Текст книги "The Becoming"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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The Becoming
Anna Strong Chronicles – 1
by
Jeanne C. Stein

Foreword

My name is Anna Strong. I was thirty on my last birthday, and I will be thirty when you read this. In fact, physically I will never be older than thirty no matter how many mortal years I have on this earth. I am Vampire. How I became, and what is the nature of my existence, is the reason for this story. I tell it the way it happened so you will learn the truth as I did.

It may not be what you expect.

Chapter One

It's one in the morning, late last July, and hot. I'm squirming around on the front seat of my car like a fidgety five-year-old. I can't even keep my fingers still. As if with a mind of their own, they drum a restless tattoo on the steering wheel.

David should have had Donaldson out of that bar thirty minutes ago. What can be keeping him?

I squint around the dark parking lot. I hate waiting. I'm no good at it. You'd think after two and a half years chasing scumbags—

excuse me, allegedscumbags—for a living, I would have developed some patience.

I haven't.

I open the car door and step out. The dampness folds around me, a combination of heat, humidity, and a stubborn fog that clings to the Southern California coast like a soggy blanket. It's too late in the season for “June gloom.” What happened to real summer, with a lazy sun and warm desert air to dry things out? Instead, the humidity plasters my silk blouse to my skin. Shit, it's like living in Florida. I shake out of a linen jacket and throw in onto the front seat before slamming the car door shut.

Impatiently, I smooth wrinkles out of my skirt. I should have taken the time to change into my usual work garb—jeans and a cotton tee. Besides being downright uncomfortable, these clothes remind me that I had once again subjected myself to a less-than-perfect dinner spent trying to justify my work to my parents. For the first time in thirty years I have a business of my own and real money in the bank. I'm happy doing exactly what I want to be doing. But is that enough for them?

Apparently not.

Of course, if they saw me now, standing in a smelly alley behind a storage building in a not-so-upscale San Diego suburb, they'd be convinced they are right.

Good thing they can't see me.

I draw in a breath, blow it out and look around.

What a place for a bar. The shabby clapboard building has only one light, a sputtering, feeble bulb against the wall. But there are at least fifty cars parked up and down the street and inside, raucous laughter and pulsating music, punctuated by the occasional wild cheer, reverberates like thunder on the still night air.

I draw another impatient breath. Two of the people inside that bar are my partner David, and our skip, John Donaldson. David and I are Bail Enforcement Agents, bounty hunters, and this shouldn't be taking so long.

Maybe Donaldson is giving David a hard time.

That thought brings a smile. My partner is 6'6", weighs two hundred and fifty pounds and was a tight end for the Raiders. He's big and looks mean, more than a match for John Donaldson, whose rap sheet showed a skinny, anxious man with thinning hair and wire rim glasses perched atop a bulbous nose—an accountant of all things.

I stretch and yawn, and do a few squats to stretch taut leg muscles, not easy when you're wearing three inch heels and a short skirt.

Still, there's not much chance he's giving David trouble. Besides the obvious, Donaldson is nothing but a white-collar wannabe who played fast and loose with his employer's retirement account. When they caught up with the idiot, his string of shady business deals had landed him in jail on embezzlement charges instead of in the morgue, where that same enraged employer threatened to send him. Fifty thousand dollars and some pricey La Jolla real estate got him released pending trial. He skipped about the same time his wife found out he'd been keeping a mistress. She became instantly cooperative. She wasn't about to lose her house because the creep decided to jump bail.

But the infidelity—that's her problem. We work for the irate bondsman who will be out a cool five-hundred-thou if we don't get him back in custody tonight.

Which is exactly what we intend to do.

This should be a piece of cake. Donaldson doesn't have a history of violence. Why he ran is still a mystery considering, as it turns out, he didn't run far. We discovered him holed up in Chula Vista, in a South Bay low-rent district, no less, with the same blonde bimbo who caused his wife to give him up. We assume he plans to beat it south to Mexico, but for whatever reason, he hasn't yet.

Still, he's been a slippery little bugger. We thought we had him twice before and he managed to elude us.

But not tonight.

Tonight Donaldson decided to take a little excursion to a sports bar all by himself. It's a perfect set up. Once someone recognizes David, the reaction is predictable. And someone will recognize him—ex-football jock, local hero, David attracts attention the way the North Pole attracts a compass. Then it should be a simple matter of getting Donaldson's undivided attention. David will buy him a few drinks to loosen him up, maybe, or offer to show him his Heismann trophy or Super Bowl Rings. Anything to get him outside.

After that, it's a trip downtown, a little paperwork, and five thousand dollars deposited into our account in the morning.

Easy money. Especially for me. Tonight I'm the designated driver.

So what's the holdup?

I roll my shoulders. I want a nice, cool bath. I want out of these clothes.

Come on, David, I repeat like a mantra, let's get this over with.

I can't stand waiting any more. The smell is getting to me. If I cross to the other side of the parking lot, I can look through the bar's front door and see what's going on. Maybe David needs a little help. A short skirt and high heels may be a better inducement to Donaldson than trophies and big diamond rings. And I'll still be close enough to beat it back to the car if they're on their way out.

Anything is better than cooling my heels in this stupid alley.

I start across. The throbbing bass is shaking the place and grows louder with each step. David must be deaf by now.

But it's not so loud that it drowns out a familiar voice bellowing across the lot. “Hey, Donaldson, where do you think you're going?"

Shit. Something went wrong. I reverse directions and scurry back to the car. I hear the thump of running feet before I actually see two shadowy forms sprinting toward me. No time for pepper spray or the Taser. And no way am I going to let this jerk get away from us a third time. I unclip my .38 from my belt, take a deep breath, and wait for them to get just a little closer before I step out.

The gun has the desired effect.

Donaldson pulls up short, eyes riveted on the gun leveled at his middle. “What is this? What do you want?"

His face is devoid of color and looks different from his mug shot—leaner and meaner. His black eyes are sunk deep into their sockets and flash in the dim light like a cat's.

Those eyes are disconcerting, but I shake it off and put on a bright smile. “Let me give you a hint. You have a court date tomorrow.

For some reason, your wife is afraid you might be planning to miss it. Might have something to do with that blonde you've been shacking up with."

David moves up behind him. He slips handcuffs from his pocket and leans his head close. “So, we're your escorts. No need to thank us. It's compliments of your full service bail bondsman."

Donaldson smiles, his mouth cracking in a cold, humorless slit. “You work for Reese? Why didn't you say so. Listen, I've got money. I can double what he's paying you right now.” He steps toward me, his hand moving to a pocket in his jacket.

I take a step backward at the same time David grabs for his hand.

"Against the car,” David barks. “Spread ‘em."

But with amazing quickness, Donaldson ducks under David's restraining arm and is off again across the parking lot.

David groans. “I don't fucking believe this. Anna, start the car. I'll stop this bastard if I have to shoot his ass to do it."

I can't remember the last time anyone got away from David. Once he collars someone, they generally stay collared. This is definitely an annoyance. A sarcastic comment about David letting this guy get away springs to my lips, but when a gunshot explodes behind me, it dies in my throat.

For a moment, I'm frozen in place, hand on the car door. There is no longer the sound of running feet. David has disappeared. I crouch down, work my way around to the front of the car. Where is he? Did he actually fire at Donaldson? Did Donaldson have a gun? Shit, we hadn't gotten a chance to frisk the guy.

The taste of bile burns the back of my throat. Why isn't David calling out to me? I tighten my grip on the .38 and push to my feet. I know he must be hurt or he'd be yelling.

I'm trying so hard to see what's in front of me that when the attack comes, it's from behind and without warning.

Donaldson is suddenly beside me, wrenching my right arm back. The pain causes my hand to open reflexively and I watch my gun skid across the pavement. Then I'm slammed into the car.

"So, hot shot,” he says. “What are you going to do now?"

His breath smells of alcohol and rage. He's knocked the wind out of me and I gasp for air. My right arm feels like it's going to snap.

I fight to catch my breath, to keep the fear out of my voice. He's much too strong. “Get off me, Donaldson. You're breaking my arm."

He laughs, torquing my arm even higher. “Where's that partner of yours, huh? Maybe you'll be more cooperative now without him."

I try to straighten up, to take some of the pressure off my arm, but he pushes me back against the car with no effort. He's on something; he must be. I can't control the speed of my words, they tumble out in a rush. “Listen, Donaldson, you're already in trouble with the law. I know David must be hurt. Let me help him. We're not cops. You know you can leave now. Don't make it worse for yourself."

But he's still laughing, the sound so harsh and grating it seems to burn my cheek. “What makes you think I'm in a hurry to leave?"

I'm pinned against the car by his body. His hands begin groping. My stomach muscles constrict. I shove back against him, fighting to gain leverage. “Someone will have heard the shot in the bar. They'll come out."

But he cocks his head in the direction of the bar. “With that racket? I don't think so. Go on, scream."

I do, yelling until my throat hurts. The noise from the bar swallows my cries.

"See? What did I tell you.” He fumbles at the buttons on my blouse. “I think we should get to know each other better, don't you?”

He gives up on the buttons and rips it open, spinning me around to face him.

I try to fight him off. I'm five-foot-five inches tall and weigh 125 pounds. He's not much taller or heavier, but he overpowers me as if I were a child. He grabs my hair and yanks my head back. He's got the door open, and he pushes me down onto the back seat. I gouge at his face and neck, drawing blood that looks thick and black in the dark. He acts like he's oblivious to the pain. I'm pinned under him, pitching and bucking against his weight, but I can't shake him off. He's unbuckled his pants, one hand holding me down, the other working at the zipper. I don't have room to kick at him, so in desperation, I reach between his legs and grab and squeeze.

In the darkness, I don't see the blow coming. There's a brief flash of exploding color. Then, nothing.

Chapter Two

I don't want to wake up. I'm in a warm, dark cocoon, floating, safe.

Still, a blinding light intrudes on the darkness. Someone is forcing my eyes open. I push the hand away. It comes back. From far away I hear my own voice. “Will you shut off that damned light?"

A chuckle. “She's back, Doc."

The voice is familiar. I open my eyes. “David?"

"Right here, sweetheart.” A gentle hand finds mine. “How do you feel?"

I try to turn my head, the pain stops me. I reach up to touch my face, feel a huge, painful lump and wince. “Not too good. What happened?"

He doesn't answer. I struggle to focus, struggle to turn my head slowly in the direction of his voice. I know that I should be remembering something—something that triggers a spasm of alarm even through the haze of confusion.

David is seated beside me in a wheelchair, neck bulging out of a brace that looks so tight it bites into his skin. “That looks comfortable,” I say grimly. “Where are we?"

But someone steps between us. He's tall and thin with a disheveled mop of red hair. He's in scrubs, a stethoscope dangling from his neck. He smiles down at me. “You're in County General Hospital, Anna,” he says. “My name is Grant Avery. I'm the doctor who has been taking care of you."

"Me? Why?” As soon as I ask that, something dangerous and threatening flashes again, like a foggy image in the back of my mind, and I flinch without knowing why.

David pushes himself closer. “It's going to be all right."

Dr. Avery nods. “David is right. You're both going to be just fine. Do you remember what happened to you?"

My temples throb with dull repetition. I bring up a hand to press away the pain and notice the needle sticking out of the back of it.

Bright red blood flows through the tubing. I let the hand drop. “No. Have I been here long?"

"Since before dawn yesterday,” the doctor responds.

"Yesterday?” I glance at David. “I've been out since yesterday?"

David's slow, sweet smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when he says, “You went a little crazy in the ambulance. You've been sedated since then."

"The ambulance?” I keep repeating things. I can't stop myself because nothing he tells me makes sense. “What ambulance?"

David looks up at Dr. Avery. “Maybe you should tell her."

"Someone should tell me.” I try to make that sound convincing, though I'm beginning to wonder if I want to remember. Whatever happened is obviously not good.

It's Dr. Avery who breaks the silence. “You've been through quite an ordeal, but I want to reassure you that the physical damage inflicted on you will not, in any way, be permanently disabling.” He glances at his watch, then back at me. “You were badly beaten.

You've got a nasty contusion on your forehead—that's what's causing the headache. It's also why you seem to have lost your memory. But it's what we call retrograde amnesia—short term. You have two black eyes, but no concussion. Your eyes are not damaged.” He pauses, again with a glance at his watch.

"You have somewhere else to be?” I ask, irritation spiking with each glance at his watch. I have the distinct impression that there's more and the good doctor is stalling.

He has the grace to flush slightly. “No, of course not. I was just hoping the counselor would be here before I—"

"Counselor?” The fear reasserts itself. David pushes himself up from the wheelchair and moves to my bedside. His hand tightens around the fingers of my left hand, but I push it away. “Why would I need a counselor?"

Dr. Avery peers down at me. I see the hesitation on his face, but it's not his decision whether or not to continue—it's mine.

"Tell me."

"Are you sure? The counselor will be here in a moment or two. You might feel better having a woman here with you. Or we could call someone from your family.” A glance at my partner. “David seemed to think you might want to wait on that, but it's really your call."

I look over at David, too, but his expression is so solemn and sad it makes me all the more afraid. “David is right about the family thing,” I say quietly. “Now tell me what the hell happened."

I pull my eyes away from David and wait for the doctor to continue.

"You were sexually assaulted, Anna.” His voice is matter-of-fact, controlled. Now his eyes never leave my face. “You've suffered considerable trauma to the lower part of your body. Your arms are badly bruised. You've lost a lot of blood from a cut on your neck. The police think whoever did this may have tried to slash your throat. Luckily, he botched the job, but you required a transfusion. Do you want me to go on?"

My fingers are on the bandage at the side of my neck. Someone tried to rape me and cut my throat? How could there be more? I realize Dr. Avery is waiting. Numbly, I nod. “Go on."

He nods once, too, those unblinking eyes holding me captive. “Because there was evidence of penetration, we had to run pregnancy tests. They were negative. However, there are other tests that will take longer to process. We'll screen for sexually transmitted diseases, hepatitis...” A brief hesitation. “HIV."

He runs through the laundry list of horrors in a detached, mechanical way. When his voice drops away, so do his eyes, releasing me from their hold.

There must be a mistake. I sneak a look at David's face. The truth is stamped there in stark relief. “I can't remember it,” I whisper.

“Maybe that's a good thing."

David and Dr. Avery exchange a look. Then the doctor picks up a chart from the foot of the bed and moves toward the door. “I'll give you two a few minutes,” he says.

David watches until the door closes behind him. “Anna,” he says softly, “I'm so sorry."

I press the palms of my hands against my eyes, mindful now of why I'm here, but still unable to call up the how. “Tell me what happened."

"Are you sure you're ready?"

Will I ever be? “Yes."

David perches himself carefully on the edge of the bed. He picks up my left hand again and strokes it gently. “I'll tell you what I know."

Chapter Three

David's voice is uncharacteristically hesitant as he begins. “I screwed up, Anna,” he says. “I should have recognized that Donaldson was on something in the bar. He was jumpy and unfocused, but he wasn't drinking. When he found out who I was, he seemed really interested in coming with me. We got outside, and out of the blue, he starts running. At first I thought he must have figured out why I was after him. But he never said anything, he just took off."

His voice drops, waiting, I suppose, for me to give some indication that any of this makes sense. It doesn't. I shake my head and wave a hand at him to go on.

David rubs a hand over his eyes. “I yelled at him to stop. You were at the car. He ran right at you and you stopped him. That's when he found out we were from Reese. He offered us money to let him go. Before we could cuff him, he took off again. The little shit can really run. I got him cornered, though, between two cars. He turned on me, and I swear to God, Anna, he started growling and snarling like a wild dog. I figured this guy is really whacked. He came at me. It was like a blur. He slammed into me, and I lost my balance and went down, hit my knee against a bumper. I hit my head on something, too, I guess, because the next thing I remember, I wake up and it's quiet and I have the worst headache I've ever had in my life."

He stops again and color flushes his face. “Stupid thing to say. A headache seems pretty lame compared to what—"

I hold up a hand, impatient, irritated. “Stop it, David. You were hurt, too. You couldn't help what happened to me. Just tell me what you remember next."

David pushes himself off the bed and starts pacing. “It was so dark in that lot. I figured it had to be after two, because it was quiet and most of the cars were gone. I called out to you, but there was no answer. Just about the time I got my legs back under me, I heard shouting. The bartender and some of the staff found you on their way out. Evidently, they scared Donaldson off. They said they saw a man running away, but he moved too fast for them to make an ID. They called for help."

He's stopped his pacing and is watching me now, waiting for a reaction. Trouble is, I don't know how to react. I can see the bruises, feel the pain and watch the blood flow through the tube attached to the back of my hand. But I don't remember.It's as if I'm hearing about something terrible that happened to someone close to me. Revulsion is there, and anger, but it's not personal. At least, not yet.

I do suddenly remember what David said earlier. “This happened twenty-four hours ago. You told me I've been sedated because of something that happened in the ambulance. What did I do?"

The beginnings of a smile tweak the corners of David's mouth before he stops it and his expression grows still and serious again.

“You gave the paramedics quite a turn. You were unconscious until those ambulance doors shut and then you went ballistic. You started right in swinging, almost broke the jaw of one of the attendants. I had to help them subdue you. You were really out of it, ranting about wild animals and being bitten. Dr. Avery says it was a reaction to the neck wound and the viciousness of Donaldson's attack, but he didn't want to take the chance that it might happen again. He kept you well sedated until he could bring you out of it gradually. Like he did this morning."

This morning. A wave of weariness washes over me and I close my eyes. I feel David shift at my side and look up to find him bending close, his face a marble effigy of concern. I try to smile but the muscles of my own face are frozen. The best I can do is grimace, which makes the muscles along David's jaw clench even tighter in distress. He grabs my hand again and squeezes.

"Anna, what's wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor back?"

"Probably.” I glance down. “I may need him to set the bones you're breaking in my hand."

He releases the death grip. “Sorry."

I've known my partner a long time and we've found ourselves in some tough situations, but I've never seen him scared before. It's disconcerting, especially since I know I should be feeling worse than he does.

Why don't I?

Is it just the memory loss? Am I in shock?

I draw a deep breath, hold it, and then blow it out. “David, it's all right. I'm going to be just fine. You've spoken to the police, haven't you? What did they say? Did they catch up with Donaldson?"

He shakes his head and pulls at the neck brace in irritation. “No. Donaldson is still on the loose. But they'll get him, and when they do, he won't be able to deny he attacked you. They got blood and hair samples from the car. Tissue samples from under your fingernails."

I get a flash of a lab technician somewhere opening a box with my name on it and withdrawing sealed envelopes with swabs and scrapings. Proof of what Donaldson did to me. Then I drag myself back to listen as David drones on.

"Seminal fluid, vaginal secretions—” David suddenly seems to realize what he's describing evidence of a rape—and he stops short.

“Anyway,” he says after a long moment. “As soon as you feel up to it, they'll want your statement."

"And with any luck,” a voice from the doorway interjects, “you will be able to give that statement very soon now."

Dr. Avery is back in the room. He joins David at my bedside. I notice for the first time the tiny laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and the touches of humor around his mouth as he smiles down at me.

A smile that warms me.

"Your blood work is just about finished, Anna,” he says. “If you feel up to it, I see no reason why you can't be released early this evening.” He looks at David. “I assume you'll be able to take her home?"

David's eyes widen. “Take her home? It's too soon. She hasn't spoken to a counselor. And didn't you say she lost a lot of blood?

She can't be strong enough yet."

The doctor ignores David and crosses to the other side of the bed where he begins the process of unhooking the various tubes feeding into my veins. There are two, one with a clear liquid attached to my arm, and the second, the blood line on the back of my hand. There's a brief stinging sensation as he withdraws that needle and presses a compress against the wound, gesturing for me to hold it in place.

I move my fingers over his and he lets go.

"Anna should be feeling stronger now,” he says, his competent, sure fingers at my wrist. His eyes study the stainless steel Rolex on his own as he takes my pulse. “You are, aren't you?"

I am. The realization hits with an unpredictable consequence. I find myself smiling—a real smile—at the doctor. He smiles back and nods.

But David is obviously not convinced. “It's too soon,” he insists again. “She doesn't have her memory back yet. What if everything that Donaldson did to her comes back when she's alone? That can't be good."

Dr. Avery seems to consider his words. “You may be right,” he says. “Anna, how do you feel about being alone? If you're concerned, maybe you could stay with family for a few days?"

"Family?” It's not even a consideration, though I don't say that. “No. My folks left yesterday for Europe. Besides, I can take care of myself."

"Not yet, you can't,” David says.

His persistence is beginning to grate. “David, if Dr. Avery thinks I'm all right on my own, what's the problem?"

"I just don't like it. Max is gone—"

The mention of my boyfriend's name brings me up short. I haven't thought of Max since “it” happened. I'm not ready to think about him now.

I look over at Dr. Avery. “There may be someone else,” I say. “I have a good friend."

David glares at me. He knows who I'm thinking of. “Not Michael."

"Why not?"

He's looking at me as if I'm crazy for even considering it. But I have my reasons for thinking of Michael, reasons I'm going to share with David—when we're alone. Right now, I shake my head. “David, who else is there? If you don't want me to be alone, it's got to be Michael."

"No,” he insists. “It doesn't have to be Michael. You could stay with me."

I actually laugh out loud. “Oh. That's a good idea. Your girlfriend will be thrilled. Gloria hates me already. If I stay with you, you'll have to taste my food and stay up all night to be sure she doesn't stab me in my sleep."

His expression shifts from concern to indignation. “Gloria does not hate you. Why do you say things like that?"

But before I can reply, Dr. Avery has stepped between us, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I didn't mean to start something here,” he says to David with a spark of impatience. “It's really up to Anna whether she wants to be alone or not. And if she doesn't, I think she's perfectly capable of choosing who she'd be most comfortable with."

I look at Dr. Avery, a little surprised at the way he's sticking up for me. But I also see how this is affecting David. Dr. Avery's strident tone causes David to bristle. I can see by the set of his jaw and the little vein starting to pulse in his forehead that's he's close to telling Dr. Avery exactly what he can do with his opinions.

I raise myself up off the pillow. “Okay guys, can we take a step back here?"

The length of a heartbeat passes before the two men break eye contact and swivel toward me.

"David, I appreciate your concern. I really do. But Gloria will not want me in your house—” He raises a hand to protest, but I know what he's going to say and I cut him off. “It doesn't matter the reason. She resents the fact that I'm in your life at all. You know that's true. If it weren't for me, she thinks you'd be living in LA, where all the action is."

I see Dr. Avery casting an inquisitive look toward David and I jump in before David has a chance to speak. “Gloria is a big time model. You ever see a Victoria's Secret commercial on TV? Then you've seen Gloria."

He looks impressed. Most men do. It's very irritating.

"So. Right.” It comes out a little shriller than I intend. I draw in a breath, blow it out. “Anyway, Michael has been my best friend since grade school. He can take care of me better than anyone."

David opens his mouth, but Dr. Avery cuts in first. “It's settled then. Anna, I want you to try standing up now. I'll send a nurse in to help you shower. We'll keep you here long enough to make sure you can get around, and then you can call your friend."

A virulent combination of anger, revulsion and disbelief flashes across David's face. “I don't believe this."

His tone is deceptively quiet. It's a bad sign. “Thank you, Dr. Avery,” I say, waving him out of the room. “Let me just talk to David a minute before you send in that nurse."

David's fury emanates from him like shock waves. Fortunately, Dr. Avery seems to sense it and beats a hasty retreat.

When the door has closed behind him, I push myself to the edge of the bed. “Want to help me up?"

My voice snaps David's attention from Dr. Avery to me. The expression drops from his face like a mask to be replaced by one just as unsettling. He gives me a bleak, tight-lipped smile. “I'm sorry, Anna,” he says. “I just don't see what Michael could do for you that I can't. And I resent like hell that bastard Avery taking a position on something that's none of his business. He doesn't know you. Or Michael."

As he talks, David is helping me off the bed. Once I'm standing, I let his comments go while I take inventory. I feel surprisingly strong. I'm a little sore but my legs hold and I'm able to let go of David's steadying arm.

David frowns. “You sure you're okay?"

I take the two steps over to a sink against the wall of my room and look into the mirror.

That's when it starts coming back.