Before she could scream, he grabbed her by the face with one hand and effortlessly lifted her up and threw her into the backseat. She lay there dazed, moaning as he ripped off his clothes and climbed over the seat toward her.
“No, no . . . please don’t. No, Mother of God, no-o-o-o!”
He pried her legs apart and climbed between them as she began to wail in anguish. He placed his hands under her hips, claws digging into the pale flesh of her buttocks for a better grip, and with one mighty tug he impaled her on his penis. The excruciating pain caused her to begin to grunt and choke on her screams. She opened her eyes to plead with him to let her go, but her mind retreated into insanity at the sight of the monster panting and drooling and pumping between her thighs.
He hesitated for a moment, head tilted to the side like a curious dog, contemplating her incoherent gibbering. He missed the screaming and wailing . . . it excited him and added to his pleasure. This mewing and mumbling of a mind in chaos disturbed him somehow. His face writhed and rippled, his humanity trying to assert itself against the monster he had become. The battle lasted but seconds, for the Hunger was stronger than his conscience. He shook his head, dispelling any thoughts of mercy or compassion, and placed his hand behind her neck, grabbed the hair, and pulled her head back, exposing her throat.
He growled deep in his throat as the orgasm shook his body. Head raised, he let out a long, mournful howl before bending and sinking his fangs into the girl’s throat. He wagged his head from side to side, ripping and tearing the tender flesh, reveling in the salty taste of the hot blood as it spurted into his mouth. He continued to pump his semen into her while he drained her blood, the ecstasy of the kill welling within his breast. Afterward, he wiped his face and hands on the remnants of her clothes before tossing her pale, torn body onto the concrete and driving into the fog.
Patrolman Sam Wilson and his partner, Joe Johnson, were riding down the dark street when they saw something thrown from the dark sedan before it pulled away from the curb.
“Goddamn litterers,” Wilson said as he slowed the patrol car and Johnson opened his window to see what had been dumped.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Johnson croaked when he saw the bloodied, battered body of the woman lying in the gutter, her throat ripped open, her sightless eyes staring at stars she’d never see again.
“Go . . . Go!” he shouted as he reached down and flipped the siren and lights on.
The patrol car’s tires screeched as they took off in pursuit of the dark car a block ahead of them.
Johnson grabbed the microphone and hurriedly called for backup as they raced down the street.
The car in front accelerated when the lights and siren came on, taking the corner off McKinley on two wheels and jogging over onto Fannin Street, heading out toward the medical center.
Another patrol car pulled off Main onto Fannin behind Johnson and Wilson, its lights flashing and its siren wailing as it joined the chase.
Wilson managed to get close enough to see the car was a Mercedes sedan and Johnson radioed a description as they ran at over a hundred miles an hour past the medical center and out Fannin.
Without slowing, the Mercedes whipped into the Astrodome parking lot, breaking through the chains that closed the entrance off to the public.
The Mercedes skidded to a stop and Wilson and Johnson saw a dark figure dash from the automobile and run up to one of the big double doors to the stadium. After a brief pause, the figure disappeared into the darkness of the large hall.
Johnson and Wilson drew their revolvers and got out of the patrol car. When they got to the door, Wilson said, “Jesus, Joe. Look at that!”
The metal door was crumpled and the lock ripped from the metal surrounding it, as if the intruder had taken a jackhammer to it.
Wilson’s eyes were wide as he peered into the darkness. “We need more backup!”
Johnson ran to the other patrol car just pulling up and told them to get more men, they were going in. He stopped by his car and pulled a twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot from the driver’s seat, pumped a shell into the chamber, and ran back to the doorway.
Wilson, his .357 magnum in one hand and his six-cell flashlight in the other, led the way into the darkened interior of the Astrodome.
When he shined the light at the floor, bloody footprints could be seen leading off toward the interior of the dome.
Sweat poured from Wilson’s face and he stopped briefly to sleeve it off before following the footprints.
“Be careful, man,” Johnson said. “I don’t want to be surprised by whoever ripped that door off its hinges.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Wilson replied, the light wavering as his hand shook from fear and adrenaline.
As they rounded a corner near the concession stand, a black figure appeared in front of them and swung a hand at Wilson, catching him in the face and throwing his body fifteen feet backward, to land and skid another five feet.
Johnson managed to get one shot off, taking the man full in the chest before a hand clamped on his throat and lifted him off his feet.
A misshapen face moved close to his and breath that smelled like a sewer blew hot on his skin. “Leave me alone!” the figure commanded. In Johnson’s mind he could hear the command, “Forget this!” before he was thrown unconscious onto the cement next to his partner.
Twenty-one
Shooter picked Matt up at seven o’clock sharp in his ’66 Mustang convertible. Matt gave a low whistle as he slid into the front seat. “Hmmm, looks like you washed the old bucket.”
“Yeah, I even Armor-All’d the seats.” He grimaced as he added, “Nuthin’s too good for my blind date, even if she does turn out to be a dog. You never even told me her name.”
“Her name is TJ.”
“TJ what?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t know, and before you ask, I don’t know what TJ stands for either.”
When Shooter turned the ignition off, the car dieseled for a moment before belching out a great cloud of smoke and dying with a loud backfire. Matt just shook his head, mumbling, “Classy entrance, real classy.”
“Whatta ya expect?” Shooter said, staring at him. “It’s a classic car.”
Wincing at the pun, Matt led the way to the front door and rang the bell. TJ answered, looked anxiously over Matt’s shoulder at Shooter, then smiled in relief.
“Well, hello, sailors,” she said, stepping back from the doorway. “C’mon in.”
Shooter shoved Matt out of the way and stuck out his hand, a glazed look on his face. “TJ?”
Her grin widened. “Yes.”
He looked up and put his hand over his heart. “Thank you, God. I know I don’t deserve this, but thank you anyway.”
From the kitchen area, Sam called out, “Matt, I forgot to warn TJ about Shooter’s line of . . . BS.”
TJ looked Shooter up and down. “You don’t have to, Sam. I can see he’s a male, so the BS goes without saying.”
Sam came into the room. Matt’s heart jumped and he thought it even skipped a beat. She was beautiful. She had on a pink summer dress, with the top cut dangerously low and the hem scandalously high. He loved it. It set off the delicate paleness of her skin perfectly.
Shooter seemed equally taken with the white sundress TJ was wearing. She was much darker than Sam, and the white dress emphasized her tan. Matt had the feeling it was going to be a memorable night.
* * *
The ambience at Georgio’s was great. The restaurant was the entire top floor of a bank building on Montrose Boulevard. The walls were made entirely of glass and a balcony surrounded the entire dining area. The view was stupendous and the band played favorites from the big band era, ideal for dancing or conversation.
Georgio himself met them at the door and gave them the best table in the house, close to the dance floor but with a beautiful view of the city lights through the adjacent glass wall.
After they ordered drinks, Matt took Sa
m’s hand and led her out on the floor. As his arms went around her, she seemed to melt into his body and they began to move in time to the music. It was as close to heaven as he figured he would ever get while on Earth.
After a few minutes, he whispered in her ear, “What do you think about Shooter and TJ?”
She giggled and whispered back, “Look at them and you tell me.”
Matt glanced over his shoulder at their table and saw the two of them deep in conversation, their heads close together, their hands lightly touching on the table. They both had that semidazed look that people seem to get when they are deep in lust. Matt said as much to Sam, and she snorted.
She pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes serious. “Men fall in lust, Matt, women fall in love.”
Matt started to answer back with a quip, then thought better of it. He quit while he was ahead, for once in his life.
* * *
On the way home, full of good food and even better liquor, feet sore from too much dancing and too little sitting, their minds were content with that wonderful feeling of a night well spent with good friends and good conversation.
After whispering to TJ for a moment, Shooter looked back over his shoulder and said, “Matt, you want me to take you home now? TJ and I are gonna go out for some coffee for a while.”
Before he could answer, Sam squeezed his hand and said, “No, why don’t you just let him off with me. We’ll have a nightcap at the house and wait for y’all to get back.”
In her living room, Sam handed Matt the remote control to her TV. “Why don’t you see if you can find us a good old movie on the tube, and I’ll change and whip us up something to nibble on while we watch it?”
“Okay,” he said, slipping his shoes off and putting his feet up on the coffee table. He flipped through the channels until he came upon a rerun of Casablanca.
Sam came back carrying a piece of apple pie with vanilla ice cream slowly melting on it, and an iced coffee. “Oh, that’s one of my favorites,” she said as she plopped down next to Matt and handed him the food.
“If I eat that, not only will I gain two pounds, I’ll probably be up all night,” he said.
She placed the plate with the pie on it on his lap, set the iced coffee on the table, and pulled his arm around her shoulders as she snuggled against him. “As for the two pounds, you can afford to gain them.” Then she looked up into his eyes, making his heart flutter and his stomach feel funny. “And as for the up all night, that’ll be just fine.”
When she smiled and waggled her eyebrows in a lascivious look, he almost knocked the pie off his lap.
* * *
The next two weeks were the happiest Matt could remember. He and Sam went out almost every night, sometimes with Shooter and TJ, who were also becoming a twosome, and sometimes alone.
One night, after a movie, they decided to stop at the House of Pies on Westheimer Boulevard, a famous after-date place that stays open all night with fresh pies being baked every few hours. As Matt stirred his coffee, he asked, “How did you happen to go into pathology, instead of something more . . . traditional?”
Sam raised her eyebrows and looked at him. “You mean something more female, like pediatrics or ob/gyn?” she asked with an unmistakable edge to her voice.
Uh-oh, Matt thought, watch it, son, you seem to’ve hit a nerve here. “Uh, no, that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, trying to get out of the trap he was in. “It’s just that pathology is out of the mainstream of medicine for anyone, not just women.” He spread his hands and said with what he hoped was evident sincerity, “It seems to me that you miss all the best parts of doctoring by dealing with people who are already dead.”
He drew a breath of relief as Sam smiled and placed her hand on his. “I know what you mean, Matt, but dealing with dead bodies is only part of what we do in pathology, a small part. Most of our time is spent consulting on lab tests and their meanings, doing research on diseases and the different ways they affect the body, and looking through a microscope to determine what caused the changes we see in the tissues. Every time I look at a breast biopsy specimen, knowing that some woman is lying on a table with a surgeon standing over her waiting for me to tell him whether to cut off her breast or not, I realize how much people are depending on me, and my skill. I may not get the pats on the back that the surgeon gets, but I know that I was instrumental in helping that patient.”
The waitress interrupted by refilling their coffee cups. “You know, I’ve never thought of it like that,” Matt said. “All the times I’ve stood in surgery waiting for the results of frozen sections, I never once considered that the doctor reading those was as important to my patient as my surgical skills.”
Sam smiled ruefully. “You’re not alone. I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times a surgeon has thanked me for helping him with a difficult diagnosis.”
She took a huge bite of her pie, rolled her eyes in delight at the taste, and washed it down with coffee. “Course, I don’t do it for the surgeons, I do it for the patients,” she added.
Sam was quiet on the drive to her house, making Matt wonder if she was still put off by his remark about her choice of profession. When he pulled up in front of her house, she turned to him with a strange expression on her face, a mixture of excitement and fear. “Matt, would you like to stay the night?” she asked.
His heart began to pound and his mouth got dry as he considered his answer. No matter what he said, he knew their relationship would be forever altered. To stay and spend the night would imply a commitment that he wanted to be sure he was ready to make. If he refused her, knowing how much courage it took her to ask, it might signal to her that he had no interest in making such a commitment. If he had judged Sam correctly, that would also effectively end their relationship.
Matt was no prude, but he was long past the stage where he could sleep with a woman and not have it mean the same to him as it did to her. He made up his mind. Instead of answering, he leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips, took her hand, and led her to the door. “I don’t have any pajamas with me,” he said.
“You won’t need any,” she replied.
* * *
During the next few days, Matt and Sam worked with Shelly and Chief Clark, searching for clues or patterns in the serial killings. On their dates, they vowed not to talk business, for nothing kills a romantic mood faster than talking about crazies sucking the blood out of people.
The next Saturday, during a break in their regular poker game, Matt followed Shooter out to his dad’s back porch.
“How’re things going with you and TJ?” Matt asked.
He leaned his head back and blew smoke rings at the stars before he answered. “Matt, I’ll never be able to pay you back for introducing me to TJ.” He turned and looked at Matt with as serious an expression as Matt could ever remember Shooter having. “She is absolutely the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
Matt put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed. “Good for you, Shooter. And how does TJ feel about you, the same?”
Shooter grinned like a schoolboy. “Yep, she does. We’ve even talked about getting married when she finishes her residency next year.”
“Holy shit! I had no idea things were that serious. Does Sam know?”
He shrugged. “Probably. I don’t think those girls keep much from each other.” He gave a slow grin. “At least, I know that Sam’s told TJ how she feels about you, and that you evidently feel the same way about her.”
“Yeah,” Matt said, a little defensively, “Sam and I love each other, but I haven’t completely lost my mind and started talking about marriage yet.”
Shooter flicked his cigarette out into the yard with a scattering of sparks and gave Matt a knowing look. “You will, pal, you will. I’ll make book on it.”
On the way back into the house, Matt wondered if his friend was right, and whether he was really ready to give up his carefree bachelor days and finally settle down
for good.
Twenty-two
Two weeks after the meeting at Shelly’s house, Sam and Matt sat in her office discussing the “vampire killings,” as they had come to call them. They were concerned that over fourteen days had gone by without any more of the distinctive murders turning up. Matt was still undecided about the vampire theory, feeling that the killings could just as easily be explained by a crazed serial killer who had a fetish for blood. Sam countered with the fact that serial killers almost always escalate their killings, with the time span between murders getting shorter and shorter.
From the computer printouts they had studied, the time intervals between these murders, at least the ones they’d discovered and identified as consistent with the killer’s MO, were remarkably consistent, from seven days to two weeks. Sam argued that this constancy reinforced her theory of the bizarre aspects of these killings. Matt wasn’t sure about that, but, since the time limit was drawing close, he expected to find another body any day.
They were in the midst of trading stories about serial killers when Shelly entered Sam’s office.
As Shelly said hello, Sam struggled without success to stifle a yawn. When she looked up, her mouth still open, she found Shelly and Matt grinning at her.
“What? What are you two smirking about?”
Shelly shrugged, trying to look innocent, but Sam stuck her finger in his chest and said, “Don’t give me that ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ look. You’re grinning like a Cheshire Cat because Matt and I’ve been going out.”
He cocked his head to one side and gazed up at her. “Do you mean Matthew Carter, MD?”
Her face turned scarlet as he added, “I thought y’all were just comparing notes on the case. I didn’t know you were ‘going out.’ ” He leaned forward across the desk and peered intently at her face for a moment. “Course, I have noted an uncharacteristic rosiness to your cheeks lately, but I thought it was just sunburn.” Turning to Matt, he asked with a wink, “What about you, Matt? Don’t you think Sam has been looking remarkably . . . healthy lately?”
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