“What are these?” Chris said taking the sheet and reading the list.
“Whores. John is friends with nearly everyone around here. The crazy old geezer would give you the shirt off his back if you asked him, not that anyone would. He reeked to high heaven. I told you, he’s harmless.”
“Why these particular names?”
Angel shrugged. “Like I said, he was friendly with nearly everyone. Nearly, get it?”
Chris’s eyes brightened. “He didn’t get along with these three?”
“I don’t know why, but they didn’t hit it off.”
Baxter took the sheet from Chris. “Not blond are they?” he said offhandedly and Chris shot him a look.
Angel frowned. “Yeah they are, why?”
“O’Neal’s wife is blond and he tried to kill her. Maybe he started calling them Carol or something… what?”
Angel’s jaw was hanging open in surprise. “He used to call a lot of the hookers Carol. They used to laugh about it; he never could keep their names straight.”
“Listen, this is really important. Lives depend on it. Do you know if John got along well with Patsy Jordan?”
Angel snorted. “Crack House Patsy? Get real. She used to tease him so bad he would run away and hide.”
“And what about Sheryl Adams or Jenny Lovett?”
“I don’t know about Sheryl, but Jen set the cops on him once. She said he molested her. As if you can molest a hooker right?” Angel sneered at the thought. “That’s what they’re for.”
Baxter scowled and would have argued but Chris was putting two and two together and coming up with the mother lode.
“Calm down, we have to check out these names,” Baxter advised. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Conclusions nothing! We were looking in the wrong damn place! From day one, we’ve been looking for something to link the victims together—a customer they all had in common, but it was never about sex. It was simply about revenge.”
“Revenge? You think old John killed them because they teased him?” Angel said in disbelief.
“There are stranger motives for murder than teasing, kid,” Baxter said grimly. “I had a guy once that killed a woman because she cut in front of him and stole his parking space.”
“Revenge,” Chris mused. “Revenge for teasing him, revenge against his wife for not having an abortion, revenge against an imperfect kid that he wanted to love but couldn’t. He chose the hookers because they teased and humiliated him. They only superficially looked like Carol, and he used to call them Carol right?”
“Yeah he did,” Angel said. “You think he’s going after Kim and the other two?”
“That’s exactly what I think and I hope he does because I’ll be there.” Chris shoved her seat back hard in her haste to rise. “We have to get these women into protective custody.”
“Can you think of any others John didn’t like?” Baxter said gathering up the papers from the table and slipping them into the file he still held.
“No, but it doesn’t mean there weren’t more. Unlike you, Baxter, I don’t spend all my time watching hookers.”
Baxter scowled.
“It doesn’t matter,” Chris said. “Now we know the right questions, we’ll ask Kim and her friends about it. Let’s go.”
They hurried out of the club and didn’t see Angel’s gleaming eyes. Nor did they see the cold hard smile that had turned her features into something ugly. Once outside, they hurried to the car. Chris accelerated away from the curb as if the car had booster rockets. Baxter pointed out the quickest route and she swerved into a turn cutting in front of a truck in her haste. Baxter said nothing. He might be new on the task force, but he was as excited by their discovery as she was.
Five-Alison-Twenty-Three, Five-Alison-Twenty-Three.
Baxter reached for the microphone. “Dispatch, Five-Alison-Twenty-Three receiving.”
Five-Alison-Twenty-Three, standby for a live patch to Five-Charlie-One-Niner.
“Standing by.”
“Chris?” Raz said.
“She’s listening, Raz,” Baxter said.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get in touch for almost twenty minutes.”
“Working. What’s up?”
“We’ve got another one. Definitely our guy.”
Chris hammered on the steering wheel. “Goddess no! Who is she?”
Baxter keyed the microphone. “Who is she Raz?”
“Another hooker. Her landlord says her name was Leila Newell. It’s bad here Raz, just like Jenny Lovett.”
Chris almost crashed the car when she heard the name. Leila Newell was on Angel’s list of possible targets. Leila was the one she hadn’t been certain of. Well it was more than certain now. She was dead. They hadn’t put it together fast enough! If only she had brought Baxter in sooner, Leila might still be alive.
Baxter could read her like a book. “It isn’t your fault.”
“Yeah.”
“I was just lucky with the razor,” Baxter pointed out.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Hey Baxter! You still there?” Raz said. “I don’t know Matt… they just dropped off the air. Hello, any one there?”
“We’re still here. Listen Raz, Leila Newell is one of three women we just identified as possible targets. We need to find the other two fast and put ’em away somewhere safe—”
“Get their location,” Chris said.
“Chris wants to come over there. Give us your location.”
Chris drove fast, thinking grimly about John O’Neal and what she was going to do to him when they met. She listened only absently to Baxter’s questioning of Raz and Matt. Her eyes narrowed as an idea came to her and she nodded to herself. It wouldn’t take much to convince Cappy, not after he heard about Leila. All she would need was the right clothes and a wig, maybe some makeup to go with it. She already had the authority to requisition anything else she needed. She smiled grimly. John O’Neal was one dead sonofabitch. He just didn’t know it yet.
* * *
15 ~ The Ecstasy of Blood
Gavin snapped awake, and the dream faded. The bedroom was dark and silent as expected, but it hadn’t been a noise that woke him. The sun, the ever present guardian of the day, had slipped below the horizon releasing him and his kind from its tyranny. He sat up and his senses reached beyond the room, the corridor, the building and he was satisfied that all was well. His people, his neighbours in the other apartments, were safe and happy. They were watching the vid in most cases. He could feel the soporific effect the shows had on them in the slow pulsing of their heart’s blood.
He cocked his head and smiled as he felt the newlywed couple in the apartment at the end of the hall consummate their love once again. He breathed in the energy they exuded and felt revitalised—their love was strong. William was a lucky man. Marcia was very beautiful and very much in love with him. Marcia and William were friends as neighbours were, not close, but friendly. Marcia liked him. She smiled when she spoke with him, but that’s all it was. He knew the difference. He could feel it as he could feel the air on his skin. There was no one but William for her—as it should be.
He rose from his hard bed and padded into the bathroom for a shower. The cold water pummelled him and washed away the dreams that seemed increasingly to come upon him as the years rolled by.
Six hundred years and more. Where did the time go?
Garvan Lochlain had been his name once, but now he was Gavin Lochlin. Not much of an alias as such things go, but then no one still living knew his real name, so why worry? He smiled and shampooed his hair. When he was done with his ablutions, he dressed in good quality slacks and caramel coloured polo-neck sweater. He smoothed the wool over his chest. He liked the feel of it. A friend had told him long ago that the colour suited his complexion. Neckties were a bane to him as cravats had been before them. He much preferred casual dress. Though he did miss the courtesy of those long ago days, he would never miss their
styles.
He snorted at his musings. This was what came of having nothing to do. Musing on the significance of no longer wearing neckties—by the Gods, how had he fallen so low?
“Stupid question,” he muttered in irritation.
He well knew why he was here, who had betrayed him to make it happen, and why he did it.
“For love of you...”
Gavin spun, but he knew there would be no one there. Charles was long gone to dust and cobwebs. He was alive now, only in his memories.
“For love of me, my old friend?” Gavin sighed as he opened the balcony windows and stepped out. “If he had truly loved me, he would have let me die.”
The air was foul with the pollution he had come to accept over the years, though the elves had considerably improved matters with the introduction of hydrox over gasoline, it would take many years yet for the atmosphere to recover fully. Pollution or not, it refreshed him. Air of any description was a luxury few corpses could indulge in, and he was, undeniably, a corpse. Six hundred years dead. Six hundred years of yearning for what was lost. How many more before the long sleep took him?
He stepped out upon the balcony to survey the city. The sound of sirens floated up to him as a patrol car sped to the scene of some crime. He sniffed the air. He smelled smoke on the wind. Perhaps it was speeding to join the fire truck that was even now making its way through traffic. A dog barked in the darkness, and another answered him. He smiled as a memory surfaced of a young carefree lord riding on the hunt with his faithful hounds. That was long ago—before the curse and before his exile to Earth.
A scream made him tense, but it was nothing—just a group of street toughs fooling around. His eyes narrowed as they came toward his building. They stopped opposite the lobby doors, and he wondered if they would dare enter his House, but no, they moved on. He watched them go feeling faintly disgusted but disappointed too. He would have enjoyed removing them from this life. He knew their kind well. Brigands were brigands no matter what world he found himself in. On Tahir—his birth world—such men as they appeared to be would be robbers lurking along the border. Perhaps if they were brave, they might haunt a lonely stretch of highroad. Whatever their choice, he would have dealt with them as they deserved, but not here where someone might see. Brigands had more rights than honest citizens here.
This world was heading into a new dark age, and no one cared. Everyone looked to his or her own gratification, and never looked to the wider world. Living so long showed him clearly how society had declined as its dependence upon magic and technology grew ever greater. He could see nothing good coming of the trend. Despite the miracles he witnessed daily, the people were not satisfied. They wanted more, ever more.
He had lived in England just as that tiny island kingdom became the centre of the Old World. The War of Races had still been fresh in living memory when he stepped out of the portal onto this world. The European Empire of Great Britain and Germany had been so new back then, it had still been finding its feet and trying to integrate the elves into its royal houses and government. The chaos years they were called now. He was glad he had left. Though the journey had been the worst period in his long life, staying would have been worse. Sea travel… he shuddered at the memory. It was like drowning forever without getting wet. Without Charles, he would never have survived the trip. He would never go back, never.
Gavin surveyed his city letting the lives that populated it flow through him. The air was chill and damp on his skin. The rain had left the streets shiny and wet. It had been on a night just like this that he had met Angelina and her friends. He wondered what mischief she was getting into right now. There would be something he was sure.
He smiled as he remembered the tough little witch woman dressed in tight leather pants and worn jacket who had tried to rob him. It had been something of a surprise to both of them when instead of killing her he had spared her life. They had been friends ever since. Angelina reminded him of another woman he had known once in a better time and place. She had been betrothed to his brother and would have married him if not for the events that followed. If his memory was not lying to him, they looked alike as twins, but their manner was anything but alike. Angelina was a tough little street thief. Isabella had been a wallflower in comparison. Beautiful and charming though Isabella could be, he preferred Angelina’s directness. Less subtle though she was, the little witch was no less lovely in her way.
He leaned upon the iron railing listening to the traffic and sampling the pulse of the city as best he was able. He needed to feed and his senses were depressed. He sensed millions of people going about their lives. Some were working, some sleeping. Some were dancing in the clubs, while others made frenzied love trying to fill their humdrum lives with a little pleasure before the dawn came again. He sensed another revenant, and tensed, but the man was far away and receding from him faster now that he’d been detected. The interloper knew he was the weaker. Gavin stroked that presence with his power, caressing it like a jewel in his head, and estimated he was easily three hundred years stronger—at the least three hundred.
Gavin frowned. He knew all those of his kind that hunted his city but he did not recognise this one. Each of them had a distinctive… call it a presence for want of a better word. It was like a pressure in his head and was quite unlike anything else. Humans for the most part did not even register in the same way. Although there were exceptions, humans with the sight came immediately to mind, the living generally didn’t have the same… the same weight to their presence as another revenant would have. This one must be new to the city, but no one had asked his permission to hunt recently. He wondered if Stephen knew this one but he wasn’t concerned enough to ask. There were millions of people living in this one city alone, many more than the kingdom of his birth had in its entirety. Surely, there was room enough for one more.
How fared his beloved Lochlain without him? How faired the wider kingdom? Tahir was different. Much different to Earth, but people were people no matter the world they lived upon. Yes, they were the same—spiteful and petty, avaricious and treacherous… treacherous above all.
Turning back into the room, he closed the balcony windows and put on his coat. He felt for his wallet, and checked he had sufficient funds before leaving the apartment. He detested this part of his unlife. Not the feeding; that part was very pleasurable, but the purchase of a woman. A century ago he had not done this. He had hunted the streets and fed as his kind was meant to, as many of them still did despite the dangers, but not he. He lived quietly now, safely hidden from AML and others who would do him harm. Purchasing what he needed was his solution to the modern world, though it was very far from a satisfying one.
He stepped out of his apartment and locked his door before heading for the elevators. He didn’t really need to lock up, not here of all places. He was at the centre of his power. The entire building and all those within it were his. His to protect, and his to be protected by. None could harm him here, not with so many guarding him through the daylight hours, and at night he feared nothing and no one.
“Good evening, Mister Lochlin,” Mrs Marchant said as she entered the elevator by his side. “It’s a lovely night for a walk.”
“Good evening to you,” he said summoning a smile for her. He took the opportunity to check his work upon her mind, but all was well. She remembered nothing of the boys she had befriended. “You’re not venturing out alone I trust.”
“No… well yes, but it’s not far. Thank you for caring.”
Gavin smiled again; it seemed called for. “You are visiting your boyfriend?” he asked her with a teasing grin. Ellen was a widow and seventy at least.
She tittered. “Oh you! He’s just a friend to talk to. Everyone needs company now and then.”
His mood plunged. How right she was. “I shall escort you.”
“Well that would be very kind of you. I don’t like to impose, but they still haven’t caught that terrible man.”
“What man
is that?” he asked as they stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby. Frank looked up at their movement and nodded to him. Gavin inclined his head in acknowledgement.
He offered Ellen his arm and she took it unselfconsciously. Many women of this day would not have done that, but then she was old for a human. As little as fifty years ago walking on the arm of a gentleman was common. Perhaps she would have preferred living in a more civilised time. He certainly had.
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard. It’s on all the news channels.”
“I have been preoccupied of late.” He rarely watched the vid, and hardly ever the news when he did bother. He didn’t need help to feel miserable. “This man, what has he done?”
“Eight women murdered in the last month! Oh, isn’t it just horrible what people do to each other?”
“The police are sure it’s the same man?”
“Well dear, I don’t think they know very much at all. The newsies have started calling him the South Central Ghost. He’s supposed to be one of those albino people. You know the ones with the strange eyes and really pale skin? He could strike again at any time. It’s awful.”
He supposed it was from her point of view, but what was one more killer added to those he had met? “What is the motive, do they know?”
“The police say there isn’t one.”
“Nonsense,” he said crossly as they negotiated the still busy street. The headlights dazzled him but he made no complaint. “There’s always a motive for what men do.”
“I suppose you would know.”
“I have come across a few like this,” he lied. “My research tells me there’s always a motive whether we recognise it as such or not.”
“How is the new book coming?”
“Slowly, but I’ll get there.”
It was another lie but one that came easily. He often used it when asked what he did. He had been published in the past, and he still received small royalty cheques on occasion, but over the last couple of decades he had found himself unable to write anything of any worth. His stories were fantasies; at least that is the genre he wrote in. He alone knew the stories were factual. He knew the history of his birth world intimately and had used it as a foundation for his books. People enjoyed reading of the Sae’hrimnari and their place in the world of Tahir, so very different yet evocative of the elvish people of this one. He had written of Lochlain and the kingdom, bringing to life those places and the great heroes that had lived there so long ago, but those stories always made him yearn for home. One day he had just stopped writing halfway through a scene, and had never started again.
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