Night Blood

by James M. Thompson

  Sherry holstered her gun and took the shotgun from him. “We don’t have time for a fuckin’ locksmith.” She backed up, pointed the shotgun at the lock, and blew the dead bolt out of the door with a blast of buckshot. The patrolmen covered their ears and bent over, dodging ricochets, looking at each other with wide eyes. One said softly, “Holy shit.”

  Matt grinned. Holy shit indeed!

  Sherry handed him back the shotgun and drew her pistol. Matt was happy to let her lead the way into the darkened warehouse, and the patrolmen didn’t seem to mind either. She groped around in the dark, finally finding a light switch near the door and turning on the overhead floodlights. She stood there in the doorway, holding her gun in a two-handed grip, looking around.

  Matt was amazed at the wealth of antiques, furniture, and odds and ends stored in the massive room. It seemed to go on forever. She looked back at the three men once, before entering the room in a crouch.

  They made their way through the maze, watching each other’s backs, and sweating with the sense of fear and desolation that inundated the room. Even the usually phlegmatic street cops seemed to realize they had entered a place of infinite evil. Their eyes were wide, and their faces were covered with sweat. There wasn’t a trace of a smile as they inched their way deeper into the warehouse.

  Finally, toward the rear, they came upon a small office area. There was a table and two chairs, and a small kitchen had been set up in the corner. As they walked by the table, Matt couldn’t help but notice the stained wood and clotted blood pooled on the floor. In a recess in the wall, Sherry found a door and pointed silently with her revolver. The patrolmen flanked the opening, weapons held ready, sweat pouring off their faces and staining their uniforms. The grip on Matt’s Beretta was wet from his own sweat, so he dried his hands on his pants and held the gun out, pointed at the door. It only shook a little as his hands began to tremble.

  Sherry opened the door and jumped back.

  A small cry sounded from inside the room. TJ was cowering naked on a pallet, dried blood on her lips and neck.

  One of the patrolmen whispered, “Holy Mother of God!”

  Sherry put her gun away and rushed to TJ’s side, getting down on her knees to hold and cuddle her. “Shhh, baby, that’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right now.”

  The patrolmen were staring at TJ’s nakedness, so Matt reached to cover her with the robe lying nearby. At a sudden sound behind them, one of the patrolmen whirled and fired his shotgun at the shadows, screaming, “Okay, come on out with your hands up or I’ll shoot!”

  A voice cried from the shadows, “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. It’s Hillary James, NewsCast Ten.” She stepped out of the darkness with a minicamera to her eye. She had taped the entire scene and was probably already planning what she would wear for her network debut and how that dumb cop would pay for shooting at her.

  The patrolman said, “Well, I’ll be damned,” and jerked the camera out of Hillary’s hands.

  “Hey, you son of a bitch,” she screamed, grabbing for her camera. “Haven’t you ever heard of freedom of the press?”

  Sherry looked up impatiently. “Hey, come on, you guys. Forget that bitch and give me a hand here.” She pulled the semiconscious TJ to her feet, and with Matt’s help, started walking her toward the door.

  After they laid her on the backseat of the patrol car, Matt told the driver to head for Methodist Hospital and to radio ahead to the emergency room for Dr. Samantha Scott to meet them there. Sherry put her hand on his shoulder. “Nothing about this goes out over the radio.” She inclined her head at Hillary. “I don’t want the other vultures to get wind of this until it’s all over.”

  She pointed at the patrolman holding the shotgun and at Hillary. “You and you, inside. We’re going to wait for the bastard that did this and give him a surprise he won’t forget.”

  Hillary James drew herself up. “Not me. I’m going to get that tape to the newsroom and you can’t stop me.”

  Sherry walked over and put her face inches from Hillary’s. “No . . . no, you’re not. You’re going to stay right here and see this thing through, and you’re not going to get a chance to tell the world what’s going on here until it’s over.” She put her arm around Hillary’s shoulders and guided her none too gently back toward the warehouse. “Besides, don’t you want to get the capture of our serial killer on tape?”

  Hillary gave her a sly grin. “You mean, I can have my camera back and you’ll let me tape whatever happens here?”

  Sherry looked over her shoulder at Matt and winked. “Sure, we’re always happy to cooperate with our friends from the press.”

  The vehicles were moved away from the warehouse, and they fixed the door as best they could. It wouldn’t stand close scrutiny, but by the time Niemann got close enough to see the damage, they’d have him. Hillary took her camera and began to run some tape to see if the light was adequate.

  Once they were set up, Matt went over to Sherry and put his hand on her shoulder. “Sherry, be careful. Don’t try to take the sick son of a bitch alive, he’s too dangerous. Shoot first and ask questions later, okay?”

  She reached over and kissed Matt on the cheek. “Thanks for caring, Matt. Don’t worry.” She held her gun up. “I’ve got her loaded with your silver bullets. That bastard’s history!”

  Matt got in the back of the squad car with TJ and cradled her in his arms as they took off for the hospital, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

  Thirty-seven

  As they walked back into the warehouse to set up their ambush, Sherry turned to the patrolman next to her. “We’re probably okay until dark. This perp never travels during the day.”

  As she began to turn away, a hand snaked out of a shadow and grabbed the patrolman by the neck. He uttered one startled grunt before his neck snapped with a sound like a rifle shot. “You are mistaken, Ms. Landry,” growled the figure that emerged from the shadows. He dropped the patrolman like a load of dirty laundry and dusted his hands off. He opened his arms in the misty gloom, grinning obscenely, his teeth glowing in the semidarkness. “There is, as you can see, no daylight to deter me.”

  Hillary screamed and Sherry drew her pistol, getting off two rounds directly into his chest before the hunter grabbed her gun hand and twisted. The revolver fell to the floor as both bones in her arm broke. Hillary ran screaming through the maze of furniture as Sherry sank ashen-faced to her knees before the creature, trying her best not to faint from the pain in her arm.

  He reached down and picked her up by the neck and held her before him, his breath foul on her face. “You and I are going to have an interesting talk”—he looked in the direction of Hillary’s screams—“as soon as I quiet that noisome bitch.” He backhanded Sherry across the face, knocking her unconscious.

  Laying her gently down on the concrete, he began his search for Hillary.

  She had ceased screaming, but the hunter didn’t have to be a bloodhound to follow the stink of her fear. Hillary was cringing in a corner of the warehouse, moaning and snuffling. She had pulled an antique chest of drawers in front of her, as if it would protect her from this madman.

  He glided silently up to the chest and quickly jerked it aside, causing Hillary to begin to scream again. He calmly leaned down and slapped her once, sharply across the face. She grabbed her cheek and, between sobs, choked out, “Who . . . who are you?”

  As the creature’s face began to melt and change, he rasped, “Why, I’m your worst nightmare.” Hillary’s screams began to dwindle and her eyes took on the faraway look of someone about to go into shock. Barely able to talk now, the creature growled, “Oh no, we can’t have that, my dear. I want you fully aware of what is about to befall you.” He slipped out of his clothes and bent to pick her up. “It’s so much better that way.”

  He shook her until she was back with him mentally, although still sobbing uncontrollably. When he grasped a handful of her blouse and ripped it from her body, she moaned
, “Please . . . please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want . . . just don’t hurt me.”

  In answer to her plea, he slipped his claw in her waistband and tore downward, shredding her skirt and throwing it behind him. With one hand, he lifted her up until her panties were level with his face. Snarling, he hooked his fangs in them and ripped them off, leaving her naked.

  She started to kick and struggle until he jammed his hand into her crotch, inserting his clawed forefinger in her vagina. As she howled in agony, he slowly lowered her toward his jutting penis, growling, “Mustn’t forget the foreplay.”

  Hillary’s eyes rolled backward in her head when he placed the tip of his penis against her. It’s not supposed to be this way, she thought. When he impaled her on it with a sudden wet, ripping, tearing sound, she threw her head back and howled again, exposing her neck to his drooling fangs. He engulfed her neck with his mouth, chewing and slurping loudly. He ejaculated just as she went limp from shock and loss of blood. He continued to pump his semen into her unconscious body for a moment before pitching her in the corner to die.

  He turned, intending to finish his business with Sherry, but found her lying on the floor only ten yards behind him. She had crawled the entire width of the warehouse carrying her revolver in her left hand and dragging her bent and twisted right arm behind her, the exposed bones leaving a crimson trail on the concrete floor.

  Through the red haze of her agony, Sherry could see that the two bullet holes in his chest had closed and almost healed. She opened her bruised and swollen mouth and said, “Fuck you, you sick son of a bitch.” She fired three more shots point-blank into his face, knocking him backward and up against the wall of the warehouse.

  Exhausted from her efforts, Sherry laid her head on her arm, trying not to pass out from the agony in her arm. She shook her head violently to clear it when she felt herself drifting off. Her eyes widened in disbelief when she saw the monster’s face begin to melt and mold itself around the bullet holes, squeezing one of the bullets out like a melon seed. As he pulled himself to his feet, Sherry glanced over at what remained of Hillary and moaned.

  He stood before her, drooling and stroking himself, examining the silver bullet his body had rejected. “Silver bullets, huh?” He laughed, a terrible rasping laugh that had absolutely no humor in it. “Oh, but you shouldn’t believe everything you read about us, my dear. The old legends don’t know about our power.”

  The creature was too surprised to act when Sherry placed her revolver in her mouth and used her last bullet on herself. He snatched her body off the floor and began to rend and tear it, howling and screaming in his frustration.

  In his rage, he failed to notice the minicamera lying half hidden under a sofa where Hillary had thrown it in her flight, quietly recording his actions.

  Thirty-eight

  Matt worked feverishly over TJ’s unconscious body. When they arrived at the hospital emergency room, she was unconscious, in shock, and dangerously anemic. Her fever was over 103 and she was having uncontrollable shaking chills.

  He ordered a stat type and cross-match and as soon as the blood was available, started intravenous lines in both arms and hung two units of whole blood to be given simultaneously.

  Shooter had to be physically restrained from trying to help and had been banished to the waiting room, where he waited with Shelly and Barbara Silver for results of the preliminary examination.

  Matt performed a complete physical on TJ once the blood was infusing and her fever had been brought under control. While doing the pelvic examination, he noted bruises and abrasions around the groin and upper thighs and seminal fluid in the vagina, but none of the tearing or internal damage they had seen in the other victims. He paused, thinking about the implications of these findings, then went on with his examination.

  He noted the bite and suck marks on her breasts and the small, almost delicate twin puncture wounds on her neck. He also found bits of flesh under her fingernails and long, shallow furrows on her back where she had been scratched or clawed.

  As Matt stood and removed his gloves, he had the uncomfortable thought that the findings were not so different from what might be observed following a particularly vigorous night of sex. He called a guard and had TJ transferred to the jail floor, where her windows would have bars and there would be a twenty-four-hour guard on her room.

  Sam had stood silently by, holding her friend’s hand, watching Matt’s examination without comment. After TJ had been taken upstairs, they collected Shelly and Barbara and Shooter. Matt refused to answer any questions until they got some coffee and snacks and were seated in the hospital cafeteria. Sam took a bite of her Danish, then said to the others, “As far as we can tell, TJ is out of immediate danger, medically.”

  Shooter asked, “Has she said anything . . . was she able to . . . ?”

  Matt placed a hand on his arm. “Shooter, she’s still unconscious.”

  Shooter placed his coffee cup on the table, glanced first at Sam, then at Matt. He averted his eyes and hung his head. “Matt, I . . . I don’t quite know how to say this . . . but . . .”

  Barbara put her hand on his arm and started to speak, but a sharp glance from Shelly silenced her.

  “Go on, Shooter,” Matt prompted gently.

  “Well . . .” He blushed furiously. “Was there any sign that she had been . . . umm, you know . . .”

  “Shooter, all I can tell you is that TJ appears in relatively good shape physically, especially in view of what she’s been through.” Matt took a deep breath. “We’re still waiting on the results of further blood and X-ray tests, but until they’re available I don’t have any other information. Her main problems at present are the anemia, apparently from acute loss of blood, and the infection that is causing her high fever.”

  Shooter looked up, a hopeful expression on his face. “You mean there is no sign that she’s been raped or . . .”

  Matt let his voice became firm, more professional. “Shooter, I’ve told you all I can in good conscience. I know that you and TJ are . . . close, but the details of her medical condition are confidential.” He looked away, unable to meet Shooter’s eyes. “I can, however, tell you that I saw no sign that she was sexually assaulted against her will, and there was none of the severe tissue damage that we found in the other victims.”

  Barbara, who could read doctor-speak like a book, reached under the table and secretly squeezed Matt’s leg, giving him a tiny smile of gratitude for what she instinctively knew was a lie. Shelly just peered at Matt through narrowed eyes.

  Shooter stood and pitched his napkin on the table. “Matt, if you’re sure TJ’s in no immediate danger and there’s nothing I can do here, I need to get back out to the warehouse. I sent a couple of squad cars out as soon as you called, but I haven’t been able to raise Sherry on her handheld mike.”

  Sam nodded. “You go on, Shooter. Barb and I’ll stay by TJ’s side for the rest of the night. We’ll let you know if anything changes.”

  After he left, Barbara took Sam’s hands in hers and looked directly into her eyes. “Now, tell me what you and Matt didn’t tell Shooter.”

  Sam’s eyes looked haunted. “Barb, it looks like TJ had intercourse with the vampire, and that he drank her blood.”

  “Oh my God,” whispered Barbara, raising her hand to her mouth.

  Shelly’s face blanched, and his eyes filled with tears.

  “And that’s not the worst of it,” Matt added. “There’s also evidence that she was not an unwilling victim.”

  Shelly then told Matt that Clark had called while they were working on TJ and asked if he and Sam could meet him at the mayor’s office.

  “Matt, you and Sam go and help Clark convince the mayor that we need to catch this monster, no matter what it takes.”

  Matt hesitated, hating to leave a patient in TJ’s precarious condition. Shelly put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Go on. I’ll stay and monitor TJ’s vital signs and lab reports. If anything changes, I’l
l beep you immediately.”

  Matt told himself the best thing he could do for TJ now was to catch the bastard that did this to her. He grabbed Sam’s hand and they hurried to meet Damon Clark.

  * * *

  Clark and Sam and Matt sat in the mayor’s office, discussing their options with him and the chief of police. Matt had the feeling that Mayor Thomas R. Scofield was in big trouble. He was heir to an enormous oil fortune, and, by Houston standards, was considered “old money.” He was the first Republican mayor to have been elected in Houston in over ten years, and he owed his success to a tough anticrime stance that had appealed to a population suffering from a murder and violent crime rate second only to Washington, D.C.’s.

  He was in the final year of his four-year term, and his recent reelection speeches, bragging how he had made the streets safe once again for middle Americans, were about to explode in his face. His chief of police and close personal friend for over twenty-five years, John “Black Jack” McGraw, was sitting across his desk, trying to help him decide how to break the news of a serial killer to the press without committing political suicide.

  “Goddamn it, John, how could you do this to me?” asked Scofield, pulling and tugging on his mustache.

  McGraw gave Clark and Sam and Matt a scathing look, as if the killings were somehow their fault, while holding up a placating hand. “Just a minute, Tom. I didn’t cause this crazy to go around killin’ people and drinkin’ their blood. In fact, I didn’t even know about it myself until this week.”

  Scofield slammed his hand down on his desk. “Shit!” He fixed McGraw with the ice-blue eyes that had been such an asset with the female voters. “That’s just the point. You didn’t know shit! How did that TV bitch find out about all this in the first place? I thought we had decided to keep the investigation under wraps.”