"He told me you two hadn't spoken in a long time, but didn't really elaborate."
Cort smiled, “I can understand him not wanting to talk about it. Times were tough. Twelve hunters were killed that year, including one of John's best friends, Terry Williams, Billy Williams' boy. I think that was the nail in the coffin for John’s hunting career. Terry was just a few feet away when one of the blood suckers cut his head clean off.” He snapped his fingers for effect. “Just like that. They never did find his head.”
Jake stopped eating his full attention now on his grandfather.
“It could have just as easily have been your dad. After that I think . . . I think John just lost his nerve,” Cort sipped his coffee. "I wasn't very . . . understanding, I guess you'd say."
"Man that's terrible . . . I had no idea.” Jake said quietly. “Is that why you don't talk anymore? Or didn’t talk . . . or . . .” he trailed off.
"Not exactly. We'd been having problems since John was a teenager. I just pushed too far that time around. Let my temper get the best of me and said some things I really shouldn't have. He did the same. At the end, he told me he didn't have a choice and that he didn't want to see me again. Damn near broke my heart. Funny thing is . . .” he chuckled. “I quit hunting a couple of months after he left. Just didn’t have the heart for it anymore."
Jake finished the sandwich and stared up at his grandpa. He had often wondered what it would be like to have grandparents. Now he had one and it amazed him how much like his dad he really was. He even had some of the same mannerisms. The same hand gestures when talking. The same laugh. Jake had a feeling that if anyone understood what he was going through it would be him. "Grandpa?" Jake looked down at the table. “Can I call you Grandpa?”
The older man’s eyes lit up, his mouth curving into a smile. “Of course you can call me grandpa!" he laughed with tears sparkling in the corner of his right eye. "Boy, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to see you. And after all these long years, here you are.”
Jake smiled weakly then lowered his eyes. "Grandpa . . . I stabbed Mr. White, I mean that vampire, I mean, whatever he was! I stabbed him in the back. He was hurting Dad, I saw the knife and . . . and I didn't even think, I just grabbed it and . . . I didn't have a choice!"
"Well good for you!" Cort said, leaning forward and patting his hand. "That's the Bishop blood running through your veins!”
He doesn’t understand . . . “But I stabbed him! I stabbed him and then Dad killed him!”
Cort set his coffee mug on the table and leaned forward gently lifting up Jake’s chin so he could look him in the eyes. “That thing wasn't a man Jake, and he sure as hell wasn’t your daddy’s friend. He was a monster. A vicious killing machine that would have ripped John limb from limb, drank his blood and then done the same to you!” he slammed his fist hard on the table. “If you hadn't done what you did you'd be dead right now. Don't you ever feel sorry for them! You hear me boy? Not ever!"
"Yes sir," Jake answered, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
His grandfather’s eyes softened a little and he reached over again patting his hand. "I'm sorry, Jake. I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry that you even have to know about all this shi . . . uh stuff. But this is the real world. We’re not the top of the food chain. These things hunt us and only us. The minute you feel pity for them is the day you get yourself killed."
His grandpa’s words running through his brain, Jake wiped a milk mustache off with his napkin. Finally, the question burning in his mind wouldn’t wait any longer. He needed to know the truth. "Do you think Mom is okay?” he blurted out. “Do you think she's still alive?"
Cort coughed nervously. "Uh . . . I don't know son. I just don't know.” he leaned against the counter. “I wish I could tell you she is, but honestly, I don’t know.”
He had been hoping for better news, but was glad that he wasn't being lied to and treated like a little kid.
“But I can tell you this much.” Cort continued. “If anyone can find her its Talon Parker."
"Who's he?"
"He's the best damn tracker in the business. A genuine Comanche Indian. He's also one of John's oldest and best friends." Cort drummed his fingers on the countertop nervously. Jake could tell he didn’t like talking about this. "That's enough for now kid. Let's get you into bed, you must be exhausted."
He led Jake through the living room and back down the hall. "The bathroom is right here on the right.” He said, flipping on a switch to a tiny, bare bathroom. “This room on the left is my office.” Jake peered inside to see the walls covered with maps with pins in them. A black typewriter sat on an old metal desk. “Now this one here was your daddy's room when he was a kid, you can sleep in here.” The room’s walls were bare of any pictures. Old blue curtains covered the barred windows. A large king size bed sat in the middle of the room. A small dresser sat against the wall.
“A king size bed?” Jake said, looking at the bed taking up most of the room.
Cort laughed. “Yeah well. Your dad hit six foot when he was in the fifth grade!”
“Wow!” Jake said, with a laugh. Cort pointed at the last room at the end of the hall. “This is my room. Anytime you need me kid, I’m just a yell away."
Jake glanced around his room nervously. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to sleep. What if they find me here? "Grandpa. I'm afraid to go to sleep. What if one of them crawls through my window and sucks the life out of me?”
Cort leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "Don't you worry son. For one, it's daylight. Rule number one, vampires can't come out in the daylight. Turns ‘em into crispy critters. Two, I've got bars on the windows and doors and the attic is reinforced with rebar. There's no way a vampire can get into this house without making a hell of a lot of noise. It's built like a fort. And three . . ." he reached behind his back pulling out a large caliber revolver. Jake’s eyes grew large as saucers. He’d been sitting with him the entire time and had no idea he had that on him. "Let them come. I'm ready if they do. I've got at least five guns stashed in every single room in this house. By God, it will be the last thing they ever do. You're safer here than anywhere else. Oh and if you come across one of those guns, leave it alone, don't touch it, don't mess with it. I'll teach you to use it in good time. For now, though leave it alone. Understood?"
"Understood." Jake nodded. "Thank you Grandpa," he said, wrapping his arms around him.
Cort hugged him back. "Everything is going to be okay. I’m really glad you’re here son. Now get some sleep. I’ve got a whole mess of phone calls to make," Cort gently closed the bedroom door leaving Jake alone in his new room.
Jake climbed under the covers of the massive bed, his thoughts dwelling on his parents. He lay there praying as he'd never prayed before. Praying that his mom would be found okay. That he would wake up to find this was all just a bad dream and though he didn't think it would ever come, sleep finally took him.
Chapter 4
John
The Bishop Home, Midland, TX.
July 31, 1994, 9:32am
John pulled back into Midland a little after 9:30am. His wounded arm throbbed painfully. Pulling back his sleeve, he noticed the bandages were soaked all the way through. Later. He thought. It can wait, Julia can’t.
Turning down their block, he held his breath and prayed that her car would be in the driveway. That she'd be sitting in the living room with her arms crossed over her chest, mad as hell that he and Jake were gone. His heart sank when he saw it wasn't. It leapt into his throat when he saw the front door broken off its hinges.
John pulled into the driveway and angrily shoved the truck into park, then pulled The Cleaner from behind his seat along with his Smith and Wesson .357 magnum. The odds of a vampire still being inside with the sun so high in the sky was damn near impossible, but he’d been trained by the best and didn't take chances. Never again, not after last night, I’ll never let my guard down again.
Dee
p down he almost hoped to find one of the bloodsuckers hiding in a closet. He'd enjoy turning it to ash after what they'd done.
Slowly stepping inside, he held his gun ready. The house was completely ransacked. Most of the living room furniture was literally ripped in half. The TV had been tossed completely through the sheetrock of his living room wall.
He carefully stepped into the kitchen, trying to avoid the now thick, clotted vampire blood still covering the floor. Marty, I’m sorry brother. Of all the people, why did it have to be you? You poor drunken fool. Both doors of his refrigerator were ripped completely off. Long deep claw marks were carved into the wood of the cabinets and counter tops. From the amount of carnage, it was clear there had definitely been more than one.
Scanning the rooms with The Cleaner held tightly to his shoulder, John walked down the hall stepping over broken family photos and pieces of Jake's toys. Stopping at Jake's room, he looked over the worst of the damage. His son's twin bed had been broken into a dozen pieces, the sheets and bedspread shredded. All of it sat in a large pile in the middle of the room. What few clothes Jake had left in his closet were gone. Bastards got his scent and by now, they've probably passed his clothes around to every vampire in a hundred mile radius.
Fear for Jake’s wellbeing swelled in his chest. For seven years, he'd believed himself to be safe. After Terry, he just couldn’t do it anymore. He had lost far too many friends over the years and he wasn't going to lose Julia or Jake the same violent way. All he cared about was getting them away from that life. He was done with the whole bloody, violent business. Let the others take on the task of killing he'd told Cort. This hunter was done. Thirty-eight notches in only six short years marked the vampires he'd sent to hell. He’d taken his first kill at eighteen. He’d taken his last at twenty-four.
Now it’s thirty-nine. I’m sorry, Julia . . . I should have taken you both across the river. "They never cross the Mississippi river." His old mentor Billy Williams had told him. Years later Ben Morris had confirmed it. He had searched through the records of every single confirmed and suspected vampire kill in the history of the U.S. and he hadn't come across a single kill east of the Mississippi.
Of course, his pride kept him from running. It was bad enough cutting ties with everyone and everything he cared about. He would be damned if he'd leave Texas. It was his home. It was in his blood. No one would push him out. He just wasn't going to take the fight to them anymore. He'd never forgive himself for making such a brash, selfish decision. That old Bishop Pride.
John stepped into the master bedroom to find the same thing. The furniture was all destroyed, pictures ripped to shreds. "John," A voice sounded behind him. Startled, John turned and pulled The Cleaner tight to his shoulder only to find the form of a middle age, six foot tall Comanche Indian with long black hair braided down his back, staring back at him. It was Talon Parker.
"Talon," John said, lowering the gun, his voice filled with relief.
"Is the boy safe?" Talon asked walking carefully so as not to step on the broken glass. His footsteps were quiet as a ghost.
"Safe as I can make him for now. He's with the old man." John gripped his old friend's hand tightly. "Damn it's good to see you, Talon."
"And you brother," Talon said, warmly.
"Thank you for coming."
"There were four of them,” Talon said, getting down to business. “All Makers. The first one you killed in the kitchen was just a grunt."
"Yeah, I know," John, said sadly. “He was a friend of mine.”
Talon nodded thoughtfully. “A convenient target. Once they turned him, they knew all that he knew. The layout of the house, weak entry points, everything they’d need to come in.”
“You know Talon, it was strange. I had the feeling that he was holding back. There were several times he could have killed me. Hell he probably could have snatched Jake off his bed and been feasting on him out in the yard and I never would have been the wiser ‘till it was too late. But he didn’t," John shook his head. "It just doesn't add up."
Talon thoughtfully rubbed at the large bone handle of the knife strapped to his belt. "Yes, very strange. Why did they wait so long to attack? Once they had his knowledge of the house, they could have come on their own. Instead, they waited. If the Makers had come first you and Jake would be dead right now. Why send in a single solitary grunt? And so much anger. So much hate," Talon knelt down and picked up a picture of Julia and Jake that had been ripped in half. “It all seems so very . . . personal.”
"I don't know what's going on here.” John shook his head. “But I've got to find Julia. I talked to Pam Williams. She's a doc now, over at Midland Memorial. She said Julia didn't make it to work last night. And she sure as hell didn't make it back here. So, the question remains. Where is she?"
"I'll find out," Talon said, silently walking out of the house. John looked over the room for a few more minutes, staring at the remnants of the life he had tried so hard to make. How many times had he curled up next to Julia in their bed and whispered in her ear how much he loved her? Now it lay ripped and broken hanging through the window. How many times had he rocked Jake to sleep as a baby in the rocking chair now in pieces against the wall? In one night, they had brought it all crashing down around him. He'd make them pay for this. Before it had all been a game. Who could score the most kills, collect the most fangs, or make the most money. Now it was personal. Now it was war. He would hunt them to the very last one if it killed him.
Saying goodbye to his old life, John walked back out of his house. He opened the door to his truck before he remembered the photo albums his wife had worked so painstakingly on over the last few months. It was her latest hobby.
John jogged back into the house and into their bedroom. Sure enough, in the bottom drawer of their broken dresser sat two photo albums. He leaned The Cleaner against the wall and pulled them both out. He let out a sigh of relief. Finally a break! They hadn't been trashed along with everything else. He flipped the biggest one open. His relief turned to terror. The pictures had been colored over in crayon. Each and every picture with himself and Jake had been scribbled over with black crayon. Julia's pictures were circled and colored with bright red hearts. "My God." he said, dropping the album to the floor. He snatched the gun resting on the wall and ran through the house at a dead run. I’ve got to find Julia! Throwing caution to the wind, he burst out of the house and bowled right over two police officers. The three men crashed hard to the ground with John, still clutching The Cleaner, on top.
Chapter 5
Henry
Midland Police Department, Interrogation Room 2
July 31, 1994 4:22pm
Henry Anderson leaned back in his hard metal chair, trying to find just the right spot. His slightly overweight stomach hung a tad more over his belt than it had the month before. Better cut back on the damn candy bars. He thought to himself as he readjusted the black gun belt holding his Sig Sauer .357.
Henry hated uncomfortable silences. If there was one thing consistent about him it was that, he loved to talk. He’d spoken his first word at seven months old, nearly fifty-nine years before, and he hadn’t shut up since. However, the man handcuffed to the table in front of him didn’t feel much like talking. He kept staring at the black clock ticking loudly on the wall. Even though the air conditioner rattled above, beads of sweat clung to his forehead.
Henry pulled the tan Stetson off his head and set it gently on the table, then wiped his own sweaty brow with a red handkerchief. With his other hand, he slicked back what little gray hair he had left on his balding head. “Whew! Damned if it ain’t hotter than the devil’s asshole shitting jalapeno peppers!”
The man looked at him for the first time and cracked a smile. “Never heard it put quite like that.”
“Yeah well . . . that‘s my . . . I guess you’d call that my specialty,” Henry shoved the handkerchief back into his pants pocket then loosened the tie that was strangling his thick neck. “So . . . Mr. Bishop
. Or do you prefer Mr. Griffin?”
“Call me John,” he reached his hand out as far as the restraints would let him. “Guess your lab boys ran my prints already. At least they’re efficient.”
Henry, without hesitation reached out his own hand and shook John’s. “Quite a grip you got there, John. Calloused, looks like you've had a couple of broken fingers . . . I take it you're an oilfield man? Warm hands too. You know what they say about that don't you?"
John started to reply but was quickly interrupted as Henry noticed something else. "Well, well would you look at that,” he said eying the cuts and bruises on the big man's knuckles. "Who've you been fighting with, son?"
John jerked his hand away without answering. Henry gave him a warm smile. "John, my name is Lieutenant Henry Anderson. But you can call me Henry. Everyone does. Except my ex-wife of course, she doesn’t call at all,” he laughed heartily at his own bad joke.
“Lieutenant?” John asked, sitting back as much as his shackled hands would let him. “I take it you’re not local MPD. Sheriff's department? Or DPS?”
“No, ‘fraid not,” Henry reached into his pocket and set his badge made from a silver cinco peso on the table. Any other time it would be proudly displayed on his left breast pocket, just over his heart. Henry liked to give his suspects a little surprise, as expected John’s face grew more serious.
“Texas Ranger? Well, well . . . I guess they called in the big guns."
Henry chuckled. "I was just passing through when I got a call from an old friend of mine. Imagine my surprise when Chief Roberts told me that none other than John Bishop was locked up in his jail. So I thought I'd drop in and say hello."
C.O.T.V.H. (Book 1): Creation Page 6
