by Lisa Jackson
But the old man’s death couldn’t help the situation now.
Vlad prided himself upon his perfection, and the fact that he had made one mistake bothered him.
He walked to the far end of the pool and into a small alcove where a bank of metal lockers still resided. They were empty save for the one he’d reserved for his treasures, those he’d locked away. Deftly, in the semidark, the smell of the chlorine he’d added drifting to him, he flipped the combination of the lock and opened the rusting door.
Inside were several rows of small black hooks. Three, on the upper row, saved for the elite, the ones he thought of as royals, had been marked with the name of the owner and held a gold necklace from which a tiny vial dangled. Carefully, he extracted one of the gold loops and held it to the light so that he could see the deep red color within the bit of glass…like expensive wine, he thought. Gently twisting open the vial, he held it under his nose. He inhaled the sweet, coppery scent of Monique’s blood. Closing his eyes, he remembered how she’d struggled. A natural athlete, she’d fought the effects of the drugs, and as he’d restrained her, she’d gone so far as to spit in his face.
He’d laughed and licked it into his mouth and that’s when he saw her fear. It wasn’t that he could hold her wrists or pin her weight with his legs, it was that he enjoyed the fight in her and that scared her to death.
He’d seen it in the dilation of her pupils, felt it in the rising and falling of her chest as he’d held her down waiting for the cocktail she’d been given to completely take effect. He’d witnessed her struggles on the stage before she’d ultimately succumbed to him. He’d suspected she would be difficult, a fighter. And she hadn’t disappointed.
Hers was a life not quickly given.
Thinking of Monique now, he licked his lips. Draining her blood had been exquisite, watching her breaths become shallow and bare, seeing her skin whiten, feeling her heartbeat slow and finally stop all together, then staring into her open, dead eyes….
He shuddered, reliving the moment, but it wouldn’t be enough. Memories faded all too quickly.
Fortunately the bloodlust would be fulfilled.
He capped the teeny bottle and watched it dangle and sparkle for just a second before returning it to the locker.
The empty hooks mocked him, especially the one marked for Tara Atwater. Old rage burned through him when he thought of how that little bitch had tried to defy him, had hidden the treasure meant for him. No amount of urging or force had been able to loosen her thick tongue and she was dead quickly, almost willingly, with little fight in her.
But she had managed the tiniest of smiles as the blood had drained from her and she’d released her soul, as if she had somehow won their battle.
His teeth clenched as he considered the imperfection.
The vial was out there. He just had to find it.
He’d tried of course, to no avail.
But he wouldn’t give up.
He slammed the locker door shut. Bam! The sound ricocheted off the walls and he stormed still naked into the cavernous room with the pool and alcove he used for an office. The water reflected in shifting shades of blue upon the walls and ceiling, his computer hummed faintly.
The vial was most likely in Tara’s apartment, hidden away somewhere. Until now, he’d been careful to stay away from the empty unit with the old busybody of a landlady. But now he had more than one reason to return. Not only was he certain that the precious vial of Tara’s blood was secreted somewhere on the premises, but now Kristi Bentz occupied the very apartment he had to search.
Which was perfect.
CHAPTER 7
“Wasn’t Grotto’s class the best?” Mai gushed as Kristi climbed the stairs to her apartment. Carrying an overflowing basket of laundry, Mai met her on the landing of the second floor. Almost as if she’d been waiting for her and peering out between her living room blinds. “I saw you come into the class a little late.”
“Everyone did,” Kristi said, silently groaning. She’d wanted to talk with the vampirism prof after class but had failed in her efforts. But she was determined to meet with him and see what he knew about campus cults.
“Was the whole experience cool, or what? The dark classroom, the drapes drawn, and fake candles lit? All of those images of vampires? Some of them were so scary, I actually got goose bumps, and the others were so camp. I mean, Bela Lugosi? Really? But I gotta say, I about freaked when Grotto took out his false fangs.”
“You didn’t think it was a little much?” Kristi kept hiking up to the third floor. She didn’t have a lot of time. She’d taken over part of Ezma’s shift at the Bard’s Board from twelve-thirty until six and now she had less than forty-five minutes to get to her night class.
“I think it was imaginative, and interesting, and so much cooler than a musty old professor in a tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows up at the podium lecturing while we, all bored out of our minds, flipped through pages of a textbook written in the eighties.”
“Like that was going to happen.”
“Hey, I just admire the guy for bringing some life, or, well, maybe death into the classroom!” Animated, Mai hauled her basket and followed Kristi upstairs. As Kristi entered her apartment, Mai was on her heels and through the door. She set her laundry basket on a table near the kitchen alcove as if she and Kristi were best friends now.
Houdini, who ventured from his favorite hiding spot when he felt Kristi wasn’t looking, jumped from the windowsill to the daybed, then quickly slunk into the small space he’d made his home.
“Friendly,” Mai observed dryly. “So what’s with the cat? I thought pets were a definite no-no.”
“He’s not a pet. Just a stray I can’t seem to get rid of.”
Mai glanced to the area in front of the bifold doors hiding the kitchen. There upon a small mat was a pet dish that held food and water, one Kristi had picked up at the local grocery market when she’d been buying coffee, milk, peanut butter, bread, and half a dozen tins of cat food. “You’re feeding it. Mrs. Calloway will freak.”
“She can come and catch him then. I don’t even have a litter box.”
Mai wrinkled her pert little nose. “Then…how…where?”
“He’s toilet trained.”
“What?” She whipped her head around toward the doorway leading to the closet-sized bathroom. A beat passed as Kristi took off her coat. Mai caught her faint smile. “Oh, you’re kidding.”
“I leave the window open a crack and he slips through, outside onto the roof. It’s amazing how small a space he can get through, but so far, no accidents.”
“You’re not trying very hard to get rid of him,” Mai observed, and Kristi shrugged. “So he goes on the roof?”
“I think he climbs down the magnolia tree.”
“I won’t tell…but if Mrs. Calloway sees him, there’ll be hell to pay.” Mai’s almond-shaped eyes took in the room, just as she had the last time she’d visited. It was almost as if Mai were looking for something, or trying to memorize every nook and cranny of Kristi’s private space.
“If she sees Houdini, I’ll deal with it then,” Kristi said.
“Houdini?” Mai repeated. “You named it?”
“He had to have a name.”
“You’re sure it’s a he?”
“I haven’t got that close.”
Mai looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. She walked to the table that Kristi used as a desk, the space where Kristi had left her notes about the missing girls.
Suddenly Kristi felt uncomfortable with Mai’s prying eyes. “You’ve been here since last year, right?” Kristi asked to divert her.
“Uh-huh.”
“So you know a lot of people.”
“My share, I guess.”
“Have you heard anything about a cult, maybe on campus? One that believes in vampires?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Mai’s fingers touched the back of Kristi’s chair. A moment passed and Kris
ti got the impression she was giving herself time to think.
Kristi pressed, “Is it possible that the girls who went missing were involved in some kind of secret society?”
“That’s kind of a reach,” Mai said.
“Is it?”
“Do you know something?” Mai asked.
“You know something,” Kristi guessed. “Tell me.”
Mai glanced at the photos of the missing girls lying face-up on Kristi’s makeshift desk and she bit her lip. Shaking her head, she picked up the picture of Rylee Ames. “I don’t want to sound crazy.”
“I just want to know.”
She dropped the photo. “There’s always been an interest in the vampire thing, y’know? I mean, if you look it up on the Internet, you’ll find all kinds of parties and groups who purport to really be vamps. It’s this big counterculture. Some people get into it for cheap thrills, I think, but others, they have all these rituals and they sleep in coffins and drink blood, I think even human blood.”
“And there’s a group here on campus. People who are into it,” Kristi added.
Mai lifted a shoulder. “I’ve heard rumors, sure.”
“You think Grotto’s involved?”
Mai glanced away. “Grotto? It seems far-fetched. I mean, if it’s all so secret, why would he flaunt it? You know, call attention to himself? His class probably just adds to the interest, the allure of it all. My guess? At least some of the students who take his classes are part of the group. But I don’t think that just because kids show some interest in vampires and try to hook up with others that I’d call it a cult.”
“Maybe it’s just the extremists,” Kristi said, “a faction that takes things further. Maybe that’s the cult part.”
“If there even is one. People tend to label things they don’t understand.” She glanced again at the pictures on the desk. “What are you doing with these?”
“I don’t know yet. Just thought I’d do some checking,” Kristi said. That much was true enough. Already she’d spoken with two family members of the missing girls. She didn’t tell anyone that she thought she’d write a book about them, because, truth to tell, if the girls did end up being runaways, she had no story. Until there was actually a crime, she couldn’t very well start penning a true-crime book.
Of course, she hadn’t shared that information with Dionne’s purportedly great, once-upon-a-time boyfriend Elijah Richards, who was sure he’d see his name in print like some sort of urban hero. In her conversation with him, he’d been all about Elijah, barely able to focus on the girl he supposedly loved. Maybe there was a reason Dionne left him for Tyshawn Jones, even with Tyshawn’s criminal tendencies.
Kristi bit her lip, thinking of the other family members she’d reached—Tara Atwater’s mother, who had been a real piece of work. Angie Atwater had spent most of the conversation ranting about how her “no-good daughter” was following in her father’s path—straight to the Georgia State penitentiary. Poor Tara.
With each conversation, Kristi was becoming more convinced that something awful, something evil had happened to the four missing girls. There was a chance that through her digging, she could find a link between them, a reason they’d gone missing, and turn over whatever she found to the police. Maybe they’d get lucky and find the coeds alive. At the very least she could help prevent any more girls from disappearing.
“Did you personally know any of the missing girls?” Kristi asked Mai.
“No,” Mai said quickly. “I didn’t really talk to Tara.” She lingered over the desk as if intrigued…connected. She seemed about to say something more, but changed her mind.
Suddenly, Kristi realized the time. “Look, I’ve gotta run. I’ve got a night class in”—she glanced at the clock hung over the fireplace—“fifteen minutes!”
Mai picked up her laundry. She looked away from Kristi’s desk and managed to shake off the pall that had settled over her. “Yeah, I gotta get at this”—she held up the basket of dirty clothes—“or it’ll be midnight before I’m done. The laundry room here—” She shuddered. “It’s just plain creepy. I don’t think anyone’s cleaned that basement since the Civil War. Pardon me, the War of Northern Aggression, as it’s called by some of the natives around here. There are tons of spiders down there and some might even be poisonous, and there are probably rats and snakes, too…. I put off washing my clothes until the last minute.”
Kristi didn’t argue. The basement laundry room was dark and dingy. The ceiling was low, the concrete walls looking as if moisture seeped through the cracks, the exposed beams filled with cobwebs. The odors of mildew and mold were ever present, even when Kristi added bleach to her wash.
“Creeps me out,” Mai said. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that you missed a great party.”
“Next time.”
“You mean next year?” Mai asked, her gaze skating once more across the room to the desk where the pictures of the missing girls were strewn. “I’m probably not going to throw another party until next New Year’s Eve. If then. The party itself was fun, but the mess the next day—forget it!” Mai made her way to the door, and holding the basket on her hip, waved and said, “See ya,” before leaving.
Kristi made a beeline for the bathroom, where she took a two-minute shower to rid herself of the smell of grease, onions, and fish that still clung to her from her hours at the diner. After toweling off, she snapped her wet hair into a ponytail and pinned it loosely on her head. Throwing on a clean bra, panties, jeans, and a T-shirt, she then smudged on some lip gloss without checking the mirror. At the front door she stepped into boots, pulled a sweatshirt from a peg and tossed it over her head. She picked up her backpack again and was out the door bare minutes behind Mai.
If only she’d brought her bike from home, the fifteen-speed she’d bought after losing her racing bike to the hurricane, she thought as she clattered down the stairs, cut through a back alley, and jogged across the street separating the apartment house from the campus. Once through the massive gates, she headed toward Knauss Hall, which was primarily used for the biological science curriculum, but now held the new criminology department.
Silently she prayed that Jay McKnight was not her teacher. Surely someone would have told her, right, if there had been a change in instructors?
No way. You sign up for a class; the school registrar/computer decides where you’ll end up.
“Not Jay,” she said aloud, then felt foolish, as if she were fourteen instead of twenty-seven. Get a grip, Kristi. You can handle this. No matter what.
“You know, Baton Rouge is not your jurisdiction,” Olivia said as she entered the alcove in the guest room on the second floor of their cottage.
Bentz had set up his laptop on a TV tray in the room Kristi had occupied when she’d lived here. The makeshift desk wasn’t much, but he did most of his work at the station. He was now hunched over the small computer.
Glancing over his shoulder he spied his wife leaning in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb as she cradled a cup of tea in her hands. Though a smile caused her lips to twitch, she assessed him with serious eyes that seemed to see past his facade and into his very soul.
“How do you know what I’m checking into?”
“I’m psychic, remember?”
That he did. When he’d first met her, he’d thought her a bonafide nutcase. She’d shown up at the station, ranting about seeing murders as they’d been committed, and he’d written her off. At first. He hadn’t wanted to believe that this woman with her wild blond hair and gold eyes could read the mind of a cold-blooded killer. But she’d proved him wrong. He still felt sick inside to know what she’d experienced as she’d witnessed the most macabre and brutal of crimes. “You were only a psychic on one case,” he reminded her. “Since that time you’ve proven yourself utterly useless.”
“Oooh, low blow, Bentz,” she said, but chuckled deep in her throat. “So, okay, I’m lying about being able to read your mind, but I know you, Detecti
ve, and I do know how you think.” She walked into the room and propped that tight little butt of hers against the arm of an overstuffed chair that was pushed into a corner, opposite a twin bed covered with an aqua-colored spread. “You’re worried about Kristi.”
“You don’t have to have ESP to know that.”
“But it’s because of the missing girls and hence my warning that Baton Rouge is not your jurisdiction.”
“I know. But who cares about lines on a map when girls have gone missing?”
“Oh, yeah, like you would be thrilled if someone from another jurisdiction showed up and started nosing around your cases. Face it, Bentz, you don’t like it when the FBI shows up, and you’re not even crazy about sharing your cases with some of your own men. I don’t know how many times you’ve complained about Brinkman.”
“He’s a pain.”
“Hmm…I won’t argue that one,” she said, dunking her tea bag in the steaming water within her cup. The scent of jasmine wafted over to him as he stared at the images on the screen—pictures of the four missing girls.
“Brinkman might be resigning.”
“Really?” She looked up, letting the tea bag settle.
“Because of the storm.”
“It’s been over two years.”
“He lived in the Lower Ninth Ward, had a couple of rentals there, too. All gone. His parents lived in one. They got out,” he said, not adding that their cats hadn’t. They’d hidden during the storm and when the rescuers had come, couldn’t be found. Weeks later, when the floodgates had receded, Brinkman had returned to his family home and found the house marked with an X by the searchers. The other note said only: “Two dead cats inside.” Brinkman had gotten to dispose of the animal carcasses and inform his mother. Since then, he’d packed up his parents, who now lived in Austin, and was talking of getting the hell out of Dodge himself.
