by Trisha Telep
I began to jangle my keys lightly as my house came into view. Like the others, it was perfect – fresh white paint, every grass blade an identical length, hedges shaped just so, windows . . . broken?
I stopped as my brain zeroed in on the black hole where a pane used to be. My gaze flicked to the shining shards scattered over the ground. Then a shadow moved across the window and adrenaline raced through me, bringing the hyper-clarity that years of training have instilled. I started to move forwards, my legs tensed ready. He’d gone too far this time. The stalker had taken that last step. But I remembered Linda’s words just before my foot pushed off and I reached into my pocket for my phone.
Three buttons plus the send command later and I heard ringing in my ear. “Nine one one. Please state the nature of your emergency.” The voice was sleepy but polite.
I stared at the window then scanned the surrounding area, searching for movement – a partner in crime, a running vehicle. But not even the breeze rustled the leaves. My voice came out equally soft. No reason to tip him off. “This is Officer Sylvia Beck with Precinct 4, badge 51476. I’ve got a 10-31, burglary in progress on my personal residence, 2942 Fox Court. I need a car here pronto. If they come in silence, we might catch him in the act.” Frankly, I was a little surprised that there wasn’t a car here already. I have a security system that should have tripped with the sound of breaking glass.
I heard the clicking of keys over the line as she verified my badge, and possibly the flag on my address from my reports. The operator came back sounding alert. “Address 2942 Fox Court. We’ve got it. We’ll have a car there right away, Officer Beck. Can you give us any more information about the intruder? Race, build? Is he armed?”
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see. “I’ve just arrived and have a broken window and movement inside. I’ll know more once I’m inside. I’ll try to keep the line open.” I took a step towards the house, my muscles twitching, eager to start the chase.
Another pause and then a reply. “Negative, Officer. Dispatch requests that you maintain surveillance and wait for back-up. A car’s on the way.”
My shoulders slumped at the same time a snarl erupted from my lips. Yes, It made sense. I wasn’t armed, didn’t have a clue who might be in there, or how many. But I didn’t like it.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the decision was made for me when the side door opened and a shadowy figure emerged. He looked both ways and spotted me, standing under the streetlight like a yellow-shirted beacon. He took off like a shot and my feet started moving. “The suspect’s on the run. I’m in pursuit, heading north towards Mink Terrace. Have the car try to cut us off.” I didn’t wait for a reply . . . didn’t want to hear that I should stay put. The six-foot wooden fence at the back of my property was no deterrent for him and that’s when I noticed the similarity to the shadow I’d seen the previous week. He swung over the slats easily and kept going. I did too, but only because I practice . . . a lot. Drives the neighbours nuts.
The suspect didn’t just bolt like a normal criminal. There was cadence to his stride, measured, precise. He wasn’t one to make a quick dash and dive for cover. He expected to win in the long haul, by tiring out his pursuer. But I wasn’t easily tired, so I settled in for a long chase. Because he was not getting away.
Flashing lights appeared to my left, coming down Mink. Apparently, the 911 operator had relayed my message. The suspect spotted them and veered right. He sailed over a chest-high hedge, leg bent like an Olympic hurdler, probably hoping it would slow me down. It did, damn it. Free jumping’s not my best thing unless I can get a hand on something to push off. It forced me to stop and turn to go around the end. I rounded the corner in a skid, sneakers tearing away chunks of wet turf before I could get my footing. I heard a car door slam when I reached the next fence, and a voice. “Got your back, Beck.”
There wasn’t time to nod a reply, for the shadow was heading towards the thick cover of Perkins Park. I pressed my muscles for even more speed and was catching up. Yet, oddly, the man wasn’t panicking. I was close enough now to see it was definitely a male, about six foot two and well muscled, with shoulder-length dark hair that was coming loose from a tie. Long sleeves and gloves prevented me from seeing skin colour, and the glimpses I got above the raised collar of the leather jacket seemed too pale to be natural. Maybe make-up.
He slowed slightly as we reached the stream as though unsure whether to cross. It seemed he knew the area well, because the rocks at the bottom of the shallow creek are moss-covered and slippery. Apparently it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take because he veered again and headed towards the bike path. But that little bit of indecision on his part was all I needed. I gritted my teeth and pressed harder, closed that last gap and threw myself on him.
We rolled on the ground and I wound up on top, him face down.
“Freeze, asshole! Police!”
He started to pull away and was amazingly strong. But by then, I’d pulled the cuffs I’d been keeping with me from the case on my belt and had wrested one wrist enough to snap it around. It took brute force and a lot of leg strength to fight his other arm behind him, but when I finally managed it he went suddenly still, like a switch had been shut off.
I began to listen for my back-up, but no sound reached my ears above my own harsh breathing and pounding heart. I got up on my knees and started to back away, slowly, watching for any signs he was going to make a break for it.
“Do not move. You’re under arrest for breaking and entering, plus flight. Don’t add resisting arrest to the charges.”
The reply was quiet from underneath the mass of thick dark hair, but a note of amusement made my blood run cold. “Whatever you say, Officer.”
It wasn’t the humour itself that widened my eyes and started my hands trembling, but that I recognized the voice.
A touch of breeze ruffles that silken hair and the pale features stood out against the ground in sharp relief. I recognized them too.
It wasn’t tough or brave or even logical that I let out a shriek and back-pedalled away from the man until I was sitting on my butt in the mud. He rolled over and sat up, barely hampered by the cuffs. Familiar green eyes peered through the hair and that same little smile which used to make me punch his arm, now made me slap at the air in front of me.
“Hello, Sylvia.”
“You’re dead!” I screamed the word, my finger pointed accusingly at my former partner, Tim Meyer. It was loud enough to attract the attention of the officers who were following me. I heard a shout and the comforting sound of leather and metal rattling quickly moving hips.
His lips thinned with a smile that didn’t show teeth. “Good gorl for requesting back-up. But we’ll need to finish this discussion another time. I’ll come by tomorrow night and we’ll talk.”
I saw Arellano’s dark-blue uniform coming through the trees in my peripheral vision and shifted my attention for just a split second. When I turned back towards the man who looked like Tim, sparkling smoke wafted up from where he’d been sitting. My ears caught the jungle of metal as the cuffs, still locked in position, clattered to the ground.
It was impossible to tell whether Arellano and Jenkins believed me when I said the suspect had gotten away. Oh, I gave a description all right, but was too shaken to reveal what I’d really seen and heard. That was just asking for a visit to the department shrink. We’d all been at Tim’s funeral. I’d been the one to find his . . . body in that dark, silent alley, his throat slashed by some psycho we’d never found. I’d comforted his mother and kid sister, held them while they wept . . . while we all wept. To this day they consider me part of their family and invite me to holiday dinners. Tim’s ashes are in an urn sitting on their mantelpiece where his mother can still talk to him. It absolutely could not have been Tim.
Except something inside of me said it was.
I got to bed after dawn. Reports, glaziers and frantic calls from neighbours and family guaranteed that. But I couldn’t sleep, coul
dn’t close my eyes without seeing his face again. Even a sleeping pill couldn’t stave off the dreams. Tossing and turning might have been better because the drug made it impossible to escape the images of the past. They were already bad, but soon twisted – became tainted, nightmarish. Hello, Sylvia. The words came out of Tim’s lifeless mouth in the alley while I tried to revive him, his ruined neck pouring blood across the asphalt. He sat up in the coffin at the service, eyes bright, but nobody else noticed. His voice whispered out of the urn on the mantelpiece, mocking me as I sat down to dinner with his family.
I woke after noon to a sharp crack of lightening hitting nearby, even more tired than when I went to bed. A hard storm had rolled in while I’d dozed fitfully. The wind, thunder rumbling and sudden flashes through the window didn’t help my nerves any. Phone calls to friends and family naturally went unanswered because it was a work day. No television or Internet, either. The cable must have gotten damaged in the storm. Even my car wouldn’t start. I ended up getting so frustrated that the only thing I could think to do was grab a sandwich and then crank up the stereo and clean the house.
But Tim’s voice wouldn’t be silenced. I could hear it echo in my brain even over the vacuum and driving rock bass. Still, I’d almost gotten to where I could ignore it by nightfall. So I shouldn’t have jumped hard enough to smack my skull on the cabinet under the sink when I heard it again behind me. “You cleaned the house. I’m flattered.”
As much as I thought I’d prepared myself, there was no way to really anticipate my reaction when I turned around and saw him sitting in one of the kitchen chairs. He wasn’t as pale as the night before. With his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and wearing a black shirt, he looked just like I remembered him.
Hug him, hit him, shoot him? A thousand emotions flew through my mind more than once. I tried to make myself believe this was just an impostor, someone playing on my memories for . . . well, I didn’t know exactly why. But who else would know that I only clean when company’s coming? It wasn’t something I advertised.
But I believe in being safe rather than sorry, so I pulled the .38 snub-nose Taurus I was hiding in my front pocket and pointed it square at his chest. “How did you get in?” I’d locked all the doors and windows and had even put on the security system perimeter alarm and door braces.
He shrugged fluidly, seemingly not at all concerned about staring down my barrel. “Same way I got in last time.”
Dammit! I backed away from him a few paces, keeping the gun steady in a teacup grip until I could flick a glance at the living room window through the doorway. It was whole, untouched. “Wrong answer.”
He remained calm, leaned back slightly in the chair and braced one heel against the table leg, just like always. “I didn’t use the window last time. I was following the guy who broke in.” He sighed and draped an arm over the rails of the ladder-back chair. “Missed these chairs. They’re comfy. You might as well put the gun down, Sylvia. We both know you’re not going to use it . . . and even if you did, bullets can’t hurt me.”
I might have chuckled, but my heart was pounding like a trip hammer at the certainty in his voice. “I might not kill you, but a round in a shoulder or leg will certainly hurt you.”
He . . . disappeared. Poof. Just like last night – into a swirl of sparkling smoke. It hovered, not dissipating while I tried to make sound come from my throat. But all I wound up doing was waving my gun around, searching for something solid to shoot at while backing into a corner so I had two walls behind me.
Believe me yet? Put down the gun, Sylvia. I’m not here to hurt you. The voice didn’t come from a single source. It was like it started inside my own mind.
“You’re a ghost! You’re dead.” My voice was high and tight, nearly a squeak. OK, fine, I was scared. But whi wouldn’t be?
“Not a ghost . . . a vampire.”
There he was again, now sitting on the counter over the dishwasher. I turned the gun, hands shaking so hard I wouldn’t have been able to shoot if I wanted to.
“There’s no such thing.” My head started shaking back and forth, tiny little movements that made my teeth clatter when they touched.
Tim snorted and rolled his eyes. “No vampires, but there are ghosts?” He smiled broadly, lifting his lips high to reveal extended canine teeth that came to sharp points. “These say otherwise, Syl. Trust me, I might not like it, but I know what I am.”
I started to lower the gun as my brain slowly wrapped around the concept. “But your funeral . . . the urn . . . ashes to ashes.” My words didn’t make much sense, but he caught the gist of it.
His brows raised and he shrugged. “Not me in the urn, I’m afraid. Jolie said she grabbed me right after the memorial sevice. I feel sorry for Mom. I’d tell her, but . . . well, you can imagine how well that would go.”
So many questions, but my mouth was nearly still too dry to talk. “Jolie?”
“My sire. The one who turned me. You probably remember her . . . that little blonde hooker over on State Street? The kid we hoped had made it back home.” He paused and then sighed. “She didn’t.”
My heart started returning to normal. This really was Tim. He was opening up, trying to let me in on whatever had been happening to him these past two years. “But why would she kill you? I thought she liked you.”
“She did like me. That was the trouble. She remembered me.” He must have noticed that my brows dropped in confusion, because he tried to find the words to explain. He moved his hands, looking like he was searching for the right thing to say. “See, death is exactly what you expect it to be. The body starts to decay. The brain doesn’t work right when we come back. All I felt, all Jolie felt was rage. After all, we were murdered. That’s the last thing we remember. Anger, rage . . . and the hunger. Damn, Syl. You can’t even imagine what it’s like. But Jolie . . . she was such a sweet kid. She didn’t have it in her to be a predator. She needed someone to take care of her. Didn’t matter if it was parents, or a pimp, or a cop who was nice to her. She thought she was in love with me. And who knows . . . maybe she was.”
I set the Taurus on the counter and reached back to lift myself onto the countertop. We used to sit like this for hours, ignoring the chairs conveniently nearby. I realized abruptly I wasn’t afraid any more. If he’d been going to kill me, he already would have.
“So she killed you because she had a crush on you?”
Tim nodded and hopped down off the counter. The floorboards squeaked when his weight hit them. But how then could he disconnect? Become smoke and float? It didn’t make sense. “Yep. Sometimes, something is strong enough inside to remember from your old life. Most of the vamps out there are like rabid dogs. They hide, they feed and they sleep . . . forever.” He paused and then got an angry look. “At least, that’s what used to happen. But things are changing. That’s why I’m here.”
I waved my hands. “Not fair switching subjects until I have a handle on this. So, Jolie kills you, leaves you in the alley for me to find, but keeps track of you? Why wait until after the service? Why not just take you from the alley?”
He grabbed a chair and spun it around before sitting splay-legged on it and leaning his arms on the back. “Like I say . . . she remembered. Somehow she managed to keep her head enough to know that a cop can’t just disappear without a huge manhunt. I don’t know where she got the body to replace mine in the casket on the way to the crematorium, but she did. She wanted me to be me when I woke up and it’s probably the only reason I’m sitting here. It’s like amnesia. No memory at all of who you were before crossing that line into death. But if you can just remember, it all comes flooding back. Well,” he amended with a tip of his head, “not all, or it wouldn’t have taken me two years to show up back here.”
Something was tickling the back of my head. “So how did you remember? Are you the one who’s been making the crank calls to me?”
He nodded, and flushed with sudden embarrassment. He was dead. He shouldn’t blush. “Ye
ah. I wanted you to know, but should have realized you wouldn’t recognise my voice after this long. The trouble was that until just last week, I couldn’t even remember your name or where you were. It’s not a quick process. It’s like a head injury. You remember some things but not others. It’s frustrating as hell. But Jolie actually had a friend do it for her, for weeks before she turned me. She was actually a vamp for months and we didn’t know it, Syl. Don’t know how she managed that, but I felt like an idiot when I realized it. I mean, here I am trying to convince her to go home to her folks, when she’s been dead for months.”
Jolie . . . that tiny blonde waif, was smoke and teeth and . . . dead? “So you remembered you were a cop?”
He nodded. “She had videos of us responding to calls or coming out from dinner. She tried really hard to catch only me in the shot, and even had friends get shots of her touching my arm or making me smile at a joke. Everything she could do to convince me we were in love when I woke up.” Tim shook his head sadly. “It almost worked too.”
It made such sense. When you have physical evidence staring at you, pictures of yourself, why wouldn’t you believe it? I couldn’t help but wonder what made him see the truth. “Why didn’t it?”
His eyes moved from staring at the table to locking with mine. The depth of those green eyes was so intense, so hypnotic, that I couldn’t tear my gaze away. He stood fluidly, with an animal grace that he’d never had before. It didn’t even seem like he walked closer to me – no, more like glided. He wound up inches from my knees. When he placed a hand on either side of me on the counter, effectively blocking me in, I felt my heart in my throat. “I remembered you.”
I suddenly felt afraid . . . not of dying at his hand, but something else entirely. “You . . . but we never.” I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat refused to move. I shifted uncomfortably on the counter, watching a tiny smile twitch his lips at my reaction. “There was never anything between us, Tim. We were just partners. You’re not remembering it right.”
