The Blood Born Tales (Book 1): Blood Collector

by T. C. Elofson

  He winced as he strolled through the once crowded streets of Ashland, Oregon. The small town streets of the state’s renowned Shakespeare Festival were now lonely and desolate.

  Jack wanted to walk the streets of the Oregon victim so that maybe he could get a feel for the woman, the killer. He still had no sense of her methods or motives and that was unnerving for him. Even in his early days with the FBI, Jack had always been able to get into the minds of killers. He could always figure out who they were from their actions, but not this one. She was completely strange to him and her activities and movements said nothing about what she was after. That frustrated Jack to no end. He was completely in the dark, except for one thing—he was sure she was evil, pure evil, and she didn’t care one bit about being stopped by him or anyone else for that manner. She showed no signs of attempting to hide her victims. In fact, her habit was to leave them out in the open so they could be found rather quickly by passersby.

  He walked by several diners and ice cream shops that only weeks ago were glowing with life as shoppers and tourists had meandered down the well-lit streets. But now the buildings sat in the darkness of a cold fall day, silent again. Before Jack found the scene of the crime, just behind a store that specializes in hemp and oils, he walked under a streetlight adorned with a fluttering flag of the festival. It struggled to hold on in the strong breeze and Jack tried to see the killer, tried to imagine her walking down this street on the cold night when she took that man’s life.

  Jack was able to feel a killer’s mind so well that, often, it was like he was the killer. By standing at the scene, he could almost get into a murderer’s thought processes. He could feel her walking out of the darkness and standing under the very light that was now casting a soft glow on Jack’s shoulders. He felt her look up and down the streets and then slink into the gloom of the alleyway behind the spot where Jack now stood.

  The word “random” sounded in Jack’s head like a leaky faucet.

  “Random selection of victims.”

  “No motive.”

  Reporters used those terms, and in the police reports, it was all so random. But no, “random” was wrong. Not this one, she was not random. Jack knew that mass murderers and serial killers do not select their victims by chance. There is nothing haphazard about serial killers. There is always a pattern. You just have to be able to recognize their motif.

  The woman that killed this man saw something in him that she needed to obtain, he had something she wanted. Something drew her in and drove her to do it. She might have even known him well. Jack hoped so, but she might not have known him at all. But either way, Jack was sure that the killer had had contact with the victim at some point before the violent act itself.

  Jack turned and followed the path that he imagined she had walked on that night. He could feel her tiny, delicate feet moving softly over the warm, smooth bricks that now lined the darkened alleyway. Tall brick and stone walls seemed to crowd close to her as she walked, and Jack walked in her steps. She had slithered down the alley and the street’s banners and flags had swayed above her on that night. Murky shadows engulfed the walkway as Jack slowly stepped through the desolate gloom, trying to feel the killer’s path. He took only a few steps before he came to the spot.

  He now stood where she had committed her gruesome crime and he could somehow sense her at that moment. He could feel her need, her thirst, and he knew what she was. He had always known it. Just as his grandfather had always taught him as a child. He knew the old stories inside and out.

  He found the outline of the body just behind the shop’s back door, next to a green dumpster. The dumpster sat next to a red brick wall. At first glance, Jack did not see it, but as he walked around to the back of the giant trash bin, Jack saw the flash of an envelope. He bent down on his hands and knees and pulled it from the back of the grimy dumpster. The yellow envelope had been taped to the backside of the dumpster to keep it hidden from anyone else who might have come along. Jack knew it must have been put there rather recently—it had rained a day or two before and the envelope was dry.

  Jack looked around, unsure if he was being watched, and then opened the seal of the envelope carefully. There was a single photograph inside. He slid it out and studied it for a moment. The photo was taken during the Shakespeare Festival, when the streets were crowded with visitors. There were many people in the busy street that day, but one woman in the left side of the picture had a penned red circle around her face. Scribbled on the gloss was a note:

  This is your suspect.

  Jack studied the woman. Her face was far away from whoever had taken the photograph, but he could see that she was young and youthful looking.

  Jack returned the picture to its envelope and tucked it into his coat. He didn’t know what to think about any of this. Why was this strange person helping him? It was so Mulder and Scully, he thought. Why the mystery? What did he or she have to hide from?

  The victim was long gone of course, but this was the crime scene. He got down on one knee, placed his left hand on the ground, and closed his eyes.

  She chose this man because something in him spoke to her, and something was at the core of it, but what? There were some differences in the crimes—several of the victims had been beaten to death and with others it seemed quick and painless. But in each one, there was something that drew her to them. The truth was there for him if he was willing to take it. He just needed to see it.

  The setting sun was fighting the sky with a blush of orange and pink that bled through the thickness of the clouds. The sky reminded him of his mood; he was giving into an inevitable melancholy, as he always did. He had been sourer lately and it was starting to change in him, like the weakening evening sun. Jack could sense something almost like an emotion…

  He slowly began to talk out loud to himself. That was his process.

  “Are you angry? Is that what brought you here? Did this man have something that you wanted? You almost hunted him down like a buck. You knew him, didn’t you? What did he have that you wanted?”

  He could almost feel her as he talked it through.

  “What are you doing in Seattle now? You are working your way up the coast, but why?” Jack knew it would be some time before he would see his wife again. And soon he would be in Seattle as well.

  252

  Chapter 12

  6:30 p.m., November 23

  Kenny took a sip of black coffee as he sat in a diner off of Denny Street in downtown Seattle. His partner sat across from him engrossed in a cheeseburger. Tim ate as if he had never eaten before that moment. Close to the window, the night air felt cool and refreshing. The table where they sat seemed like an ocean of time between them. Kenny nibbled on a fry from the small pile on his white plate, knocking salt onto the table. He waited patiently, for what seemed like days, for Tim to stop stuffing himself and speak. Hasty and hurried times such as these always unnerved Kenny and he wished Tim would not keep his thoughts to himself so much. Kenny’s nerves were now screaming like a racecar in sixth gear and he wasn’t sure why.

  Unable to concentrate on his meal, Kenny began to think about his problem. From the moment he had received the call that morning he knew he would not get any rest until this was done. Kenny stopped eating to think about trace evidence, and he decided that he would soon drive himself into complete exhaustion if he did not take a tip from his partner and put some food in his stomach.

  It was times like these when his desire to have a drink was overwhelming. Kenny would not tell his friend that, or even his uncle—the old man would beat him up for even thinking about it. Tim was always too protective of his partner when the subject of drinking came up. When Kenny was tired and stressed, his urges became more pronounced and stronger in his thoughts, like a tired child who was becoming more and more bad-tempered as the day went on. He took several bites of his burger and washed it down with his drink. He closed his eyes for a moment as he continued to eat, his stomach enjoying every minute of his meal
.

  The early evening was gray and the air threatened to fall on them in buckets of rain that was destined to come. Tim and Kenny climbed into the dark green Ford that sat like a waiting taxi cab in front of the diner. The door to the passenger side sounded muffled as it closed and Kenny began to have an open mind about this case. Just when Kenny was about to reveal his thoughts, however, the police radio on the dash of the truck came alive with a loud, all-too-familiar call.

  “Attention 3-delta-87. Two bodies found at Warwick Hotel on 5 Avenue. CSU teams already en route. Do you copy?”

  “Dispatch, this is 3-delta-87. I read you. We are en route. Out.” Kenny spoke into the receiver on the truck’s dash as flashing police lights lit up the evening sky and they raced away with a sound of screeching tires.

  “We usually have more time between killings than this. She is getting impatient, killing more often now,” Tim said, breaking the silence between them finally. Kenny, for one, was happy to hear his voice and even happier that they had a gotten a call. Now his frustration could be directed back to the killer, which was how he liked it. He didn’t want someone dead, but he did want something for them to do. He never was good at just sitting down, and finally his mind could focus on something other than the misery of waiting.

  Tim punched the engine of his truck and kicked the RPM up to a thousand. With a roar, he flew onto 5, swerving in and out of traffic, his police siren leading the way. After a moment of reckless driving, the green truck screeched to a halt in front of squad cars and flapping tape that read POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. The scene was an ominous mess of police cruisers and news vans, all thrown about in a disassembled mass of steel and lights. Raised voices assaulted them as they pulled close to the scene and Kenny recognized one man before he even spoke.

  It was Hart, the news anchor from Channel 5. He came at them from behind the police tape, cameras forced outward and microphones drawn like swords. Hand-held mikes were shoved through the truck’s passenger window while a rapid fire of typical questions was shouted at the two detectives. The seasoned officers sat calmly in the truck, completely ignoring him. The last thing Kenny needed at that moment was to deal with Hart Hammond, a man that was not only relentless, but totally uncaring as a person.

  “Excuse me,” said a young man who was suited up in black scrubs, hair tucked into a Crime Scene Unit cap. He was wearing shoe covers and doubled pairs of latex gloves and fought his way through the crowd to the officers. The crime scene investigator looked no more than twenty to Kenny, but he grunted and stepped out of the truck, waiting for Tim to join him on the curb.

  “What do we have?” Tim asked the young man as they walked through the doorway of the Warwick Hotel. The lobby was bursting with police activity and upset guests demanded satisfaction from a young man in a blue suit who Kenny took to be the hotel manager.

  “Just after 6 o’clock this evening, two deceased adult males were found in a 21 floor hotel room. A maid entered the room to turn down the bed and discovered the bodies.”

  “Kind of late for housekeeping isn’t it?” Kenny asked.

  “Yes, sir. However, the occupant was said to sleep during the day, so an exception was made in her case.”

  “The guest was a woman?” Tim asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kenny and Tim looked at one another. They knew it was her.

  “I need to see all the paperwork you have on this woman.”

  “I have it right here, Detective Anderson.” Tim was handed a computer print-out that had a short description of the woman.

  Name: Samantha Martina

  Room: 2108

  Credit card: Visa number **** **** **** 1822

  Request: Black curtains draped over the windows.

  “She wanted the windows blocked out?” Tim asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, Detective.”

  “Is it common to make such a request?” Kenny asked.

  “I asked the manager the same thing. He said it happens with people of money. Their requests are sometimes out of the ordinary but are always accommodated.”

  “She has money then?” Kenny asked, with his New York style showing itself once more. Kenny’s family moved here from New York when he was just a boy but his tongue refused to let go of the style of speech he grew up with. His East Coast accent only showed up once in a while, usually when he was stressed out or angry. It was a tell-tale sign to Tim that Kenny was having issues today.

  “Yes, sir, it appears so. Yes, Detective.”

  “Samantha Martina. Could be a fake name. But it might not be. We should look into that,” Tim said.

  The hour was half past 7 o’clock when Kenny and Tim entered the hotel room on the 21 floor. The two detectives looked around the expensive suite and at the dark black curtains that hung over the windows. They were heavy and thick and would have easily blocked out any light coming into the room. The bedroom was big enough to hold a queen-sized bed, a small table to the right of the headboard, and a dresser next to the television stand. The furniture was oak and antique looking. Hung from the walls were scenic posters from around the world. The southern exposure window overlooked the city. When Kenny pulled back the curtains, it was more than a little unnerving to realize that they could see the crime scene from the night before.

  Is this where she picked her victims from? Kenny thought. Did she see them from up here?

  The two dead bodies lay face down, white as Christmas morning, with two holes in each of their necks. Tim was kneeling down in front of them when he spotted the marks. He looked up to his partner and gave a nod. Kenny knew that this killer was self-sufficient and self-sufficiency was dangerous. If she needed nothing from anyone it would make things harder for them—she was less likely to make a mistake. He understood very well that clever people often had large and uncontrollable egos. That was a nasty combination for a killer.

  “It’s our girl, pal,” Kenny said.

  “Okay. Call the OCME,” Tim ordered.

  252

  Chapter 13

  7:30 p.m., November 23

  The street in front of the hotel was busy as people crowded into a crosswalk. Fabiana walked through a throng of people crossing 5 Avenue, her eyes darting back and forth as she scanned for anybody that might notice her. If anyone did, she would know it in an instant. It would matter not; no one would remember her or think of her. She was not doing wrong after all; she was only doing what was right. She only took the lives of vampires. Who could blame her? One less evil being in the world, she thought as she passed under the glowing edge of streetlights in a pay parking lot. She kept to the shadows and moved briskly, but anxiously.

  She remembered back to only a moment before—when she had first spotted them, the lawmen, the two police officers at her hotel. She was taken by the one she knew as Tim Anderson. Even before she invaded his thoughts, she could see that he was a good, decent man. He was intelligent and strong as he worked the area. Fabiana had been standing across the street as he pulled up in his loud truck. His thoughts had been disjointed with images of what he might find at the crime scene and guilt about his child, Merric. Fabiana liked him. He was a man of good character, and for the first time in a very long time she was thinking of her father. This man reminded her very much of him.

  I will watch this one, she told herself.

  This was her night, the occasion she had been waiting for. She wanted to test her power. Soon she would kill the vampire who had commanded the assassination attempt on her immortal life, but at that moment, she wanted to enjoy her time alone.

  The array of colors in downtown Seattle flooded past her like a dream. The tiny white lights of the flashing signs were stars in a wondrous galaxy as she walked briskly down a narrow street, never once being spotted by passersby. She came to a stop in a pitch black alleyway off of 1 Avenue. She was finally ready. She looked up to the star-speckled night sky as a soft breeze made its way down the thin pathway
of an old brick building overgrown with ivy. She was instantly reminded of Italy. She was amazed at how often American cities had simply stolen architecture from the rest of the world. There is very little that Americans can call their own. Even some of the greatest and best-loved cities of this country were named after towns in England and other parts of the world, as if the founders of the American colonies had no imagination of their own.

  Fabiana closed her eyes and held out her arms, her long black hair draping down over her red dress. Her mind lifted up into space and she could feel the energy around her. She had a desire to yell out in delight, to release a powerful howl of amusement. She let her eyes drift open. She had no idea that she had levitated off the wet street. She was no longer sure what she wanted. For the first time in a great while, joy, wonderful joy, filled her thoughts and she allowed herself to laugh out loud. She kept visualizing her bird’s-eye view of the city and, in an instant, she took off out of the darkness and into the night sky. She rocketed straight up, as if propelled up by some immense force other than her own.

  The illuminated circle of the moon reminded her of a white potato and she didn’t know why. Had her mother given her lots of potatoes to play with as a child? She had no memory of it, but none-the-less, that is what came to her mind. The wind pushed against her face as she sped through the clouds above the city, darkened by the night. She could smell the path that the humans had taken to get to her. The vampire she sought was close as she came to a stop just over the large red sign of the downtown marketplace. Her hair swayed back and forth slightly as the wind worked over her body gently, as if the world wished her to be calm.

  Rain had begun to hit the cold brick street as Fabiana touched down in the center of the market. Wet, chilling drops of water landed softly on her face as she looked up at the radiance of the moon. She stood there for a moment, closed her eyes, and reached out with the power of her mind. Suddenly, images began to appear to her as she started to see through the eyes of a rat that ran along a wooden board under the city. They were her little spies and they were everywhere, looking, searching for her prey for her. Furry and damp, their little feet carried them forward quickly and with little reverberation. The creature scuttled noiselessly towards her target.