Violets Are Blue

by James Patterson

  I smiled at his wit, but I let him talk.

  “I make several hundred sets of fangs every year. Uppers and lowers. Sometimes double fangs. Occasionally I make a pair in gold or silver. I think you’d look great with silver canines.”

  “You’ve read about the other killings around California?” I asked.

  “I’ve heard about them, yes. Of course. From friends and acquaintances like Peter Westin. Some vampires are excited by what’s happened. They think it signals a new time; perhaps a new Sire is coming.”

  I stopped him. A sudden chill ran through me. Something he’d just said. “Is there a leader of the vampires?”

  Barreiro’s dark eyes narrowed to slits. “No. Of course there isn’t. But if there was, I wouldn’t talk to you about it.”

  “Then there is a Sire,” I said.

  He glared at me and began to move about again.

  I asked, “Could you make tiger’s teeth—for a man to wear?”

  “I could,” he said. “I have.”

  Suddenly he lunged up at me with surprising speed. He grabbed my hair with one hand, an ear with the other. I’m six-three and a lot heavier than he was. I wasn’t ready for this. The small man was swift and he was very strong. His open mouth moved toward my throat, but then he stopped.

  “Don’t ever underestimate us, Detective Cross,” John Barreiro hissed, then let me go. “Well then, now are you sure that you don’t want those fangs? No charge. Maybe for your own protection.”

  Chapter 30

  WILLIAM DROVE the dusty white van through the Mojave Desert at close to a hundred miles an hour. The Marshall Mathers LP was playing at maximum volume. William was really pushing it along Route 15, heading toward Vegas, the next stop on their tour.

  The van was an ingenious idea. It was a damn bloodmobile with all the requisite Red Cross stickers. He and Michael were actually certified to take blood from anyone who volunteered to give it.

  “It’s up ahead a couple of miles,” William told his brother, who was sitting with one bare leg out the open window.

  “What’s up ahead? Prey, I hope. I’m bored out of my skull. I need to feed. I’m thirsty. I don’t see anything up there,” Michael whined like the spoiled-rotten teenager that he was. “Don’t pull any Slim Shady shit on me. I don’t see a thing up ahead.”

  “You will soon,” William said mysteriously. “This should snap you out of your funk. I promise it will.”

  Minutes later, the van pulled into a commercial parachute center known as a drop zone. Michael sat up and whooped loudly and beat on the dashboard with the palms of his hands. He was such a boy.

  “I feel the need for speed,” Michael yelled, doing his best imitation of the young Tom Cruise.

  The brothers had been parachuting since they got out of prison. It was one of the best legal highs around, and it took their minds off killing. They hopped out of the van and headed inside a flat-roofed concrete building that had definitely seen better decades.

  William paid twenty dollars directly to the pilot for a ride in a Twin Otter plane. There were two of them sitting near the tiny runway at the airstrip, but there was only one pilot and no one else at the parachute center.

  The pilot was a dark-haired girl not much older than William. Early twenties at most. She had a tight, sexy body but a mean little weasel’s face with badly pocked cheeks. He could tell that she liked his and Michael’s looks, though. But hey, who wouldn’t?

  “No boards, so you’re not sky-surfing. What are you boys into?” the pilot asked in a strong Southwestern accent. “Name’s Callie, by the way.”

  “We’re into just about everything!” Michael volunteered, and laughed. “I mean that too, Callie. I’m serious. We’re into just about everything that’s worth getting into.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Callie said, and held Michael’s eye for a few seconds. “Well, let’s do it, then,” she said, and they climbed up into one of the Otters.

  Less than ninety seconds later, the small plane was pounding down the hardscrabble runway. The brothers were laughing and hollering at the top of their voices as they donned parachutes.

  “You guys really seem pumped up, I’ll give you that. You’re free-fallers, right? You’re both certifiable,” Callie shouted over the airplane noise. She had a throaty rasp that William found, frankly, a little irritating. He wanted to rip a gaping hole in her neck, but that didn’t seem too smart at this particular time.

  “Among other things, yes. Take her up to sixteen thousand,” William shouted back at her.

  “Whoa! Thirteen thousand’s plenty. You know, temperature at thirteen thousand feet’s under forty degrees. You lose ’bout three degrees every thousand feet. Hypoxia sets in at sixteen. Too much for you thin-skinned boys.”

  “We’ll tell you when it’s too much for us. We’ve done this kind of thing before,” said Michael, a little angry now, his teeth bared, but maybe she took it for a seductive little smile. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.

  William slid the pilot another twenty dollars. “Sixteen thousand,” he said. “Trust me. We’ve been there before.”

  “Okay. You’ll be the ones with frostbitten fingers and ears,” Callie told them. “I warned you.”

  “We’re hot-bodied boys. Don’t worry about us. You an experienced pilot?”

  Callie grinned. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we? Let’s just say that I’m probably not losing my cherry up here.”

  William watched the gauges to make sure she took them high enough. At sixteen thousand feet, the Otter leveled off smoothly. Not too much wind up here today, and a view to die for. The plane was practically flying itself.

  “This is not a real good idea, guys,” the pilot warned again. “It’s cold as a motherfucker out there.”

  “It’s a great idea! And so is this!” William shouted.

  He took her on the spot. He bit deeply into Callie’s exposed throat. He held her neck firmly with his teeth and strong jaw. He began to drink, to feed at sixteen thousand feet.

  It was the height of sado-eroticism. Callie screamed and kicked, struggled fiercely, but she couldn’t get him off. Bright red blood splattered around the cockpit. He was so powerful. She tried desperately to get out of her cramped pilot’s seat and dislocated her hip.

  Callie’s knees cracked against the instrument panel several times, and then they stopped suddenly. Her brown eyes glazed over and became still as stones. She gave in. Both of them greedily drank her blood. They fed quickly and efficiently but couldn’t come close to draining the prey inside the cockpit.

  William then opened the plane’s door. He was struck with a blast of freezing-cold air. “C’mon!” he yelled. The two brothers jumped out of the plane—free-falling.

  It was a bad name for what they were experiencing. The sensation wasn’t like falling, it was more like flying your body.

  When the two of them went horizontal, they were soaring at about sixty miles an hour. But when they went vertical, they zoomed up to over a hundred miles an hour, closer to a hundred and twenty, William figured.

  The thrill was incredible, absolutely amazing to experience. Their bodies trilled like tuning forks. Callie’s fresh blood was pumping through their systems. The rush was otherworldly.

  At these speeds, the slightest leg move to the left jolted the body to the right.

  They got vertical quickly and stayed that way. Almost all the way down.

  They still hadn’t pulled the cords on their chutes. That was the best thrill of all: the possibility of sudden death.

  The wind pushed and pulled incredibly against their bodies.

  The only sound they heard was the wind.

  This was ecstasy.

  They hadn’t opened their chutes yet. How long could they wait? How long?

  The only thing that kept this from being perfect, William was thinking, was the absence of pain. Pain made any experience better. Pain was the secret to pleasure, which so few understood. He and Mi
chael did, though.

  Finally, they pulled the cords, and they couldn’t have waited a second more. The chutes opened, yanked hard at their bodies. The ground was rushing up at them.

  They landed and rolled, just in time to see the Twin Otter crash and burn, maybe a mile away in the desert.

  “No evidence,” William said smugly, his eyes glazed with pleasure and excitement. “That was such fun.”

  Chapter 31

  THE CRIMSON Tide. That’s what William called their murderous tour. He and Michael were on a roll now, and nothing could stop them until the mission was over. Nothing—not rain, or sleet, or the FBI.

  The Red Cross van drifted slowly along Fremont Street, the old original Strip in Las Vegas. It blended into the garish neon scene. Made them feel invisible. Like so many young males, William and Michael felt invulnerable. They would never be caught, never be stopped.

  The killers took everything in—the ridiculous spouting fountains in front of nearly every casino and hotel, a wedding chapel with “Love Me Tender” crooning tinnily from a loudspeaker, brightly painted tour buses, like the one ahead of the van from the United Union of Roofers and Waterproofers.

  “This is a true vampire’s city,” William proclaimed. “I can feel the energy. Even these pathetic worms on the street must feel alive when they’re here. It’s fabulous—so theatrical, glittery, overly dramatic. Don’t you just love it?”

  Michael clapped his large hands. “I’m in heaven. We can be choosy here.”

  “That’s our plan,” said William. “To be very choosy.”

  At midnight they drove out to the new Strip, Las Vegas Boulevard. They stopped at the Mirage, where the Daniel and Charles Magic Show was advertised on a large neon billboard that rose high over the busy street.

  “Is this such a good idea?” Michael asked, as they approached the box office inside the hotel. William ignored him and picked up two reserved tickets for the magic show. They were both dressed in black leather with black engineer boots. Nobody really cared what you wore in Vegas anyway. The show was about to begin as they took two seats near the front.

  Everything about the theater was spectacular and over-the-top. An enormous stage had been covered in spray-on black velvet. The backdrop was a thirty-foot-high metallic structure covered in rear-projection pictures that kept changing. Half a dozen techies worked the spotlights. The lighting conveyed spatial grandness if nothing else.

  William used the candle on their table to light a cigar. “It’s show time, my dear brother. Remember what you said—we can be choosy. Don’t forget that.”

  The magicians’ grand entrance onto the stage was a glittery nugget of eye candy. Daniel and Charles literally flew down from the rafters, at least a fifty- or sixty-foot drop.

  Then the magicians disappeared—and the spellbound audience erupted in applause.

  William and Michael cheered as well. The sheer speed with which the hydraulic mechanisms worked was impressive to William.

  Daniel and Charles appeared again. The magicians led two small elephants, a white stallion, and a glorious Bengal tiger onto the stage.

  “That’s me,” William whispered against Michael’s ear. “I am that beautiful cat. I am right at Daniel’s side. He should be careful.”

  The sound system played Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” in computerized surround sound. The noise was as gaudy as the visuals. A powerful exhaust system vented out the odor of animal urine and dung. A semipleasant vanilla-almond fragrance was pumped in.

  On the stage, meanwhile, the two magicians were arguing about something.

  William leaned toward a handsome young couple who had just been seated at the cocktail table to his left. The male and female were in their mid-twenties. He immediately recognized them from a hit TV show. He couldn’t decide which of the two actors was better looking. They were both so fly, so full of themselves. He knew that their names were Andrew Cotton and Dara Grey. Hell, he read EW and the tabloids in his spare moments.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” he asked them. “I love magic. It’s so kinky and funny. This is hilarious!”

  The female glanced his way. Dara Grey was about to put him in his place when she looked into William’s eyes. Just like that—he had her. Only then did William bother to check out the rest of her: an electric-blue slip dress, vintage belt and jeweled shoes, embroidered Fendi bag. Nice, very nice. He wanted to feed on her.

  This was going to be so good, so delicious.

  Now he would seduce the boyfriend. Andrew, dear sweet Andrew.

  Then—they would party until the dawn.

  Chapter 32

  THE TWO magicians continued to taunt each other mercilessly onstage. William’s eyes drifted back toward the bright lights and the loud bickering. He smiled, couldn’t help it. The magicians were part of tonight too, a big part, actually. Important as hell.

  Daniel and Charles were in their early forties. They were handsome in a crude sort of way, confident, especially in the eyes of the tawdry Vegas crowd.

  Daniel spoke to the audience as if he were a trial lawyer cleverly engaging a jury. He waved a long, highly polished sword, using it for emphasis.

  “We are performance artists, possibly the best now working in the world. We’ve played at Madison Square and the Winter Garden in New York, the Magic Castle, the Palladium in London, the Crazy Horse Saloon in Paris. We’ve headlined in Frankfurt, Sydney, Melbourne, Moscow, Tokyo, of course.”

  Charles seemed bored by his partner’s self-serving speech. He sat down on the edge of the stage and yawned until his tonsils showed.

  “They don’t care about your pedigree, Daniel,” Charles finally said. “Most of these bumpkins wouldn’t know Houdini from Siegfried and Roy. Do a cheap trick; that’s what they’re here for. Tricks are for kids, and they’re all kids! Do a trick! Do a cheap, slick trick!”

  Daniel suddenly pointed the tip of his sword at his partner. He waggled it threateningly. “I’m warning you, chump.”

  William looked over at the couple sitting beside him. “This part is pretty good,” he whispered, “believe it or not.”

  He caught the male’s eye, but the actor quickly pulled his gaze away. Too late. He had him too. The male wanted to get into his pants. Who could blame him? God, he wanted to feed. Right here, right now.

  Onstage, Daniel had begun to yell at Charles. “I’ve had enough of your high-handed, condescending bullshit, partner. I’ve had enough of you! More than enough!”

  “That’s too bad,” William mimicked the next few words spoken onstage, “because I’ve only just begun to torment you, and them! The bumpkins!”

  The two actors sitting next to them laughed at William’s accurate play-by-play. He had them utterly charmed. Now the male almost couldn’t take his eyes off William. Poor, poor Andrew.

  Suddenly, up onstage, Daniel rushed at Charles. He thrust the sword right into Charles’s chest. Charles’s scream was piercing and real. Blood erupted from his chest, spilled and splashed everywhere. The frightened audience gasped, and the room went quiet.

  William and Michael giggled, couldn’t stop. So did the couple beside them. Others shushed them.

  Daniel began to drag Charles’s body across the stage, careful to emphasize how heavy Charles was. Very dramatic stuff. He stopped at a small prop that was actually a butcher-block table. He draped the body across the table.

  He took an ax, hoisted it high, and chopped Charles’s head off.

  The room exploded with screams. Some people covered their eyes. “This is not funny,” someone shouted.

  William roared laughter and clapped and stamped his feet. The loud shushing continued all around him. People were horrified, but they wanted more. The two actors beside him were laughing as hard as he was. The woman playfully swatted William’s arm.

  Daniel now placed Charles’s head inside a wicker basket. He did it very theatrically. Then he bowed. The audience finally got it. They had caught up.

  William frowned and
lowered his head. “The good part is over. The rest is anticlimax.”

  Daniel carried the wicker basket back across the entire length of the stage. He walked very slowly. With great care, he then spilled Charles’s head out onto a silver platter.

  “Just happened to have a platter handy!” William whispered to the couple.

  Daniel turned to the audience. “Any of you figure this out yet? No? . . . Really? . . . He’s dead.”

  “Liar! No, he’s not!” William shouted from his seat. “Your act is dead, but Charles is alive! Unfortunately.”

  Suddenly, the head on the silver platter moved. Charles’s eyes opened. The audience went wild. The illusion was quite stunning and certainly novel enough.

  Charles said, “My God, look what you’ve done, Daniel. All these witnesses saw you. You’ll never get away with this, you murderer.”

  Daniel shrugged. “Oh, but I will. Nobody out there really cares about you, or anyone else for that matter. They don’t like you. They don’t even like themselves. You deserved this, Charles.”

  The head on the platter spoke again. “A public beheading? Help me, Daniel.”

  “What’s the magic word, Charles?” asked Daniel.

  “Please help me,” Charles answered. “Please, Daniel. Help me?”

  Daniel carefully placed the basket over Charles’s head, then carried it back across the stage and, with broad flour-ishes and theatrical gestures, reattached Charles’s head to his body. Charles then rose up and grasped his partner’s hand.

  The two magicians stood together and bowed. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are Daniel and Charles, the best magicians in the world!” they shouted to the rafters.

  The applause inside the room was loud and sustained. People stood and clapped and cheered. The magicians took several more bows.

  “Boo! Boo! They’re fakes!” William and Michael hooted from their seats. They saw a couple of hotel security geeks approaching their table.