by David Lee
“Look,” she said, pointing at the surf line, “something’s coming in.”
“Great,” he groused, “more junk.”
Whatever it was, it surged through the surf like the prow of a Haisla canoe heaved from the deep. Harsh rain slanted down, graying the view, and she squinted as the wave broke and white foam surrounded her find.
“Oh my God,” she exclaimed, sitting up in her recliner, “something’s walking out of the surf.”
Alan grabbed the binoculars he kept ready by his chair and scanned the Sea. “I don’t see a boat anywhere, where did he come from?”
“God almighty what is that?” she said, pointing at the creature standing in the surf.
It had arms and legs and a head with matted stringy hair rather like a Rasta man dragged from a greasy pool. Its skin, what was left of it, hung in leprous lizard tatters like scaly ribbons pasted to the white bones sticking from its frame. The only life was its bright red eyes, beacons blinking in the storm.
Clear of the surf and striding across the rocky shoreline, Joyce could tell it was male and noticed the incongruous belt about his waist and shoes flapping on its feet. She thought of pictures she’d seen in a Journal depicting a Stone Age tribesman who’d adorned himself with bits of broken glass from discarded beer bottles, a flashy bottle cap dangling from his penis. The man walked without mincing over the sharp and uneven stones and didn’t appear fazed by either the weather or his predicament.
“Oh my God, he’s naked,” she blurted out, “he must be freezing.” The wind blew his hair around obscuring his face. He took a moment to brush the black strands from his eyes and looked up at the house. Joyce got the uncomfortable feeling that he could see her and she would have sworn that he smiled as he came forward, showing remarkably nice teeth for such a decrepit specimen. He moved like an animated skeleton draped in raw, crusty, stringy muscle, except for his eyes unblinking and red.
Striding across the rocks and onto the narrow sandy strip where the stairs led up to the deck, he paused then bounded up the steps without touching the railing. Stopping at the deck he took a moment to look around. “He’s admiring the house,” thought Joyce, “he doesn’t even try to cover himself.” He turned towards them and crossed the deck.
“Jeez, he’s going to walk into the glass,” said Alan “he really must be confused.” He stood and waved his arms trying to warn, but his alarm only attracted the man who glanced at the waving arms then veered directly towards Alan.
“Oh no,” screamed Alan, as the plate glass window exploded in his face.
Shards of glass like daggers through the air bloodied Alan and Joyce.
“It’s not supposed to do that,” thought Alan, as the intruder casually strolled up to him and grabbed a handful of his hair, bending him to his knees, “the windows are unbreakable.”
Joyce wet herself with fear as the creature clutched a fistful of Alan’s shirtfront, lifting him so that he was curved like a bow, his neck stretched long and fine. The tableau froze for a quiet moment like a scene from the Pageant of the Masters they liked to attend every year at the Festival of Arts in Laguna Beach. She watched as the man lizard stood over Alan with what appeared to be the beginning of an erection; Alan softly groaned from the strain to his back, his neck arched and vulnerable, his veins blue, the arteries pulsing steadily.
The moment broke as the intruder crushed Alan’s throat in massive canine jaws, ripping through the skin and muscles, finding the right side carotid at the branch and severing the junction so that Alan’s blood erupted in a joyous geyser, filling his mouth and bathing his face in the red sacrament of spring he’d fantasized about for all those lonely, hungry years.
As the blood shot from his neck spraying the wall in bright red Jackson Pollock drips, Joyce thought how her husband would hate the look as, punctuating Alan’s moans, she heard an obscene gurgle as the stranger sucked the last drops of blood from her husband. As he turned towards her, she saw that he was fully engorged and that his rough scaly hide seemed to resemble skin, the kind that grew back after a bad burn.
He seemed to transpose before her eyes, as he stood taller in the grey/blue storm light. Standing taller and filling out, the reptilian cast fell from him and he came to resemble a white man with what she thought of as Asian tones, he stood over six feet, she guessed, and was lanky and muscled like the swimmers she watched every four years. He had dark eyes still glowing like banked embers and thick black hair hanging to his shoulders. His body seemed hairless except for his groin.
The last sound Alan heard as his successful life petered out on his polished fir floor was the hideous way Joyce’s last scream was silenced as the man crunched her throat in his jaws.
Oliver looked around the room, savoring the blood-spattered mess. Momentarily sated, he paused to admire the view. After a moment he shrank behind a comforting wall, the vastness of the sea overwhelming him. He still held Joyce’s hand and in a gesture of humanity gone, pulled her body to his face and, seeking some comfort, bent over and began to consume her ravaged neck. Revulsion paused his meal, but desire and hunger overcame the vampiric prohibition and he leisurely finished his meal, musing all the while on why he should not be allowed to consume prey.
Other than the shattered front window, the two dead bodies with what appeared to be most of their blood spattered about the pristine walls of the living room, and the couples’ Bertram 36 bobbing derelict in the swell off Bellingham, the San Juan County Sheriffs found no physical evidence. The two bodies with their throats torn out and the blood and tissue spattering the floors and walls were gruesome but reassuring, as the savagery suggested the depredations of a wild animal rather than a deranged cannibal loose in the Pacific Northwest.
The paw prints tracked about the house, initially thought to be wolf, were later determined to be from the couple’s Shi Tzu, which was eventually found cowering under the enormous bed located in the master bedroom. None of the available cash and jewelry was missing and valuable artwork was untouched. The boat was probably torn from its mooring by the violent storm, which undoubtedly broke the window, allowing the predator access to the house.
Local law enforcement was staunchly anti-global warming, anti-environment, anti-democratic, anti-immigration, anti-minority rights, pro-gun and anti-union, except for their paychecks and pensions, and rabidly opposed to Wildlife Habitats’ efforts to preserve and restore the ecosystem of the Salish Sea drainage area.
Commander Gunderson, police chief for life, donned his favorite uniform, the one with the gold piping and stars. He’d requested field marshal rank from the uniform catalogue shop and been disappointed to learn that the traditional designation for a European Field Marshall was a baton. He thought the baton foppish, something limp wristed conductors waved, and settled for the American General of the Army rank, five stars arranged in a cluster on each of his shoulder boards.
He went on the local news station to assure the public that they were safe and, when the blonde holding the microphone lobbed the inevitable softball, he hit a soft single with “Yes, Tiffany, you bring up a very good point. If it wasn’t for the liberals’ interference with God’s plans, these poor people would be alive today,” thereby cementing the station’s continued support at election time.
Smiling a mouthful of impossibly perfect banality Tiffany burbled, “The Liberals just killed two more; you heard it first on fair and balanced news.” The station manager longed for liberation from the small station backwater and promotion to a major market, where he could make a difference in the culture war. When they weren’t cheating on their spouses, Tiffany and he schemed ways to stand out in the increasingly cluttered conservative sphere. They’d seized upon a graphic representation of liberal perfidy and Tiffany painted the thermometer of death red, solemnly intoning, “Two more, at this rate we’ll reach our goal by Christmas.” Gunderson sat smiling, admiring her shapely legs as she walked across the set.
Returning to his war room, Gunderson changed into his
tactical combat uniform, all the while contemplating the military grade assault weapons and, his secret pride, an armored vehicle complete with a rotating turret sporting a .50 caliber machine gun he’d purchased with the county’s share of the Homeland Security allocation. After blowing the budget on his combat arsenal, there were no funds for a morgue, emergency vehicles, lab equipment or a Medical Examiner to deal with the remains of persons whose demise suggested foul play. He longed to lead his men into battle, defeating the forces arrayed against America but, annoyingly, there were no suspects and none of his deputies could locate either a wolf or an alien anarchist group to blame for the deaths.
He’d revamped the department by firing the local boys who had made up the department and hiring police officers from Los Angeles who had been forced out for what he deemed to be unfounded charges of brutality. He admired his deputies’ penchant for street justice, but had to admit that their woodcraft, boating and hunting skills were minimal, at best. Most had trained in the gang areas of Los Angeles and, if truth be told, were bored with abusing the local teenagers, rousing the drunks and jailing tourists for petty misdemeanors. Gunderson hoped the case would turn into something so he could conclusively demonstrate the authority of his power and maybe, while he was at it, put it to the sissies who continually harped about civil rights.
The San Juan Prosecuting Attorney doubled as the Coroner and, since law school, hadn’t covered autopsies. He gladly handed the messy bodies to the Snohomish County Medical Examiner to determine the cause of death and the likelihood that the deaths were caused by unnatural or unlawful means, and to bill the good citizens of San Juan County for services rendered. Once the crime scene was boarded up and sealed, the remains bagged and shipped on, Prosecuting Attorney/Coroner Thomas Benson sat on the deck and admired the view.
Paradoxically, about the only advantage he did have was the complete lack of facilities and personnel. Since there were no doctors, forensic experts, lab technicians or even a lab, he was free to retain the services of outside experts if the situation required and he saw fit, within reason, of course. After looking at the bloody mess, the total lack of evidence and listening to the sheriff’s theory of rogue wolves swimming from the mainland to eat law abiding citizens, he placed a telephone call to Seattle and left a message requesting that a certain research pathologist with subspecialties in genetics and hematology pay a visit to the remains and provide any information, opinions or guesses as to what caused the death of the unfortunate couple. And, he thought, as he left a message on her cell phone, it doesn’t hurt that she’s got a few bucks and will work long and cheap if she gets interested in a case.
CHAPTER 2
Arabella Arienne pushed through the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - NO ADMITTANCE doors of the Snohomish County Medical Examiner’s office without knocking. Two draped bodies lay on carts in the middle of the room. She could tell that one was female, the other male, by the curves and bumps in the sheets. A middle aged Japanese man dressed in surgical scrubs ignored her. Arabella took a moment to look around the room then locked the door behind her. The Japanese man continued ignoring her.
She casually strolled over to a government issue desk pushed flush against the wall, hung her black leather jacket on the back of the wooden office chair and calmly surveyed the desk like she was inspecting a plague site. “What is that?” she said, indicating a lump of fresh tissue setting on a specimen tray. Satisfied that no other fluids or body parts were on the desktop she set her bag on the desk, careful that it was nowhere near the specimen.
“Make yourself at home,” said Dr. Izanagi, still ostentatiously ignoring her. Maybe five foot five inches tall if he spent the evening on the rack, he weighed at least two hundred pounds and resembled a brick with feet. Born in a WWII internment camp, he’d excelled in school, proving his commitment to his new land every day. Graduating from the U of W Medical School, he’d found a home in forensic pathology and served his community well by honestly examining each case, free of popular sentiment and police pressure.
The family name was actually something different, but when they were rounded up in the night by the authorities and trucked to the compound at Manzanar, the intake clerk made a mistake and the family name became the name of an ancient creation deity. His parents, interested only in getting along in their new land, accepted the mistake with stoic grace and carried on much as if the Crown family from England had been renamed Cronus at Ellis Island. The only ones who noticed were other Japanese, and since no one cared about them other than as prisoners, the name stuck.
“What is this?” she asked. A faint echo of something soft and foreign colored her voice. Whenever he commented and asked where she was from she laughed him off, saying it was polyglot East coast highlighted with South Carolina’s lowlands.
“That’s for you, put it in your purse,” replied Izanagi.
“Fat chance,” she said, “this is a Perrin.”
“Arabella, that thing looks like a bowling ball bag,” he said, minutely examining the purse she’d centered on his desk like a work of art. He spoke with great sorrow, as if the most important thing in his life was a desire to comfort her in her moment of anguished humiliation, “that is certainly not art and hardly even fashion; you have been deceived; I assume it was at the very least inexpensive if not cheap.”
“It is a Riva commonly referred to as the ball bag,” she replied, ignoring his drooping basset hound eyes, “so you see you weren’t far off, although I doubt any Parisian carries her bowling ball in it assuming, of course, she actually owns a bowling ball.”
“You refer to it as the common ball bag?”
“No,” she snorted, “I most certainly do not.”
“At the very least it was cheap, yes?”
“They have been in business since 1893, they maintain their own tannery to control the quality, this is crocodile, it is twenty years old, of course it wasn’t cheap.”
“I only ask because I have never seen it before, an item so unique would have made an impression.” He looked at her and at the bag, changing his point of view, “perhaps, when you are not using it, I could…”
“No, you cannot borrow it; it is not a bowling ball bag.”
Izanagi had first met Arabella at the dojo he religiously attended. Located on the outskirts of the International district, the dojo was the oldest in the Northwest and hewed closely to the precepts of the first kendo masters. She had wandered in one day while a class was in session and asked if she might join. Assuming the drudgery of the practice, the strict discipline of the mat, and the unquestioned authority of the sensei would drive her off like the Westerners before her, leaving the dojo to the purebreds of Japanese birth, they acquiesced. She diligently attended, constantly practiced the moves and absorbed without complaint the blows rained upon her by teachers and fellow students.
Demonstrating a remarkable aptitude in the arcane art of Japanese sword fighting, she rose through the classes. They seemed always to be paired in practice and developed the camaraderie of the mat. It wasn’t until later, one evening when they stayed late to practice for a tournament he had entered that he learned the truth. Alone in the dojo she showed her true proficiency, easily defeating him with a series of moves that he could barely see, let alone counter.
At the conclusion of their practice or, more realistically, her demonstration, she had revealed her true nature. Freely admitting that she’d identified him as a candidate because of his medical degree and access to blood, she gained his confidence. And he admired her skill in the dojo as well as her very Japanese appreciation of ritual, an appreciation bordering on obsession. Her explanation that service to a symbolic truth was her connection with humanity somehow satisfied his moral qualms.
Once over the shock and with another demonstration of her powers, she recruited him to serve as a Human adjunct of the Underground community. “And if I decline?” he’d asked, his face stoic. “That would be a problem,” she’d murmured, “one that would cause me g
reat distress.” He stood in front of her not flinching, looking directly into her face. She knew then that she had chosen wisely, for he was able to bear her gaze without flinching, an ability few Humans possessed. “I believe if I decline that my distress would be greater than yours,” he replied, a grin turning his stern face into a lovable pumpkin, “but one should not make such a decision based upon a fear of consequences.”
Ultimately, his curiosity got the better of him, that and his fondness for Arabella, a fondness that was reciprocated. They developed a complicated relationship where he was committed to serve her and it was understood that he owed no allegiance or fealty to the Northwest Clan. Such a situation was rare and caused much consternation in the Clan, finally requiring the adjudication of the Queen, who allowed Izanagi his independence with the admonishment that Arabella not recruit a separate Clan.
Since then, he’d been a valuable liaison, keeping her abreast of the odd death that suggested a Vampire gone rogue, a situation that the Queen severely discouraged. Izanagi kept her supplied with fresh blood and assisted her in her research into the origins and causes of Vampirism. The supply of blood available to her from Izanagi and her other recruits and helpers meant that she enjoyed a certain freedom from the blood monopoly imposed by the Clan.
Intrigued and attracted as much by her scientific search for the cause of the change as the weirdness of the situation, they’d formed an easy alliance where he kept her informed as to any anomalies that might direct the authorities to the secret existence of the Clan and she shielded him from the more overbearing of her brethren, providing him whatever assistance he required.
“This bag is handmade, Italian leather, it cost over a thousand dollars and when did you become an adjudicator of art let alone fashion?” Five foot ten inches in her spiky heels, she wore an expensive pair of jeans and a tight fitted shirt that exposed an inch or two of her taut belly. Her black hair was severe and shoulder length, parted down the middle and swept back from her pale white skin and full red lips. Perched on her forehead were the sunglasses she always had handy; he thought they were aviators like his father wore in the old pictures he kept in an album.
