2 Blood Trail (5 page)

“Like the fact you don’t drive.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

“No. Real problems.”

He turned and spread his arms, the movement causing the hair to glint gold in the lamplight. “So tell me.”

It’s called retinitis pigmentosa. I’m going blind. I can’t see at night. I have almost no peripheral vision.
She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t handle the pity. Not from him. Not after what she’d gone through with Celluci.
Fuck it
. She shoved her glasses up her nose and shook her head.

Henry dropped his arms. After a moment, when the silence had stretched to uncomfortable dimensions, he said, “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve invited myself along. I thought we made a pretty good team the last time. And, I thought you might need a little help dealing with the . . . strangeness.”

She managed an almost realistic laugh. “I do the day work, you cover the night?”

“Just like last time, yes.” He leaned back against the glass and watched her turning that over in her mind, worrying it into pieces. She was one of the most stubborn, argumentative, independent women he’d met in four and a half centuries, and he wished she’d confide in him. Whatever the problem was, they could work it out together because whatever the problem was, it couldn’t be big enough to keep her from giving everything she had to this case. He wouldn’t allow it to be. Friends of his were dying.

I don’t want you to die either, Rose.
Vicki worried her lower lip between her teeth. If they worked together, he’d find out, eventually. She had to decide if that mattered more than the continuing loss of innocent lives.
And put like that, it’s not much of a choice, is it?
If she wasn’t their best chance on her own, together she and Henry were.
Screw it. We’ll work it out.

Henry watched her expressions change and smiled. Over his long existence he’d grown very good at reading people, at picking up the delicate nuances that mirrored their inner thoughts. Most of the time, Vicki went right past nuance; her thoughts as easy to read as a billboard.

“So, Friday night after sunset. You can pick me up.”

He bowed, the accompanying smile taking the mocking edge off the gesture. “As my lady commands.”

Vicki returned the smile, then yawned and stretched, back arched and arms spread out against the red velvet.

Henry watched the pulse beating at the base of her throat. He hadn’t fed for three nights and the need was rising in him. Vicki wanted him. He could scent her desire most times they were together, but he’d held back because of the blood loss that she’d taken in the spring. And, he had to admit, held back because he wanted the timing to be right. The one time he’d fed from her had been such a frenzied necessity that she’d missed all the extra pleasures it could bring to both parties involved.

The scent of her life filled the apartment and he walked forward, his pace measured to the beat of her heart. When he reached the couch, he held out his hand.

Vicki took it and hauled herself to her feet. “Thanks.” She yawned again, releasing him to shove a fist in front of her mouth. “Boy, am I bagged. You wouldn’t believe the time I had to get up this morning and then I spent the whole day working essentially two jobs in a factory that had to be eighty degrees C.” Dragging her bag up over her shoulder, she headed for the door. “No need to see me out. I’ll be waiting for you after sunset Friday.” She waved cheerfully and was gone.

Henry opened his mouth to protest, closed it, opened it again, then sighed.

 

By the time the elevator reached the lobby, Vicki had managed to stop laughing. The poleaxed look on Henry’s face had been priceless and she’d have given a year of her life to have had a camera.
If his royal undead highness thinks he’s got this situation under control, he can think again.
It had taken almost more willpower than she had to walk out of that apartment, but it had been worth it.

“Begin as you mean to go on,” she declared under her breath, wiping sweaty palms against her shorts. “Maybe Mom’s old sayings have more value than I thought.”

She was still smiling when she got into the cab, still flushed with victory, then she leaned back and looked up at the fuzzy rectangles of light that were Henry’s building. She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t have even said for certain which fuzzy rectangle was his. But he was up there. Looking down at her. Wanting her. Like she wanted him—and she felt like a teenager whose hormones had just kicked into overdrive.

Why the hell wasn’t she up there with him, then?

She let her head drop down against the sweaty leather of the seat and sighed. “I am
such
an idiot.”

“Maybe,” the cabbie agreed, turning around with a gold-toothed grin. “You wanna be a moving idiot? Meter’s running.”

Vicki glared at him. “Huron Street,” she growled. “South of College. You just drive.”

He snorted and faced forward. “Just ’cause you unlucky in love, lady, ain’t no reason to take it out on me.”

The cabbie’s muttering blended with the sounds of the traffic, and all the way down Bloor Street, Vicki could feel Henry’s gaze hot on the back of her neck. It was going to be a long night.

 

The tape ended and Rose fumbled between the seats for a new one with no success. The long drive back from Toronto had left her stiff, tired, and too tense to take her eyes off the road—even if it was only an empty stretch of gravel barely a kilometer from home.

“Hey!” She poked her brother in the back. “Why don’t you do something useful and dig out. . . . Storm, hold on!” Her foot slammed down on the brake. With the back end of the small car fishtailing in the gravel and the steering wheel twisting like a live thing in her hands, she fought to regain control, dimly aware of Peter, not Storm, hanging on beside her.

We aren’t going to make it!
The shadow she’d seen stretched across the road, loomed darker, closer.

Darker. Closer.

Then, just as she thought they might stop in time and relief allowed her heart to start beating again, the front bumper and the shadow met.

 

Good. They were unhurt. It was no part of his plan to have them injured in a car accident. A pity the change in wind kept him from his regular hunting ground, but it need not stop the hunt entirely. He rested his cheek against the rifle, watching the scene unfold in the scope. They were close to home. One of them would go for help, leaving the other for him.

 

“I guess Dad was right all along about this old tree being punky. Rotted right off the stump.” Peter perched on the trunk, looking like a red-haired Puck in the headlights. “Think we can move it?”

Rose shook her head. “Not just the two of us. You’d better run home and get help. I’ll wait by the car.”

“Why don’t we both go?”

“Because I don’t like leaving the car just sitting here.” She flicked her hair back off her face. “It’s a five minute run, Peter. I’ll be fine. Jeez, you are getting so overprotective lately.”

“I am not! It’s just. . . .”

They heard the approaching truck at the same time and a heartbeat later Rose and Storm came around the car to face it.

 

Only the Heerkens farm fronted on this road. Only the Heerkens drove this road at night. His grip tightened on the sweaty metal.

 

“They spray the oil back of the crossroads today. Stink like anything.” Frederick Kleinbein hitched his pants up over the curve of his belly and beamed genially at Rose. “I take long way home to avoid stink. Good thing, eh? We get chain from truck, hitch to tree, and drag tree to side of road.” He reached over and lightly grabbed Storm’s muzzle, shaking his head from side to side. “Maybe we hitch you to tree, eh? Make you do some work for your living.”

 

“There are none so blind as those who will not see. . . .” There would be no chance of a shot now.

 

“Thanks, Mr. Kleinbein.”

“Ach, why thank me? You do half of work. Truck did other half.” He leaned out of the window, mopping his brow with a snowy white handkerchief. “You and that overgrown puppy of yours get home now, eh? Tell your father some of the wood near top is still good to burn. If he doesn’t want, I do. And tell him that I return his sump pump before end of month.”

Rose stepped back as he put the truck into gear, then forward again as he added something over the sound of the engine that she didn’t catch. “What?”

But he only waved a beefy arm and was gone.

“He said,” Peter told her, once the red banner of taillights had disappeared and it was safe to change, “Give my regards to your brother. And then he laughed.”

“Do you think he saw you as he drove up?”

“Rose, it’s a perfectly normal thing for him to say. He might have meant me, he might have meant Colin. After all, Colin used to help him bring in hay. You worry too much.”

“Maybe,” she acknowledged but silently added as Storm’s head went out the window again,
Maybe not.

 

He remained where he was, watching, until they drove away, then he slipped the silver bullet from the rifle and into his pocket. He would just have to use it another time.

 

“Are you sure of this?” The elder Mr. Glassman tapped a manicured nail against the report. “It will hold up in court?”

“No doubt about it. Everything you need is right there.” Behind her back the fingers of Vicki’s right hand beat a tattoo against her left palm. Every time she faced the elder Mr. Glassman, she found herself standing at parade rest for no reason she could discern. He wasn’t a physically imposing man, nor in any way military in bearing so she supposed it must be force of personality. Although he’d been hardly more than a child at the time, he’d managed to not only survive the death camps of the Holocaust but bring his younger brother Joseph safely through the horror as well.

He closed the report and sighed deeply. “Harris.” The name put an end to months of petty sabotage, although as he said it, he sounded more weary than angry. “Our thanks for your quick work, Ms. Nelson.” He stood and held out his hand.

Vicki took it, noting the strength beneath the soft surface.

“I see your bill is included with the report,” he continued. “We’ll issue a check at the end of the week. I assume you’ll be available for court appearances if necessary?”

“It’s part of the service,” she assured him. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”

 

“Yo, baby-doll!” Harris, spending the last of his lunch break outside in the sun with a couple of cronies, heaved himself to his feet as Vicki left the building. “Packin’ it in, eh? Couldn’t cut it.”

Vicki had every intention of ignoring him.

“Pity that your tight little ass is gonna be wiggling its way somewhere else.”

And then again. . . .

He laughed as he saw her reaction and continued to laugh as she crossed the parking lot to stand in front of him. A jock in his younger days, he had the heavy, bulgy build of a man who’d once been muscular, his Blue Jays T-shirt stretched tight over the beer belly he carried around instead of a waist. He was the kind of laughing bigot that everyone tends to excuse.

Vicki considered those the most dangerous kind but this time he’d gone beyond excuses. He could complain about people not being able to take a joke all the way to court.

“What’s the matter baby-doll, couldn’t leave without a good-bye kiss.” He turned to be sure the two men still sitting by the building appreciated the joke and so missed the expression on Vicki’s face.

She’d had a bad night. She was in a bad mood. And she was more than willing to take it out on this racist, sexist son-of-a-bitch. He had a good four inches on her and probably a hundred pounds but she figured she’d have little trouble dusting his ass.
Tempting, but no.
Although her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched, years of observing due process held her temper in check.
He’s not worth the trouble.

As she turned to leave, Harris swung around and, grinning broadly, reached out and smacked her on the ass.

Vicki smiled.
Oh what the hell. . . .

Pivoting, she kicked him less hard than she was able on the outside edge of his left knee. He toppled, bellowing with pain, as if both feet had been cut out from under him. A blow just below his ribs drove the air out of his lungs in an anguished gasp and given that she resisted stomping where it would hurt the most, she treated herself to slamming a well-placed foot into his butt as he drew his knees up to his chest. Then she grinned at his buddies and started home again.

He could press charges. But she didn’t think he would. He wasn’t hurt and she was willing to bet that by the time he got his breath back he’d already be warping the facts to fit his world view—a world view that would not include the possibility of his being taken down by a woman.

She also realized that this wouldn’t have been the case if she still carried a badge, police brutality being a rallying cry of his kind.

You know,
she shoved her glasses up her nose and ran for the bus she could now see cresting the Eglington Avenue overpass,
I think I could grow to like being a civilian.

The euphoria faded along with the adrenaline and the crisis of conscience set in barely two blocks from the bus stop. It wasn’t so much the violence itself that upset her as her reaction to it; try as she would, she simply couldn’t convince herself that Harris hadn’t got a small fraction of exactly what he had coming. By the time she was fighting her way to the back of the Dundas streetcar in an attempt to actually make it off at her stop, she was heartily sick of the whole argument.

Violence is never the answer but sometimes, like with cockroaches, it’s the only possible response.
By physically moving two semi-comatose teenagers out of her way, she made it out the door at the last possible second.
Harris is a cockroach. End of discussion.
It was too damned hot to deal with personal ethics. She promised herself she’d take another crack at it when the weather cooled down.