Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order)

by Jagger, R. J.

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  THERE WAS NO SIGN OF GENEVA VELLONE at her house. There was, however, a pool of dried blood on the carpet in the master bedroom, with dried drops leading from there to the rear sliding glass door.

  Which was open.

  Teffinger pounded his fist on the wall.

  So hard that the plaster caved in.

  “Damn it!”

  He attacked the furniture—overturning the couch, kicking a leg off a table, picking up a lamp and throwing it all the way into the kitchen. He heard Sydney yelling at him. He knew he should stop. He knew he was destroying a crime scene. But he couldn’t stop. He ran out the back door, past the barn and into the open space. He ran until his lungs and legs gave out.

  Then he walked back.

  Exhausted.

  Sweaty.

  Sydney stared at him.

  And said nothing.

  He looked at her and said, “I should have done more to stop her.”

  His lip trembled.

  And he felt like he hadn’t felt since he was ten.

  Sydney put her arms around him.

  And he let her.

  “I should have done more,” he said.

  “Nick—”

  “Everyone I care about is dying,” he said.

  THEY ENDED UP SITTING ON THE REDWOOD DECK, leaning against the house. The wind kicked up and the sun disappeared behind black clouds. They held hands and didn’t talk. Then Nick stood up and pulled Sydney to her feet.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re wasting time.”

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  TRIPP SURVEYED HIS HANDIWORK, his beautiful handiwork. The gorgeous island girl, London Fontelle, was tied spread-eagle to the bed, wearing only a white thong.

  The thong was a nice touch.

  She looked sexier with it on.

  Tripp sat on the bed and ran his index finger in circles around the woman’s bellybutton. Her tight abdominal muscles reacted perfectly, recoiling under his touch, like a fine instrument.

  Incredibly erotic.

  His cock stiffened.

  He dragged his finger along her body, up to her right nipple, and touched it lightly. The woman pulled against her bonds but it did no good. Sounds came from her mouth but the gag kept them muted and unintelligible.

  “Nice, huh?” he asked.

  She wiggled in protest.

  “Oh, I have a present for you, did I mention that?” he asked.

  From the floor at the base of the bed he picked up the wooden chair leg that he had whittled to a sharp point. He held it in front of her face, let her get a good look, and then laid it on the bed between her outstretched legs.

  “I know I don’t really need that,” he said. “But it makes such a cool statement.”

  She pulled at her bonds.

  Tripp rubbed his cock.

  Then he put both hands on his captive’s body and felt her, all over, up and down, around and around, in and out. He continued for a long time, memorizing her muscles, gauging the sensitivity of her skin.

  “I have to hand it to you,” he said. “You’re nice. I’m glad I didn’t waste my talents on Geneva Vellone this afternoon. You know what I mean by waste my talents, don’t you? I almost did, but got interrupted. That’s good for you, though.”

  She moaned.

  He took her gag off and she immediately gulped for air. “Don’t scream or this goes right back on,” he warned.

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me about being a vampire,” he said. “I’ve always been curious how it works.”

  She hesitated.

  Weighing it.

  Then she said, “Okay, but on one condition.”

  He laughed.

  “You’re giving me conditions?”

  “Just a small one.”

  Tripp was curious.

  He set a hand on her stomach and tapped his fingers.

  “And what’s that?”

  “You tell me about being a slayer.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Sure, why not,” he said. “You first.”

  HE RAN HIS HANDS OVER HER BODY as she talked. He didn’t really expect her to tell him anything of substance, but she did—he could tell it was true, too, by the details.

  They sucked each other’s blood.

  They did research.

  They had a latent immortality gene.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Details,” he said.

  She told him that the old vampires did in fact live for a long time. They had a gene that repressed the body’s natural degenerative process. This gene was present in a latent form in all bloodline descendents. A small group of descendents was working on a way to activate it.

  “And how are they doing that?” he asked.

  “The secret is in the blood.”

  Tripp cocked his head.

  “Whose blood?”

  “The blood of others,” she said. “Blood is blood. But vampire blood is the strongest.”

  “So some blood is stronger than others?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the secret is to suck the strongest blood?”

  “That’s our theory.”

  Suddenly, just like that, all the questions that had built up in his mind were answered. It all made sense, perfect wonderful sense. He couldn’t wait to tell VanDeventer.

  “Can you untie me?” she asked.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You have me all turned on,” she said. “I want to get on top.”

  Tripp laughed.

  “Sorry baby,” he said. “There’s probably someone in the universe stupid enough to fall for something like that, unfortunately for you though, it isn’t me.”

  She stared at him.

  Mean.

  Then she screamed.

  Tripp punched her in the face until she stopped.

  Then he shoved the gag in her mouth and tied it behind her head as she thrashed.

  “That was a bad career move,” he said.

  He ripped off her thong.

  And climbed between her legs.

  Chapter 100

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  RAVE PULLED AND TWISTED but couldn’t get loose no matter what she did or how hard she struggled. She was on her back, tied tight to the bed, with her arms stretched over her head. Voices came from the other bedroom. One of them was London’s; the other was a man’s.

  No doubt the slayer.

  Trent Tripp.

  Rave didn’t want to die.

  But she would.

  She knew that.

  Suddenly a scream pierced the air, immediately followed by the pounding of fists. Rave pulled up an image of London being beaten to death. Then the screaming stopped. Rave’s heart raced so fast that she had trouble breathing. The end was coming to London.

  Rave was next.

  She pulled against her bonds.

  Her wrists bled.

  She didn’t care and pulled harder.

  SUDDENLY PARKER APPEARED IN THE ROOM. He pulled the gag out of Rave’s mouth and untied her hands, working frantically, as fast as he could. “Can you untie your feet?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  The man’s eyes were wild.

  Filled with something Rave had never seen before.

  Parker ran out of the room.

  Two seconds later, the crashing sounds of a terrible fight came from the other room. By the time Rave got her legs untied, the commotion had reached a frantic state. She ran towards the room with a horrific fear in her spine.

  She couldn’t believe what she saw.

  London was tied to the bed, naked, spread-eagle, watching the violence with wide, bloodshot eyes. Parker was on his back, getting beaten to death by another man who hovered over him and swung with wild fists.


  She looked for something to hit him with.

  Frantic.

  Every second an eternity.

  She saw nothing.

  She turned, ran to the kitchen and flung drawers open until she found something —a steak knife. When she got back to the bedroom, Parker was twitching beneath the other man, so badly beaten that he couldn’t even keep his hands in front of his face any longer.

  Rave ran over.

  She raised her hand and stabbed the blade as fast and hard as she could at the man’s head. He must have seen her out of the corner of his eye, and turned at the last second. The blade sliced directly into his eye. It sank into his head without resistance, not hitting bone, digging deep into his brain. He made a horrible sound and twitched. His hand moved towards the knife as if to pull it out, but never got there. Instead, it fell limp.

  He jerked twice.

  Then stopped moving.

  Blood dribbled out of his mouth.

  MORE THAN AN HOUR LATER, Parker recovered enough to do what needed to be done. He pulled his car into Rave’s garage, loaded Tripp’s body into the trunk and drove off.

  His plan was to dump the body.

  Then drive back to the city, call Denver homicide from a payphone, and anonymously report the location.

  WHILE PARKER WAS GONE, Rave’s phone rang and Tim Pepper’s number showed on the display. Rave wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, much less the man with the eerie connection to Le Femme’s dead singer, but was too scared to appear as if something unusual was going on. So she answered. “The surfer guy at the bar sitting by London during the rehearsal this afternoon—I’m assuming he’s the boyfriend you’ve been telling me about, that Parker guy.”

  Correct.

  “Why?”

  “He looked familiar,” Pepper said. “I kept thinking that I’d seen him somewhere before but wasn’t sure. Now I am. I’ve seen him before.”

  Rave was in no mood to care.

  But she asked, “Where?”

  “Do you remember the night that I discovered you, in that club down in New Orleans?”

  Rave nodded.

  “Well your boyfriend, Parker, was there that night.”

  Rave grunted.

  “No he wasn’t,” she said.

  “Yes he was,” Pepper said. “He was sitting way back in the corner. He never took his eyes off you. I actually thought he was a manager, the same as me, to tell you the truth. That’s why I came up to you so fast during that first break, to beat him to the punch.”

  Rave searched her memory.

  But found no traces of Parker.

  Not even a shadow of a memory.

  And immediately realized something.

  Pepper was lying.

  Why?

  She didn’t know.

  “If you say so,” she said. “I don’t remember seeing him, but that doesn’t mean you’re not right.”

  “I never forget a face,” Pepper said. “Especially a man as cute as him.”

  SUDDENLY RAVE THOUGHT OF SOMETHING—namely, a way to catch Pepper in his lie. “I’m surprised you didn’t buy him a drink,” she said. “I mean a man that cute, sitting back in the corner.”

  Pepper chuckled.

  “It’s ironic that you say that, because I almost sent one over.”

  Rave chuckled.

  Then, as an apparent afterthought, she said, “What was he drinking?”

  Pepper retreated in thought.

  “Coors Light.”

  Got you, Rave thought.

  Parker doesn’t drink beer.

  He only drinks mixed drinks.

  “You have a good memory,” she said.

  RAVE HUNG UP, LIT A JOINT, told London what Pepper just said and asked, “How long have you known Parker?”

  London shrugged.

  “Years,” she said. “Five or six, I guess.”

  “Has he ever been to New Orleans?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Would you know if he had?”

  “Probably.”

  “Have you ever seen him drink beer?”

  London laughed.

  “Parker?”

  Rave shook her head in disgust. “So what in the hell is Pepper up to all of a sudden?”

  “I don’t know,” London said. “One thing I do know, though—don’t be alone with him. Not after what happened to Destiny Moon.”

  Rave agreed.

  Messy condition.

  Chapter 101

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Afternoon

  ______________

  TRENT TRIPP’S BODY LAID IN THE DIRT at a trailhead parking lot at the base of White Ranch Park, just south of Morrison, exactly where the anonymous caller said it would be. The body showed an inordinate amount of trauma, including a deep wound that had totally destroyed the man’s right eye.

  Teffinger stared at the body.

  Then kicked the dirt.

  Sydney stood next to him.

  He looked at her and said, “He was our only lead to finding Jena.”

  She said nothing.

  “Now we’re dead in the water,” he added.

  The wind pushed dark clouds across the sky.

  “It’s going to rain,” she said.

  He looked up.

  Yeah.

  It was.

  His cell phone rang and the chief’s voice came though. “I just want to give you a heads up,” he said. “The press has already gotten wind of Geneva Vellone’s disappearance, including the fact that you were the last person to see her alive.”

  “Just like with Jena,” Teffinger said.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” the chief said.

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  He looked at Sydney.

  “The press is going to have me hung out to dry by tomorrow morning,” he said.

  “Screw them.”

  Teffinger looked at Tripp’s body.

  Then back at Sydney.

  “You know what?” he said. “I really don’t even care anymore.”

  She scratched her head.

  “Maybe Tripp wasn’t our last lead,” she said. “I mean, obviously, someone killed him; probably the guy who made the anonymous call. If we can find out who he is—”

  Teffinger picked up a rock and threw it.

  “Jena’s out of time and we’re out of time,” he said. “I can’t keep pushing reality aside any longer.”

  THEN SOMETHING HAPPENED that Teffinger didn’t expect. Sydney pulled her arm back as far as it would go and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. The pain was so hot and so intense that he almost punched her.

  “Get your act together!” she said.

  He turned and huffed to the 4Runner.

  Angry.

  Frustrated.

  Confused.

  Apathetic.

  Stressed.

  Raw.

  He yanked the door open, threw himself in, cranked over the engine and slammed the door as hard as he could.

  Ready to drive off.

  Without Sydney.

  Screw her.

  Screw everything.

  Then he surprised himself by turning off the ignition. He sat there for a second and then filled two disposable cups with coffee from a thermos. He walked back to Tripp’s body, handed a cup to Sydney and said, “Okay, let’s figure out who killed this guy.”

  “Right.”

  “Did we get a recording of the man who reported the location, when he called in?”

  Sydney shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “It didn’t go to 911. It came to the main number.”

  Teffinger looked at the clouds.

  “Of course.”

  Chapter 102

  Day Eight—April 19

  Tuesday Evening

  ______________

  TUESDAY EVENING, JAKE VANDEVENTER FLEW through choppy skies towards Denver. He sat in first class, drinking a Bud Light and thinking about his wife, Sophia.
>
  Rest her soul.

  The soul of the only woman he would ever love.

  When she disappeared, eighteen months ago, they were living in Nice, France. Jake was semi-retired, running the diamond mines through people he trusted. Sophia had turned herself into a philanthropist—rich, powerful and well known throughout southern France.

  She didn’t have an enemy in the world.

  On a Wednesday morning, she hopped on her red scooter to buy a loaf of fresh bread, just like she did every morning. This time, however, she never returned. They found her two weeks later, in an old abandoned boathouse, hanging by her feet, naked, with her throat slit.

  The police investigated.

  Hard.

  Under tremendous pressure from both VanDeventer and the public.

  They learned a few things.

  Two men had been seen in the vicinity of the boathouse during the time in question. One of the men looked like Indiana Jones, from the movies. They got no description of the other man.

  That’s all they learned.

  The investigation slowed.

  And then stopped.

  That’s when VanDeventer decided that he had to get things done on his own.

  HE LEARNED OF A SIMILAR CASE involving a man named Matthew Abbott, an American businessman who looked like a tattooed skinhead when he wasn’t wearing a suit. Abbott’s sister, Melissa, had been killed in the same manner as VanDeventer’s wife, Sophia.

  VanDeventer didn’t tell the French police about the Abbott case.

  Or the American police.

  Instead, he showed up unannounced on Abbott’s doorstep.

  They talked.

  And formed an alliance.

  An alliance of justice.

  An alliance of revenge.

  Abbott knew a man named Trent Tripp; a large man; a capable man; a man who could be trusted; a man who might be willing to join their cause if the price was right. They met with Tripp, liked him, and made an arrangement.

  Tripp took the lead in the hunt.

  And found out that their two targets—Indiana Jones and the other man—were part of a group of people who believed they were bloodline descendents of vampires.

  The three of them met to assess the situation.

  It was their collective opinion that their two targets, and possibly other “vampires” from this group, were killing people throughout the world, most likely to drink their blood.