The Vampires' Last Lover (Dying of the Dark Vampires Book 1) (42 page)

ou’re sure that’s all?

The agent poured another round of coffee, carefully stirring in a measure of cream as if the simple act required complete concentration. Jack Kenney studied him, absently drumming his fingers on a steel table in the middle of the interrogation room. Well-defined muscles tensed beneath the tight confines of the faded black t-shirt; he seemed poised and ready to launch out of the chair like a hungry lion. His hazel eyes glowed with acute agitation.

The exhaustion and weariness brought by the endless stream of questions since last night made him yearn painfully for sweet silence. Any chances of that, or for him to recoup any of the sleep he’d lost since his abduction from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, seemed unlikely.

“As I’ve been telling y’all, there’s nothing more to add to my statement,” said Jack.

Agent Frank Reynolds grimaced. Jack figured the man didn’t take kindly to a smart mouth, and definitely not one belonging to a twenty-one year old college kid. The agent’s earlier speech about being in this line of work for nearly thirty years repeated in Jack’s head, along with the threat of what would happen if he didn’t start cooperating. The man’s patience and self-described even-tempered nature had worn dangerously thin.

“I guess we’re supposed to believe Dr. Mensch’s beating and subsequent death were mere coincidences—which, unfortunately, you’ve been linked to. Is that what you expect us to believe, Mr. Kenney?” asked Reynolds.

He moved deliberately toward Jack, motioning to his two companions, Agents Ben Casey and Steve Iverson.

“You must think the three of us have shit for brains, son, and your arrogant attitude is starting to piss me off.”

He stepped up to the table and leaned into Jack’s face, who seemed unfazed by the advancing giant of a man glaring at him. Instead, Jack appeared amused and fascinated by the agent’s behavior, and by Reynolds’ thick southern accent degenerating into a slur. The agent’s flushed face burned with anger, in contrast to his pale gray eyes and wavy white hair.

Like a clean-cut Santa hittin’ the sauce.

Reynolds’ large stature of nearly six and a half feet would’ve intimidated most, but Jack remained unaffected by the man’s invasion into his personal space.

He grinned, studying the agent to determine the true depth of malice. His eyes wandered to the I.D. badge dangling from the lapel of his dark blue suit coat. A stoic picture from a few years earlier, the identifier ‘AS419’ etched in gold glistened under the glare from the fluorescent light above the table.

“What the hell do you find so amusing?” Reynolds hissed.

“Forgive me…
sir.
I’m just tired. Tired enough to find everything a little amusing at this point,” Jack replied.

“Maybe I can convince you to take Frank’s words a bit more serious.”

Steve Iverson spoke. Svelte in build, and not as tall as Reynolds, he grasped Jack’s shoulder and squeezed the tender area below the collarbone, steadily increasing the pressure until the bone throbbed.

Jack’s reflexes forced him to look at the steel table and the distorted reflection of his grimace. His hazel eyes were slits of anger, growing brighter by the second.

Iverson increased the pressure on Jack’s collarbone, forcing his teeth to clinch. The torture continued until Jack fell out of the chair. He squirmed on the cement floor with Iverson’s hand still attached to the sensitive pressure point.

“
Had enough, asshole?”

The agent brought his face down low enough to peer into his victim’s eyes, snickering in contempt. A nervous tic quivered excitedly along his lower lip, and he seemed to draw immense pleasure. Jack fantasized turning over and shoving a knee into Iverson’s groin. But he couldn’t free himself.

“You know, right now may be as good a time as any to rearrange this pretty boy’s face. How about it, Frank?”

The agent jerked Jack’s head back by the hair. Peering into his face, Iverson’s smirk remained, though slightly broadened by apparent amusement. But the steel-blue eyes glowed, revealing the coldhearted killer. Jack could tell the man might eliminate someone with no more remorse than smashing a stink beetle.

In a way, he reminded Jack of a country singer his grandfather, Marshall Edwards, liked. His sandy brown hair brushed back, resembling Merle Haggard, made Jack picture the tune “I’m Just An Old Jukebox Junkie” coming out of Iverson’s mouth. The image struck him as funny and almost made him laugh, and a snicker managed to escape.

“
You think this is funny, you sorry sack of shit??”
he screamed as he yanked Jack to his feet by the hair.
“Suppose I show you something real funny, like your dick sticking out of your ass, you stupid fuck!”

Jack winced, and started to take a swing. Before he could deliver, Iverson pushed him into the waiting arms of Ben Casey, who shoved Jack’s arms high behind his back. The ligaments in his joints stretched to the point of tearing.

“I’m all for giving this punk a workout.”

Short and somewhat portly, but the most menacing of the trio, Casey’s husky voice reverberated in the tight space.

“He’s begging for it.”

Held fast, Jack warily watched the other two men closer.

Oh shit…

A nauseating blend of tobacco, sweat, and a mixture of colognes filled his nostrils—one cheap, and the other a strong musk scent. He swallowed hard. If he vomited on any of these guys, they might not let him live long enough to apologize.

The door to the room swung open, the hinges whining loudly. Another agent stepped into the room carrying a long, black attaché, and a small blue duffel bag. Reynolds and Iverson backed away, while Casey released his arms.

“Well, good afternoon, Peter,” said Reynolds. “Or, should I say ‘evening’, since it’s nearing the dinner hour.”

He extended his hand in welcome. The man set the attaché case and duffel bag down.

“It’s good to see you, Frank,” he said, responding with a hearty handshake. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was worse than usual tonight. Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, not really,” he said, shooting a mean glance at Jack. “He’s all yours, now.”

The newcomer turned his attention to Jack, eyeing him like a rare animal on display. Jack glared, forcing the man named Peter to return his attention to Iverson.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending his hand to Iverson.

“Pete, this is Steve Iverson, and Ben Casey from the New York office,” said Reynolds.

“Peter McNamee…I’m pleased to meet you both.”

“Pete’s dad and I go way back,” said Reynolds, glancing coolly at Jack once more. “We used to work together for the bureau down in New Orleans.”

“Dad still speaks fondly of those times. We’ll need to catch up when our work here is through.” Peter McNamee shifted his gaze to Jack, who met his gaze head on. An awkward moment, Peter resumed the conversation with Reynolds. “I’m sure he’ll be interested to know what you’ve been up to.”

“Just working, son. Same as always.”

More awkwardness permeated the air.

“Well, I guess I’ll get started.” Agent McNamee picked up his attaché and duffel bag. He moved to the table and set both items on top.

The other agents watched, but seemed unsure. Jack felt better about his own situation. It appeared McNamee intimidated them. At least fifteen years younger than the others, Jack could tell he was slightly older than himself.

“I’d like to interview Mr. Kenney in private. As you’ll be able to follow just fine from outside the room, I hope you won’t mind my request. It’s easier for me to remain focused.”

He pointed to the surveillance cameras in each corner. Reluctant, his colleagues moved to the door.

“All right, then.” Reynolds sounded irritated. “Holler if you need anything, Pete. This gives us extra time to visit with Jeremy Kenney. Maybe he’s ready to enlighten us.”

He gave Jack one last menacing look before exiting the room. After a silent prayer for his brother’s safety, Jack turned his attention to the lone federal agent in the room.

Peter McNamee smiled and moved over to Jack’s side of the table and picked up the chair. He extended his hand to Jack, only slightly deterred by Jack’s indifference.

“I guess a handshake may be a little inappropriate at this point,” he chuckled. “Have a seat, Jack. We’re probably going to be here for a while.”

“Actually, I need to take a piss.”

Toward the back of the room was a small closet with a toilet and sink. The agent nodded.

“How about some coffee? Or, perhaps, a Coke?” He moved to a small refrigerator beneath the coffee maker.

“A Coke sounds great.” Jack closed the bathroom door.

Peter brought the soft drink and a cup of coffee for himself to the table. Jack joined him. His hair combed back he stood behind the chair; sizing up the man sitting across from him.

“Please, sit down.” Peter unpacked the duffel bag. He placed a pair of journals, along with a small recorder, in the middle of the table. Jack studied the recorder as he sat down.

“Do you really need this?” he asked. “I thought the surveillance shit in this place would be sufficient enough.”

He motioned to the windowless room. Three fluorescent lights hanging from the room’s fifteen-foot ceiling enhanced mustard colored walls. The middle light hovered a few feet above the table.

“The recorder is for my own personal use,” said Peter. “I’d like to review our session at a later time, if that’s okay with you.”

Jack shrugged.

“All right, then. This thing can run for several hours, should we need it. Are you ready to get started?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” sighed Jack. “But, nothing’s changed since I started talking to your buddies two days ago. My story’s the same.”

Peter smiled and leaned forward. Blonde, blue-eyed, and dressed in a blue Armani suit and gold necktie; he looked too pretty to be a law enforcement agent.

“Jack,” he said. “I haven’t heard it. All I’ve had a chance to look at is the original police report from Tuscaloosa, which simply states you were the one who found Dr. Oscar Mensch unconscious and called for an ambulance. And, you are the last person we can identify who saw him alive in the hospital after he regained consciousness.”

Jack nodded, wondering if that was all the agent knew.

“So, you just want information concerning Dr. Mensch and his death? That’s it?” He popped open the Coke and took a good-sized drink, grinning impishly. “It seems like a wasted use for that recorder, since it’ll take just a few minutes to answer whatever questions you have.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Peter, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Dr. Mensch’s death will be our starting point. I’ve got other questions related to this whole mess in Tuscaloosa. Why don’t we take it one step at a time and see where we end up?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on the recorder. Peter marked the session’s intro with an identifier, picked up one of the journals, and leaned back. He, too, had an I.D. badge similar to the other agents. His read ‘RS638’ etched in gold, along with his photo in a stoic pose similar to Reynolds’ badge.

Jack chuckled. It must be part of the standard operating procedures for these guys to look like someone’s got a secure grip on their balls.