“Unit 83,” a voice beckoned over the radio speaker. “Are you 10-6?”
Looking back to the hotel from this perspective, I appreciated the architectural sleight of hand used by the designers of the resort. The wings of the hotel curved away. The windows were carefully angled so that guests had splendid views of the grounds yet no one could see into the area defined by the perimeter of junipers.
The voice started again. “Unit 83, you still 10-6 with the wanderer nosing around the annex?”
Another voice hailed, this one stern. “Eight-three, you copy?”
I noticed the number 83 written on the radio console. They were asking for Lewis and the “wanderer” must be me. The annex was this secret building with all the antennas and security detail.
“Eight-three?” the first voice asked again.
If I replied, they would recognize that I was not Lewis. Under hypnosis, humans weren’t good at conversation, so I couldn’t expect him to answer convincingly.
“Eight-three, you there?”
I picked up the microphone and keyed the transmit button twice, radio shorthand for “I acknowledge.”
The stern voice returned. “Eight-three, this is tower one, when you’re called, respond immediately.”
Asshole. Again I clicked twice.
What was on the other side of the fence? I couldn’t risk getting closer to the entrance without being further challenged by the tower. If the measures here were sophisticated enough for the GPS transmitters to narc on the golf carts, then the fence was certainly wired to catch trespassers.
I returned to my cart and left Lewis conked out in the cab of his truck. I covered his face with the cap to make it look like he was dozing off.
I drove back to the pro shop, wondering: why so much secrecy?
The fenced area was well protected against human intruders. But what about a vampire? Let me find Goodman first. Then I’d come back and I’d find out.
Chapter
18
A somber crowd accompanied me in the Savannah Airport. People stared apprehensively at the various monitors scattered throughout the concourse.
A commuter plane had crashed en route from Kansas City to Chicago. The news programs showed the crash site from a distance, a smoky black smudge rising behind a stand of trees. There were shots of ambulances and police cruisers parked along a road, and of the response team from the National Transportation Safety Board disembarking from a helicopter.
The news announcer described the doomed aircraft, a Raytheon Beech King 1900D twin turboprop, as its photo flashed to one side of the screen. The airliner belonged to a small regional service, Prairie Air. All on board the small commuter, the crew of three and sixteen passengers, were accounted for. No survivors.
Even I got a case of the nerves. Nothing like a plane crash to temper the romance of flying.
I remembered the Araneum’s message with the article about the charter plane that had gone down. That airplane had been a smaller Cessna Caravan, a completely different type from the Beech King 1900D. Were these two crashes related? Were aliens involved? How so? For what purposes?
If the aliens suspected that I was on their trail, how vulnerable was my airliner? The UFO in the gulf had stalled my Wave Runner and paralyzed me. Had they done the same thing to the Beech King and crew?
Our flight to Chicago was especially quiet, which made the groans and squeals coming from the belly of the Boeing 767 that much louder and more worrisome. The attendants did a brisk business keeping the adults, including me, medicated with alcohol.
While I killed off a trio of Smirnoff miniatures, I thought about how I would find Goodman. Okay, so he was in Chicago. What was I to do? Put his face on a milk carton? Go out to Wrigley Field and announce, “Has anyone seen Dan Goodman?”
I paid the extra five bucks to watch the TV display attached to the back of the seat in front of me. While I wanted to distract myself from thinking about a plane crash, I kept flipping back to news about the wreck anyway, partly out of morbid fascination and partly out of superstition that watching the news would protect me from a similar fate.
Every fifteen minutes, CNN kept showing the same clip, a fast-paced montage that implied detailed reporting. (The commercials were from Rizè-Blu.) First CNN showed the smoke above the crash site, then stock footage of passengers boarding a Beech King 1900D turboprop, emergency technicians donning hazmat suits, and finally police escorting grimfaced investigators past a barrier of orange cones and yellow tape.
About the sixth time the clip repeated, I had memorized the choreography and could pick out more of the details.
One. Like the way the smoke above the crash curled into the shape of a chicken head.
Two. In the stock footage, there were sixteen passengers on the Beech King (in appropriately politically correct demographics), eight men, eight women (wearing enormous shoulder pads), six of the group black, three Asian.
Three. The emergency techs slipping into the blue hazmat suits were two men (the dumpy guy in the foreground had a walrus mustache) and a muscular blonde who looked like she ran marathons while French-curling an anvil.
Four. A state trooper parted the way for two men to pass through the barrier and a gauntlet of onlookers. The clip showed the men from the back. Both wore dark windbreakers. The second man glanced to the right for an instant before the clip ended.
It was him.
The tousled mat of blond hair, a flat brow, the chiseled nose, a well-defined jaw with a fleshy pan on his dimpled chin, the tanned complexion.
Dan Goodman.
The image of his face sobered me right up. I waited anxiously for the clip to be shown again.
The sequence returned. Smoke. Airplane. Hazmat suits. Trooper. Second man turns his head.
Goodman.
As a vampire, I have a kundalini noir. And as a private detective, I also have an internal stink-o-meter. Right now that stink-o-meter jumped to the red zone.
Gilbert Odin had been killed by an alien blaster.
He gave me the name of his killer: Goodman.
One of Carmen’s chalices showed up dead from a blaster wound.
The man who had found the dead chalice was a dirty cop, now also dead, named Deputy Toller Johnson.
On Johnson’s body I found a business card for a golf pro named Dan Goodman.
This Dan Goodman, a retired U.S. Army colonel, moonlighted for a secretive defense contractor.
Now Goodman was involved in the crash investigation of a commuter airliner.
A big fat why hovered in my brain.
And even more sinister, Goodman had left for Chicago yesterday. The plane crash happened this morning.
Coincidence? Not according to my stink-o-meter.
Did that mean Goodman either knew of or was responsible for the plane crash? How?
And how did that tie into the other mission Gilbert Odin handed me, to save the Earth women? What about the Araneum’s alien connection?
My first task was to track Goodman. He sat in the middle of the bull’s eye. I’d start right where the TV showed him to be. The crash site south of Oswego, Illinois.
Chapter
19
The Internet gave me the map grid location of the crash site. I rented a Lexus SUV because of the onboard GPS, and followed the directions southwest on I-55, then north on Highway 30 to Oswego, where I took a county road.
I looked for a column of smoke in the afternoon sky. On TV, dense smoke had risen from behind a tree line, as ominous as a death shroud. Shouldn’t be hard to find.
But the sky was clear now. Helicopters marked the spot as they orbited like flies over a picnic. A sheriff’s white patrol car with lights flashing was parked beside a portable barricade straddling the road. The barricade read: LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY.
I rolled my window down and slowed for the deputy wearing a safety vest. I told him, “I live at the new development.” There were always new developments, anywhere you went.
He glanced into my car and
waved me through.
A quarter mile from the crash site, an impromptu bivouac of news vans crowded the shoulder of the road. Masts with antennas telescoped from the van roofs. On the opposite shoulder, state troopers, federal marshals, and more deputies milled alongside a yellow barrier tape. The tape stretched for hundreds of feet on either side of a second road leading into the woods.
Journalists with microphones and video cameras waited in clusters. A black Suburban appeared in the second road. The lawmen parted for the SUV to pass and the newspeople crowded around it. The SUV turned left and headed west. The journalists relaxed with their equipment and slunk back in boredom.
I’d return later tonight. The police weren’t expecting anyone more bothersome than a persistent reporter, so I should have no problem sneaking through as a vampire.
I figured most of the local hotel and motel rooms would be taken by the news media or crash investigators. Besides, for hospitality I wanted the personal touch.
I drove north into Oswego. A brunette in black spandex jogged around the park of a residential neighborhood. She filled out her top nicely and, for proportion’s sake, had a fair amount of junk in the trunk. She stepped away from the park and went up an adjacent street. I removed my sunglasses and contacts. Her aura was calm. Nothing bothered her except for the sexual frustration that appeared in her aura like small fractures in glass.
I replaced my contacts and slowed alongside her. I could use vampire hypnosis and get my way regardless. But I never liked that—I preferred to cast the bait and see if the woman responded. I used to rely on vampire hypnosis later in the liaison, mainly to keep secret the pale, translucent skin that I didn’t cover with makeup. But I had a tan now. Would I need hypnosis at all?
I halted against the curb and gave her a “rescue me” smile. “I’m kinda lost. Can you help with directions back to the highway?”
The woman stepped off the sidewalk and braced her forearms against the window opening on the front passenger side of the Lexus. Her perspiration had activated her perfume and the scent was a tempting appetizer. “Nice car,” she said.
The hook was set. I didn’t think it would be so easy.
Her left hand dangled into view. She wore an engagement ring. Considering her lingering sexual frustration, future hubby wasn’t taking care of business.
She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Where you from?”
“Colorado.”
She twirled a lock of her hair around a finger. “What are you doing here?”
“Business.” I told her I was a talent scout for a marketing company. “I’m looking for a great pair of hands. We need them for jewelry and soap commercials.”
She spread her fingers. “I have nice hands.”
“You do,” I answered.
“How do you audition hands?”
Depends on your needs. “It’s an involved process.”
“I’ll bet it is.” She drummed her fingernails against the door. “How about a lift to my house so I can clean up? Then maybe we can talk about auditioning my hands.”
My door locks popped open. She got in and scooted across the leather upholstery. Her scent became even more tempting. We exchanged names; hers was Belinda.
If you’re a vampire, getting into a woman’s pants is easy. There’s the hunt and the conquest but without an emotional connection, after a while it’s like eating in a restaurant by yourself. It might have been the fanciest meal in town but the experience wouldn’t beat sharing a plate in a greasy spoon with a friend.
I’ve learned that I can’t have a normal relationship with a woman. I’ve tried and the result was like flying in the Hindenburg. I had concealed my undead nature but the deceit built up like hydrogen gas before exploding and tearing us apart.
What I most had to hide with hypnosis was my translucent vampire skin. Now with a tan, I was free of that masquerade.
The mystery now was how well I could get to know Belinda and how well would she get to know me.
An hour later we were in her town house, frolicking naked in the big tub like a couple of otters. I couldn’t believe my freedom. No more tricking a woman to hide my vampire persona. I had dropped my skivvies and there I was. Everything a nice shade of pecan brown. We compared tans.
I held her hand and rubbed my thumb over her engagement ring. “What about your fiancé?”
“He’s postponed the wedding twice. He’s lucky I haven’t pawned the ring for a big-screen TV.”
Belinda took the ring off and set it on the rim of the tub. “My hand doesn’t need the ring for the audition, does it, Mr. Talent Scout?”
The way she said that meant I was busted about being a talent scout, but the way she pressed her bare breasts against my chest meant it didn’t matter. We adjourned from the tub to Belinda’s bedroom. She pulled an open carton of Trojans from under the bed.
I thought about trying some of the Kama Sutra poses, but my hostess wanted only the quick basics, and gentleman that I pretended to be, I couldn’t refuse her.
The sound of a toilet flushing awoke me. Had I fallen asleep? The night’s activities had done wonders for my mood, leaving me so relaxed that my body settled against the mattress like a bag of jelly.
The digits of the clock radio read two A.M. A border of light outlined the bathroom door. The rumpled sheet on Belinda’s side of the bed conformed to her shape. Her pillow carried a pleasant damp scent. Ice melted in an empty pitcher of margaritas on the night table.
I smacked my lips and tasted B-negative. Of course I had fanged Belinda. After all, she was my dinner.
As a vampire, I fang for nourishment, to deepen my hypnotic hold, as the first step in converting a victim into a vampire, or to kill.
We vampires secrete enzymes through our fangs. One enzyme induces deep amnesia, another accelerates healing to hide our puncture wounds, yet another gives an almost hallucinogenic pleasure; without it, the victim feels like fire is surging through their veins.
Belinda might have two faint yellow bruises where I’d fanged her. The enzymes in my saliva expunged the memory of my bloodsucking.
The bathroom light went dark, the door opened, and Belinda came out. She knotted the belt of a terry-cloth robe that couldn’t hide the voluptuousness of her full breasts and wide hips.
I smiled and fluffed her pillow. I was ready for more fun. The sex had been uncomplicated and easy. No interruption on my part to hypnotize her and erase the memory of my vampire nature. I didn’t even have to remove my contacts. Having a natural “human” tan was liberating.
Belinda ignored the invitation and sat her rump on the edge of the mattress. She poured the melted ice and what was left of the margaritas from the pitcher into one of the glasses. She opened the top drawer of the nightstand and took out a bottle of pills. Aspirin? After popping a couple of pills, she chased them with a drink from the margarita glass.
If she had a headache, I could recommend a better cure.
Belinda turned and looked at me like she didn’t recognize who I was. Had I given her too much of the amnesia-causing enzymes? Better ease up on the vampire mojo this second time around.
“What was your name?” She took another swallow.
I couldn’t believe I’d been so careless with my fanging that she’d forgotten my name.
Belinda didn’t wait for me to answer. “You better go. I have to get my sleep. It’ll be easier for me in the morning if you’re gone.”
She was kicking me out? Just like that? My emotional compass spun in circles. What had I done wrong?
“No hard feelings,” she added. “I had a good time.”
A good time? She’d had enough, and out the door for me? She didn’t even remember my name. “What am I? An anonymous piece of ass?”
Belinda put the glass back on the nightstand. “What are you complaining about? You had fun.”
“Yeah but…” My brain went numb with confusion. This had nothing to do with my fanging her. I wanted Belinda to treat me as
she would any other man, and she did. Take a number, wait your turn, now get the hell out.
No hard feelings? I was a vampire, the supreme sexual predator, and I felt…used, as disposable as last night’s condom.
I stewed in humiliation. Now what to do? The spider-bite treatment hid my vampire persona, which it did too well. Show her my fangs and talons? Belinda, you had sex with a vampire.
Big deal, apparently, because that didn’t change the fact that she was giving me the boot. This wasn’t about my being a vampire, it was about my pride. A very human pride that I thought I no longer felt.
If I showed her my true self, the bloodsucking monster of the night, what then? I couldn’t let her live with that knowledge, so I would have to either erase her memory—and we’re back to her judging me as worthy of only one bout on the mattress—or I’d have to kill her—which I wouldn’t do.
Naked and embarrassed, I slipped from under the covers and gathered my clothes. Belinda sat cross-legged on the bed, watched me get dressed, and yawned.
I saw why her fiancé was ambivalent about tying the knot with this fickle bitch. Getting out now was a good idea. I checked my pockets to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.
“The front door will lock behind you,” Belinda said in a tone that meant “scram.”
Chapter
20
I drove off, reliving the evening, thinking how my clever macho talk, my smooth moves in the sack were all a setup for her punch line: Beat it.
My vampire savoir faire had little to do with getting laid. Hell, if Belinda had been horny enough, I could’ve been a buck-toothed hick driving a Yugo and she would’ve jumped my bones.
I couldn’t stop the chatter in my head, the constant search for a stinging comeback I should’ve made to placate my ego. But I had to get on with my investigation. I stopped in a convenience store, bought a tall cup of coffee, and added a good amount of blood from a plastic bottle that I had brought in checked baggage. Fortunately, the blood was A-negative, which tended to have a soothing effect on me, like valerian root.
The Undead Kama Sutra Page 10
