s a shitload of books.

I silently vowed to read more someday. Maybe then I’ll finally figure out what the hell a Kindle is.

James P. Storm was nowhere to be found, having yet to make his grand appearance. As I cruised the bookstore, following the long line of excitedly chatting women, I looked for Veronica. Would have been nice if I found her standing there wielding a stake, but no such luck.

At the front of the line, which ended up at the second floor in the mystery section, I found myself at a long table draped in a red table cloth and stacked high with gloomy-looking vampire books. A life-sized cardboard cut-out of James P. Storm leaned against an easel next to the table.

I walked over to the cut-out. Storm wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Certainly nothing to write home about, although he seemed to take himself a little too seriously for someone who simply wrote vampire novels.

And that tan. Sweet Jesus. The man looked practically radioactive.

I tried to imagine him pouncing on Veronica’s mother and father, ripping open their throats, and drinking from them. I couldn’t do it. Mostly, I couldn’t imagine him tearing himself away from a tanning bed.

I checked the time: 1:50.

His Royal Tannedness would be appearing soon, no doubt to the delight of those waiting in line for God knows how long. I moved away from the table and checked out the security set-up. A single policeman was standing off to the side, near an “Employee Only” door. He didn’t look happy about his assignment. I didn’t blame him. I scanned the crowd and spotted two security guards patrolling the line. The security guards looked a little more into it.

I knew from Detective Sparks that a plainclothes officer was in the store as well, looking for anything unusual. Granted, an endless line of chattering women waiting for a too-tan man seemed unusual enough, but whatever.

I noted that one of the security guards had a piece of paper rolled up in his back pocket. The paper and the partial image I saw looked familiar. It was Veronica, an image no doubt distributed by the police. Good, there was nowhere for her to hide or to run. We were going to find her, and save her from herself.

Or, at least, that was the plan.

I checked my cell. Five minutes to go.

She was here, somewhere. I knew it. I felt it. But so far no one matched her description: that of a tall, dark haired, seventeen-year-old girl with murder in her eyes.

A murmur began behind me. The murmur turned into outright cheers and clapping. I turned to see a tall man emerge from a backroom door, escorted by two very serious-looking Borders employees and another police officer.

James P. Storm waved to his adoring fans, flashed a white smile, and took a seat at the long table. He picked up a pen, nodded to one of the Borders employees, and the first in line was permitted to stand before the table. Both policemen took up their positions to either side of the author. Both policemen looked as if they would rather be anywhere but here. One actually yawned.

As I stood watching the scene from about fifty feet away, I couldn’t help but notice that Storm seemed frail and sickly, despite his brilliant tan.

Fake tan, I suddenly thought.

So fake that I suspected it could have been make-up. I had lived in Hollywood long enough to have seen my fair share of fake tans. Bronzers they call them. Something you rub on the skin. No sun required.

Perfect for a vampire.

I should have laughed at the notion. I should have banished it from my thoughts. I should have done anything but take it seriously. But it suddenly made some sense. Weird, strange, incomprehensible sense. Oxymorons on top of oxymorons.

I frowned and watched him smile brightly at the next girl in line. He took her book with an equally tan hand, and spoke quietly to her, smiling, and then leaned over and wrote something inside the book. As he wrote, I noted a change in his pleasant expression.

He wasn’t smiling now; indeed, he looked like he was in pain. Or deathly ill.

Like a vampire forced into the light of day?

I shook my head. Craziness.

As he handed back the book to the young lady, his white long sleeve rode up his arm a little, and I couldn’t help but notice the fanged head of a snapping dragon. A helluva big tattoo. No doubt that beast wrapped all the way up his arm, and probably then some.

Don’t get caught up in the craziness, I thought. Lots of people have dragon tattoos.

And then Storm turned his head slightly and caught my eye and something very close to a chill coursed through me. He gave me a half smile and nodded and held my eyes for a half a second. He squinted a little and then he turned back to the next girl, smiling brightly at her, as well.

What the hell had that been about?

I didn’t know, but there was nothing more to see here on the second floor. I had just turned toward the escalator, when I stopped short and almost gasped.

Almost, but I kept my composure.

It was her, Veronica the Vampire Slayer.

Chapter Nine

It was as if I was staring at a ghost, something that might not really be there, something phantasmagorical and ethereal. But she was there, in the flesh, real as hell, and she was heading up the escalator to the second floor.

After I got over my initial shock, I processed what I was seeing. Veronica was wearing a long blond wig and a long flowing white dress. She might have even gone unnoticed had I not spent the long drive up to San Francisco memorizing every detail of her face.

And so, despite the wig, and the distance between us, I immediately recognized the strong jaw and her challenging eyes. The blond girl was tall, too, as tall as Veronica would have been.

It was her; I was sure of it.

And so far, no one else seemed to notice.

She stepped calmly up onto the very escalator I had planned on using, and as she slowly ascended, I saw that she was sporting a guitar case strapped to her back. I seriously doubted there was guitar inside.

I considered my options. There weren’t many, so it didn’t take long. I could find the closest policeman, convince him that the guitar-wielding blond was a delusional psychopath. Or just follow her up myself.

I decided on the latter. I was, after all, a man of action.

As she continued to ascend, I picked up my pace and just as I reached the escalator, a very large elderly couple stepped on before me. Damn. Veronica reached the top of the escalator and made a right. She flashed me a view of her strong profile, and then she was gone, out of my line of sight.

Double damn.

It was at that moment, as I was about to impolitely push through the elderly couple in font of me, that an icy chill coursed through me. I shivered as goosebumps rippled along my forearms.

Someone was watching me.

I glanced around for the source of the feeling. I didn’t have to look long. Below, staring up at me from behind the table draped with the red tablecloth, a squinting James P. Storm was watching me ascend.

I shivered and looked away.

* * *

She was gone. Or, rather, I had lost her. Shit.

At the top of the escalator, I hung a right and moved quickly through an area of low tables and oversized gift books. The third floor, like the other two, was laid out in a perfect square, with the center open. A low glass wall gave shoppers a view of the floors below. From up here, I could see the book signing taking place below, with a clear view of James P. Storm smiling and talking pleasantly to a young reader. The winding line of humanity looked a little like the Great Wall of China.

As calmly as I could, I checked each row and aisle for signs of the girl. I made a full circuit of the top floor and soon ended back at the escalator landing, with no sign of Veronica anywhere.

I stood there, confused. Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe I had imagined the girl. The third floor seemed darker than the other floors, and quieter, too, since all the action was taking place on the floor below. Still, there was a handful of people up here. The elderly couple that had blocked my ride up the escalator were holding hands and laughing and moving slowly down one of the aisles. A man and woman were sitting together cross-legged in an aisle, reading. An elderly man was flipping through a magazine, sitting in a reading chair. A young man holding a laptop case strolled over to the brass railing and looked down, a bemused smirk on his face.

I continued scanning. As I did, my heart thumped once in my chest, then twice. Hard. Something was going to happen. I could feel it. Either that, or I was going to keel over and die right here of a heart attack.

So where the hell had she gone?

The bathrooms were all downstairs on the first floor. Up here, there was only a single Employees Only door, with a keypad.

Maybe she had the code.

I doubted it. Confused, I began systematically searching each corner of the upstairs, one after another, and when I got to the fourth and last corner, I found it.

The guitar case. Leaning against the far end of a bookcase. Hidden unless one ventured deeper into the corner, as I had done.

I hurried over to it, opened it. Inside was a blond wig and a white dress and no guitar.

“Ah, hell.”

* * *

As as I ran out from behind a tall bookcase, the first person I saw was the young guy with the laptop case. He was still standing near the railing, on the opposite side of the room. I noticed he was no longer smiling bemusedly. Instead, he was unzipping the case and pulling something out from within. It was most certainly not a laptop.

No. It was a small, stainless steel crossbow.

And the young man wasn’t a man.

It was Veronica.

* * *

She had, of course, cut her hair in a boyish way and was wearing men’s jeans and t-shirt, both of which had been hidden beneath the long white dress. Enough of a disguise to temporarily throw me off, especially since I had been locked on to finding a blond girl in flowing white dress.

“Veronica?” I shouted. “Stop!”

She had just rested the weapon on the brass railing, when her head snapped up. She scanned the area, spotted me from across the open space. She frowned, and then went back to her crossbow, squinting along its sights and ignoring me.

Now I was running, not as fast as I would have liked, and certainly not very gracefully. I barreled recklessly around the first corner, dashed down an aisle crammed with reading glasses and cheesy-looking Velcro book covers.

Veronica was now on my right, carefully taking aim. Ignoring me completely.

The overweight old couple looked up, startled, as I swept past them. I dodged a low wooden bench at the last second. Back in the day I would have hurled it. Now, it was all I could do to just avoid it and not fall flat on my face.

Already I was gasping for air.

“Veronica, stop!”

But she didn’t stop. Instead, she was taking careful aim.

I turned the final corner. Now she was directly in front of me, about thirty feet away, ignoring me completely. The metallic crossbow gleamed brilliantly. I realized too late that she could have just as easily turned the weapon on me. If she did, there was nothing I could do.

I also realized that I was now holding my own gun. I had no intention of using it, but maybe it would help convince her to stand down.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Or I’ll shoot!”

Yes, I actually said that. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even acknowledge me.

Instead, she pulled the trigger.

Chapter Ten

The bolt burst from the crossbow.

I whipped my head around in time to see James P. Storm, who had been looking down and signing a book, reached up without looking and snatch the crossbow bolt out of the air.

I gaped, dumfounded. That did not just happen.

Storm looked curiously at the bolt, and then calmly looked up at us. Other people looked, too. No doubt they saw two people standing at the railing, one holding a gun, and the other holding a very medieval-looking weapon.

And that’s when someone screamed.

* * *

Utter chaos ensued.

People were now running in every direction. But Storm didn’t run; in fact, he hadn’t moved. He continued sitting there, staring up at us, holding the crossbow bolt.

A mob of people passed briefly in front of him, screaming hysterically. When they cleared, he was gone.

This can’t be good.

* * *

I had just turned to Veronica, had just reached out a hand to grab her, when I found myself flying backwards through the air. Yellow light burst through my skull as I crashed hard against an immovable bookcase. I crumpled in a heap, and might have blacked out for a few seconds.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that Veronica was gone. Amazingly, I was still holding my gun. I stumbled to my feet and searched the area and found her silver crossbow and a single bolt. I retrieved both just as the two policemen rounded the corner and approached me fast. I slipped the small crossbow and bolt into my jacket pockets.

“What the fuck is going on up here?” asked one of them. He was breathing hard, but not as hard as I had been.

My head was still groggy. Veronica was gone, and I wasn’t sure what the hell to tell these guys. I still had no clue how I suddenly came to be flying through the air.

“I saw someone up here,” I said. “Someone with a weapon.”

“And who the fuck are you?”

“I’m a P.I. hired to find—”

“Never mind. Where’s the shooter?”

“No clue. Someone...hit me from behind.”

“Stay here,” said the first officer. “We’ll be back.”

They dashed off and spread out, quickly searching the upstairs. They convened back at the escalators a few minutes later, conferred with each other, and then headed back down to the second floor mayhem.

As they had searched the upstairs, I noticed one had checked the “Employees Only” door. He had opened it, looked around inside for a few seconds, and then reemerged and continued on. Obviously he hadn’t found what he was looking, but what he hadn’t noticed was that the touchpad had been completely torn off the wall. Where it was, I had no clue, but it was gone.

With my head still throbbing and a fantastic pain in my right shoulder, I lurched forward toward the storeroom door.

* * *

With people still shouting below, I drew my gun and opened the “Employees Only” door.

The room was indeed a storeroom. I could smell dusty books and someone’s lunch. A microwavable pizza, perhaps. The room probably doubled as a break room, too.

It was also quite dark. I flipped on a switch.

The back room was, in fact, a longish room, separated by another door. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Now only a few muffled sounds reached me from the craziness outside. I still felt woozy, but I powered through it.

I continued through the long room, holding my gun out before me.

The storeroom probably looked like a thousand other bookstore storerooms. Boxes and books everywhere. Broken bookshelves. Dusty display cases crammed in one corner. A circular Formica table sat near a glowing vending machine and a microwave.

I headed deeper into the room, listening hard. I heard nothing unusual. No sounds of a throat being torn open.

At that thought, I reached inside my jacket pocket and withdrew the stainless steel crossbow and silver bolt. I goofed with the thing for a few seconds, until I finally knocked back a bolt, thus arming the contraption.

At least, I hoped it was armed.

I cautiously stepped through the second doorway, a doorway which was devoid of an actual door, and into what I assumed was a second storeroom. I reached around the corner and flipped on another switch. More books, more broken equipment. Shelving everywhere. And something in the far corner.

Another door?

It was easy to miss, especially if you were a cop hurrying through here and wrongly assuming no one was inside. The difference being that I knew someone was hiding somewhere inside this storeroom.

The door appeared to be blocked by some boxes. But that could have only been an optical illusion. Indeed, the closer I got, the more clearly I saw a narrow path that led through the boxes and to this back door.

I stepped between the boxes, onto the narrow path. The door was directly in front of me. It was also partially open. From within, I heard some very strange sounds.

And if I had to guess, I would guess that someone—or something—was feasting hungrily.

I moved quickly through the narrow corridor of boxes, and as I did so, the sickening noises grew steadily louder from behind the door.

Without slowing or hesitating, I raised the crossbow, and kicked open the door.

* * *

The small room was mostly dark, but there was enough light from the single dusty bulb behind me to see inside.

And what I saw was something out of a nightmare.

James P. Storm was in there, hunched over Veronica, his face buried into her torn and bloody neck. Veronica’s eyes were closed and she could have been dead.

As Storm turned reluctantly away from her neck, I shot him with the crossbow.

Had he been any further away, I’m certain I would have missed. But, in this case, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Or a vampire in a coffin.

As it was, the small arrow whipped through the air and plunged deep into his chest, exactly where I assumed its heart was.

What happened next still gives me nightmares to this day.

James P. Storm leaped back, staring down at the bolt protruding from his chest. He gripped the fletchings and pulled.

The bolt came out, along with a geyser of black blood that splattered the small room and turned immediately into steam. Indeed, the bloody hole in his chest gushed steam as well.

He stumbled backward and collapsed against some shelving, and as he hissed and steamed and bled, I ran over to Veronica and dragged her across the floor and out the door. I ripped off my jacket, wadded it up, and used it to plug the gaping wound in her neck.

With the jacket pressed firmly against her, I watched in horror and fascination as James P. Storm continued to hiss and steam. He looked at me confusedly, opened his mouth to say something, and then pitched forward onto his face.

Chapter Eleven

I was sitting in Detective Sparks office at the Central Station on Vallejo Street.

He and I had gone over and over the events at Borders Books and Music. He didn’t like my answers and had only grudgingly started to wrap his mind around the fact that something very strange had indeed gone on in his city.

He rubbed his eyes and drank some more coffee and stared at me for a long minute.

“So you really think this thing was a vampire?” he asked.

“I think this thing was a monster. But call it what you want.”

“A monster?” he said.

“It killed her parents and tried to kill her. It had its face buried in her neck and was drinking her blood. And when I shot it with the arrow, it turned to dust before my very eyes. What would you call that?”

“A long night of drinking.”

“No one was drinking, detective.”

“The Crime Lab analyzed the remains. Human DNA. They’re telling me that these remains are at least a hundred and fifty years old. They’re still testing them.”

I said nothing. What the hell was there to say to that?

Sparks said, “And you shot him with a silver arrow?”

“Yup.”

“And he just started smoking?”

“Like a chimney.”

“He say anything?”

“I think he was too busy smoking and dying,” I said.

We were silent some more. Veronica was in the hospital. Apparently, she was going to make it. Gladys and her husband were on their way up to be with her. At least Veronica had someone.

“So what am I supposed to do with all of this?” asked Sparks. He waved at the reports on his desk.

“You’ll think of something,” I said. “It’s why you make the big bucks.”

“They don’t pay me enough for this shit.”

“So am I free to go?”

He nodded wearily. “I’ll be in touch, Spinoza. We know where to find you.”

“Lucky me,” I said.

And left.

* * *

It was late evening, and I was sleeping fitfully in my office when someone knocked on the door.

I had been dreaming of my son, of course. Once again, we were in the forest and I was holding his hand, only this time his hand wasn’t charred. This time it was healthy and alive and soft and warm, and my little boy was looking at me with joy and love in his bright eyes.

This is different, I remembered thinking in my dream. Something is different.

My son nodded and swung my hand and I sensed great peace from him. He nodded again and laughed and squeezed my hand. I sensed something else. I sensed that he wanted me to move on. I had been about to ask him how when the knock came again.

My hand went automatically under my arm, gripping my pistol. I was a little jumpy these days after my run-in with the vampire.

“It’s open,” I said, reluctant as hell to release the image of my healthy and happy son.

Veronica opened the door and stepped inside. She was wearing tight jeans and a tank top. A far cry different than the loose-fitting boy jeans she had been wearing a week earlier at Borders. Her dark hair was still cut boyishly short and even from here I could see the red scarring around her neck. Her torn throat had needed a lot of stitches. I didn’t see any stitches now. She seemed pale and sickly and not as confident as she had been in her pictures. No surprise there, since she had nearly had her throat torn out.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked.

“Sure.”

She shut the door behind her, turned, and sat across from me in one of my client chairs. I released my grip on the pistol.

“I wanted to thank you for saving my life,” she said. Her voice sounded stronger than she looked.

Despite myself, my old shyness returned. I forced myself to power through it.

“Well, it was drinking your blood,” I said. “It was the least I could do.”

“Where did you learn to shoot a crossbow like that?”

“Maybe I was Robin Hood in a past life.”

She grinned, and seemed about to rub her neck, but stopped herself.

I asked, “So he really was a vampire?”

“Of course.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that my next question died in my mouth. I was left stumbling over words until I finally said, “So how many of them are out there?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but I don’t think many. The ones who are really old and smart rarely kill anymore. They find other ways to get blood.”

“So, um, how many have you killed?”

“Just three. Storm would have been the fourth.”

“And he’s the one who killed your parents.”

“I hated him for so long.” She paused, composed herself. “I spent the past three years hunting him.”

“How did you find him?”

“I’m a hell of a detective,” she said.

“Maybe you could work for me someday.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Anyway, if you meet the right people and make the right friends, yeah, there’s a whole scene out there.”

“Scene?”

“Vampire scene.”

“Of course.”

She leveled her stare at me. Her eyes, I saw, were lightly bloodshot. “But you took care of him for me.”

“Spinoza the Vampire Slayer,” I said. “So he’s really dead?”

“Of course, you saw him turn to dust. That’s what happens to them when they die.”

I nodded. “Of course. Silly of me to ask.”

Veronica’s neck was surprisingly healed. Just a big red blemish. She saw me looking at her neck. Now she reached up and touched it self-consciously.

“It’s hideous,” she said.

“It’s not that bad,” I lied.

“You’re a bad liar. The doctors tell me that it’s healing surprisingly fast.”

“Ah, youth,” I said.

“Sure. Youth.” She smiled again and stood. She reached out a pale hand across my desk. “I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Spinoza, for saving my life. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you, and a monster would still be out there killing innocent people.”

“All in a day’s work,” I said, and shook her shockingly cold hand. I nearly winced at her icy flesh.

She saw my reaction and released my hand. “They’re always cold now, since the attack.”

“I, um, hadn’t noticed.”

“You’re a bad liar, Mr. Spinoza.”

I told her to call me if she ever needed any help or needed a job, and she assured me she would. At the door, she looked back at me and seemed about to say something, but decided not to.

As she turned to leave, I saw a fresh tattoo above her low-riding jeans. It was a tattoo of a black dragon.

I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk and laced my hands behind my head, certain that I had just seen my second vampire.

The End

Spinoza returns in:

The Vampire Who Played Dead

Spinoza Trilogy #2

Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback * Audio Book

Return to the Table of Contents

Also available:

Temple of the Jaguar

Nick Caine Series #1
by J.R. Rain
and Aiden James

Chapter One

I found the ceremonial blade in the unmarked grave of some poor sap who had seen better days.

We’d been digging all day in this remote section of the rain forest, sweat pouring down our bare torsos, hands blistering despite the gloves. It was the golden reflection that first caught my eye—that wonderful golden flash that brings a smile to all of us who call ourselves looters. Although, I prefer the term ‘creative archaeologists’.

I used the trowel to scrape away the remaining dirt, revealing more of the blade, which consisted of a jade hilt, an emerald capstone, and six inches of pure gold. And if I wasn’t so tough, I could have cried right there.

“That will fetch a pretty penny,” said Ishi from behind me in his native Tawankan tongue. Actually, in his native tongue, this was translated to mean that the knife could be exchanged for many shiny coins.

“Yes, Ishi,” I said. “Many shiny coins.”

I reached down between the ribs, plucked the knife by its hilt and hauled it out, letting the smattering of sunlight refract off its near-perfect finish. That drop of clear liquid on its golden blade was either a tear or sweat. Maybe I’m not so tough after all.

Ishi helped me out of the hip-deep grave, which I was only too glad to leave behind. Any grave robber worth his salt is always happy to leave a grave behind.

We sat back in the shade of a mangrove tree and I lit a cigarette and studied the knife, rolling it back and forth in the little sunlight that made its way to the jungle floor. The crimson glow of the cigarette tip reflected deeply within the blade. It was a rare find, indeed.

“He was a warrior,” said Ishi, squatting next to me and drinking from a water jug. “Perhaps a very highly-esteemed warrior. The knife was for his protection.”

I thought about that, then stood and moved over to the exposed grave. I unbuckled my pickaxe and dropped it down into the pit. I returned a moment later and sat down next to the Indian youth. “Can’t leave the old chap without any protection.”

Ishi was smiling. “You are not like the others.”

“We all steal,” I said, inhaling on the cigarette.

“But you steal with a conscience.”

“I know. It’s a terrible thing.”

“At least you have not angered the spirits.”

“Yes,” I said, “there’s always that. C’mon, let’s re-bury this poor bastard and get the hell out of here.”

* * *

As Ishi drove through the thick jungle on a road that really wasn’t much of a road, I checked my voice mail on my looting hotline. One new message. Oh, fun. It was from a woman named Marie Da Vinci. She wanted to speak with me ASAP. Unless my ass was on the line, I rarely did anything ASAP, which is one of the reasons I became a self-employed looter. It was either that or open a smoothie shop in a strip mall.

I listened to the message again. The voice was strong but firm, breathy and sexy. She wanted to meet me today at four, in the outdoor cafe at the Copan Rio Hotel, of which I happened to live on the fifth floor.

After a moment’s contemplation, I dialed the number. It rang twice, and then went straight to voice mail. I heard the same sultry voice. I left a message: I would meet her at the hotel restaurant at four. I clicked off the phone.

“Hot date?” asked Ishi. Actually, this was translated to mean: a formal assembly between two possible mates for the continuation of one’s paternal bloodline.

“Yeah,” I said, “something like that.”

“Does she know you’re a thief?”

“She called me on my looting hotline,” I said. “So I’m thinking yes.”

Ishi smiled and said to himself, “Looting hotline. Shit.”

I leaned back in the front seat, closed my eyes and listened to the slapping of branches against the hood and fenders, the call of the distant howler monkeys, the chirping of hundreds of tropical birds.

Breathy and sexy? Oh boy.

Chapter Two

Juan Esteban examined the knife closely, making excitable little noises that didn’t seem all that appropriate for the circumstances.

He was using a jeweler’s glass, examining every inch of the artifact, and making notes on a small pad. Then he placed the knife carefully on a white cloth and moved over to his logs, pulling one from his shelf and flipping through the pages.

We were alone in his shop. The shop itself was in Coco, a little town north of the Copan ruins. For all intents and purposes, Juan’s shop looked like a run-down pawnshop. There were a half dozen glass cases cluttering the store, most of them with broken doors, filled with very cheap watches and fake jewelry and rusted pistols from Honduras’s colonial days. I moved around the shop and examined a rifle that actually appeared to be bent, completely useless.

This wasn’t exactly the famous “black market” people hear about, but Juan usually unloads any of the jewelry or specialty items I may find. The golden dagger would be considered a specialty item.

“You sell junk,” I told him again.

“Of course. It keeps the thieves and policia away, although sometimes they are one in the same.”

I pointed to the bent rifle. “Have you ever sold any of this crap?”

He chuckled. “Last week a tourist came by. She liked a plastic ring. I told her it was folk art.” He snapped shut his ledger, came back and sat behind his desk. “I’ve only seen one other dagger like this. Appears to be from the Mayan post-preclassic. Ceremonial. Never used for actual battle, of course. A jade hilt and an emerald capstone, and although the gold is low-grade, like most Mayan gold, it is a very rare find and very valuable indeed.”

“I’m surprised, Juan. You’re not up to your old tricks. By now you’ve usually told me how worthless an artifact is.”

“You’ve caught me on an off day, and I’ve never been able to take advantage of you, Nick, so I’ve given up trying.”

“Very admirable of you to admit, Juan. But we both know that’s bullshit. What are you offering?”

“Two thousand.”

“American dollars?”

“Of course.”

I laughed appropriately. “Fifty thousand dollars, and not a penny less.”

He sat back, shocked. “You would extort from a friend, my friend?”

“You were never much of a friend.”

“Now you insult me. Well, I spit on your mother’s grave, goddammit.”

I laughed at his showmanship and scooped up the knife. “My mother is alive and well, I think. Maybe I’m not ready to sell just yet. It is, after all, quite beautiful. Maybe it’s also good luck.”

“Ten thousand, and that’s my final offer.”

“I don’t think so. You’ll get ten times that from the New York collectors. Call me with a decent offer. Good day.”

“Twenty thousand and consider it a gift.”

“Adios, amigo.”

I left his shop and stepped out onto the empty dirt street. Ishi was sitting in the Jeep with the windows down and his Panama hat pulled over his eyes. He was out like a light. As soon as I opened the door he snapped awake.

“Well?” he asked, pushing up his hat.

“We’ll hear from him soon enough.”

“What did he offer?”

“Twenty Gs.”

Ishi whistled. “I would have taken it.”

“We can get more. A lot more.”

“Which is why you do the negotiating.”

“Yes,” I said.

“So what good am I?” he asked.

“You’re here for entertainment purposes.”

“Good to know.”

“Drive on, Ishi. Let’s get out of here. I have a date.”

He shifted gears, and we left the small town in a cloud of dust.

Chapter Three

“Nick Caine?”

I nodded and smiled. Ever the approachable stranger.

Marie Da Vinci was a pretty woman with an angular face and muscular arms. Probably spent five to six days a week with a personal trainer. There were wet splotches under her breasts; a film of sweat coated her forehead and forearms. Sub-tropical humidity has that effect. She unconsciously pulled her sticky shirt away from her skin and grimaced, as if sweating through her clothes was distasteful.

She looked good, distasteful and all.

Having sworn off all women years ago, I was concerned by my immediate attraction to her. I thought: watch yourself, Nick Caine, Looter Extraordinaire.

I was sitting in an outdoor cafe along the dirt streets of Ruinas, Honduras, just outside the Hotel Rio Copan. Drinking beer from the bottle. Or, as the song says, just wasting away.

“Thank you for meeting me on such short notice,” she said.

“Luckily, you caught me before my power nap,” I said.

She smiled. “May I sit?”

“Suit yourself.” Ever the courteous gentleman, I kicked out one of the whicker chairs opposite me. It skidded to a stop next to her feet. She brushed the chair with a paper napkin, and then sat on said napkin. The chair promptly creaked whicker-like. The alert Honduran waiter swooped in and asked in broken English if she would like a drink. He assumed correctly that she was both thirsty and a tourist. The copious amounts of sunscreen on her narrow nose and the bright pink blouse were the dead giveaways. In this humidity, the thirst was a given, of course.

“A glass of water please,” she said.

The waiter blinked, then looked at me. I shrugged at the waiter. The waiter waited. Marie looked at the waiter, then me and said, “What’s wrong?”

“Ordering a glass of water is a bad idea,” I said.

She nodded, blushed. “Of course. A bottle of water, please.”

“Of course, senorita.”

An old Miskito woman stood under an umbrella at the nearby street corner, encouraging all within earshot to try her amazing lemonade. I had tried it earlier. It was amazing.

I said to Marie, “There’s a man out here named Da Vinci. Leonardo Da Vinci. And from what I understand he’s a shitty artist, which, I suppose, is kind of ironic.”

At the mention of Leonardo Da Vinci she looked away. Her lower lip might have trembled, too. I continued, “He is, however, a murderous looting kingpin who would just as soon cut your throat open than lend you a dime. Rumor has it that he’s making a big move into the drug business.” I paused, studying her reaction. “No offense, but you wouldn’t happen to be related?”

There was no hesitation. “He’s my uncle.”

“Ah.”

The old lady on the corner raised her voice even louder, shouting in English, Spanish, Miskito and a mixture of all three. Hell, I even detected some French. Finally, she stepped out from under her yellow umbrella and out into the heat of the sun. Like a lioness picking off the weak and sick from the herd, she picked out a young man from a milling crowd and guided him toward her lemonade stand. The young man looked confused and a little scared. I didn’t blame him. She thrust a waxy cup full of the good stuff and practically reached down into his trousers for his money. He thanked her but looked thoroughly shaken when he retreated to his pack.

Marie continued, “He killed my father. His own goddamned flesh and blood.”

She pulled out a tissue and dabbed her eyes carefully. Her eyes were round, like Japanese anime, and I noticed for the first time the faintish, darkish, puffy circles under them, like twin-blackened moons in their quarter phase. When done dabbing, she crumpled the tissue and held it in her fist, should there be later tears. Recycling in action, folks.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Your uncle, Miss Da Vinci, is a cold-hearted killer. And not a very nice man,” I said. “However, killing his own brother seems to be a new low for Leo.”

“You seem to know him.”

“Let’s just say we’ve had reason to cross paths. Your uncle doesn’t like competition, and his competition has a habit of disappearing.”

“But you’re still alive.”

“No small feat. If it was up to your uncle, I’d be dead by now.”

She studied me carefully, and seemed to reappraise, looking me over like a used car. Maybe if I were lucky she’d kick my tires.

“Your father owned a museum in California,” I said, prodding.

“You know of my father?”

I grinned. “I’m just full of surprises.”

“Well, the museum was burned to the ground,” she said. “Everything was lost. My father’s entire legacy, destroyed.”

“I assume Uncle Leo had a hand in that as well.”

“Yes.”

She seemed about to tell me more but her drink came. She opened the bottle with a deft twist and took a long pull and wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger. Her hand was shaking. She twisted the cap back on and set the bottle on the wooden table. Next, she removed a small notepad from her purse, flipped to a page and looked at me steadily. Her blue eyes were flecked with gold. My favorite color.

She looked down at the pad. “You, of course, are a looter.”

“I prefer the term creative archaeologist,” I said and reached over and tilted down her notepad with my forefinger. There was much scribbling on the page, with my name written on top, underlined twice. Hmmmm. “Where did you get this?,” I asked. “I’m not exactly listed in the yellow pages under Looting.”

She grinned. “I’m full of surprises as well, Mr. Caine. As it turns out, you are fairly well-known in the museum industry. A looter who’s not entirely untrustworthy.”

“Mom would be proud.”

She went back to the notepad. “You have a Ph.D in Classical Mayan socio-economics from UCLA.”

“Sounded good at the time. But just try getting a job at Microsoft.”

“You worked briefly as an acquisitions specialist for the Bowers Museum of Cultural History in Santa Ana, California. Your last official job.”

“Yes.”

“But you quit.”

I shrugged. “As it turns out, I had quite a knack for acquiring artifacts, and an even stronger desire to keep them for myself.”

She closed the notebook, put it back in her purse. I knew there was still more information in there about me. Curiosity killed the looter.

“So,” I said, “did I pass the test?”

She looked at me with those big round eyes. The circles seemed to be getting darker. She needed sleep. Probably a couple days’ worth. “Yes, I suppose you did,” she said.

“Oh, swell. Now it’s your turn. What’s this all about?”

Chapter Four

She sat back and crossed her legs. Her ankles were tan. Tan ankles did something to me. Her foot bounced as she spoke. “You are, of course, familiar with the legends surrounding Ciudad Blanca.”

I sat back. “It’s a fairy tale.”

“It’s not a fairy tale, Mr. Caine.”

“Oh? You’ve been there? What’s it like?”

She smiled and reached out and touched the back of my hand. I once heard that a good salesperson would always touch their mark. I felt like a mark. As if I were being manipulated through a sales pitch. Except that I liked her pitch—and her touch.

Oh, brother.

The waiter came by and looked at me. I shook my head and he went away. Meanwhile, she watched me carefully, perhaps trying to gauge my reaction. The flecks in her eyes glittered like fool’s gold. Except, I was beginning to feel like the fool. She slipped something into my hand.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Look at it.”

I did. It was a Polaroid of a limestone disc and a rotund older man standing next to it, smiling as if he were with a lover. The disc was taller than his hip, larger than the ones I had come across. I squinted, and was able to pick out one or two familiar glyphs, which seemed to speak of rivers and valleys. The majority of the text, however, was unknown to me. The glyphs spiraled out from the center for three rows in what could only be a very complex story. Or a complex set of directions. The text encircled an image of a stylized jaguar, a popular image in Mayan lore. I was intrigued by the size of the jaguar, easily twice as big as a man. “It’s a photograph of a Mayan disc glyph.”

“Ancient directions to Ciudad Blanca,” she said. “It’s why my father was killed.”

I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding band, and knew immediately that I shouldn’t care if she was wearing one or not. But I did, and the warning bells continued to sound in my head.

“My father found the disc on an excavation in the Copan valley thirty years ago. He returned it to the museum, where he has been deciphering it ever since. Had been deciphering it.” She looked away, pained.

“Has the entire text been deciphered?”

She nodded. “Finished on the night he was murdered.”

“Coincidence?”

“No,” she said. “My uncle, you see, had a sort of spy working in the museum. Apparently, this bastard had been reporting on my father’s progress. My uncle waited thirty years for the glyph to be deciphered.”

“How do you know this?”

“He told me.”

“When?”

“Right after the funeral. He and I had a sort of family reunion.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a clear CD ROM case. “He was looking for this.”

I reached for it, but she held it back.

“What’s on it?” I asked.

“The deciphered disc glyph in its entirety. A road map that goes through the jungles of Honduras. And, it goes on to Ciudad Blanca.” She paused. “Uncle Leo managed to steal everything but the final clue to Ciudad Blanca, a clue contained on this disk. The final clue my father deciphered on the night he was murdered.”

“And how did you manage to get the disk?”

“Father emailed me the results as a precaution. He correctly suspected he was being watched. I had the information burned to a disk.”

“So, Uncle Leo has everything but the final location of Ciudad Blanca.”

She nodded. “He can start, but he can’t finish.”

I smiled and sat back. “I hate when that happens.”

Chapter Five

We were in my looting command center, on the fifth floor of the Hotel del Rio.

The suite was cluttered with enough relics to fill a small museum, or two, all piled on dozens upon dozens of bookshelves. Most artifacts were of Mayan and Olmec origin: flint knives, beads, pottery, carved figurines, statuettes, carved reliefs and jewelry. I even had two life-sized obsidian skulls. Virtually priceless. I had boxes filled with spear points and tools and utensils, all labeled accordingly, and all piled around the entire suite.

“You are a busy little looter,” she said, stepping inside behind me. She went straight to the flint knives, as most do. Ornate jade carvings with razor edges. She touched the fine edge tentatively.

“The artifacts are there for the taking. I catalogue all my finds as well or better than most archaeologists, and I only sell to respectable museums. All on the hush-hush, of course, as most museums have an official policy to not negotiate with known looters. But, privately, I’ve had scores of representatives from many famous museums peruse these very shelves.”

She put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know any more.”

I grinned. “True, it’s a dirty little secret. In fact, I’ve sold to your father’s museum countless times, although I did not deal with him directly.”

She dropped her hands and sighed. “Father was obsessed only with his disk glyph—and left the day to day running of the museum to myself and others.”

She set the flint knife down and removed a manila file folder from her over-sized purse. She flipped it open and handed me two copies of a computer printout.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s the partially printed text from the disc glyph.”

“Partially?”

She smiled sweetly. “It’s for my protection, Mr. Caine.”

“Ah,” I said. “You still don’t trust me.”

“If you were in my position, would you?”

“Point taken,” I said, scanning the pages. “What do you want from me, Miss Da Vinci?”

“I need someone who knows the land. Someone who can follow these ancient directions.” As she spoke she circled around me. She put a hand on my shoulder. The final sales pitch. “My father had in his notes that you were that man. And from what I’ve seen and heard, you will more than do.”

I shrugged my shoulders and stepped away from her. I did not like the way my heart skipped a beat at her touch. I was serious about not getting involved with another woman—especially after what happened last time.

I said, “At some point you will have to furnish the rest of the document, Miss Da Vinci. At some point you will have to trust me.”

She crossed her arms over her chest; her soft lips grew much harder. “Once we agree to be partners I will furnish the remaining documents. But trust is another matter, Mr. Caine. Trust must be earned.”

“Does your lack of trust have something to do with my occupation?”

“You are a looter and a thief. It has everything to do with your occupation, Mr. Caine.”

Chapter Six

Looters get a bad wrap. Just because we steal and plunder and operate outside of the law doesn’t mean we’re all bad guys.

We spent the remaining night going over the first two pages of the translation. The trail began at a river whose Mayan name never changed, which was lucky for us. From there things got a little tricky, but I was relatively certain I knew of the route, although the names for some rivers had changed. One thing was clear: the route led into the heart of La Mosquita. The Mosquita Coast. Little Amazon. Some of the last unexplored terrain on earth.

The rivers were accurate, their lengths and widths described were accurate enough, too. Whether or not this map led to Ciudad Blanca remained to be seen.

One thing was for certain...the path seemed to lead into the mountains. Not through...into.

“We’ll be traveling through tunnels,” I said.

Marie clapped her hands. “I just love a good adventure story.”

“Oh. You have many?”

Still grinning, she looked at me. “No, this will be my first.”

I rolled my eyes. Had Ishi been here, he would have rolled his eyes, too. Looters didn’t have much use for amateurs. Amateurs tended to get in the way...and to get killed.

Anyway, Marie seemed quite pleased with my grasp of the map’s instructions. She had feared, she said, that the directions would make little sense, even to an experienced guide like myself, and that her father’s life work had been for not.

“So, Mr. Caine, will you guide me into the jungle?”

“One condition?”

“What’s that?”

“Quit calling me Mr. Caine.”

Actually, there was a second condition. We looters always have a second condition. Next, we discussed my guiding fees, and when we were both satisfied, we agreed to meet tomorrow to coordinate the expedition. She gathered her stuff and made a beeline to my door. I was beelining right behind her.

“What do you plan on doing once you get there?” I asked.

She spoke over her shoulder. “Where?”

“Ciudad Blanca?”

“Conduct a full excavation,” she said. “With much of the artifacts going to a bigger and better museum, built in my father’s honor.”

“And what of the supposed treasure?” I asked.

She turned and faced me. Her eyes touched upon different features of my face. “Why there will be no treasure...Nicholas.”

“Nick,” I said. “Oh, really?”

“Not after we split it.”

I grinned. “You would make a hell of a looter.”

“I suspect most of us would, when it comes right down to it.”

“And what if your uncle happens upon the city?”

She set her jaw. “I have plans for my uncle. Now, good night, Nick. I will see you tomorrow.”

She left. I watched her go and when she disappeared down a stairwell, I shut my door and leaned against it, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.

Temple of the Jaguar
is available at:

Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback * Audio Book

About the Author:

J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams.

Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.

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