by J. T. Hardy
"And here I'd thought I'd had an unconventional upbringing."
"Pull into his drive. It'll look less suspicious than if we walk over."
She huffed as she turned on the car. "It'll also keep the car close if we have to run for our lives when the neighbors call the cops."
"I doubt they have a neighborhood watch."
"I bet they're people who shoot first and refuse to answer questions later."
We drove across the street and pulled in where the pickup had been. Libby tucked the stun gun into its holster and I double-checked that both sets of my dusters were on me--the silver ones in case we ran into Pretty Boys, the zappers if something human jumped us. I wasn't sure if Libby had Lola on her or not, but odds were good she wouldn't leave it behind.
It wasn't far from the car to Marlowe's door. We passed several beer bottles that had presumably fallen out of the trash, and an empty bottle of Jack. Libby blocked the view while I knelt and worked on the lock.
"Are you any good at--"
I opened the door. "Yes. We made a lot of long car trips."
"Color me impressed."
I paused, listening. No beeps warned of an alarm, no scratch of canine toenails suggested a guard dog. Just silence. "Looks clear."
We slipped inside and closed the door behind us. Libby locked it. "Feels weird dong this without an M16."
"At least no one is shooting at us."
"Yet. Try not to touch anything."
Marlowe spent just as much time on housekeeping inside as he had outside. Dishes in the sink, mail piled on the table, giant-sized jeans and T-shirts hanging over the backs of three chairs. An oh-so-pleasant scent of eau de body odor mixed with pine.
No stickers or Band-Aids in the kitchen or living room bins. I stopped outside the bathroom. Several handfuls of dried, bloody gauze and tape filled the upper half of the trash bin. More tissues and an empty aspirin bottle sat on top. "This could be something." Not something I wanted to touch, but something.
Libby came in and leaned over my shoulder. "I'd hate to see the other guy."
"Remind me to buy latex gloves on the way home," I said, picking up an empty toilet paper roll with two fingers. I pushed it around the gauze and other garbage, thankfully mostly paper products. A familiar strip caught my eye, but there was no way to pick up the ER ID band without touching it. I gritted my teeth and gingerly lifted it from the trash. "Score."
"Marlowe visited the ER."
"No hospital listed though." I dropped it back and wiped my fingers on the back of my pants. "Probably local."
"Question is, was he injured enough to need blood?"
"And if so, did they test his?"
Libby stepped out of the doorway. "And the million-dollar question--who's checking the blood and what are they checking it for?"
There was no way to know. "It supports the 'finding the victims through their blood' theory. Maybe we'll narrow down the hospital at the next house."
"That would be Ivy Helgarson," Libby said. "Fingers crossed for the suburbs."
Libby got her wish. Ivy Helgarson lived in the suburbs, in a tightly packed and carefully designed development in Summerlin. Cream-colored houses with terra-cotta tiled roofs lined the streets, the only differences between them the shapes and layouts of the homes.
Early afternoon on a Sunday, people were out and about and kids played in the yards and on the cul-de-sacs. Looked nice, if a bit cramped.
"I take it back," she said, frowning as we passed happy-looking families. "I don't want anyone here to be a potential Pretty Boy snack."
I pulled up outside a house for sale two doors down from the Helgarson's.
"This doesn't look like the neighborhood of people on the run," Libby said.
"Not all potential victims know they're in danger."
"True."
I dug out the binoculars again. Ivy's front door opened and a dark-haired boy about eight ran out. A woman followed, matching the photo of the Ivy Helgarson we'd found online. Short, easy-to-care-for brown hair, tan and athletic enough to suggest she played a sport or two. Just a normal, suburban mom dressed in blue slacks and a cute floral top trimmed in lace.
"There she is."
Ivy walked to the mailbox and pulled out yesterday's mail, idly sorting through it. The boy leaned against the car door, peeling a sticker on and off his chest and sticking it to random parts of his body. Cute kid.
"I want to talk to her," I said.
"You can't walk up to a total stranger and ask questions."
"You can if you do it right." I jumped out of the car and hurried over.
Ivy looked up from her mail as I approached, curious, but not scared. I smiled and she smiled back. This was not a woman who feared for her safety, or had ever had any reason to be wary of strangers.
"Hi," I called. "I'm sorry to bother you, but my husband and I are thinking about buying the house across the street, and I was curious about the neighborhood. Can I ask you a few questions?"
"The Glick place? Sure."
"You like it here?" I glanced around. Basic middle-class security, so nothing that would keep out a Pretty Boy. "It seems nice."
"Oh, we love it. There's a real sense of community and we all look out for one another."
"How long have you lived here?"
"About nine years. We moved in when I was pregnant with Jared." She gestured at the boy and I spotted a small, yellow bruise in the crook of her arm. The boy's sticker was red with "I donated!" on it. Bingo. "Do you have any children?" Ivy asked.
"Not yet, but fingers crossed." I held them up and grinned. She chuckled, and I joined her. "Any safety issues? My last place had a problem with a stalker lurking around outside." I glanced around and leaned a little closer. "You ever see anyone watching the houses?"
"Well, no. It's pretty safe here."
"That's good to know. Do you work at home?"
Her smile grew wary. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I need to get going. I've a lot to do today and my husband is waiting inside for me." She laughed nervously. "I'm surprised he hasn't come out looking for me already."
Damn, sloppy. "No problem at all, thanks so much for the information. I can't wait to show Robert the house."
She ushered Jared inside, casting glances over her shoulder the entire time. I walked back to the car, looking around as if I was getting a feel for the neighborhood like a normal potential buyer.
"Pushed it too far?" Libby said. "She looked a little freaked out there at the end."
"A little, but she's normal. Lived here for years and I'd guess nothing's tried to kidnap or kill her. She gave blood recently, and not more than a week ago from the look of the bruise on her arm. The kid was also playing with what looked like a sticker from the blood bank, though I didn't get a close look."
Libby raised her eyebrows. "That's confirmation--there is a blood donation-victim connection."
"I couldn't figure out a graceful way to ask about the bruise in time though."
"Should we warn the Helgarson family they're in danger?"
"I would, but they won't believe us. Hopefully I creeped her out enough to put her on guard for a while."
Of course, if the Pretty Boys were finding their victims through blood donors, then Ivy was my best lead to finding the ones who'd taken Dad. If we knew where she'd donated blood, we might be able to find whoever had tipped off the Pretty Boys.
And dumb me had spooked her, so she'd never tell me where she'd given blood. We'd have to figure that out another way.
The final address on Eddie's list was in Vegas proper, one half of a duplex with a Catholic church practically in the back yard. An interesting place to hole up if you were being hunted by the undead.
"Does Kurt Smith sound especially Catholic to you?" I asked Libby.
"Sounds more like an alias."
To me, too. "I have a good feeling about Kurt."
I could have chosen this apartment. Good exits, plenty of routes to the highway, clear fields of
view. Sticking close to a church was genius.
Libby checked the place out through the binoculars. "Taking the sneaky route or the direct approach?"
"Not sure. If he sees us lurking it might spook him, but he might not be too keen on talking, either."
"Undo a few buttons. He'll answer the door."
I did as instructed, tucked my dusters into their leather sheath in the small of my back, and climbed out of the car. "Stay put and keep your eyes out for anything weird."
"I'll honk if things go sideways." She slid over into the driver's seat.
I knocked on Kurt's door and stood as non-threateningly as possible. Faint sounds emanated from behind the door--someone moving carefully and trying not to be heard. If I hadn't been listening for exactly that, I'd have missed it.
The door opened a crack and Kurt peeked out from behind the chain, bright, wary eyes in a dark face. A giant crucifix around his neck glinted at me from the dim light.
Oh yeah, I had the right guy.
"What?"
Bullshitting him would only get the door slammed in my face. Of course, being honest would, too. I wouldn't talk to me in this situation if I were him, but he was a few steps ahead of me in the protection department. Staying alive meant staying informed.
"I'm not trying to scare you, and I know this is going to sound weird, but I'm pretty sure we're both being watched by the same people."
His eye twitched just a little. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Weird guys who stop time, move super fast, and are a little obsessed with blood. Ring any bells?"
He stared long after I would have slammed the door. A normal person would have called the cops by now.
"Did you give blood recently?" I asked.
The door banged shut. Strike one for the direct and honest approach.
I knocked on the door again. "Kurt, they took my father. Anything you can tell me might help me get him back. Please."
No sounds at all from inside.
"I need your help."
"Get out of here you crazy bitch!" he yelled through the door. "I can't help you."
"Please, I--"
"Go or I'll shoot you where you stand!"
"Sorry, I'm going." I backed away, hands out so he could see them, all the way to the car. Libby slid back into the passenger seat and I got in.
"How's Kurt?"
"High strung."
"I take it he wasn't forthcoming in the details department?"
I shook my head. "He knows something though." Aside from Eddie, I'd never met anyone besides Dad and me who'd encountered a Pretty Boy before. "There must be a way to convince him to talk to me."
"Um, Grace?" Libby nudged me and tipped her head at Kurt's place. "We've got a runner."
Kurt was hurrying down his front walk, a worn backpack slung over his shoulder and a duffel in one hand. His stance was one I knew well--forced casualness, yet the shoulders rounded just a little with the need to hide without drawing attention. He'd been running a long time, I'd say.
"Oh no you don't, Kurt." I started the car. "You're not getting away."
Kurt's pace picked up.
"Crap, he's made us. Do I block him in?"
"Not unless you want to get shot."
Kurt dived into his car and peeled out, tires smoking as he raced away. I pulled after him anyway, but he knew the streets and left us behind after only three turns.
"Dammit." I smacked the steering wheel.
"It's not your fault."
"Yes, it is."
I'd been followed my whole life, but being on the other side was a lot harder than expected.
"Maybe he'll come back," Libby said.
"He won't. He's gone for good." That didn't mean the trail was cold. I turned the car around. "Let's search Kurt's place and see if we get lucky."
"Another break in?" Libby frowned and tucked her hair behind an ear. "We're on a regular crime spree."
"Technically, it's trespassing since he likely just abandoned the place."
"Remind me to get you a legal dictionary for Christmas."
"Chanukah, my Mom was Jewish. Make it pocket-sized, please."
She chuckled, but her apprehension hadn't gone away. I passed Kurt's place and took a right at the corner.
"Change your mind?" she asked.
"Taking a loop around the block in case nosy neighbors are watching after his hasty exit."
She gave me a look. "You have an odd set of skills."
"A gal picks up what she needs to get by."
I gave the neighbors another loop to get bored, then pulled into Kurt's driveway. We grabbed our gear and exited the car, strolling up the walk like two friends visiting. Libby once again kept me covered while I checked the door.
"It's open."
We walked inside, cautious, but odds were the place was empty. As I'd thought, Kurt had no intention of ever coming back here. Everything he knew ran with him.
"Not much here," Libby said, closing the door behind us.
"Probably came with the apartment."
Worn carpet that had once been brown, a tan and green striped couch with a green chair, builder-beige paint on the wall. Not a single photo or personal item in sight.
"Try the drawers. I'll check the bedroom," I said, following the only hallway.
"Roger that."
A cheap nightstand and a bed with no headboard greeted me in the back. The sheets looked stolen from a local motel, but everything was clean.
I searched the drawers in both the nightstand and the chipped dresser, but found nothing inside but thrift-store quality clothes and three copies of Saucy Babe magazine. I elected not to touch them or the bottle of lube beside them.
The bathroom held even less. Aside from a few curls of hair and some fuzz on the soap, it contained nothing to suggest anyone lived there.
I walked back into the living room. "Any luck?"
Libby shook her head. "I've seen more personable hotel rooms."
I turned away, throat tight. "Check the kitchen yet?"
"Nothing there but four boxes of pasta. You think Kurt lives like this all the time?"
"Yes." No reason to stock a fridge when you might have to leave if a stranger bangs on your door and starts asking questions.
"Must be lonely."
"It is."
She sucked in a breath. "Shit, Grace, I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"
"There's nothing here that connects to my dad." Only the same lack of everything found at my apartment. At least I had those throw pillows. That was something, right?
She paused, her expression dangerously close to pity, then glanced away. "Would he have had any hidden compartments or secret stashes?"
"We can check, but it's safer to hide gear outside where you can get to it if your place is compromised."
I checked the floorboards, closets, searched for false bottoms in drawers and loose trim along the floors. Pointless, all of it. The only clues were halfway to who-knew-where by now.
"Grace!" Libby whisper-yelled from the other room. She sounded scared.
I let the mattress fall and hurried into the living room, the hairs along my arms standing at attention.
Libby stood by the front window, off to the side and peeking out between a sliver of curtain and the wall.
"What is it?"
"Company."
Chapter Ten
"Eddie is outside." Libby glanced at me. "Think he's following us or doing his job by watching Kurt?"
"A little of both?" I nudged her aside and took a peek. Eddie wasn't standing out in the open, but he wasn't trying hard to keep out of sight, either. Just sitting there with his back against a parked car at the curb, under a giant tree. No hat either, or any attempt to disguise his identity.
"He doesn't act like he cares if we see him. He might not be worried about Kurt spotting him."
"Would he spot him?"
"In a heartbeat."
"Would that have made him run?"
"In a heartbeat." I groaned. "He's got to be here for us."
"Maybe he has news from the mysterious Zack."
Hope fluttered in my chest, but this all felt wrong. "Then why didn't he call? You know he had a phone somewhere."
"He might not be on our side."
Eddie turned and leaned into the side window of the parked car. "Hang on. Someone's in that car." I pulled out the binoculars. I could see the driver, but the angle on the passenger was wrong to see more than a shirt. "Two men, driver has wild white hair."
"Zack?"
"Has to be. I can't see the other, but he's talking to Eddie now."
"Both Pretty Boys?"
The windows were heavily tinted, but the windshield gave a decent enough peek. Zack had dusky skin even with that white hair. The passenger leaned over and spoke to Zack, gesturing with a hand the same color. Every Pretty Boy I'd ever seen had that sexy Mediterranean tint.
"I'd say yes."
"Setup?"
"I don't know."
Libby stepped away from the window and scanned the apartment. "No back door in this place?"
"No, or Kurt would have used it." The only mistake he'd made, but it was hard to find apartments with back doors.
I'd trusted the kid and he'd brought the Pretty Boys right to us.
I put away the binoculars. "Let's test the size of those back windows."
We left our rental car in front of Kurt's duplex and grabbed a cab two streets over, directing it to a random block on the Strip. There'd been no sign of anyone following us from Kurt's.
Libby's stomach growled and we dodged into a nearby burger place to kill time until it was safe enough to go back for the rental car. Besides, food sounded good. We hadn't eaten since breakfast.
We ordered a pair of burgers, fries, and chocolate shakes, and then grabbed a table in the back, facing the doors. TVs showed various games and an assortment of news on screens lining the walls.
"Think Eddie's a ghoul?" Libby asked.
"A what?"
"Like Renfield. Minions of the Dark Lord. They do a Pretty Boy's bidding in exchange for special powers and the chance to become a Pretty Boy themselves one day."
"I had no idea you were such a Pretty Boy aficionado."
"I read Dracula. I know stuff."
