by Roh Morgon
They head into the store, the baby balanced on Andrea’s hip. I get out and take a breath, trying to quell the spasms in my chest, and follow them.
On my left is a minivan. I hear its side door open and young girls in soccer uniforms burst out onto the pavement, chattering and laughing and being girls. They must be on Easter break—typically tournament season. The van has soccer stickers on the rear windows, and a young woman gets out of the driver’s door and walks around to the other side, trying to calm the giggling girls.
Soccer mom. I was one once. I took her to all her practices, all her games. I cheered when she scored and consoled when they lost.
But now I’m something else.
Stalker mom. It would be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn painful.
Because that’s all I can do now with my daughter. Stalk her and watch her and try to catch whatever tiny glimpses of her life that I can.
Clenching my fists, I speed up, hoping that today I might get a little more.
As I hurry through the door, I see Andrea already in the checkout line, a package of disposable diapers tucked under her arm. I turn away, but can still see the baby’s face.
And I can see her eyes.
Blue. Bright, startling blue. Just like her mother’s. Just like mine used to be.
I nearly choke trying to maintain control. Head down, I grab a box of something from a shelf and get into the checkout line that is to my daughter’s back.
“Oh, she’s darling. Look at those eyes and those black curls. What a cutie pie!” The checker reaches out and gently wiggles a tiny lavender shoe.
My granddaughter shyly lays her head on Andrea’s shoulder, then turns her face away.
Toward me.
And our eyes meet. And she smiles.
And part of me dies as I realize I will never get to know this beautiful child.
“What’s her name?” The checker asks.
“Rhianna. Rhianna Sunshine.”
Oh God.
Insides churning, I set down the box and flee the store.
My chest heaves in dry, wracking sobs. I feel like everything in me is going to explode, that I will end up a bloody splatter all over the inside of my car.
I open my eyes in time to see her toss the diapers into the back of the car, fasten the baby into the car seat, and get in.
Biting my lip, I start the BMW and follow her. After a few blocks, it’s apparent she’s heading to the babysitter and I hang back, hoping she’s been in too big of a hurry to notice the black car tailing her all morning. Fortunately, there are a lot of black BMWs on the road these days, and I take a gamble and follow her onto the babysitter’s street.
From a driveway several doors away, I watch as she hoists my granddaughter onto her hip, grabs the diaper bag and diapers, and disappears around the corner of the garage. Several minutes pass before she reappears, hurrying back to the car. She makes a U-turn and speeds past me down the street.
But I can’t follow her. I can’t do this anymore, at least not for now.
It was difficult enough when I was just watching her. My heart would ache at all the moments I was unable to share with her, and I could only bear to visit every few months.
But everything changed today with those black curls and bright blue eyes and that little smile. That little smile that said I know you.
Because I don’t think I can watch any longer and not be a part of their lives, of her life as she grows up.
Frustration finally breaks through my anguish, and a growl slips out in place of the sobs that were clawing out of my throat.
Screw this. I can’t take it anymore.
With a last look at the house that swallowed those blue eyes, I start the BMW and head down the street.
I don’t know when I’ll be back.
The highway beckons me eastward, away from the setting sun and into the night. I’m numb as I let the BMW follow the dark path to another beginning and another new life. A life far from the memories that haunt me, the memories that hold me, the memories of my old one—one stolen from me in a night of pain and terror and blood.
One I can never have again.
MONDAY
CHAPTER 8
Walking into the little house I’ve rented, I feel pretty satisfied with my day. I found a bartending job at a decent club in downtown Colorado Springs, about a half hour away. Getting work isn’t usually a problem, as most clubs are constantly on the lookout for a competent and attractive female bartender.
Keeping the job is always another story.
They want me to start tomorrow night. Tuesdays are typically slow in the nightclub world, but I have to prove that I can do the job before they give me a weekend shift. My visits to the club on Friday and Saturday nights revealed that there weren’t many repeat customers, which suits me just fine. Regulars eventually get a little too talkative and a little too curious.
One of the reasons I’ve chosen Colorado Springs is because it has everything I need. A medium-sized city, it offers plenty of work options. A big part of its population is military, with Air Force, Army, and even Navy personnel rotating through on their tours of duty. And that means a wide variety of busy nightclubs.
The other thing this city offers is a little harder to find. The entire area west of the Springs is mountainous, with forests, reservoirs, and grazing meadows—perfect habitat for deer and elk, and those who feed upon them.
I dress for hunting, impatience prickling my skin, and wait for evening to arrive. Though it’s been less than a week since I fed outside of Cortez, I’m anxious to try something besides mule deer. The muleys here taste a little different from those on the West Coast, but still, I’m tired of deer. What I’m really looking forward to is my first encounter with an elk. The size of a small horse, an elk will present a challenging fight, and the hunter in me vibrates with anticipation. And the blood . . . gallons and gallons of it. The beast will be ecstatic.
My new home, nestled at the base of a mountain, is in the tiny town of Cascade, west of Colorado Springs. It’s bordered on all sides by the Pike National Forest. No more “eating out”—I can enjoy my meals right in my own backyard. It couldn’t be more perfect.
The sun slides beneath the western horizon and I open the back door and head up the mountain. The early April air is cold and patches of snow hug the ground. I walk slowly, savoring the exotic scents of my new home. The tapestry of fragrances, dominated by pines, firs, and unfamiliar shrubs, is unlike that of California mountains, and the variety of animal smells is rich and tantalizing.
Deepening darkness cloaks me as pine needles crunch beneath my feet, and I smile at the sounds of small mammals scurrying for cover from the predator moving in their midst. The hunter whines, but makes no attempt to give chase.
Moving up the slope, I’m struck by the magnificence of the night. The moon is full and its light reflects off the snow-covered mountainsides, the soaring peaks shimmering as they reach for the stars. The trees sparkle in their frosty blankets and the air is crisp and refreshing. I drink in my surroundings and experience a rare moment of feeling that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.
An unusual scent catches my attention, and following it, I discover a huge porcupine lumbering across a clearing. It peers at me, snarling, and rattles its quills. As fascinated as I am by the creature and how it might taste, I heed its warning. Perhaps another time. Tonight I’m after something bigger and less prickly.
I skirt the clearing and work my way through the trees, heading uphill. Scenting a herd of deer across the slope I hesitate, the beast growling in impatience. But I want to keep my edge, and since the evening is young, I continue up the slope.
Above the tree line now, I become aware of something in the sky behind me and turn around. I stop and stare in amazement at Pikes Peak looming, godlike, over its dominion, its snowy flanks glowing in the full moon. According to my research, the Peak towers more than seven thousand feet above its base, with a total elevation of over fourteen t
housand feet.
It stands alone, dwarfing the surrounding mountains and landscape. I stand in awe, feeling humbled in its presence. I reflect over my life, and what brought me here, and somehow feel like I’ve been summoned. By what, I do not know.
A breeze picks up, bringing the scent of something like a deer, but not. My body tenses. I zero in on the direction and drop into a hunting crouch. The scent is coming from below and across the slope. I quietly start working my way back through the trees to its source.
The smells of water and grass tell me I’m approaching a small mountain lake and surrounding meadow. As I move to the edge of the trees, I spot them. They are huge and magnificent, their rich blood coursing through thick muscles and veins. My jaw tingles and my mouth waters, and my whole body electrifies.
The small herd of elk appears to be all bulls. They’ve shed last year’s antlers and wear only the velvet-covered nubs of spring. Part of the meadow has cast off its snowy coat and it’s in this open area that they are grazing. Several are lying down, chewing their cud, like cows. But there is nothing else cow-like about them. All are alert, their ears constantly swiveling, frequently raising their heads to look around as they graze and chew.
Quietly moving deeper into the trees, I begin to circle around to their end of the meadow. I’ve done a little research on elk, reading up on their habitat and behavior. But seven hundred pounds of bone and muscle sure looks a lot bigger than I imagined.
The hunter understands the need to watch and wait, but I’m barely able to keep the beast restrained. Finally one of the smaller bulls on the edge of the herd drifts a bit toward the trees.
I tense, wait until he’s broadside to me, then explode from the forest and slam myself hard into his front legs. He grunts as his bones crack. I sweep his legs out from under him, his shoulder smashes into the ground, and the earth resonates with the impact of his heavy rump.
Spinning, I leap onto his head as he rolls to his belly, struggling to get his broken legs under him. He tries to throw me off and I slip to the back of his neck and straddle him. He lunges under me, and I grip him hard at the base of the skull, my sharp nails penetrating his flesh, and reach around and grab his muzzle. As he tries to sling his head, I yank his nose sharply up and to the side. The vertebrae in his neck crunch and he collapses beneath me.
Still gripping him by the back of his neck, I release his nose and slice open his throat. His heart is still pumping, pumping, and I drink and drink. I succumb to the ecstasy that is his hot rich blood, and lose myself as I gorge.
Awareness comes back to me slowly. Bloated with excess blood, I sluggishly peel myself from the lifeless body and stand to contemplate the red river that is still draining from his torn throat. I shake my head at the waste. Hell, there’s enough there for two or three meals, but I literally can’t take in another drop. I stretch and look around me.
I feel a part of this natural world, because in a way I’m helping to feed it. The carcass will become dinner for others and nothing will go to waste. Some of those others are nearby, their scents drifting in the breeze as they await their turn. I detect a coyote and a skunk, and I’ve read there are bear here. I shudder. That would be a different ballgame. A scary one, I think.
Stepping back, I look again at the elk whose existence I’d just snuffed out. Part of me feels sad for him, as he was young and beautiful and just beginning his life. But the predator in me feels satisfied, and for once the hunger seems tamed.
I walk down to the water and wash off. No sense in bear-baiting tonight.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 9
The sun is radiating through my bedroom curtains and alarm rips through me as I wake up. I’m not burning, but this will absolutely not do. Squinting, I roll over and look at the clock—9:27 AM. Way too early for me. I roll back and yank the quilt over my head. My irritation fades as the memories of last night surface.
I stayed on the mountain until nearly dawn, learning my new territory and becoming more enamored with the area. The forests and meadows were vibrantly alive with creatures great and small, and I made a mental list of all the intriguing flavors to sample. I smile, recalling how exhilarating it was to run the pine-covered mountainside top to bottom. I’m going to love it here.
Throwing off the covers, I get up and dress for the sun, since that is what’s persistently leaking through the curtains at the moment. But the weather in this part of the country is known to be fickle. The locals have a saying: “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute—it’ll change.”
And it seems to be true. It switches back and forth between sunshine, clouds, and rain several times within a single day. The mountain storms have moods as well, and can be gentle showers or raging thunder and lightning. I set my hat and sunglasses and the umbrella next to the door.
My plan for the day is to do a little shopping before work, so I add heavy drapes to the list and quickly measure my windows.
I moved into the partially furnished house on Friday. I tend to live like a Spartan, with few possessions. But I do like a few comforts here and there, and make note of other things to pick up while out.
On the way to the car, I stop a moment to look up the mountain. My mountain. Guess I’ll have to find out its name since it appears that we are going to be close friends.
I step out of the downtown boutique feeling quite satisfied with my shopping adventure. In addition to heavy curtains, I’ve found a few interesting odds and ends to add some décor to the house. I pause to look up at the clouds that have gathered overhead, grateful for their cover.
And then I feel it.
Something, or someone, is watching me. My gut clenches and an electric charge shoots through me, making my skin crawl as every hair on my body stands up. Alarmed, I step to the curb and study the people and cars nearby, trying to find the source of the eerie attention.
And then I see him.
He is standing directly across the street, focusing intently on me.
As I peer back at the tall figure in the long, tailored coat, at his striking looks, his stillness, his pale skin, everything in me slams to a stop.
He is like me. He is . . . just . . . like . . . me.
I freeze, unsure of what to do. Since I was reborn to this life, I have always been alone. I’ve never encountered one of my kind—except the one who brutally ripped away my humanity and left me for dead.
One of my kind. The thought chills me as I fight the rising panic. And while my mind races, he gives me a small smile, a slight nod, and is gone. Just vanishes, too fast for even my eyes.
My insides churn and I stand locked to the sidewalk, unable to move, my gaze pinned to the spot in which he’d stood. People flow around me, like water in a river, until I get bumped. I snarl and nearly lash out, but catch myself, and with a final anxious look across the street, head to my car.
CHAPTER 10
I walk into the house and set my bags on the couch. My new job starts in a couple of hours, and I feel so unsettled that I debate whether or not to show up. I think about going up the mountain and just staying there. I could do it, I could survive up there with little problem.
But the one thing in this life that I crave, almost more than blood, is companionship. The isolation I endure tortures my very soul, and I just can’t stay away from people for long. I need to be around them, even if being with them requires absolute secrecy and unrelenting control.
I head to the shower. I need some time to think.
His image remains frozen in my mind. There’s something vaguely familiar about it, almost like a dream.
But I don’t dream. At least I don’t think I do.
Tall, with a medium-to-slender build, his dark hair in sharp contrast to his pale skin. And those eyes . . . those green eyes penetrating mine even from across the street, watching me, questioning me. “Who are you?” they appeared to ask. They seem so familiar.
I study the woman in the mirror as she gets dressed, wondering what he saw. He knew
I was like him, but what did he think of me? He looked so confident, so strong, and I felt so unsure, so vulnerable. Did he see me as friend, or kin, or did he see an interloper, a trespasser?
And the next question—are there others?
I decide to go to work, to keep trying to make it here in my new home, to not give in to my paranoia and run—again. I grab my bag and walk out.
The evening is purple and the mountain smiles down at me. I take a deep, cold breath, inhaling the rich aromas of the forest life. The hunter in me growls in satisfaction. I can do this.
Heading down the highway to the Springs, traffic is light, as most of the evening commuters are coming up the pass to their homes in the scattered mountain towns. I park in a nearby garage and walk the block or so to the club.
Jerry, the craggy-faced manager who hired me, grunts and introduces me to the other bartender, Shauna. She’s older, a bit rough around the edges, but seems friendly enough. She shows me the bar setup and storage areas. All pretty simple, all pretty much the same. Which is good, because I’m having trouble concentrating on work.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
The evening gets off to a slow start. Thankfully, Shauna does not seem to be one for mindless talk, at least with me. Jerry sticks around but stays in the back much of the night. Tina, the streaky-haired waitress, is a babbler and talks about nothing but guys, the ones she’s dated and the ones she wants to.
The customers tonight are mostly military, although they try to look otherwise. They come in groups of two or three, have a couple of drinks, then leave. A few try to engage me in conversation. I stay polite but reserved. Fortunately, they get the message and no one hassles me. Closing time finally arrives and Shauna shows me the cleanup and setup duties. I didn’t do too well in tips tonight, but no one else did either. Jerry counts out the till and asks me to come in early tomorrow so he can show me how to set up the cash.
