Bitten/Drained: The Lauren Westlake Chronicles Volume 1

by Dan O'Brien

  Grumbling angrily and unintelligibly to himself, Benny dug through one of his grocery carts filled to the brim with postmodern junk; he was looking for a broken umbrella amidst the sea of garbage and treasure within his cart. As Benny extricated the battered object of his desire, he was startled by a voice. “I do enjoy these brief moments of gentle rain. Do you find them as soothing as I do?”

  Turning, Benny was immediately irritated by the man’s presence. Dressed to the nines––with angular, symmetrical features––there was something unreal about his figure.

  “I don’t want no trouble.”

  The man smiled. “Nor do I. But I wonder, Benny, what is it that you are looking for?”

  Benny looked at the streets and saw cars zip past between the concrete dividers that obscured his shelter from view. It was the main reason why he stayed there: it had become his island, his cabin in the woods.

  “Mister, I’m hungry. Do you have any food?”

  The man smiled again, disarmingly. “I must admit I am a bit peckish myself. Though I have no food, at least nothing that you would find satisfying, Benny.”

  Benny was struck by the disconnected nature of their conversation, as if the man were not talking to him at all and instead reading from a script. This feeling became more surreal as the man stepped past him into the darkness of the overpass. His features were adulterated by the shadows there: his dark hair made darker, his gray eyes disappearing.

  There, in the darkness, Benny heard something move.

  “Watch out, mister, there are rats back there. I catch them sometimes and cook them up.”

  The man chuckled but did not respond, turning his back to Benny. When he spoke again, his voice had changed; it seemed bloated and distant. “They never look for the wretches, Benny. Give me your poor. Give me your hungry. Those are just words. I am hungry as well….”

  The sound came again.

  There was no mistaking it for a rat this time.

  It was bigger.

  Hollow, deliberate steps haunted the shadows. A tremor crept across Benny, rising from his toes like acid reflux from his stomach after he ate from the dumpster behind the Korean restaurant a few blocks away.

  “I don’t want no trouble,” repeated Benny, his voice quaking as he took a few steps back.

  “You won’t have to worry about trouble any longer. I will take your fear. Feed on your fear….”

  Benny thought to run.

  Panic gripped him, but his muscles would not respond. He wondered if the lady doctor at the center had been right: Was he crazy? Was he chasing shadows in the dark?

  Looking at his bin of junk, he saw the broken pipe that he had taken from a rundown building in the Tenderloin. He had taken it, thinking it was copper, but it turned out to be rusted and useless like him.

  Gripping it like he was Babe Ruth waiting at the plate, he watched the darkness. The well-dressed man had disappeared, but his voice drifted on the air like a spirit.

  “Why fight it, Benny? Is this really worth living for, this sad little life?”

  Benny’s fear turned to anger.

  Gesturing with the pipe, he shouted into the dark.

  “How do you know my name?”

  The laugh sent shivers down his spine.

  Something in the darkness tripped and fell, collapsing the third and fourth cardboard bedrooms of his sprawling street estate. A figure emerged in the darkness: something frightening beyond words.

  “We know all about you, Benny.”

  As it took shape in the half-light of the passing cars, Benny held his breath and swung the pipe as hard as he could, lurching forward as it connected with thin air. With a gnashing maw, it blotted Benny from view and pulled him back into the darkness.

  LAUREN WAS SURPRISED by the number of people who milled about in the night despite the rain. Most walked with their heads high; a few carried umbrellas. Union Street was filled with upper-middle class crowds of men and women in their twenties or early thirties. The volume of the music playing over loudspeakers faded in and out as she passed several sets of stairs that led into darkened bars that sounded like equal parts J-pop video and a monkey cage at a zoo. After a few blocks, the noise diminished and bars and nightclubs gave way to quiet residential buildings stocked with sleeping occupants and empty homes waiting for their drunken stewards.

  Her destination was a nondescript building surrounded by the two-story homes and apartments that lined the vacant streets. Its front door was set back from the luminance of the evenly spaced streetlamps, and the name on the mailbox was chipped away, as if someone had been fiddling with it out of nervousness.

  As Lauren approached the home, she noticed immediately that the front door was slightly ajar. Heat flushed her chest as she saw the creeping darkness of the interior of the home. She paused next to the door and knocked. Her voice was gravelly as she called into the darkened interior. “Hello? Is anyone home?”

  Silence answered.

  Pushing on the door, it groaned as it swung open. Lauren peered into the darkness, her hand reaching to her side holster and drawing her weapon as she stepped inside.

  The front hall was narrow despite the size of the home; a cluttered table sat next to the entrance. Hanging on the wall opposite, a round mirror reflected the light from the streetlamps, creating surreal shapes in the darkness.

  “The door was open,” called Lauren.

  No answer.

  Silence permeated the space, for the home’s thick walls absorbed the sound of her footfalls. Her steps were further muffled as she stepped on the giant rug in the center of the hall. With a cautious step, she brushed past the rug’s upturned corners and peered down the hall and out the open window on the far side; the drapes lifted and contorted like a specter.

  “Is anyone home?”

  Seeing a faint light coming from a doorway to her left, she crept toward it.

  She entered a large open room. Across from the doorway stood a refrigerator whose door was slightly ajar, its bright bulb creating a line of light that sliced across the kitchen floor and ceiling and past the high bar that separated the kitchen from the living room.

  In the dim light Lauren saw that the kitchen was a mess. The cabinets were thrown open and drawers had been pulled out over the runners; knives and spatulas were littered across the floor along with broken dishes and large pieces of stylish plates. The high bar was covered with broken bottles, whose liquid pooled on the stacks of papers that lined the countertop and oozed over the edges and dripped onto the floor. She noted an unusual pile of crushed pieces of ceramic.

  Being careful not to crush the broken glass and ceramics strewn about the floor, Lauren approached the pile and kneeled over it. Lauren examined the pile and saw that it was shaped liked the heel of a shoe.

  She paused and looked around. There were several similar piles of ceramic and glass shards leading past the bar and into the living room. Lauren followed the shards until they were just glimmers in the carpet at the foot of a staircase; stairs, shadowed and steep, led to another floor.

  Taking a last look around the living room, she noted another open window, then sighed and started up the staircase.

  As she mounted the stairs, she could not shake her thoughts free of what happened in Locke and dispel the apprehension that had gripped her at the Lavender house. It was not the loneliness or the danger that frightened her: it was the possibility of losing control, of not being the one who decided her fate. Lauren could hear sirens in the distance, but could not be sure from which direction they were coming.

  The room at the top of the stairs encompassed a large unencumbered space. A massive dark rug lay across the center, though this one appeared undisturbed except for a wrinkle here and there. At the opposite end of the room stood a heavy desk and chair––spun so that its tall back was facing away from her. The top of the desk was in disarray; papers and books were strewn about. As Lauren approached the desk, she pushed back her coat and replaced her service weapon. Sta
nding beside the chair, she inspected the papers with a squint as a small desk lamp cast the only visible light. She picked up some of the books, flipping through the pages idly before putting them back down.

  As she tried to move the chair from beneath the desk, she noticed that the front wheel was catching on something. Crouching beside the chair, she inspected the area around the wheel, moving her hand back and forth across the rug until she felt a slight bump. Pushing away the chair, she lifted the corner of the rug and reached underneath. Stretching out her fingers, she felt the hard spine of a book and fished it out of a recess in the floor.

  Lauren touched the cover and then pressed her hand against it; she could spread the fingers of her left hand over the entire cover. The book’s unevenly cut pages were bound with a hard substance bent into crude rings. Something about it did not seem of this world.

  Exhaling and closing her eyes, she tried to visualize what had happened. Someone had been here. That much was certain. They had been looking for something. An altercation had broken out in the kitchen and led the assailant, or the thief, upstairs…looking for this book.

  Tucking the book into the long folds of her coat, she moved back down the staircase, her mind still trying to formulate what had happened. If the intruder had entered the home through the window, then why was the front door open? What had happened here?

  Lauren paused mid-step in the kitchen as she heard a long scraping noise coming from the front hall. Removing her service weapon, she steadied it and took slow, deliberate steps toward the noise. Weight leaned against the open front door, and then released. Lauren recognized the distinctiveness of the movement; it was not the Bay winds playing tricks on her. She realized that this was not her home. This was not her jurisdiction. Had she been led astray, down some phantom path?

  The new arrival could not hide the heaviness of his footsteps.

  She stepped into the hall and commanded. “This is an active crime scene. I’m a federal agent. Lay down your weapon and get on your knees.”

  There was a cough and a short exhalation of air. Lauren adjusted her grip as she spoke again. “I am going to take your pause as evidence that you are not breaking and entering. Police or private security?”

  “SFPD, ma’am.”

  Lauren holstered her weapon and sighed. “I’m coming out.”

  A disco of police lights penetrated the darkness and flickered through the home as more footfalls echoed near the front door. Three figures milled about outside, while a freshly-shaven, uniformed officer waited next to the door.

  It was going to be a long night.

  II

  Lauren looked at the desk sergeant with about as much patience as she could muster after enduring hours of administrative humdrum with the sullen policeman. The man was rotund, but powerfully built, with dark circles under his gray eyes. He had the appearance of a man who was not in the habit of looking in a mirror when he dressed.

  She easily figured out the reason for his unkempt appearance and grating demeanor: a recent divorce. “The world is full of willing and honest women, sergeant,” mumbled Lauren as she leaned back in her reasonably comfortable chair.

  The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Did you do something that requires an apology?”

  “Huh?’

  Their verbal sparring over the past few hours rejuvenated Lauren as the night wore on. “You said excuse me, which would lead me to assume that you’ve done something blameworthy; therefore, requiring a pardon.”

  The sergeant just looked at her, stale coffee churning through his tired and murky mind. “Why would I care about willing and honest women, agent?”

  Lauren smiled and sat up in her chair. “The worn circle around your ring finger, the lack of care taken in personal grooming, and a general, shall we say, irritation, makes me think that a woman might have recently broken your heart. I just wanted to ensure you that there are still plenty of kind women in this world, sergeant.”

  He reddened visibly, his mouth opening to release his pent-up frustration. But his impending tirade was interrupted by the appearance of a wide-shouldered officer with a long beige trench coat, rich ebony skin, and amber eyes. The newcomer touched the sergeant on the shoulder gently. “I’ll take it from here, Mickleson.”

  Mickleson took another look at Lauren and then stormed off. Lauren watched the man go with a laugh; though she felt a stab of regret about goading him. She took a quick survey of the dapper interloper: he was hygienic and he carried himself with great confidence.

  “Homicide, I’m guessing.”

  He smiled, revealing very little of his teeth. “Very good, Agent Westlake. I’m quite sorry about the delay, but contacting someone to corroborate your credentials proved difficult. Everything is in order now.”

  Lauren smiled back as she stood up; she had not realized how tall the man was. He was nearly a head taller, and he towered over her. He leaned down to shake hands before Lauren could stand. “I’m at a bit of a loss. You know who I am, yet I don’t know your name.”

  “Detective Lawrence. Please, call me Richard.”

  “Let’s keep it professional, detective.”

  The detective grabbed the chair behind the desk, carefully placed it in front of Lauren’s, and sat down in a smooth movement. “May I ask why you were at 865 Union Street?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I have time.”

  Lauren sat down and leaned back. “Well, not long so much as confusing. I was working a case in northern Minnesota until a few days ago. Serial murders. I doubt it made headlines out here in California.”

  Richard shook his head.

  She gestured knowingly. “Anyways, as I’m leaving town, the local sheriff, Montgomery, hands me a package. Says it was delivered to the station there in Locke.”

  Lauren paused, allowing the memories of her time spent in Locke to wash over her. Would she have made the trip to San Francisco if she had not first braved the cold of Minnesota? A question gnawed at her, the possibility of something looming in the distance.

  Lawrence remained attentive.

  Lauren continued. “Sorry. Either way, this package led me here. It was postmarked from your beautiful city with the return address at the aforementioned 865 Union Street.”

  The detective touched his face, rubbing his chin and cheek absently. “Why would you investigate a package sent to a rural police station? Why wouldn’t you return to your central office and file a report?”

  Lauren didn’t care for his tone, but she could not fault his line of questioning. “What are you getting at, detective?”

  Richard seemed to stiffen, a subtle movement that did not go unnoticed by Lauren. “You misunderstand me, agent. I’m only curious why you were at that home. I’m not insinuating any culpability in the crimes committed there.”

  “What then are you implying?”

  The detective leaned forward, bridging the distance. “A crime was committed at 865 Union Street. We can agree on this, right?”

  Lauren nodded.

  “The crime remains a mystery. There is evidence of a scuffle and perhaps theft, but we have no bodies or a clear understanding of what transpired. CSU is turning the place inside out as we speak, but I’m not sure what we’ll find.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “That, Agent Westlake, is the right question.”

  KEN HAD BROUGHT HIS FRIEND into this part of the city for his birthday for two reasons: booze and babes. The Tenderloin district was home to dive bars, a serviceable music scene, and alleyways that would best be walked in the light of day––and even then in a large group.

  Ken reeked of corporate preening. He was a senior investment executive at NeuroTech, a conglomerate of small companies that serviced the tech sector.

  Davis, smaller and much louder than his friend, staggered drunkenly out from an alleyway. His pants were cinched up around his waist and he leaned to one side as if his right shoulder had
become too heavy. Whiskey poured off him like mist from the harbor.

  “That was not the bathroom,” he slurred.

  Ken looked at his friend and smiled. While he was tall with wide shoulders and wide hips like his Norwegian ancestors, Davis was reed thin with shaggy brown hair that was in disarray by this point in the night.

  “By the gods, I think you’re right.”

  Davis leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths as if he had just finished a marathon. Even though Davis worked with Ken at NeuroTech, their positions within the company could not be more different. As a computer engineer, he managed servers and built hosting applications for the various companies with which NeuroTech contracted.

  “About ready to call it a night?”

  Davis looked at his friend, reaching out with a hand as if to brace himself as he leaned forward. “Did you know your eyes are blue?” he asked––the words distant and elongated.

  “I believe I’ve noticed once or twice when looking in the mirror? How are you feeling?”

  Davis stumbled forward, finding his feet amidst a drunken waltz. The bright lights of a pizza place across the street drew his attention. “I want some pizza.”

  Ken reached for his friend’s arm, but missed as Davis lurched to the side and crashed into a homeless man sitting next to a shopping cart, dislodging a pile of overturned boxes. The homeless man glared, not saying a word.

  “You gonna die,” murmured the burlap-covered mass of hair and torn clothing. Beneath all the rags and smudges, human eyes peered out. “I hear the whispers. Can you hear the whispers? They’re talking about you, boy.”

  Ken did not want to engage the man, but Davis had other ideas. He plopped down next to the homeless guy and started rooting through his belongings.

  “Davis, I thought you wanted pizza?”

  Davis looked up at his friend with glazed bewilderment. “Yeah, grab me a couple slices….”

  Ken looked at him and felt a pang of worry. Would this weird street person shank Davis in the time it would take him to cross the street and elbow his way through drunken hipsters to recover the ambrosia that was dough, cheese, and burnt flesh?