Текст книги "Blood Drive"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-One

Carolyn is dead. I know it as well as I know my own name. She’s dead, and the realization that I’ve lost an important link, maybe the only link, to securing Trish’s safety has me banging the steering wheel with the palms of my hands in frustration.

The same young cop who waved me away from the parking lot is now watching me with open curiosity. He calls one of the plainclothes cops over and points to me.

I shut off the car’s engine and wait for the detective to approach.

I know a lot of cops at SDPD, but mostly the uniforms who work at the jail, not the detectives who put the fugitives there in the first place. The guy who approaches is fifty-ish, heavy set, with owlish eyes and a bulbous nose dominating a round face. His expression is neutral, giving nothing away, but the lines around his eyes tighten slightly when he looks at me as if taking a mental snapshot.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks.

There are a lot of ways to answer that question. Possibilities flash like a slide show in my head. But there’s only one answer that might gain me access to information. The realization that it will also shine a spotlight on my family’s relationship with Carolyn is not lost on me. But Trish is the most important consideration and I know my mother would agree.

“I’m here to visit a friend. Carolyn Delaney.”

I say it like I don’t suspect what’s going on.

The detective, however, knows better. The cop watching us from the parking lot has no doubt relayed my stupid display of frustration. He opens my car door and motions for me to get out. “Would you step over here with me a minute?”

It’s not really a request and I respond accordingly. He touches a hand to my elbow and steers me to the Coroner’s wagon.

“How well do you know Ms. Delaney?” he asks.

“Well enough. Detective, what’s going on?”

He studies me for a minute, though it’s obvious that it’s not as if he’s unsure how to proceed, but more like he’s unsure how to handle me. It doesn’t take him long to come to a decision. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. We found a body in Ms. Delaney’s apartment. We assume it’s your friend. Would you mind making the identification?”

Do I have a choice? If I say no, he’ll more than likely send me on my way.

I nod, and he waits beside me in silence while we watch the Coroner and his men exit Carolyn’s apartment. Two EMT’s carry a stretcher with the shrouded body down the steps. The detective opens the door of the wagon and stops them when they get to me.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks. “She’s pretty badly beat up.”

Again, I nod. After all the anger I’ve felt toward Carolyn, I don’t expect to feel anything when I see the body. The attendant peels back the blanket, just to her shoulders.

Carolyn’s face has been slashed, tiny cuts crisscross her cheeks. Cigarette burns scar her lips and eyelids. Her nose is smashed.

Shock sends a shudder through my body. Not of revulsion because of what’s been done to her, but of anger because it’s what I wanted to do. What I wanted to do.

I look up at the detective, my mouth so dry I’m not sure I can form the words. I swallow hard and say, “It’s Carolyn.”

He motions to the attendant, who cover’s Carolyn’s face again and loads her body into the van. The detective and I move to the side and watch in silence as it pulls away.

Only then does he turn his full attention to me. “I’m Detective Josh Harris,” he says. “SDPD. And you are?”

“Anna Strong.”

He has withdrawn a small spiral notebook from an inside jacket pocket. He takes his time fumbling in another pocket for a pen, shuffles pages in the notebook until he, presumably, finds a blank page, and with precise, even strokes, begins to write. “That’s Anna S-t-r-o-n-g?”

I nod.

“Address?”

I give him the apartment address and follow it up with my telephone number. Easy stuff so far.

“And your relationship to the deceased?”

Now comes the tricky part. How much to tell him? How much does he already know?

He picks up on my hesitation. “Is there a reason you’re reluctant to answer that question?”

Not exactly. I’m reluctant to mention Trish, who is, after all, the reason I’m here.

Detective Harris’ sharp little eyes bore into mine. He’s shifting from one foot to the other as if tired of waiting for me to answer. “Let me tell you what happened to your friend,” he says. “It may facilitate your decision to help. She was tortured by someone who took his time and who enjoyed his work. When he tired of cutting and burning her, she was beaten, raped, and strangled. The apartment was torn apart. From Ms. Delaney’s condition, I can only assume her attacker didn’t find what he was looking for. Now I have a report that there’s a missing daughter out there. I don’t think I have to explain to you how important it is that we find her before this guy does.”

A pause follows his words. Then he adds, “So let me ask you again. What is your relationship to the deceased?”

I see no way to avoid the question. “We didn’t have a relationship, exactly. We just met. She asked me to find her daughter Trish.”

“Are you a private detective?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Then why would she go to you and not the police?”

“Because I may be related to Trish. Carolyn told my family that Trish was my brother’s child.”

“And when did she tell you that?”

“Two nights ago.”

“And you didn’t know before two nights ago that your brother had a child?”

“No. He died before Carolyn could tell him she was pregnant. It was a long time ago.”

The eyes narrow. “That doesn’t explain why she would go to you and not the police.”

I choose my words carefully. “She came to me because she knows what I do for a living. I’m a bail enforcement agent.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Bounty hunter?” His tone lacks high regard.

“Yeah.Bounty hunter. She thought knowing I was related to Trish would be incentive to find her.”

“And did you?”

“Yes and no.”

He frowns, the eyebrow ratchets higher. “What does that mean?”

“I found her. But she got away from me.” Kind of.

A frown deepens the lines around his mouth. “You’re a bounty hunter and you lost a thirteen-year-old girl? You must be very good at your job.”

His sarcasm trips a flash of temper. I swallow it down like a dose of bitter medicine. He’s just waiting for an excuse to haul my ass into headquarters and I know it.

When I don’t rise to the bait, he follows the remark with, “I’d like to see some identification.”

I motion to my car. “It’s in my purse.”

“Then let’s go get it.”

He marches me to the car and opens the passenger door so I can lean in and grab my purse from the seat. I withdraw my wallet and show him my driver’s license and carry permit.

“You packing now?” he asks, perusing the licenses. His expression is indifferent, but there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“No. My gun is in a safe at my office. I had no reason to think I’d need it today.” Actually, since becoming a vampire, I pretty much have no reason to need it all.

He glances up. “You don’t mind if I check your car out then, do you? Just to be sure.”

That flame of temper is sputtering back to life. “Be sure of what? That I’m telling you the truth? You have no reason to question it.”

“Then you do object.”

“You can search anything of mine you want, Detective. With a warrant.”

He rocks back on his heels a little, studying me like a bug on a pin. He thinks glaring at me will send me into panic mode. He forgets I’m not a civilian. Forgets what I do for a living. I’ve pulled this same trick myself once or twice to get what I want.

So we stand there staring at each other like two schoolyard bullies, each waiting for the other to blink first. Then Trish’s face is in my head, followed by my mother’s voice scolding me for acting like a child. And she’s right. I need this jerk. I shake my head.

“Detective, if it will make you feel better, go ahead and search my car.”

The abrupt change of attitude catches him off guard. A flash of surprise softens his face before he reasserts control and the surly mask is back. Without a word, he walks around to the driver’s side, peers inside, moves the front seat forward to let his eyes sweep the back, passes a hand under the seat, front and back. Then he moves over to the passenger side to repeat the process. When he’s done with that, he opens the glove compartment and the console. He walks around to the back of the car.

“Will you open the trunk?”

I do, pressing the button on the remote that triggers the trunk lock. After a moment, he slams the lid shut with the palm of his hand and rejoins me.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Strong.” He glances toward the apartment. “Was Ms. Delaney married?”

“Not that I know of.Delaney is-was-her maiden name.” I don’t bring up Trish’s mention of a “dad.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t know. We’d just become reacquainted after fourteen years. She didn’t share a lot with me.”

Harris closes his notebook and slips it back into his jacket. He pulls out a small leather case, withdraws a business card and hands it over. “I will be in touch with you if we need anything else. I don’t think I need to remind you to contact me if you find the girl.”

The feeling behind his innocuous remark is clear. Once again, it’s an order not a request. But before I can respond, a long, black limousine whispers by and comes to a halt at the driveway to the apartment complex, stopped there by the same uniformed cop who waved me off earlier. A back window slides down and a carefully coiffed gray head peers out at the policeman.

“What’s going on, officer?” an imperious female voice asks.

The limousine is as out of place here as an elephant on a barstool, and that is clearly reflected in the cop’s tone as he counters, “And what is your business here, ma’am?”

The door opens and a woman steps out. “I’m here to see my daughter,” she replies. “Carolyn Delaney.”

Detective Harris and I both react the same way to the woman’s pronouncement. We take two or three steps toward the car. But then, Harris stops, and with a hand on my arm, pulls me to a halt beside him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

I gesture toward the woman. “To see Carolyn’s mother.”

“Do you know her?”

“No, but-”

He shakes his head. “You’re not going anywhere near her. You can leave now or you can stay here. Right here. At your car. I’m going to talk to this woman. Alone.”

He’s glaring at me, defying me to argue.

If I piss him off, he might make me leave, and I really want to see how Carolyn’s mother will react to the news of her daughter’s death. I nod and hang back. What he doesn’t know is that I’ll be able to hear every word they say. A vampire thing.

Harris approaches the woman and flashes his badge. “I’m Detective Harris,” he says. “And you are?”

She turns toward him, a look of polite indifference on her face. She’s about five foot, slender but not skinny, silver hair done up in a twist at the back of her head. Her face is pale, thin, regal cheekbones touched with color, a hint of red on her lips. She’s dressed in black slacks and a dark gray wool blazer. A blush of red silk peeks out from the jacket cuffs, and on her feet, black tasseled loafers. Understated elegance. There’s a plain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand, but there are diamond studs the size of garbanzo beans at her ears.

Maybe not so understated.

She clasps her hands together and tilts her head up. “I don’t know that who I am is any of your business, Officer,” she says.

Anger flashes across Harris’ face, but he recovers quickly. He responds, ignoring her sarcasm. “You told the officer that you are here to see your daughter, Carolyn Delaney. Is that correct?”

“And if it is?”

“Then I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mrs. Delaney.”

“It’s Mrs. Joseph Bernard,” she says. “It hasn’t been Mrs. Delaney for a very long time.” Then she sighs and shakes her head. “What has Carolyn done now?”

Harris softens his voice. “She hasn’t done anything, ma’am. There’s no easy way to say this. Carolyn was killed this afternoon.”

There is no response from Carolyn’s mother to Harris’ words. No gasp. No physical reaction. No change in facial expression or body posture. She stands there staring up at Harris as if waiting in resigned tolerance for the punch line of a bad joke.

It’s Harris who finally breaks the uncomfortable stalemate. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he says.

The only acknowledgment of his words is a slight movement of her head and shoulders, not quite a shrug, not quite a nod.

He tries again. “I need to ask you some questions.”

For the first time her eyes shift away from Harris and her gaze falls on me. “Who is that young woman? Is she a friend of Carolyn’s?”

Harris glances back at me. “She said she was an acquaintance of your daughter. Her name is Anna Strong.”

Before Harris can object, Carolyn’s mother is coming at me with quick, determined strides. She stops in front of me. “Anna Strong?” she says quietly.

I nod. “I’m sorry about-”

But that is as far as I get. Faster than I can counter the blow, she slaps me hard across the face.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Of course, she can’t really hurt me, but because I am caught unawares, my head snaps back and my upper teeth puncture my lower lip. She has a gleam of satisfaction on her face as she watches me wipe a trickle of blood off my chin.

It’s the last bit of satisfaction I intend to allow her at my expense.

The sound of the slap, like the crack of gunfire on the still morning air, is more startling than the physical blow itself. Everyone in hearing distance stops what he’s doing and turns to look at us.

Detective Harris, right on her heels, doesn’t react in typical cop fashion to an assault taking place in front of him. He comes to an abrupt halt a few feet from us and just stands there. Watching. It almost makes me as angry as being struck because I know what he’s doing. He’s waiting to see if either of us will say something he can use against us later.

But since Mrs. Bernard must suspect it, too, he’s disappointed. We both stand staring at each other in rigid silence.

Finally, he approaches, pulls her back away from me and holds one arm in gentle restraint. His eyes are on me. “Are you all right, Ms. Strong?”

It would be touching if his expression or voice actually reflected concern. They don’t.

I nod, wiping again at my chin. I almost bring my fingers to my mouth to lick the blood. It might be worth Harris’s shock to see the expression on Mrs. Bernard’s face if I did. But I stop myself, satisfying my rage by simply glaring at the woman.

Harris’s attention turns immediately to Carolyn’s mother. She stands quietly, not struggling, not doing anything, really, except staring back at me. “Would you like to explain why you just assaulted this woman, Mrs. Bernard?”

Her eyes never leave my face. “This woman’s brother ruined my daughter’s life. He was an irresponsible, unprincipled young man who took advantage of a sweet, innocent child. He got her pregnant and abandoned her.”

“Abandoned her?” My voice shakes with fury. “He died . I met your daughter, Mrs. Bernard, when she and Steve were dating. She might have been a lot of things, but sweet and innocent were not among them.”

A spasm of anger contorts her face, and this time, Mrs. Bernard pulls hard against Detective Harris’s restraining arm. “How dare you?” she says with cold menace. “You didn’t know my daughter.”

“And you didn’t know Steve.”

Harris has had enough. He tightens his grip on Mrs. Bernard’s arm and locks me in a steely gaze. “Do you want to press charges?” he asks.

When I shake my head, he says, “Then I suggest you leave, Ms. Strong. If I need anything else from you, I’ll be in touch.”

Leaving is the last thing I want to do. I’ve learned nothing about Carolyn’s death to help me track the men responsible. But I also realize that I have what those men were looking for-the computer. And I suspect I know what they look like-the two at Frey’s apartment.

I have much more than the police.

Not once am I tempted to tell Mrs. Bernard about Trish. After all, not once has she thought to ask about her.

***

My lip has stopped bleeding. I feel the tingle as it repairs itself, the swelling recedes, the torn skin knits together. In about ten minutes, when I touch the place where Carolyn’s mother hit me, there’s not a trace of the wound left.

All that’s left is the sting of anger.

I pull into my parent’s driveway. I use my key to let myself in and find Trish’s hairbrush and Steve’s baby tooth, wrapped in a cotton cocoon, where my mother promised to leave it-on the dining room table.

Unwrapping the tooth, and seeing the fragile, tiny reminder of my family’s loss, I feel another surge of resentment toward Carolyn’s mother. She condemned Steve for what happened to her daughter with no regard for my feelings. I’m glad my parents weren’t there to experience her bitterness. But at least her words confirmed one thing for me. She believes Steve is Trish’s father. So why would Carolyn lie to Trish all these years? It’s obvious there was very little contact between Trish and her grandparents. If there had been, Trish would have learned about Steve a long time ago.

So was Carolyn lying when she said Trish once ran away to her grandparent’s? I can’t imagine Mrs. Joseph Bernard showing anything but contempt for her daughter’s bastard child.

Too many questions and too few answers.

My fingers close around my brother’s tooth. Maybe there’s one question I can get answered.

I don’t have the slightest idea how to go about getting a paternity test done. I could ask my family doctor, but she’s been calling me to come in for my annual physical exam and that’s something I won’t be doing anytime soon. Maybe the phone book?

The first entry I look for-DNA testing-yields no results. But “Laboratories-Medical” has a boxed ad with “Paternity Testing” in big, bold letters. I call the 800 number and am greeted by a woman who introduces herself as “Marty.” I explain my situation and the voice at the other end replies in a sympathetic tone.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But the simple truth is, we wouldn’t be able to use a baby tooth. There’s a lab in Canada that runs tests using bone and teeth, but it’s an expensive process and takes a long time. As for the hair, it’s also problematical. We need at least ten to fifteen strands with the follicles attached and the hair should be no more than ten days old.”

I pick up Trish’s hairbrush. Being a typical teenager, the brush looks like it hasn’t been cleaned-ever. There are lot more than fifteen strands twisted in the bristles. And since Trish ran away just two days ago, I have to assume at least some of the hair is recent enough.

“Okay. The tooth won’t work. What else could we try?”

She asks about the father’s death and I explain what happened to Steve and when.

“Were you given your brother’s clothes?” she replies. “The ones he was wearing at the time of the accident?”

I have to think about that. I have a vague recollection of going to New York with my parents to claim Steve’s body. I was made to sit on a folding chair in a cold waiting room at a morgue somewhere near the college campus. I close my eyes, conjuring the scene, remembering how scared I was at the way my folks looked when they were taken away from me, and how I bit my lip to keep from crying when they came back, shock and unbearable sadness stamped on their faces.

But my father was holding something when he came back. He had his right arm around my mother’s shoulders, but in his left hand he was holding something.

A brown paper bag.

I have to shake away the vision to be able to speak again.

“I think we do have the clothes.”

The voice at the other end of the line softens. “If there is any blood, the smallest spot, we can use that. As long as the clothing has not been sealed in plastic, the specimen is viable.”

I thank Marty, tell her I will get back to her when I find the clothes and hang up. I rub at my face with the palms of my hands. I know where the clothes will be if my parents haven’t disposed of them. But the prospect of going through Steve’s belongings fills me with a despair that spreads like ice through my body. The only thing that propels me forward is Trish. The image of Carolyn’s mother, cold, arrogant, flashes in my head. I can’t help feeling that proving Trish is Steve’s child and keeping her away from that woman is the only thing that can save her.

Houses in California don’t have basements. As a result, garages and attics become repositories for the flotsam of life, things one step away from being relegated to the trash or donated to charity. Since my folks actually use the garage for their cars, I know where to go to find Steve’s things.

The attic in this house is accessed by a pull down ladder in the ceiling of the guestroom. I’m queasy as I climb the rungs. The last time I ventured into someone’s attic it was Avery’s. What I found there foreshadowed what I fear is my future-the remains of his relationships with mortals. Literally, the remains. While I don’t expect to find bodies in my parent’s attic, as in most families, there’s always the possibility of stumbling across a skeleton or two.

It’s hot in the attic. Heat is trapped here under the eaves. And it’s dark, though that poses no problem. I actually see better in the dark than I do in bright daylight. A holdover, I guess, from when vampires really were creatures of the night. I gauge each step carefully, balancing on the joists, not wanting to risk plunging through the ceiling tiles if my foot slips. There isn’t much up here. A mound of old bedding and drapes. Some books piled on a wooden pallet. In the corner, a stack of cardboard boxes.

I make my way toward the boxes, knowing that if Steve’s clothes are here, that’s where I’ll find them.

The first couple of boxes I open contain school things-yearbooks, yellow lined note pads, binders, report cards with tape at the edges where they had been fastened to the refrigerator. I shuffle through the stack, touched by sadness. He never got anything but A’s-ever. It was irritating to me when we were growing up. A’s were an occasion for me, not the norm. But now it’s just another reminder of what Steve might have accomplished had he lived.

What Trish might accomplish if given the opportunity.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. First things first.

The third box yields what I’m looking for. The only thing it contains is a large, brown paper bag. With shaking fingers, I curl back the top and look inside.

Steve’s clothes are folded neatly. I withdraw a shirt, jeans, boxers, and a pair of socks. At the bottom, Nike sneakers with frayed laces. There’s no blood that I can see on the shoes. I recall that Steve was hit so hard he was literally knocked out of them.

My fingers are trembling so badly I lace my fingers together and squeeze for a minute. Then, carefully, I unfold each item and lay them one by one on top of the boxes. Jeans, shirt, boxers. No blood. It seems impossible. How can one be hit by a car and not shed a lot of blood? But the words come back to me-internal injuries.

The last things are the socks. The left one has a frayed edge where something has been cut out. I feel a tingle of excitement. The police must have kept that piece for the driver’s trial. But it turned out there was no trial. The driver plea bargained his offense. Because of his youth, he was given a sentence of two years in a juvenile facility and five years probation.

Which means right now, he’s out there living a life he stole from my brother.

But if I let myself dwell on that, I’ll get angry about it all over again. Right now, I have more important things to get angry about.

The right sock is folded in two. It’s not necessary to unfold it to find what I’m looking for. There’s a stain, brown now with age, on the cuff and another on the heel.

Blood, even old blood, evokes a visceral reaction in a vampire. It’s instinctive and uncontrollable. It’s my brother’s blood that I “feel” on the sock. But it sets my teeth on edge anyway, and triggers a need I have to fight. I bring the sock to my face and inhale because I can do nothing else. The smell is of salt and earth and the essence of his life. My nerve endings are on fire with the hunger.

So, I do the only thing I can. I wait for the thirst to fade. And when at last it does, I replace Steve’s clothes in the box and close it up. I slip the sock back into the same bag my parents carried home with them all those years ago.

Time to stop looking back and face what lies ahead. It’s what Avery tried to make me understand. And Culebra. As a vampire, I will remain forever the same. My human family will not. At some point, when it becomes obvious that I am not aging, I will have to leave. And once more my parents will be forced to endure the loss of a second child.

This time, it will be me.

Trish has to be Steve’s.