To Catch a Vampire Read online

  “Are you trying to kill us?” I scream hysterically over the engine.

  “Calm yourself, my darling,” he shouts back. “I have never had an accident.”

  We round another corner, tilting so close to the asphalt my ankle glides an inch from it. “Slow down now!” I scream again.

  To my surprise, our speed drops by ten miles per hour. “My darling, you are about to crush in my chest.”

  With hesitation, I loosen my grip a little. “Then drive like a sane person!”

  “But I so enjoy you holding me close.”

  “And I so enjoy not being the star of Blood on the Highway.”

  He maintains speed until we hit traffic a moment later, the dreaded stop-and-go of worker bees on their way home from work. The drivers can’t see our faces behind the helmets, but I can see theirs. They are all the same with their SUVs, thinning or graying hair, and white shirts done up with hideous ties. They’re old enough to be my father, but they can’t take their eyes off my exposed thigh. Green with envy, no doubt. We look like a freedom fantasy come to life. Open road, leather, semi-hot chick on the back of the hog. The man to my left, even though no doubt talking to his wife on the phone, stares at my hiked up skirt at the area only my gynecologist should see. I wish he could see my glaring face. The light changes and we move to the next red one. The sweat drips down my back and cleavage.

  It continues like this for ten minutes: stop, stare, move a foot. The helmet might as well be a plastic bag wrapped around my face for all the breathing I can do. I flip the visor, taking in lung fulls of exhaust from the cars.

  “Are you alright, my dear?” Oliver asks, flipping his visor.

  “No,” I say in a huff. “It is a thousand degrees, I’m in leather, I can’t breathe, and the whole town is looking up my skirt. How much longer?”

  “If we continue like this, forty-five minutes. It is possible to arrive sooner …”

  “Then do it!”

  “As you wish.”

  The engine revs and we rocket off, narrowly missing the truck in front of us. The bike glides between the stalled cars, so close on either side I don’t know where they stop and my legs start. I asked for this, I know, so I can’t complain. I clutch onto Oliver as tight as I can, but bite my lower lip. Please don’t let us crash, please don’t let us—

  The red pickup a few feet ahead of us changes lanes. The motorcycle skips to a stop. I yelp and close my eyes. Oliver, unfazed, guns it again. I open my eyes as the truck clears. He is about five seconds from losing his driving privileges forever.

  We make it to Justice Way fifteen minutes later, pulling into a lot down the street for ten bucks an hour. First thing I do is pull down my skirt, then peel off my jacket. That’s better, but not by much. I can see the waves of heat rising from my skin. Carrying our helmets, we walk toward the Dallas field office of the FBI. From the outside, you would never think this place was FBI. It looks like a regular office building. The few people who filter out in their business suits and pantyhose unabashedly stare at us as we reach the door. Oliver ignores them, but I blush. I’ve never turned heads before. Don’t know if I like it.

  I pull my badge out of the hidden pocket of my purse, and Oliver takes his out of his coat. The tall, African American security guard touches his gun as we walk in. The hand moves back when he notices our credentials.

  “We have an appointment with Special Agent Michael Tully,” Oliver says.

  “Are you armed?” the guard asks.

  “Yes.”

  Thank goodness we don’t have to go through the metal detectors, or they’d have a field day as I take out all the knives from my bra. The guard waves us through to the man in the reception area sitting behind the bullet-resistant glass. He examines our badges and with a moment of hesitation calls Tully. “He’ll be down in a few minutes,” the receptionist says. “You can have a seat.”

  Don’t have to tell me twice. I flop down in a chair with a sigh. I had better spend the whole night sitting or I’ll never be able to walk again. The cold air from above chills the sweat on my torso, face, and legs. Oliver takes the chair next to me, staring at the display of the far wall of all the agents who lost their lives in the line of duty. The last one is a familiar face. Special Agent Spencer Konrad. He died on my first case, eaten alive by zombies. The official story was that a crazy cult member shot him. I barely knew him, didn’t even know his first name, but seeing him looking so serious with dark brown hair slicked back, a pang of sadness grips me. He died serving his country. The only consolation is the man who was responsible died by my hand—or my mind, to be more accurate. I look away from Konrad’s picture. I don’t want to think about that again. Ever.

  More people in suits walk through the turnstiles past us, staring. What they must think. Pimp and prostitute? Biker gang informant and girlfriend? That’s what I’d assume. I hug my helmet close, and look down at the floor. Oliver watches them go by, meeting a few eyes. The people look away.

  “People can be so rude,” Oliver says.

  “Well, we do look like S&M Ken and Barbie,” I point out. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in all my life.”

  “You are young.”

  “Not helpful.”

  “Perhaps it is that they have never seen as beautiful a woman here before.”

  “Can it. Time to be professional.”

  A man in his early forties with receding hairline, ice blue eyes, and white dress shirt pushes through the turnstile and zones in on us. He smiles, holding out his hand. “Agents Montrose and Alexander?” he asks.

  We stand, and a sharp pain shoots up my right leg. “Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand.

  He can’t help it. His eyes zoom in on my boobs for a moment. Men. “You as well.”

  He takes Oliver’s hand, but Oliver grips it so tight, bones and tendons crack. Tully winces, pulling his arm away. “Nice grip.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” I say.

  “No problem. Follow me.”

  I swipe my visitor badge and walk through the turnstile after Tully with Oliver behind us. More sideways glances greet us as we walk down the hall to the elevator. Tully pushes the button, and in we go.

  “Where are you two staying?” Tully asks.

  “The Radisson,” Oliver replies as we step out of the elevator.

  “Nice place,” Tully says.

  “I suppose,” Oliver says.

  Tully leads us down a beige hallway with a gaggle of closed doors with keypads on them. The movies have it so wrong. You’d think that places like an FBI facility would be a bit more exciting. A gun range, wall of televisions, or people running around like crazy talking about serial killers or bombings. It’s nothing but cubicles with the odd office. Total letdown. We end up in a conference room where a stack of files awaits us. Oh, joy. Homework.

  “I was surprised to hear from you guys,” Tully says. “I don’t know what these can tell you. I went through them; I didn’t find a single commonality.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” Oliver says. He takes off his jacket, sitting in one of the swivel chairs. “Are these all of them?”

  “All the ones you requested.”

  “You looked through all of these?” I ask, glancing at the stack, which has to be six inches thick.

  “Yeah. When I got the call you’d be coming, I went through them. If you want my opinion, whoever told you the same perps did these was jerking your chain. I didn’t see anything warranting an undercover op.”

  “We shall see,” Oliver says, meeting the agent’s eyes. “Thank you. That will be all. If we have any questions, we will be sure to call for you.”

  “Um,” he says, running his hand through his hair, “I think I should stay. The Costarellos are still my case, and …”

  Oliver meets Tully’s eyes again, but this time the agent’s expression changes. A familiar vacant face with dull eyes and slack jaw surfaces. “Leave now,” Oliver says in a soft voice. Like a good
mind slave, Tully walks out, shutting the door behind himself.

  “Was that really necessary?” I ask.

  “I did not like him.”

  “You just met him.”

  “He was … crude.”

  “Says the man who dressed me in bondage gear,” I say, taking the first file.

  Victimology time.

  Let’s begin at the beginning with Suzie Harriet Thal, age thirty-one. Occupation: bartender at Club Pain which caters to the S&M crowd. I can just imagine what her uniform looked like; we could probably be twins. She’d only been working there two weeks, hadn’t made any friends, nobody knew much about her. According to the file, she was originally from New York. A child of the foster system who left when she was seventeen and got married. Divorced a year later. She alternated between waitress, stripper, and bartender all over the country. Married and divorced a second time and had a child. No contact with either for over a year. Ex is remarried and has an alibi as well as full custody.

  Suzie often went home with a man from the bar, and the night she disappeared was no different. One waitress saw a twenty-

  something man, tall with brown hair, helping Suzie into her car. It was dark, so the waitress didn’t get a good look at the man. No sign of life since. She was skinny, tall, with long dark-brown hair. She reminds me a lot of my mom.

  Next, Kathryn “Kate” Michelle Bending, age eighteen, student at Grapevine High School in Grapevine, victim number two. Good student, long-distance runner on the varsity track team, well liked. Both parents are doctors, no signs of abuse, and no priors on either. Kate didn’t have a boyfriend, ex or otherwise, so no viable suspects. Kate and her friends Amanda and Petra used their fake IDs to get into the Glass Cactus, a local nightspot. They danced and drank, but that’s all the girls remembered. Amanda and Petra woke up the next day covered in bruises with no idea what happened or how they got home. Kate wasn’t as lucky.

  The working theory is the girls were drugged, and then horrible, despicable things were done to them, but they managed to get away. The girls were interviewed three times by the police, who got nowhere. The only evidence of foul play were the multiple bruises on their thighs and necks. No sign of Kate since. A waitress and bartender saw the girls bumping and grinding with a couple they had never seen before. They couldn’t give a description except for good-looking and the girl had bright blonde hair. Why they let the other two go, I don’t know. We’ll have to ask the creeps before we take them in.

  Victim number three is Officer Antoine Baker, age forty-one. He lived and worked in Forth Worth as a police officer. Fifteen years on the force, a few commendations, one citation for excessive force two years ago. Married ten years, two children, avid motorcycle enthusiast. Also avid horn dog. Per his partner, Shane Nashaw, Antoine had a new girlfriend every month. The wife, Lashandra, should be the prime suspect, but she had an airtight alibi. She was away in Houston singing with her church choir. Doesn’t get much better than that.

  The night he disappeared, Antoine and flavor-of-the-month Rochelle went to the Red Goose Saloon for drinks. Rochelle left when Antoine started flirting with a woman Rochelle can’t remember a thing about. The police think she’s lying, but the bartender remembers Rochelle leaving with her roommate. They were together for the rest of the night. Two bar patrons remember Antoine making out with a “Naomi Campbell lookalike,” and leaving with her and some friends. The sketch is close to the one provided by a witness of the couple’s later disappearance. No sign of the victim since. The entire force was out looking for “Naomi” and her posse to no avail. The cabal had already moved onto Donna or some other place and victim we may not even know about.

  Donna Bennet Zahn, number four, age sixteen at time of disappearance. Junior at Summit High School in Mansfield, Texas. Poor student with Cs and Ds, except in art. Suspended twice for smoking and once for fighting. Parents Claude and Cindy, older sibling Jeffrey. Father owns a garage, mother a nurse. Parents ruled out due to lack of priors, and though neighbor and friend interviews said their relationship was strained, they loved her. Ex-boyfriend lead suspect. Wayne Ronertson, age seventeen. Donna broke up with him two weeks before, and friends stated he was sending her notes and hanging outside her house. He was also at the same club, the Lizard Lounge, the night she disappeared. He claims he left before her. Last person to see her was her friend Cherie Martindale, who saw her dancing with a tall man with spiky brown hair named Rick.

  I pull out a sketch of Rick. Late twenties, thin mouth, high forehead, brown hair, handsome even with the spiked dog collar. Apparently, he was with a group of friends, but Cherie never met any of them. The bartender from that night didn’t recognize him, so the case is at a dead end. I flip past a list of items taken from Donna’s bedroom to the last page. The photos of her. The first is a recent one taken for the yearbook. She’s pretty, or would be if she removed the heavy white makeup, eyeliner, and black lipstick. The badly dyed jet-black hair with blonde streaks doesn’t help; but the dark blue eyes, small nose, and lips with high cheekbones do. Too bad she doesn’t smile. The other photo is from years ago. Absent are the horrendous makeup and hair. Instead, she had a healthy tan and strawberry blonde hair. Why she changed is anyone’s guess.

  Lastly, Linda and Don Costarello, the most recent missing persons. Donald Lee Costarello, age thirty-seven, originally from Chicago. Criminal lawyer at Waltham, Spektor, and Ludo with a specialty in fraud. Married previously to Tori Schneider, but divorced five years ago. She lives in Chicago with their son, Cody. Current wife was Linda Harris, age thirty, part-time personal trainer, married a year before. Happy marriage by all accounts. Don had a prior for possession of cocaine four years ago, but no other criminal history. Interesting list of items taken from the house. Dildos, chains, you get the picture. Friends said they had an open marriage. Apparently, Don enjoyed watching and occasionally joining in while his wife got it on with strange men and women. Whatever floats your boat.

  Don’s secretary reported him missing when he didn’t show up for court on Monday. Credit card bills placed them at the club Purgatory the night they disappeared. They were regulars there and one of the waitresses, a Jodi Gibbs, remembered the couple hanging out with a group of people in their late twenties to early thirties. All she remembered about them was they only ordered one drink each, which seemed to stay full all night. She also remembered three names: JR, Serena, and Rick. The sketch of “Rick” is very close to the previous one, minus the spiked hair. JR fits the description the source gave: black hair, blue eyes, the sunken-in cheeks popular with males now, and a pointed nose. The woman, Serena, is African American with full lips, straight black hair with bangs, and wide brown eyes. Since that night there has been no credit card activity or other signs of life.

  I close the Costarello file with a sigh and rub my eyes. I waded through stacks of paper to cull the relevant details out of the police jargon. I haven’t read this much in one sitting since I was studying for my Biology final in college. I barely got a D.

  Oliver finished reading way before I did. Right around Antoine he got up and left and hasn’t been back since. He’s not one for the investigative side. Our little group is split in two: investigative and retrieval. Investigative is Nancy, Carl, Andrew, and the real FBI agents all led by former Washington, D.C., detective Will. I was brought on for retrieval along with Irie, Oliver, and Will. Fueled by too many Law and Orders and Nancy Drew books, I wormed my way onto the investigative side. Otherwise I’d spend most of my time in hotel rooms watching soaps until it was time to kill something. The good news is I’m pretty great at it. Oliver, I’ve found, lacks the necessary patience. An immortal with a patience issue, go figure. Since the rest of the team’s not here, I guess it’s up to me.

  Game plan time. It’s so much easier when I’m just given an assignment and off I go. I wish Will was here. He’d know where to start, who to talk to, what evidence was important. By myself, I could just waste days while they kill another person. Okay, I nee
d to make a pact with myself now: If I feel like I’m getting nowhere in two days, I’ll call him—sooner if Oliver lays one inappropriate hand on me.

  Okay, Bea. You’ve done this enough times by now to know where to start. No physical evidence, no DNA, no fingerprints, nothing. The nightclub in question didn’t have cameras. The only witnesses had their memories wiped. Okay, why did they wipe the memories? They had to know something the vamps didn’t want them to. So, how do I get that information out of them? Oliver? No help, he doesn’t have the power to restore memories, only the vamp who put the whammy on them has that. Wait … if I remember Witchcraft 101, there are certain spells and potions that can open consciousness. That might work. Now I just need to find a witch in a strange city where I don’t even know where the nearest grocery store is. It’s not as if they advertise “Witches” in the yellow pages. I’ll find one somehow. At least I’ll have something to do tomorrow besides nude sunbathing.

  After jotting down the addresses and telephone numbers of Amanda, Petra, and Rochelle, I gather the files and totter out of the conference room in search of a copy machine. I want copies of the composites in case we get a bite (har har) tonight. The outer cubicles are near empty, with no annoying ringing phones or banal conversation, just a high-pitch giggle in the back. Oliver leans into a cubicle, whispering to a barely-out-of-college blonde. She either finds everything he says hysterical or is having a seizure as she vibrates like a spring that’s just been flicked. The blonde looks up at me, giggling even harder. Oliver rises and turns around. Grin Number Four appears, the awkward one when he’s been caught doing something naughty. What the heck are they talking about? Me, probably. Lord knows what he told her.

  “There you are,” he says with the same grin. “I was beginning to wonder if you were slumbering in there.”

  “Unlike some, I actually read the whole files.” My eyes dart to the blonde. “Where’s the copier?”