How to Party with a Killer Vampire (26 page)

Otto took the pry bar, stuck it in the crack between the door and the wall, and hammered it in as far as it would go. He began moving the bar back and forth. After several minutes of this, the door began to creak and then give.

“Grab that,” he ordered the detective, nodding to the small spade. “Use it at the bottom, while I work on the top here. Presley, keep the flashlight on the door.”

Together they continued wedging the tools into the crack, slowly making progress at the opening. When they had enough of the door surface to grip, they took hold and wrenched the door open. It creaked again as it slowly gave.

Focusing the light, I strained to see if Brad was inside. The interior space was tiny, with barely enough room for one person to enter.

I shined the light on the floor.

There, on the cold cement floor, lay Brad, on his stomach, still dressed in his once-white jumpsuit. The top of the suit was caked with dark blood. So was Brad’s forehead.

He wasn’t moving.

Detective Melvin rushed in and knelt down, blocking the light.

“Is he alive?” I asked, tears welling in my eyes.

“Move the light!” he commanded. He felt Brad’s neck for a pulse.

“Yes, but his pulse is weak. Looks like he’s lost a lot of blood.”

I heard sirens in the distance and wiped away my tears. It was chaos after that—a jumble of officers, paramedics, search-and-rescue guys—all moving to action to save Brad Matthews. The S and R guys used some kind of giant wire cutters and had the outer gate open in seconds. The paramedics stepped in next, and I caught snatches of comments—“head wound,” “blunt force trauma,” “blood loss,” “start an IV.” They lifted him onto the stretcher and carried him to the ambulance in a matter of minutes. I thought about asking if I could ride with him to the hospital but decided to take my car so I wouldn’t be stranded.

I followed the ambulance to San Francisco General—there are no hospitals in Colma—praying that Brad would be all right. Hearing that he’d lost a lot of blood had shaken me the most. Thank God for Duncan and his gadgets, I thought as I raced along, trying to keep up. Thank God for cell phones. Thank God for Otto and his tools. Thank God for paramedics and S and R guys and police officers.

And thank God Detective Melvin believed me and met me at the cemetery. I owed him for that. I owed a lot of people.

When I reached the hospital, I parked in the ER lot and dashed inside, hoping I could see Brad in the emergency room and let him know I was there for him. A nurse told me I had to wait, so I finally wandered off to the ER waiting room, where I found Detective Melvin talking on his cell phone in spite of the sign that featured a picture of a cell phone with a red line through it. He hung up when he saw me.

“Heard anything?” I asked as I sat down one chair away from him.

He shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

Tears welled up again. I hated letting Detective Melvin see me cry and tried to discreetly blot my eyes with the sides of my fingers.

“You really like the guy, don’t you,” Melvin said, sounding surprised.

“Duh,” I said.

“Yeah. Matthews is a great guy. I’ve known him a long time.”

“When he used to be a cop?”

Melvin nodded.

“So why did he quit the force? I mean, I know he accidentally shot someone, but why give up being a police officer?”

“You’ll have to ask him,” the detective said.

“Oh, it’s the old Bro Code, eh?” I said, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Something like that.”

These two guys really had each other’s backs.

“Well, I can’t just sit here and wait for news,” I said, standing up. “I’ll go crazy.”

“You’re not going back to the cemetery . . . ,” Detective Melvin half asked, half warned me.

“No. Not tonight anyway. But I have to do
something
.”

“Parker, let the police handle this. The situation is obviously escalating. You’re in no position to help with this investigation. And you could be the next victim.”

“I know,” I said. “But there’s one thing I can do right now.”

“What’s that?” the detective asked.

“Give blood,” I said. I headed down the hall looking for someone who would take my O positive—besides a vampire. In light of everything, it seemed appropriate.

I could never be a nurse or doctor, I thought as I entered the room. Just the idea of needles always caused me pain. I almost turned around.

“May I help you?” the volunteer at the desk said before I could chicken out.

“
Uh
, I’m here to”—I hesitated, and glanced around for an escape path—“
uh
. . . give blood.”

“Great, you’ve come to the right place,” the older woman said cheerily, as if I were stopping by for a spot of tea. “Have a seat. I’ll need you to do a little paperwork first.”

I sat, feeling my heart rate accelerate off the charts. If anyone checked me now, I’d probably be admitted into the ER.

Calm down, Presley
, I told myself, possibly out loud.
They’re just taking a little blood, not bleeding you out
. My pep talk did little to ease my anxiety. I felt nauseated and dizzy, and I wondered if I’d faint right here at the desk.

Seemingly oblivious to my symptoms, the perky volunteer handed me a form that asked about my medical history, whether I drank or smoked, what I’d eaten recently, and so on. I stalled as long as I could, taking my time to fill out each question carefully and thoroughly. Finally, I had no choice but to give her the completed form while trying to keep the room from spinning. “Can I donate my blood to a specific person?”

“Yes, if it’s needed and you’re a match. Whom would you like it to go to?”

“Brad Matthews. He’s in the ER.”

After reading over the form, the volunteer looked up. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. Yes. Let’s do this.” I stood up. And wished I hadn’t.

Sensing I needed support, she took me by the arm and led me to a reclining chair between two other chairs, both empty. Good. I didn’t want to have to look at anyone else’s needles or blood. A phlebotomist in a white lab coat came over and, after a brief greeting, began to feel my veins—which are pretty much nonexistent. Memories of being a kid and having a blood test for mono washed over me. Back then the nurse couldn’t find a vein either, and kept poking and poking that needle until I finally swooned. My mother stepped up and demanded “an expert” or she was taking me home.

Where was my mother when I needed her?

The tech tied on a rubber tourniquet, cleaned my arm, tapped a few more times, and inserted the needle.

“Wow, you’re good!” I said. I hadn’t felt a thing. I was almost giddy with relief. “How much blood do you take? How long will I be here? Should I pump my hand?” Questions poured out of me as my blood seeped out through the tube.

“Just relax,” the nurse said.

I tried to focus on something else—anything else. The two murders and Brad’s close call jumped immediately to mind. Someone had tried to kill Brad! Why? Had he found out something that would incriminate the killer? Or had he just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? As soon as he was in recovery—I refused to consider the alternative—I’d ask him what the hell he’d been doing in the cemetery.

I thought about everyone I’d questioned—Lucas Cruz, Jonas Jones, Angelica Brayden, Trace and Lark, Otto Gunther, even Robby the roommate. I’d come up with bits of information here and there, but nothing that led me to the person who murdered those two men. The only one I hadn’t talked to yet was Angelica’s mysterious bodyguard/husband, but I still planned to, since he was closest to Angelica and the next logical step.

Finding the husband might be a challenge. He had to be with Angelica. Was she staying at the same hotel as Jonas? That was where I’d seen her last, before she fled for the church. I thought Lucas had mentioned that she had a place here in the City. He said she’d grown up here and returned whenever she had a break between auditions, commercials, and films. No doubt that would all change once the vampire film came out. She was destined to be a big star and no doubt remain in Hollywood.

Ten minutes later I was done giving my pint of blood.

After disconnecting me from the blood-sucking machine—I couldn’t watch—the nurse handed me a cup of orange juice and a chocolate chip cookie. “Here you go,” she said. “This will help your body adjust to your lower blood volume. In other words, keep you from fainting.”

Still feeling light-headed, I crunched the cookie and washed it down with the juice.

She continued to recite the memorized spiel: “Don’t do any strenuous exercise tonight. Drink plenty of fluids to rehydrate your body. If you notice any bleeding from the site that won’t stop, call 911. Other than that, once you feel up to it, you’re free to go. Thank you for your donation.”

I got up slowly and gathered my purse and hoodie, feeling heroic, as if I’d just saved the world. I didn’t know if my blood would go directly to Brad, but it was a good feeling, and I promised myself I’d do it more often, not just in an emergency situation.

I walked slowly back to the waiting room where Detective Melvin was reading a tattered
Time
magazine. “You’re still here?” I asked, stating the obvious.

“Apparently,” he said sassily, lowering the magazine. “How’d it go?”

“Fine,” I said, showing him the bandage in the crook of my arm as if it were a war medal. “You should try it.”

“I gave blood last week. They like us to wait a few weeks before coming back. I’m a regular.”

Wow. The things you couldn’t tell about a person just from his attitude. “Sorry,” I said, regretting my flip comment. “That’s great.”

He shrugged off my apology.

“Any news?” I sat down next to him. He’d removed his tie and unbuttoned the top of his white shirt. His usually perfect hair was mussed. He almost looked . . . normal.

“He’s out of the ER, in recovery. Head wound was pretty severe, but they cleaned and bandaged it. He’s on meds now. Doc said he’ll be all right, as long as there’s no brain damage. We should be able to see him soon.”

Brain damage. Oh God.

I settled into the chair, rolled my hoodie into a ball, propped it behind my head, and leaned against the wall. “Wake me if they say we can go in,” I said, then closed my eyes and let the light-headed feeling take me off to sleep.

Someone was shaking my shoulder, trying to keep me from falling into an open grave. I jolted awake. “What?”

“He’s awake,” Detective Melvin said. “We can go in.”

“Thank God,” I whispered. I stretched and stood up slowly, then checked my watch. Two in the morning. “It’s past visiting hours.”

Detective Melvin smiled. This was the friendliest he’d ever been to me. “I have connections.”

Yeah, the San Francisco Police Department, I thought. Good connection to have. I followed him to the doorway but, like a gentleman, he let me pass through first, then directed me to Brad’s recovery room. The nurses smiled and nodded at him as we passed by. Either they knew him or they just thought he was attractive. He strode erect and nodded back, as if he expected such attention.

The light was dim and soothing in Brad’s room, but the sound of a beeping monitor put me on alert. We entered quietly, as if our footsteps might hurt Brad’s ears. He looked over when he spotted us and gave a half grin. I was startled by his appearance. The top and side of his head were wrapped in white gauze and tape, and he had stitches under his chin, protected by a large butterfly bandage. His complexion was wan—that might have been the lighting—and he appeared groggy, probably from the medication. But there was still a sparkle in his eyes when he saw me that reassured me there was no brain damage.