Dark Heart (11 page)

She looked at the busy Chicago sidewalk as she munched, her mind feeling as blank as the clean white tabletop in front of her. A woman took shelter under the awning next to her, avoiding Sandra’s gaze as she straightened her hose and then moved on down the street. A redheaded kid in a scruffy green trench coat showed up right after the woman left. He stepped under the awning and paused, staring at her.

Sandra sat there, sipping her lemonade. When the kid didn’t move on, she looked up. She stared back at him. He was of medium height, and thin. His trench coat covered his body from his ankles to his neck. Sandra guessed he was about eighteen, or maybe even younger, and he seemed familiar somehow. His face was pale and too thin, with a rash of pimples covering each cheek along with a thick sprinkling of freckles.

His hands were twitching.
Junkie,
she thought. She turned away from him and looked back at the wet streets. She watched the water drip off the awning.

“You a cop?” the kid asked.

Sandra looked over at him. “What’s it to you?”

“You’re the prettiest cop I’ve seen in a while.” The kid smiled. It didn’t do much for him. His teeth were scummy. His eyes had dark rings under them. “I think I’ll enjoy making a trade with you,” he said.

Sandra narrowed her eyes. “Trade?”

“You know, you scratch my back, I’ll scratch your…whatever.”

“Listen, fuckface, I don’t just look like a cop, I
am
a cop. Move your scrawny junky ass on down the street, okay?”

His eyebrows furrowed, and he seemed, oddly enough, to be a little hurt. “Hey,” he said, “I can help you. I know things you want to know. You better be nice to me or you’re gonna get fucked up.”

“That’s it,” she said flatly. Up and moving around the table, she reached for him. “You’re outta here.”

She grabbed his wrist, spun him around, pushed him up against the restaurant’s brick wall. As she did so, one sleeve of his raincoat fell back, revealing needle tracks on his bony arm.

“Crazy bitch! I’m gonna kick you in the head,” the kid snarled. “I’m doin’ you a
favor!
”

“Yeah, yeah.” He was squirming like a greased rat.

“Hold
still,
gomer,” she hissed. In the struggle, something fell out of an inner pocket of his coat. He stiffened.

She looked down at a small bag of white powder, bent quickly and scooped it up.

“Okay, that’s cool, you are now under arrest. She pulled out a set of cuffs. “Against the wall, asshole. Cross ’em behind your back. You know how.”

“Fuck you!” the kid said and pushed away from the wall hard. The back of his head bashed into her cheek, catching her off guard. “Shit!” she yelled as they both went sprawling across one of the tables.

Plates, glasses, and food went smashing to the floor. The kid landed on her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. A woman sitting at the table shrieked, stood up, slipped on the wet pavement, and fell to the floor with them. The man with her yelled and stood up, yanked the kid off of his wife.

By the time Sandra got untangled, the kid was halfway down the block, really pounding along, his coattails flying. When she fought her way out to the street, he was lost in the lunchtime crowd on the sidewalk. She stood there for a moment, looking in all directions.

Nothing. No sign of him at all. Just sullen, half-soaked pedestrians and more rain.

She was wet again.

Damn.

Her next stop was the Chicago Public Library Main Branch, on South State Street. The scale and the funny-shaped footprint were the only concrete pieces of evidence she had from Madrone’s murder. Though that was more than she had from the Baxter jacket. But she’d never been forced to work with things as strange as a green scale and a footprint that looked like something out of a bad creature-feature movie before.

Noon slid into afternoon, which turned into early evening. Sitting in the middle of a pile of encyclopedias, field research compilations, and reptile anatomy books, Sandra looked up and realized it was nearly seven o’clock. She’d learned a great deal about reptiles, but nothing that might lead her to some freakazoid killer with a supply of scales and a chest chopper.

Leaning back and massaging her eyelids, she decided she’d had enough for the day.

She selected three of the books she’d looked at to check out and take with her. Just as she reached the front desk, she saw a figure standing between the glass doors of the library entrance. Half in shadow and half outlined by the fading daylight outside was the junkie kid in the long, green trench coat.

She headed for the door. As soon as she did, the raincoat-clad kid bolted, flinging the outer glass doors wide and running for the steps.

She pounded out after him, but the steps were empty by time she got outside. “Damn!”

Just as she reached the street, she caught a flash of green disappearing into the alley. There were crowds of people on the sidewalk. Streetwise glances tracked her with automatic alarm, although none of them said anything. She pushed on through to reach the mouth of the alley.

Again she caught a glimpse of the edge of his coat turning the corner at the far end of the alley. Rain battered her face, hair and shoulders, soaking her as she ran along. When she reached the end of the alley, the kid was gone, lost in the crowd of commuters headed toward the stairs leading up into the State Street El station.

She stood there in the rain, feeling like an idiot, watching the people go by and hoping to catch a glimpse of russet hair above a green raincoat. Gradually, her breathing returned to normal, yet still she remained standing in the rain. Why would a kid who’d escaped arrest by the skin of his teeth follow the arresting officer? For hours?

What the hell…?

The sense of menace she’d felt hovering about her since she’d seen Jack Madrone’s body closed in on her. Mac laughed at her woman’s intuition, but she felt it suddenly kick into overtime.

Madrone had been chasing something. Only what he hadn’t known was that something was chasing him, too.

Something deadly. Just like in her dreams.

The weird, disquieting sense of danger was still with her when she returned home. She entered the gate, punched the code, and opened the door. As she climbed the stairs, she kept one hand on the stair rail while her other hand rested on the butt of her pistol, hidden underneath her blazer.

Nothing leapt out of the shadows. She moved silently down the hall, the back of her neck itching, stopped before the door marked 807, and paused. Looked around. The empty hall felt ominous, shadowy. It never had before.

“Oh, stop it,” she murmured aloud. She inserted her key in the lock and turned it.

The lights were on. But the same still, watchful silence seemed to shroud her. Inside the apartment now.

Sandra swallowed.

“Benny?” she called.

No answer.

“Benny!?” She yelled louder this time.

“Yeah, Sandra? What?”

His wheelchair came rolling down the hall. She went suddenly limp with relief.

“Sandra?” Benny wheeled himself into view and cocked his head at her. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you yelling?”

“Nerves.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m such a dork.”

“What’s up?” Benny’s ravaged face crinkled in concern for her.

“I got paranoid tonight. Someone was following me today. I lost him, but I still got paranoid.”

“Who was following you?”

“I don’t know. Some kid, a junkie. I don’t know what he wanted from me, but he freaked me out. I tried to grab him, but he got away.”

She closed the door to the hallway and stripped off her blazer, tossing it on the couch. She wandered into the kitchen, pleased that her knees seemed firm and her legs were steady, and opened the refrigerator.

She grabbed an unopened gallon of orange juice, closed the fridge with a shove of her hip, and hauled the container over to the counter. She still had vodka, if she could just find it. She thought a moment, then opened the left-hand cabinet.

There—she grabbed the bottle, dragged it down, and poured a hefty inch into the bottom of a tumbler. Topped it off with some orange juice. Then downed half the glass at a swallow.

“Easy, Sandra.” He sounded concerned. She turned to face him.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I just need to loosen up a bit.” Stepping on the heel of one shoe with her toe, she worked her foot out, then did the same with her other foot.

She wiggled her toes. It felt wonderful—the first nice thing to happen to her all day. She waited with her eyes closed to better savor the sensation, as the liquor hit the bottom of her stomach and settled in for the night. Nice. Very nice.

“Loosen up,” Benny said. “Sure. You’re really freaked about this, aren’t you?”

She turned and put the orange juice away.

“Nothing to worry about, little brother.”

“Huh? I’m not supposed to worry when you walk in the door shaking and head straight for the liquor cabinet? You, who has about three drinks a year? Great. You worry about me all the time. But I’m not allowed to return the favor. Next time, let’s trade troubles. Then maybe I can worry all I want.” He turned his chair and scooted for the living room, obviously miffed.

“Really. Seriously. It’s nothing, Benny,” she said, walking out of the kitchen, carrying her glass and moving down the hall, following him into the living room. “I’m better now. Really. Look.”

She spread her arms and did a mocking soft shoe. He grinned in spite of himself.

“Sandra—the last time I saw you like this was with—was when Chuck…”

She winced. “No, it’s not like that. Not like it was with him. Never again like that.”

She stared at him, knowing it was God’s truth. It wasn’t like Chuck. No man would ever knock her around again. It had taken two years worth of lessons in the martial art of kenpo, and four in aikido to convince herself of that, but she’d done it. Chuck, at least, was over with.

“You’re really wound up, though, right?”

She could feel the knots of muscle between her shoulders, tight along the path of her spine. The knots were broadcasting small white flickers of pain. If she didn’t do something about that, she’d be like a board come morning.

“Kinda,” she admitted.

“You want to go dancing?”

She stared at him. “You know,” she said slowly. “I think that’s
exactly
what I want to do.”

“I was kidding,” he said. “Thought I was, at least.”

“I’m not,” she said.

If something was hunting her, even in a dream, let it dance to the music. She was sure as hell going to.

T
ina floated somewhere between bliss and terror. The backseat of the car was warm, and Zack’s arms were around her. It felt wonderful. She really liked him, though they hadn’t been dating that long; but while this wasn’t the first time they’d made out, she liked to think of herself as careful. Tonight matters were going farther than she’d ever let them go before, and certainly much farther than she’d planned to let them go for a long time to come. She knew she was on unfamiliar ground. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there.

Zack kissed her again. He opened her mouth with his and bit at her lips. It hurt a little, but it excited her, too, as did his hands on her body. The situation, though, was beginning to feel like it was spiraling out of her control.

Zack’s hands twisted in her hair. The denim of his jeans, damp with sweat, felt rough on her bare thighs. She pulled away, just a little, because she wanted to see his face. His features were tensed, tight with need and passion. She felt his hands slide over her breasts, heard the rasp of his skin against the silk of her blouse.

Excitement and fear coursed through her like a hot drug. The feeling reminded her of the time her family had gone to Lake Powell, the time they’d all gone cliff jumping into the water. The sensation she’d felt that day while falling was a rush—it had thrilled her and scared her at the same time. She recognized the feeling coursing through her veins tonight. She was falling again…but this time she wasn’t sure where she’d land.

Zack kissed her deeply. His hands were under her shirt now, a bit rough as they moved against her skin. The sound of their breathing was shockingly loud in the enclosed air of the Camaro. The windows had steamed over, blocking the view of the deserted city park outside the car, enclosing them in their own private fantasy world.

But that fantasy was starting to edge into something darker, the pleasure mixing with pain. Even though her body was clamoring for release, alarm bells had started clanging in some distant part of her mind.

If she didn’t stop this now, it wasn’t going to stop until it was over.

She pushed away, out of Zack’s arms. Shaking, as breathless as if she’d just run a marathon, she huddled in the corner of the backseat.

“Tina?” Zack asked.

“Give me a minute here,” she told him.

Even though Tina didn’t always listen to her parents, there was one issue where she was in total agreement with them—a screaming baby, or a case of AIDS, or both, would cramp her style. She had every intention of enjoying a long and fun-filled run of parties and boys and beaches and college before she settled down into adult responsibility. To make certain she got the chance to enjoy the good life, she had to keep things from getting out of control in the backseats of cars.

“Zack, I’m sorry. I really like you, but I’m not quite ready for what’s happening here.”

“What do you mean?” Zack asked. He was staring at her, his eyes wide, hungry, frustrated.

She paused before answering, still breathing hard. She didn’t want tonight to end. Zack was great—smart and good-looking—and he treated her like she mattered. But the last few minutes had been frightening as well as thrilling. And right now, Zack was looking really upset with her. But, dammit, she wasn’t going to lose her virginity in the backseat of a Camaro. Someday she would decide it was time for her to cross that line, and maybe Zack would be the right person to cross it with her. But in the meantime, she had that shining future in front of her—and she wasn’t going to throw it away because her hormones—or his—got the better of her.

She swallowed. “Zack, this is new territory for me. I’m not sure what I’m ready for here,” she whispered. “But I know I’m not ready for what was going on.”

She watched as the impact of that statement got through to him. His face tightened and she could almost
see
the rage hit him, grab him, shake him visibly. His breath rushed out in an audible gasp, like he’d taken a hit in the solar plexus. For a split second, he sat frozen into immobility, a terrible look on his face. Tina had a sudden urge to run, to grab the door handle, pull it open, and rush into the night before something bad happened in that car.

I’ve got to get out of here,
she thought.

He grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip. “You’re not gonna do this to me, bitch-tease,” he groaned.

“Zack…you’re hurting me.” Tina could hear her voice shaking.

He pulled her implacably closer. “No, you’re gonna give me what I want…what I need…” His voice, thick and choked, didn’t even sound human.

“Please…please…” she begged, “I don’t want this…let me go…let’s go home!”

Then Zack moved, and it was much too late.

He was on top of her, pressing her into the seat cushions, ripping at her clothes, seemingly unconcerned about the bruises and scratches he inflicted on her as she struggled. She screamed, and he hit her in the head so hard she saw stars in the darkness around them. The pain blazed through her, burning her where it touched. She struggled, but Zack was bigger than she was and much stronger. And he was hurting her, hurting her terribly.

She screamed again. And again. And she fought him with every bit of strength she had.

“Please, God,” she moaned. “Please, somebody, help me…”

God didn’t find her, but Justin did. He hadn’t seen Tina since he’d watched her leave with the boy the other night. The boy named Zack.

But he missed the sight of her, and longed for it again. He’d returned to her house, but she was gone. Wrapped in shadows, he’d discovered she was out with the boy again. He knew what the Camaro looked like, and where they usually went in it. He’d tracked the car through the Dragon-mirror, found it parked in darkness, the windows shrouded with a steamy film.

And a stink emanating from the car, easily scented by his hypersensitive nostrils, rich with blood and musk, overlaid with Tina’s light perfume.

He found Tina naked, or nearly so, bruised and screaming in the arms of the young lout. Anger poured through him, a red haze of madness, a screaming rage that something he thought of as his had been taken by another, that something innocent had been attacked, was being brutalized right before his eyes. It had been centuries since Justin had felt such rage.

Without thought, he became the Wyrm, and the Wyrm gave himself up to his rage. He concentrated his anger into his fists and punched through the rear window of the car.

Zack, the violator, the boyfriend, was on top, thrashing and growling with lust, clubbing Tina as she struggled against him.

Thanks be, I am not too late,
Justin thought as his claws wrapped about Zack’s shoulders and ripped him out through the shattered window. The boy’s face was terrified, but the Wyrm, seething with blood and rage, didn’t care.

What he’d seen of Tina through the broken glass made him want the boy to feel all the terror he was capable of—and more.

Justin could hear her pitiful, terrified whimpering beneath the sounds of the boy’s screams. He held the boy far above the ground, dangling him by the collar. He watched as Zack’s skin purpled with oxygen deprivation. Finally, with a quiet snake’s hiss of a whisper, he spoke.

“What do you think you’ve done here?”

He threw the boy back hard against the car.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Zack screamed, his voice high and cracking with terror. “What are you?”

“So you think you are a man. You think you have a man’s rights. But a true man is never reduced to taking by force what should be given freely. You know nothing of what is due a woman,” Justin said. “So I consider it my duty to make sure you will never live to become a man.” The boy tried to back up, but, crushed against the side of the car as he was, he had nowhere to go.

The Wyrm slammed him on the side of his head, his heavy claws leaving a bruise on Zack’s face that matched the one Justin had seen on Tina’s.

Zack tumbled to the asphalt of the parking lot, screaming in pain, badly hurt. He cowered before his attacker. Justin reached down and picked the boy up by his arm. He could feel the skin tearing under his claws—scratched and bruised like the skin on Tina’s arms.

The boy’s agonized shrieks tore the night air. Justinian slammed Zack back onto the hood of his own car. The boy’s head and shoulders dented the steel deeply. Zack gave a low moan as he crumbled, his body broken. Inside the car, Tina screamed and screamed.

“You’re hurting me…” Justinian mocked him, as Zack came slowly to his senses, shaking his battered head, looking up through fear-filled eyes, looking for someone, something, anything, that would save him—and seeing nothing but a nightmare.

“Please…please…” the Wyrm said, in a high falsetto voice. “I don’t want this.”

The boy was so mangled he was hardly recognizable. Justin moved forward, seized Zack by his neck, and picked him up.

“No, please! Don’t!” Tina’s cries echoed in the night.

The Wyrm lifted Zack from the ground in one strong hand, shook him, choked him. The Wyrm smiled and narrowed his eyes. He drew back his other arm.

“I think,” he said “that you’ve learned your lesson. What a pity you won’t live to employ it.”

A horrible cry tore from Zack’s raw throat, from his shattered, distended jaws.

It ended abruptly, in the crunch of shattered bone and crushed flesh. And the soft patter of blood, dripping on the night-dark pavement…