by Lund, S. E.
"Life's not fair, Eve. Anyway, I know a lot of things. How do I know what's important and what isn't unless I know you much better?"
He smiles over at me, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. When I frown, he laughs.
"Oh, Eve. Lighten up. I'm just having fun. If it was Michel in the alley, he could probably hear what we were talking about if he focused really hard. The older you get, the better you are able to focus your senses."
We drive through the city towards the Foster Building.
"What are you doing now?" I say, curious about his life.
"Oh, I've taken some time off and have been living at the monastery outside of the city. I worked for the US military for a couple of decades once I left England after the Second World War. Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, Afghanistan, you name it. Did a lot of bad things, saw a lot of shit happen, and I figure I deserve a break. Maybe a bit of redemption myself."
"You fought in Afghanistan and Iraq?"
"Yep," he says, driving, one hand on the wheel. "Once a knight, always a knight, I guess. I was part of a clandestine team who did the really black ops. Black interrogations, renditions, assassinations. Us vampires make great warriors. Hard as fuck to kill."
"Where did you work most recently?"
"Basra, southern Iraq. That is, until my group of fellow warriors was taken out in an ambush, the whole lot of my men staked and decapitated, dumped in the Euphrates. After that, I basically came back and decided I'd drop out for a while. Went to live at the monastery."
Something about his story makes me frown. "They were decapitated?"
"Only way to kill a vampire permanently."
I turn to look at him and then I see it – a tattoo on his neck only visible because his scarf has fallen away. I feel a chill go through me. A Lorraine Cross.
"Tell me about your tattoo."
He turns to me and frowns.
"Oh, this?" he says and fixes his scarf. "It's the insignia of my unit. After the Knights Templar."
"Why them?"
He shrugs. "Just a group we admired."
I get the very strong impression he's not telling me everything. "Some of the bodies in the River Man case had that tattoo."
"Oh, really?" he says, his voice light. "Isn't that an interesting coincidence…"
"If you know something, tell me," I say quietly.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Eve." He turns and looks at me pointedly.
We arrive at the Foster Building and he stops the car and gets out, opens the door for me.
"Hey, listen, Eve," he says and stands close to me when I reach the stairs. "I know I give him a hard time, but Michel's really a good man. He hasn't been corrupted, despite everything. There's a part of him that's still pure, that still has hope, that still believes. Me?" he says and shakes his head, his hands in his pockets. "I'm jaded as hell. I wish I was like him, but I'm not. Physically, we're identical, but emotionally? We're opposites. He was always softer hearted. My father hated him because of it. Thought he was weak and tried to beat strength into him. It was up to me to protect him so I got hard, fast."
He says nothing for a moment, and I'm completely absorbed in what he's saying, thinking of this bond between these two brothers. He reaches his hand up to my face and strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, the way Michel has so many times and I feel a surge of warmth from him.
"You have to know I'd do anything for him. Anything. Even give you up. You can tell him that. Tell him to stop worrying."
Then he turns away and goes around to the car, opens the door and gets in. He drives off without another word, leaving me standing on the sidewalk.
Chapter 12
"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."
Lao Tzu
"I'm glad you're back," Ed says when I enter to the SCU. "I have a present for you." He hands me a box. Inside is a pair of thin leather gloves – exceptionally thin. So thin, I can pick up a dime off the counter. "They'll protect you from intrusions when you touch objects that might have been connected to a murder."
"Thanks," I say, slipping them off and putting them in my coat pocket.
"Most Adepts wear them. Once you start working, doing cases, you'll be more attuned to the traces left in crime scene evidence. Helps keep the crazy images and visions at bay."
I smile at Ed and take in a deep breath. Michel comes to my desk and examines the gloves.
"There's a development in Montana," Ed says. "A similar case. Same MO. Seems as if our killer's gone inter-state in his killing spree. I want you both to come with me and investigate."
"You want us to go where?"
I can hear the frustration in Michel's voice and see it in the lines on his brow. He shakes his head.
"Montana," Ed says, as if he's unconcerned. "There's a similar murder. We need to investigate the connections."
"I don't like the idea of leaving Boston when Eve isn't fully trained," Michel says. "Not a good idea."
Another murder. I shrug, trying to appear calm at the prospect.
"Here," Ed says and places a paper bag on the desk in front of me. "We use the FBI for our cover. Your badge, your jacket and your permit to carry a weapon. You can go to weapons later and get yourself one. You won't have time to actually do your firearms training, so your magazine will be empty but we can't have a Special Agent walking around without a weapon on their person."
I take the badge out and hang it around my neck. I inspect the jacket. It's a blue windbreaker and has the letters FBI in yellow on the back and the insignia on the front. It feels like a costume rather than a uniform and I feel like an actor, not the real deal.
"Sounds interesting," I say, trying to feel confident in my abilities. Truly, I would have preferred to spend a few more days reading and just becoming familiar with SCU procedures but I understand they want to find the killer.
"Fill out the requisitions," Ed says to Michel, "and I'll sign them to approve your travel expenses."
I'm not really sure I want to go to Montana but it will be a chance for Michel and I to work together as a team. I get to do some real work, and so, I'll put extra food in my cat's dish and pack my bags once more.
I can tell Michel isn't happy but he shrugs and gives in. Later, when we're finished making arrangements, he pulls me over alone in the hallway.
"Eve, I don't like this. I don't like taking you out of town when you're not trained. You'll be a liability."
"That's nice to know."
"It's not your fault. I don't know why Ed's insisting, but we have orders from Headquarters. Please," he says, and tightens his grip on my arm. "If you're serious about being my Adept, this is the time to just obey me."
He's so serious, his face so dark, I nod my head.
"OK," I say and take his hand. "I am serious. I will."
He brushes my hair from my cheek.
"Too bad I didn't make this speech earlier and then maybe you wouldn't have met with my brother – again."
"Michel, he said not to worry. He said he wouldn't try to take me from you."
Michel shakes his head.
"I'll believe that when I know you're mine completely. And even then, maybe not."
"You don't trust him?"
"Not in this, no."
I sigh, never having expected to get caught between these two brothers.
* * *
The next day, we charter a Council jet that's specially designed so that Michel will be protected from the sunlight. We fly to Helena in the afternoon, arriving just after sundown, going straight to the hotel once we arrive. It's close enough to the airport that I can stand at the lobby window and watch as a small plane lands.
Ed signs in first, flashing his FBI badge. He scopes the hotel out, asking for certain rooms and the clerk complies with all the requests. I feel safe knowing he and Michel will be in the rooms on either side of me and that if I need them, they can just open the door and be there.
&
nbsp; We sit in my room and after I get my laptop set up and internet connected, we go over the details of the current murder. The Helena Valley Regulating Reservoir is about four miles from the airport. That's where local authorities found the decapitated body and after checking in with the local police, it's our first destination.
We drive to the Helena Police Department's Criminal Investigations Building, a newer square brick building on 11th Avenue. Ed introduces us to the officer in charge of the case, Detective Brent Fletcher. Fletcher's in his early forties and has that clean-cut All-American look to him, as if he just stepped out of a Wheaties advertisement.
"Nice to meet you," he says in a soft Mid-Western accent. We walk down the hallways leading from the security desk to the administration offices at the north side of the building. Fletcher takes us to his corner of the open office and we sit down to discuss the case. His office area is small and filled with bookshelves, filing cabinets, his desk littered with papers, files and half-empty Styrofoam cups of coffee.
"An older guy known as 'Fishman' found the body. A vagrant who fishes in the reservoir for his food. Guess he doesn't appreciate the food at the local shelter." He grins at us.
We discuss the cases in Boston, and it's only now, while going over the cases there, that I learn that there are more in other states. Montana is only the latest in a series of states with similar murders. This killer has a wide range.
We drive to the reservoir to check the dumpsite. After the detective explains where the body was found and the way the witness had come forward, we linger behind so I can do a little psychic sleuthing. I take off my gloves, and touch the rocks lining the shore but there's nothing I can find connected to the killer.
Next we go back to the precinct to watch tapes of the witness interview. "Fishman" is in his forties, with long dark hair that looks like a horsetail down his back. He has a scraggly beard shot through with gray and red, and wears several layers of rotting and frayed clothing, thick with body oils. I can only imagine his stink.
He'd been prospecting for bottles left behind by teens who parked along the reservoir at night for some action, and was there when a man carrying a large burden arrived and dumped the body on the shore. Fishman hid behind a trashcan and watched as the man rolled the body into the water, and then placed the severed head in the corpse's arms, just like all the others.
When the killer left the scene, Fishman checked the corpse's pockets for money before making his way to the precinct to inform police of what he'd seen.
"I figured the dead guy didn't need it," he says plainly. "But there was 'nuthin there."
I examine the crime scene photographs and it doesn't take me long to note the gloves on the corpse's hands. Thin leather. I show it to Ed.
"So why hasn't the killer targeted me?"
"Maybe he has. Remember the note. We don't know yet what connects these Adepts. That's why we're here. Looking into each of their pasts is going to give us an idea. Maybe use it to predict his future targets."
* * *
We view the body at the morgue but there's nothing to see that we haven't seen before. Body bled out then decapitated. Dumped on the shore of the reservoir. Head in shackled embrace. The Adept is a younger man with dark curling hair that's plastered to his pale forehead. When the technician's busy speaking with Ed, I touch the body quickly to see what I can glean but there's nothing. Just a sense of darkness, stars overhead breaking through the clouds. In my mind's eye, a blackness spreads over the sky above and then nothing. Apparently, as time passes, the memories caught in synapses fade, leaving little for Adepts to find. I turn his head to the side and there it is – a tattoo like Julien's. A Lorraine Cross.
"Look at this," I say and point to the tattoo.
Definitely linked to the others," Ed says. I use my iPhone to take a picture of it when they turn away.
We have dinner at the hotel and take a brief rest, for our real work starts later. Michel is being unusually distant, as if he still disapproves of my being here. We're going to the sheriff's office in a small town in Montana about an hour's drive to the north. We're there to watch an interview with the owner of the private security corporation that trains people for duty in the Middle East and Persian Gulf. The dead man worked for the owner. Fletcher thinks there may be some connection.
* * *
The night's so cold. I shiver as we walk from the parking lot to the Sheriff's office. After another round of introductions in which Ed flashes his badge, I sit at a desk, going over my own notes on the small laptop, waiting for the dead man's boss to arrive and answer questions. When he walks in the office, my back's to the door, so I hear him, feel his presence before I see him. I turn slowly, not wanting to betray my anticipation. He has white skin and eyes so pale the iris resembles water, the pupils huge, much larger than normal. Platinum hair.
A vampire.
Michel stands and almost knocks over his chair, his expression one of shock, his eyes wide. The man smiles at Michel. He makes a hand signal as if telling Michel to sit and he does.
What the heck is going on?
I turn to Michel but he won't meet my eyes. If a vampire could flush, Michel would have at that moment, and I reach out to touch him to see what's wrong. He pulls his hand away and shakes his head quickly.
I turn back to the vampire. He wears a beret and black suede coat with a lambskin collar, and looks to be well over six feet tall. He removes his coat and beret and sits down on the chair the Sheriff's deputy offers him.
He looks around the room, waiting for the Sheriff to get off the phone and begin his questions, his fingers tapping impatiently on the tabletop. A thick gold signet ring circles his index finger. When those ice blue eyes come to rest on me, I have to fight with all my might not to look quickly away. I merely nod and wait for him to break the eye contact between us. He finally looks away, his eyes closing briefly, a small smile on his lips as if he knows who I am and why I'm here. The thought makes me nervous.
The Sheriff finally puts down the phone and comes to the desk, extending his hand to the vampire, who according to my file, is former Marine, retired Colonel Anders Henrickson. Late thirties, long pale hair pulled back in a ponytail. He rises briefly and shakes the Sheriff's hand, then seats himself once again.
"Thank you for coming down so quickly to meet with me to discuss the recent death of one of your members, Cpl. Conrad," the Sheriff says, consulting a file in front of him. "A former Marine, and according to his membership card, a lieutenant in your organization."
"Yes," Henrickson replies, his voice deep and sonorous with a hint of a Norwegian accent. "Such a shock to us all, so tragic a loss - Conrad was one of my best officers."
The Sheriff nods. "I spoke to his family in Georgia - they seemed pleased he was a member of the group - says it was the first time he's been out of trouble in years. You had no problems with discipline? Any enemies he might have - someone who might want him dead?"
"None that I know of," Henrickson replies, shifting in his chair, waving his hand in dismissal. "I was pleased with him. I'm sad to lose him."
Henrickson sits patiently, waiting for the Sheriff to continue. His legs are crossed casually, his hands resting on the arms of the wooden chair. He's calm under the Sheriff's questions - totally at ease with the situation, no hint of nervousness. His air of absolute command makes the rest of us look pale and insignificant in comparison.
"As I say, there was a witness report about another man present at the scene when the Lieutenant died - a tall man with pale hair and skin. The man was driving a late model GMC truck. I remember from our last meeting that you own such a truck."
Henrickson raises his eyebrows. "Yes. I do, but there must be dozens in this area of the country. Any leads on who the man might be?"
"No, we think it's just the witnesses' vivid imagination. Not a very reliable fellow. Just for the record, Colonel, can you tell me your whereabouts in the early morning hours around 0300 hours?"
Henrickson lo
oks down at the floor and then nods. "Yes, I was with my ... girlfriend, in my quarters. She's my secretary, Jane Beauregard. I can give you her number and address if you require it."
"Thanks, Colonel. You understand we have to check it out," the Sheriff says, downplaying the seriousness of the issue. Henrickson waves his hand and shrugs, taking a pen out of his shirt pocket and writing something on a slip of paper.
"No problem. I understand protocol."
The Sheriff takes the slip of paper and nods, then stands up and extends his hand once again. Henrickson rises and shakes it, then shrugs on the coat over his strong form before looking at us all, me last, and nodding good-bye. He pulls a beret over his head before he leaves.
"Is there anything else?"
The sheriff shakes his head.
"Good day, gentlemen," he says, his voice almost jovial. "Lady." He nods to me. "Let's hope there's no more reason for me to visit your pleasant office again." His eye catches mine before he leaves and a shiver goes through me.
We gather around the Sheriff's desk and discuss the case - the Sheriff's unconvinced of Fishman's statement. Michel still looks to be in shock but he says nothing.
"I'll check out the Colonel's alibi but it's highly unlikely that Henrickson himself would do the dirty work. More likely one of his staff." The Sheriff looks at me and shakes his head. "Sorry, I just don't buy it. There's no motive, no evidence."
Ed nods.
Another dead end.
* * *
Once we're outside the building, Michel grabs me and pulls me aside.
"We have to get you out of here, fast. That was Soren."
"What?" A shock of adrenaline goes through me, making my legs weak.
Ed comes over. "What's the matter?"
"That was Soren Lindgren, that's what. How did we end up bringing Eve to him? Who told you to come here?"
"Headquarters."
Michel shakes his head. "I don't know what his game is, but she's in danger. We have to leave right away." He grabs my arm and drags me to the car as if he fears Soren's lurking around, preparing to grab me.
