Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (12 page)

I stepped into the house.

30.

It was indeed the guest room.

The bed, however, was currently empty of guests. A massive Peruvian tapestry hung behind the bed, evoking a simple scene of village life. Moonlight shone through the open drapes, splashing silver over everything. I loved moonlight. Sunlight was overrated.

The air was musky. Newly-stirred dust motes drifted into the moonbeams. Being a trained investigator, I surmised this room hadn’t been used in quite some time.

I stepped through into a dark hallway. Well, dark for others, that is. For me, the hallway crackled with molten streams of quicksilver energy, turning everything into distinct shades of gray. Better than any flashlight.

The hallway segued into a wooden railing. Beyond, was a view of the downstairs living room.

And that’s when I met the Cat From Hell.

It was sitting on the railing in perfect repose, forepaws together, tail swishing, ears back, its reflective yellow eyes bright spheres of hate. It growled from deep within its chest cavity; we stared at each other for about twenty seconds, just two creatures of the night crossing paths.

Apparently, it wasn’t feeling the same sort of kinship.

Like an umbrella, its fur sprang open. Pop. Then it
screeched
bloody hell, and in one quick movement, slashed me across my face. It leaped from the railing, darted down the hallway, hung a right and disappeared down a flight of stairs.

I touched my cheek. The little shit. The wound was already scabbing. I knew within minutes it would be gone altogether.

Still. The little shit.

I waited motionless, certain someone would come to investigate the devil cat. But no one came.

I continued on, and at end of the hall I peaked into an open door. There, sleeping as peaceful as can be, was Rick Horton. From the doorway, I studied his massive room and noted the various antique furnishings, especially the massive, ornate mirror. The room itself was immaculate; everything in its place. Because of that, it was the last place I would have wanted to sleep. A bedroom needed to be lived in.

Rick Horton slept on an undraped four-poster bed. Instead, coats, sweaters and slacks hung neatly from hangers along the horizontal canopy board, perhaps an extension of his closet. Beneath the bed was a cardboard box. The box was slightly askew and not in accordance with the rigorous precision of the room, as if it had been recently shoved under the bed.

I walked quietly to his bedside. Little did Horton realize that an honest-to-God vampire was leaning over him in his sleep, peering down at the smooth slope of his pale neck, where a fat artery pulsed invitingly. I could easily overpower him, tear open the flesh and start drinking. It would be so easy, and warm blood tasted
... so... goddamn... good.

I sighed and turned my attention to the box, sliding it silently from beneath the bed. Horton never stirred, although I wondered if his sub-conscious was somehow aware of me. Perhaps at this very moment he was fleeing a beautiful vampire in his dreams. Okay, maybe not beautiful, but certainly damn cute with a curvy little body. I wondered fleetingly if the vampire in his dreams catches him. If so, what does she do with him?

I exited the room and made my way back through the long hallway and found a cavernous study. I didn’t risk turning on the light. Instead, I pulled open the curtains and allowed for some moonlight, and sat down in a brass-studded executive chair behind a black lacquer desk. I opened the box.

Inside were folders and papers. I removed the first folder, flipped it open and was greeted almost immediately with my own agency’s business card stapled to a sheet of paper. Written on the paper was my physical description. I was pleased to say that I was referred to as being
thin
and
pretty
. There was more. A meticulously written recap of our conversation. Most disturbing was a description of my minivan and my license plate number. He had watched me leave.

The second file was much thicker. Inside was a vast array of facts and photographs of Hewlett Jackson, Kingsley’s now-murdered client. Hewlett was a young black man, good-looking. There were some pictures of him coming and going from a residence, pictures of him leaving a white Ford Mustang, of him sitting in a park with a female companion, or him drinking late at night with friends at an outdoor restaurant. Careful notes were made of times and places of Hewlett’s movements and activities.

One particular time and place was circled in red ink. Most interesting was that it was the exact time and place Hewlett was found murdered.

The last file contained similar information on Kingsley Fulcrum. I read the entire file with much interest, then closed the box, exited the study and returned the whole shebang back under Horton’s bed. I even made sure the box was slightly askew.

I stared down at the man who had lost his brother within this last year. I felt pity for him. But Rick Horton had decided to take justice into his own hands. And that’s where my pity ended.

And, according to his notes, I was next on his list.

I could kill him now and never worry that he might make an unwanted appearance with my children present. But I do not kill people, especially people defenseless in their sleep. Better to let the law handle this.

I slipped away into the night.

31.

It was early afternoon, and I felt like crap, and I would continue to feel like crap until the sun disappeared in a few hours. We were at Hero’s again, where very few people knew our names, but at least the bartender remembered our drinks.

“
A glass of chardonnay and a martini?” he asked, giving us a warm smile. He had cute dimples around his mouth. Thick lips, too. Thick, juicy lips.

“
You bet,” Mary Lou said, beaming. He winked and moved down the bar to pour our drinks, and Mary Lou continued smiling at his back, or perhaps at his backside. “Isn’t he just amazing? What a memory!”

“
Down girl. It’s his job to remember,” I said. “He does well to remember.”

He returned with our drinks. Mary Lou handed him her credit card, although she probably would have preferred to slip it inside the waistband of his Jockey shorts. She sipped carefully from her glass and finally looked over at me. “So what’s the latest news with your case?”

“Are you done undressing our bartender with your eyes?”

“
Not yet. Wait. Okay, now I am.”

“
You’re a married woman, with kids,” I said.

“
I know. Your point?”

“
Married women shouldn’t be undressing bartenders with their eyes.”

“
Show me that in the rule book.”

“
There is no rule book.”

She looked at me. “Exactly. Now tell me about your case.”

I gave her an update, and to her credit she forgot about the bartender and his buns and focused on me.

“
Well, Horton’s obviously your guy. What a fucking creep.” She shuddered slightly.

“
Do you talk this way around your kids?”

“
No, just you. I let it all out around you.”

“
Lucky me,” I said.

“
And you were next on his list?” she asked.

“
You know, to silence the pesky private eye.”

“
You are kind of pesky, aren’t you?”

“
The peskier the better.”

“
So what’re you going to do?” she asked.

I sipped some wine. I tasted nothing, literally, but at least I didn’t double over with stomach cramps. Sipping from the wine glass gave me some semblance of normalcy. “I’m going to have a talk with Detective Sherbet this evening.”

“But what can he do?” asked my sister. “He can’t just barge in there and arrest the guy without probable cause.”

“
You’ve been watching too much TV, but you’re right. Not without a search warrant. And one needs evidence to obtain a search warrant.”

“
So breaking into this guy’s house and finding evidence hidden under his bed won’t fly with a judge, right?”

“
Right,” I said.

“
So what will you do?” she asked.

“
The detective and I will figure something out.”

“
Will you tell this detective about your break-in?”

“
Yeah, probably.”

“
Will he like it?”

“
Probably not.”

We were silent, and I decided now was the time to tell her about the attempted rape and the death of the gang banger—and about the sucking of blood. So I did. The story took a few minutes, during which Mary Lou said nothing although I noted she had quickly finished her drink.

“That was very reckless of you,” she said when I was done.

“
I know.”

“
And you really drank his blood?”

“
Yes.”

She was silent. I was silent. The noises of the bar came floating to my ears, the chink of glasses being washed in the sink, the sound of laughter behind me, the snapping opening of the cash register drawer.

“What if this somehow causes you to lose control, Samantha?”

“
I love my kids too much to lose control.”

“
Then you took a foolish chance by drinking that man’s blood.”

“
Yes, I did. But the situation had gotten quickly out of control. Before I knew it, I was holding a corpse.”

“
You should not be jogging so late.”

I drank my wine. Sometimes Mary Lou was impossible to talk to.

“When is there a better time? I’m a goddamn vampire.”

“
The early evening.”

“
In the early evening I have the kids and work.”

“
Then why do you need to jog at all?”

“
Because it helps me stay sane.”

We were alone at this end of the counter. As we spoke, my eyes constantly scanned the crowd, making sure we had no eavesdroppers. “I walk a fine line, Mary Lou. Everything around me is threatening to crumble away. Something like exercise is within my control. I need control right now.”

“Maybe you need help.”

We had gone through this before. “There’s no one to help me.”

“Maybe you need to speak to a therapist, someone, anyone.”

“
You think this is in my head?”

“
No. It’s real. I know that.”

“
The moment I tell a therapist that I’m a vampire, they’ll lock me up and take away my kids. Is that what you want?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

“Is that what you want, Mary Lou?”

“
No, it’s not what I want, but I also think your kids are not living a very healthy and normal life.” She sighed and reached out and held my hand. “You are a good mother, I know that. I know your kids mean everything to you, but I think they are in an unhealthy environment.”

“
I see it as a
different
environment,” I said, then studied her concerned face. “Wait. Do you worry for their safety?”

She said nothing.

“Do you worry that I will have a craving and drink from my own children?”

Nothing.

“You do, don’t you?”

She sucked in some air. “No, of course not. But if you keep behaving recklessly you might, you know, someday lose sight of who you are. Sam, you’ve fought for so long to keep things together. I don’t want to see your life crumble around you just because you found the taste of one man’s blood particular good.”

I studied her and she looked away. I suddenly had an insight. “You’ve been talking to Danny, haven’t you?”

She reddened. “Yes. He called me the other night to apologize for not picking up the kids. He’s worried about the kids.”

“Oh, really? And he shows this by coming home at midnight?”

She shrugged. “He worries that you will have a negative influence on their lives. I told him that was ridiculous. No mother loves her kids more than you.”

We were silent. It was just before dusk, and I was irritable and cranky and tired. I wanted to sleep.

“
He’s screwing someone else,” I said.

“
You know for sure?”

“
No. But I’m going to find out.”

“
I’m sorry, Sam.”

“
So am I. But it was bound to happen, right? Who wants to be married to a freak?”