by Alix Adale
Her neck still ached from where the Queen had choked her, using the windpipe as a handle to fling her through the window. Getting tossed on her ass two times in one day made everything hurt twice as much. Moment by moment, her breathing steadied.
It was going to be all right. Her eyes shut. Everything was fine. Keep saying that. It was going to be all right.
What a crazy thing this was: defying her sire, breaking with the Bradens, and disobeying the Queen again. All to save this poor, unsuspecting mortal, but, dammit, he didn’t deserve to go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
She did.
Part II: The Sky is Tragic
By now, Detective Zenkowski knew the faces in the blurry security video better than any of his matches from eHarmony.com. That was sad. Yet no matter how much the lab sharpened up the footage, the suspects remained too blurry to identify.
The short, haunting sequence showed two women in dark clothing chasing a homeless man down the street. The film came from a Sinclair gas station two blocks from the crime scene. The clerk on-duty remembered nothing unusual. The computers couldn’t find a match with such grainy images.
His gut told him otherwise. He recognized that woman. Not the black-haired one jumping on cars. Never seen her before. But the one in denim looked familiar. There was one shot where she looked toward the gas station. For a second, her features almost came into view. Her posture, her attire, the cut of her hair—it all reminded him of another case. But which?
D’antonio! That was it! He snapped his fingers.
The Desiree D’antonio kidnapping, wow. Had six years flown by that fast? That weird, twisted case—it started as a tragedy, then got worse. A college girl drove off a bridge—they never determined if it was an accident or a suicide attempt, because she never came out of her coma. The kid almost drowned, but the hospital managed to stabilize her. The doctors still expected to lose her. The evening news did a story on it.
Later that night, she vanished. Stolen right out of the hospital while in a coma—though it was possible she woke up and wandered off. Never seen again. By now, she must be dead—right?
He ran the film again.
Chapter 6: Public Transportation
Xerxes
He’d been abducted by the Amazing Woman. He tried not to laugh. She was adorable, beautiful even. Hair so dark as to be nearly black, falling in long, sensual curls down her back. More curves then he could contend with. He tried not to stare. Her big, dark eyes darted back and forth. Mom called eyes like that ‘smart eyes’, meaning they showed alertness, intelligence, a lively playfulness. Yet this woman was strange, marked by fear and mixed up in a murder.
Mom also said every woman is beautiful, but each was beautiful in her own way. It was his job to find that beauty and tell the woman he loved about it, to compliment her on it. It was good advice. With such a wise mom, it was strange how he failed with women. Well, that didn’t matter now.
This Desiree. Her beauty lay in the eyes. Perhaps. He would reserve judgment, for now.
The MAX Green Line rolled north, passing SW Pine, crossing Burnside, heading toward NW Davis. The wheels clattered along the tracks as the rail car rolled through intersections. Car headlights lined up at stop lights, like ships in port.
“Boyfriend?” His thumb jerked at the rear window, where the oaf with the cape and the long hair had chased after them like a jealous buffoon.
She winced, shook her head. “Sorry about that.”
“Husband?”
“No, he’s my—” Her eyes searched the ceiling. “He’s my handler.”
“Handler?” A ghost of a smile played over his lips. “What is this word?”
“We’re in the CIA. It’s a long story. Oh my god, what a nightmare day.” Suddenly, she bent over double, grabbing her knees and hyperventilated.
His hand went to her back, steadying her. The other reached for her wrist, felt for the pulse. He counted a few silent beats. The pulse felt powerful and fast, beyond his experience. “Hey, are you okay? Your pulse is a mile a minute.”
Amazing Woman lifted her head back up. “That’s normal for me. I’m fine.”
She didn’t look fine. Red blotches, some pin pricks, others patches of strawberry, dappled her tan with something like rosacea or another skin condition.
“You have a sunburn or a rash. Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”
“Yeah, no, maybe. I don’t know. What’s your name anyway? I can’t keep calling you Stud Puppy.”
“Stud Puppy?” He laughed in spite of himself. It filled the back of the narrow rail car. They had the back bench to themselves, elevated slightly above the rest of the passengers. The crowd, light given the late hour, all pretended not to listen. But not a single newspaper rustled, not a page turned.
She covered her eyes with a hand, mortified. “Pretend I didn’t say that. I’m Desiree, by the way. Dez, for short.”
“Desiree. I guessed as much, from the phone. I’m Xerxes.”
“Zerk-ease?”
“Close enough. You can say ‘Zerk’ for short if you want. It rhymes with jerk, though I try not to be.” He grinned again. Why were words so easy with her? He didn’t know a thing about her, yet he felt comfortable, even natural, talking to her. It was like he’d known her all his life. And yet…
“Xerxes. Wow. Okay. I’m sorry you’re mixed up in this. It’s my fault. Look, we can’t talk here. Let’s get off at the next stop.”
“We just got on, now you want to get off?”
But she’d already jumped up and rang the bell. She didn’t need to do that. Only a tourist would do that. At this hour, the MAX would make every stop. He got to his feet and followed her to the exit. The train rolled to a stop.
“Do you have my phone?”
“Yes.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out the old Nokia.
She grabbed it, entered the password, checked the messages. A second phone joined her hands, another old Nokia, twin to the first. “Good. Thanks. What about you, do you have one?”
“My iPhone? Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
“I guess.” He pulled it out, reluctant at first. But she’d been so good with the puppies. He trusted her, despite the warning signals. He handed his phone over.
When the train door opened, she dashed outside and ran to the nearest storm drain. Plunk, plunk, plunk! All three phones vanished down the drain.
He charged after her, hands on his head! His phone! His $200, used iPhone! His contacts, his high score at Angry Birds! His photos! Mom! “What are you doing? Oh my god, that is my phone!”
“I’m sorry! But the bad guys can track me—us—with those things.”
Ignoring her, ignoring the startled onlookers, he knelt by the drain, reaching for his phone. But he couldn’t touch the bottom. It was no use.
The Amazing Woman knelt beside him. A hand, surprisingly strong, gripped his shoulder through the leather jacket. Big brown eyes stared at him, pleading. Her words came soft and gentle. “Please, please believe me, Xerxes. You’re in bad trouble.”
“Me?” He lowered his voice too, removing his hand from the drain. “You are the one that’s in trouble. The police want to talk to you.”
“You know about that?”
“Detective Zenkowski came by the—” He almost said farewell party, but didn’t. Silly, but he couldn’t admit to having no job, no prospects. “He came by the station house. Said he had two suspects. Two female suspects.”
“Oh.” Her face fell.
She needed to understand that she was in danger. His whisper took on an urgent tone. “He said one woman had black hair and wore leather pants and jacket, something like that.”
Desiree nodded. She knew. It showed on her face.
“He said the other woman wore denim. Blue jeans and a denim jacket.”
Again, she nodded, not denying the implied accusation. “Right.”
“You didn’t murder anyone. The blood was from your tumble off the roof. You had a conc
ussion.” By saying it, maybe he could make it so. It almost sounded believable.
Unexpectedly, a sob wracked her body and she trembled. “Oh god, it’s true.”
“No, Desiree. You didn’t murder anyone. Not you. It is impossible.”
“How can you say that? How can you know?” Her face lifted, seeking his. Sorrow and guilt shone there. Moisture clung to the corner of her eyes.
The urge to hug her against his chest overwhelmed him. But he couldn’t do that. She barely knew him, she would freak out. He was awkward with women anyway. What would she say?
Besides, a little voice whispered through his mind, warning: she’s crazy. He tried to dismiss it, but it persisted, presenting evidence. She was mixed up in something bad, anyone could see that. A crazy man in a cape had chased her. She’d fallen into a dumpster without injuries. The police wanted to question her. Somehow, between this morning and this night, her skin had developed a startling rash. Walk away, the little voice said. This one is dangerous. Ignoring the warning, he rose from the gutter, offering her his hand.
She took it, scrambling to her feet. “Thanks.”
The loss of his phone was outrageous, but he could give her one chance to explain herself. “Let’s go get some coffee. Somewhere quiet, where we can talk private. Then you can tell me all about it. Can you do that?”
She nodded; she could. They walked along, looking for a shop. Booklandia Books lay almost right in their path. Crowded, well-lit, full of tables, nooks and shelves, it looked perfect.
They went in.
When she insisted on paying and only using cash, he almost called her paranoid in a joking manner. But he bit his tongue, seeing the expression on her face. She lacked a purse but had a slim billfold tucked in her back pocket.
They carried the blueberry bagels and a pair of 16-ounce coffees, black, up to the third floor. In the science fiction section, they found a quiet booth nestled between a couple displays. Darkened glass overlooked the street below.
While standing in line, he’d made a decision. The front page of The Oregonian lay on the counter with its sobering headlines. Below the fold was a front-page photograph of Oil-Can Mike in better days, smiling and pushing a shopping cart full of recyclables down Overlook Boulevard. That man, an innocent man, a harmless man, lay in a city morgue somewhere and would probably end up in a pauper’s field. It wasn’t right.
He would hear out Desiree and her ‘amazing’ tale. It better be good, though. If it wasn’t, if he didn’t believe her, he would make an excuse and ask for a payphone. Detective Zenkowski’s card still rode in his shirt pocket.
They settled into the booth, sipped their coffees. He nibbled a bagel; she didn’t touch hers. A scene from Star Wars decorated their booth, Luke Skywalker entering the Mos Eisley cantina. He felt like that—a dumb kid entering a dangerous new world. He faced Dez. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“More than you can possibly imagine, but not for bread.”
“Then why did you buy it?”
A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “You look like an eater.”
“That is true.” He wouldn’t eat her bagel, though. She might want it later. She wasn’t thin—curvy fit better. Maybe the rash affected her appetite, or her apparent paranoia did. She needed to start making sense, fast, or this ‘date’ was over. On the other hand, the long-haired man in the absurd cape was real. The Amazing Woman might be in genuine danger. “So cape-man, he’s your CIA handler?”
That long-suffering sigh came again, the shutting of her eyes. He didn’t mean to sound so dubious. Mistrustful. The eyes opened again. “I lied about that. I’m not in the CIA. I’m a terrible liar.”
“Okay.” Now they were getting somewhere.
“You like science fiction?” She pointed at the poster above their booth. “Star Wars?”
“Sometimes.”
“Superhero movies?”
He grinned. “Now you’re talking. The Avengers are great, working as a team.”
“Do you believe in superheroes?”
“Come on. It’s a comic book fantasy.”
“UFOs? Space aliens?”
He shot a worried look her way. This was the worst date ever. No wonder he avoided women. What happened to fun, playful Desiree, the cute woman who helped him catch puppies? “Do hippies count?”
She ignored the joke, plowing on. “Psychics? Fortune-tellers? Ghosts? Ouija boards?”
Maybe she was Code 411—emergency speak for whacko. That would explain everything. The bagel soured in his mouth, accompanied by a gnawing worry in the pit of his stomach. “I’m not a big believer in the paranormal.”
Desiree leaned forward, eyes as wide as all get-out, her blotchy face worried. Her voice dropped to a sibilant whisper. “What about … vampires?”
“Are you joking?” His hand shot out, taking her wrist and trying to draw it toward him. He intended to calm her down, to stop this mad talk.
Somehow, she held her wrist perfectly still, making it impossible for him to move it. For a woman of average build, with no obvious sign of musculature, her strength proved extraordinary.
That should not be. He could bench-press three hundred and fifty pounds. Even a minimal application of strength should budge her hand. He released his grip, leaning forward. “I will trust you—if you tell me everything. Starting now.”
Her voice cracked. “What do you wanna know?”
“Did you kill Oil-Can Mike?”
“No.” Despair flooded off her.
“If you didn’t do it, why are you so upset?”
“Because I know who did. Because I saw it happen and failed to prevent it. Because I was there.” Again, her wide eyes appealed. “Do you believe me?”
He sat back, considering. Hard to know what to make of it, but when in doubt, go with your gut. Mom said that. Suarez said it, too. Detective Zenkowski always talked about his instincts. Xerxes’ gut screamed out: Trust her!
The tiny voice of reason kept saying get up and run, that the rational thing was to get away before he got sucked into something dangerous. Even worse, he didn’t have Portland Fire & Rescue and its union to bail him out.
Leaning forward, he clasped her hand. He didn’t try to budge it—he wouldn’t make that mistake again. Maybe she was a martial artist, able to roll off buildings and summon inner strength to resist his grasp—no, that was ridiculous. The tiny voice of reason dismissed it. But the gut still trusted her. It won out. “I believe you.”
Relief flooded her face, accompanied by the ghost of a gorgeous smile. “Thanks.”
“How can I help?”
“No, no. You don’t understand. I’m here to help you.”
More crazy talk! He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “You’ve stopped making sense again.”
“Look. That man in the cape? The one I called my CIA handler?” Once she started talking the words wouldn’t stop. “He’s like a supervillain mafia boss. The murderer is under his protection. They’re trying to shift the blame for this killing onto someone else.”
“To who?”
“To you.”
Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck. His throat went dry. She was a terrible liar and she was telling the truth now—or she was the world’s greatest actress. “Why me? How?”
“Because you called them on my phone.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Target of convenience. Big red ‘X’ on your back.”
Disbelief elbowed in alongside his newfound trust. “How can they blame me? I didn’t do it. My blood, my DNA, isn’t at the scene. I’m not on the video. They have video of two women. Detective Zenkowski shouldn’t have told me, but he did. It shows two women. Not me.”
“You don’t understand how powerful these people are. They own politicians, media, they can influence police investigations. They use … hypnotism … to make someone like you walk into a police station and confess to something crazy, even murder. This is some serious CIA shit, Xerxes.”
&
nbsp; That sounded downright spooky. He stared at her, voice dropping to a whisper. “What do I do?”
All a sudden, Desiree’s eyes darted toward the window. The caped man was back. Two other large men accompanied him, the trio walking with purpose toward Booklandia.
Did these men want to arrest him? He didn’t like the sound of that, some CIA-mafia guys, trying to blame him for Oil-Can Mike’s murder. He leaped to his feet, ready to sprint.
Dez had the same idea. She grabbed his wrist with such strength that it jerked him out of the booth and halfway down the aisle. “We run!”
They ran.
Chapter 7: The Amazing Woman
Desiree
“I think we lost them!” Dez risked a glance over her shoulder. Xerxes still pedaled behind. Her Stud Puppy, her Xerxes. That name was a mouthful. Might take some getting used to. As if.
As if they had a future together. As if she even had a future after running out on her clan, going rogue. As if he would stay with her longer than one minute necessary to get free of the troubles she’d rained down on his life.
After spotting her clan mates, she ran out the back door, startling workers and tripping a fire alarm. The bike rack behind the shop held dozens of bikes. Without hesitation, she busted two Kryptonite U-bar locks with her bare hands then shoved a bicycle at him. “Come on, let’s go!”
Xerxes gawked, eyes bugging out. “You—you are a superhero!”
“I told you! Hurry! Those dudes—they’re supervillains, ya know? They’ll catch us!”
They jumped on the stolen mountain bikes and pedaled up Burnside Street, sticking to the well-lit bike path.
That damn Armando. He could track her through their bond of sire and spawn. Getting out of his range would be tough. How far would she have to run? Ten miles, twenty? All that vampire lore she’d absorbed lacked specific data. The best plan might be to steal a car and drive to the airport. Or take the Amtrak up to Seattle, grab a cruise ship to Alaska. From there, they could get jobs on a crabbing ship for the rest of the year, like on that show, The Most Dangerous Catch. Nobody would find them vomiting over the rails in the frozen north Pacific.
