Shooter groaned and grabbed TJ’s thighs, spreading them and burying his head between her legs to give her the same pleasure she was giving him.
Minutes later, TJ screamed as they came together, climaxing at almost the same instant. TJ turned her head to the side and rested it on Shooter’s groin as he grew soft, giving her time to change back into a human again.
Once the change was complete, she reversed positions and straddled him, leaning her face down to kiss his lips. “Now I want you inside me,” she whispered.
He shook his head weakly. “I don’t think . . . ,” he began.
TJ decided to try to impose her mental emotions on him, as she had read his before. She concentrated, thinking of her lust for him and projected it at Shooter mentally.
Within seconds, he was growing rigid beneath her, his lips curled in a silly grin.
She smiled back and lifted her hips slightly and then brought them down on him, impaling herself on his penis.
He reached up and jerked the top of her gown down and she leaned forward, letting his lips cover her breast as they coupled again and again.
Afterward, with Shooter asleep next to her, TJ lay in the darkness thinking about what was happening to her. The blood lust coupled with her changing appearance and her new mental abilities told her that if they didn’t find some way to cure her soon, her soul would be lost forever.
* * *
Once Matt and Sam were in their room, she turned to him and kissed him lightly. “You know what, Matt?” she asked.
“Uh-uh,” he said, moving his lips to her neck.
“I’m starved,” she said.
“What?”
“Why don’t you order us a hamburger and fries from room service while I change?” she asked.
“You want to eat? Now?” he asked, his disappointment evident.
“You order the food,” Sam said, “and I’ll change into the nightgown I showed you earlier.”
“OK,” he said, though it was clear food was the last thing on his mind.
By the time the waiter had brought the food, Sam had taken a quick shower and reappeared wearing the black see-through nightgown as she promised.
They set up trays on the bed and proceeded to scarf down hamburgers, fries, and some chili Matt had added to her request.
When they were done, he put the tray outside the door in the corridor and turned to find Sam lying in bed propped up against the headboard, the top of her nightie barely covering her breasts as she smiled invitingly at him.
“Aren’t we supposed to wait an hour or something?” he asked as he walked toward her.
“Nope, silly. That’s before swimming,” she replied.
“But I do intend to dive right in,” he said, grinning as he slipped out of his clothes.
“In that case,” she said, lowering the top of her gown to her waist—“come on in, the water’s fine.”
Twenty minutes later, they both stopped in the middle of making love and looked up as they heard a muffled scream from next door.
Matt grinned at Sam. “I see TJ’s having fun.”
She shrugged and pulled him to her with a laugh deep in her throat. “How do you know that wasn’t Shooter screaming?” she asked.
Twenty-two
Matt and Sam were already at breakfast when Shooter and TJ joined them. Both Matt and Sam noticed Shooter looked a little haggard, and there was a fresh bandage on Shooter’s neck.
Sam nudged Matt and raised her eyebrows, but he shook his head. He’d discuss it with Shooter later when they were alone.
“Good morning,” TJ said brightly, looking fresh and radiant in the early-morning sunshine streaming through the window.
“Morning,” Matt said while Sam just smiled.
“Jesus, I need some coffee,” Shooter moaned, holding his head.
“A little hungover this morning?” Matt asked.
“A lot hungover,” Shooter replied.
When the waiter appeared, Shooter told him to leave a carafe of coffee because he was going to need a lot to get his motor going.
“Did you sleep well?” Sam asked, grinning at TJ.
TJ blushed. “Yes, we did.”
“We didn’t,” Matt said. “Too much noise from the room next door.”
Shooter smiled for the first time that morning. “Yeah. We must’ve left the TV on too loud.”
“Watching a porno channel, were you?” Matt asked with a chuckle.
TJ glanced at Shooter and covered his hand with hers. “No, actually, Shooter is being gallant. We both got a little . . . carried away last night, it being our first night in a hotel together.”
Sam laughed. “Well, at least these two have something in common. Hotels seem to make them horny.”
Matt winked at Sam. “It’s not the location, sweetheart, it’s the company.”
Once the waiter served their food, they all dug in with hearty appetites, except Shooter, who stared at his food with a sour expression on his face. “I don’t know if my stomach will tolerate food for a while.”
“The best cure for a hangover is to eat,” TJ said.
Matt nodded. “Listen to your doctor, Shooter. She knows best.”
After they were through eating and were on their after-meal coffees, Matt asked, “OK, team, what’s the plan of action for today?”
Shooter reached in his pocket for a cigarette, until a stern look from TJ made him change his mind. “I thought Matt and I’d go check in with the police, and you girls head to the medical society offices.”
While waiting for the doorman to get them a cab, TJ turned to Sam. “Sam, would you mind going to the medical society by yourself? There’s someone I’ve got to go see.”
“Uh, sure, TJ,” Sam said. “But I didn’t know you knew anyone in New Orleans.”
“I don’t,” TJ replied. “But last night, some strange things were happening to me, and this woman appeared in the ladies’ room and gave me a card,” she said, pulling Carmilla’s card out of her purse and showing it to Sam.
“Did she say anything?” Sam asked.
TJ shook her head. “No, but there was something about the way she acted that told me she might be of help to us.”
Sam cocked her head. “What kind of strange things are you talking about?”
The cab pulled up and TJ placed her hand on Sam’s arm. “Please bear with me for a while, Sam. I don’t have time to explain right now, but I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”
Sam patted her hand. “OK, TJ, but you be careful. Remember, we’re dealing with forces and people here that are very dangerous.”
“I promise I’ll be very careful,” TJ said, and jumped into the taxi.
While they were waiting for their bill to arrive, Matt peered at Shooter over the rim of his coffee cup. “What’s with the bandages on your neck, Shooter? Cut yourself shaving?”
Shooter fingered the bandage, his eyes avoiding Matt’s. “Uh, not exactly.”
Matt leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice so nearby diners couldn’t overhear. “Come on, pal. You’ve been sporting wounds on your neck for a couple of weeks now. What gives?”
Shooter finally looked at Matt, his eyes tortured. “It’s TJ, Matt. When we make love, she just goes wild and gives me a little love nip on the neck. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Matt said. “You know what TJ’s been through and what that son of a bitch did to her. This could mean she’s changing again into something like Niemann.”
Shooter shook his head vigorously, but it was clear the thought had occurred to him. “I don’t want to even think about that,” he said.
“Look, Shooter, I know you love TJ, but you’ve got to be realistic about what’s going on here. If she’s sucking your blood, then we need to reinstitute therapy as soon as possible before she gets so far along it won’t work.”
Shooter’s hand went to his neck. “It’s not like that. It’s just a little tear in the skin. She does
n’t actually suck the blood out.”
“Does she show any other signs of progression of her illness?” Matt asked.
Shooter thought about the deep scratches on his back and how TJ always turned the lights out so he couldn’t see her when they made love, but he shook his head. “No, not really.”
“OK,” Matt said, “but we’ve got to know if she continues to want to taste your blood. It’ll mean our time is shorter than we first thought.”
“I’ll let you know,” Shooter said, hating to lie to his friend, but afraid of what the truth might be.
When Matt and Shooter checked in at the front desk of the New Orleans police station, the desk sergeant said, “Go right on upstairs, the chief is expecting you.”
They entered the chief of detectives’ office and William Boudreaux rose to greet them. He was a huge bear of a man, standing well over six feet tall and almost as wide. He was wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt that appeared a couple of sizes too small, and his belly protruded over his belt, threatening to send buttons popping everywhere.
He had a file open on his desk, and Matt, reading upside down, saw it had Roger Niemann’s name on it.
“Howdy, men,” Boudreaux said in a thick New Orleans accent.
“Hello, Chief Boudreaux,” Shooter said. “I’m Detective Steve Kowolski and this is my friend, Dr. Matt Carter.”
Boudreaux stuck out his hand. “Call me Bill, boys, everybody does,” he said, grinning, “an’ I’ll call you Shooter.”
Shooter smiled back. “I see you’ve been talking to my chief.”
Boudreaux laughed. “That’s quite a story, ’bout how you got your name.”
“Yes, sir, it’s funny now, but it didn’t seem so at the time,” Shooter said.
“I was working robbery back in my early days on the force and my partner and I answered a call to a liquor store. About the time I got out of the car, this perp comes running out waving a shotgun at me. Well, needless to say, I grabbed for my .38 and somehow the son of a bitch went off. I ended up shooting the little toe on my right foot clean off.”
“No shit?” Boudreaux asked, laughing out loud.
“Yeah,” Shooter answered, “and the funny thing is the perp was so startled when my gun went off he dropped the shotgun and surrendered right there.”
Matt added, “And Officer Kowolski has been called Shooter ever since.”
“Take a seat, boys,” Boudreaux said as he sat in his desk chair and leaned back, his hands folded across his ample stomach. “You want some coffee? It’s made with chicory and guaranteed to put hair on your chests.”
Both Matt and Shooter shook their heads.
“I’ve been reading this file Chief Clark overnighted to me. It makes a hell of a story.”
Shooter nodded. “Yes, sir. We think he was responsible for dozens of killings in the Houston area.”
Boudreaux picked up a sheet of paper from the file and peered over it at them. “According to this medical examiner’s report, the wounds this Niemann inflicted were remarkably similar to the ones we’ve been seeing in our Ripper killings.”
“That’s one of the reasons we’ve come to your city,” Shooter said. “The similarity of the murders, plus the fact that we have some evidence Niemann may have traveled to New Orleans after our confrontation with him in Houston.”
Boudreaux’s forehead wrinkled. “But, according to your chief, this Niemann was shot several times with a machine gun and fell into the Houston Ship Channel. You think he may have survived that?”
Shooter shrugged. “I didn’t think it was possible at first, Bill, but we never found a trace of his body, and with the problems you’ve been having here, we thought it worth a shot to come up here and look around.”
Boudreaux nodded. “Tell me about this body y’all found with his head cut off and the body burned with gasoline.”
Shooter turned to Matt. “That was handled by Matt,” he said.
Matt went on to describe how they’d found the body partially consumed by a gasoline fire after his head had been severed.
“You run any tests on the remains?” Boudreaux asked, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his desk.
Matt took a deep breath. He knew what he was about to say would be hard for the policeman to believe.
“Yes, sir. We did DNA testing and found evidence the body was over a hundred years old.”
Boudreaux pursed his lips. “Could someone have dug the body up out of a grave and cut it and then burned it?”
Matt shook his head. “The medical examiner didn’t think so. The tissues in the body showed evidence of a recent infection with an organism that wasn’t around a hundred years ago. It was, and is, our belief the man was alive when he was killed and that he was, in fact, well over a hundred years old at the time.”
Boudreaux tapped his index finger on the file. “I’m readin’ between the lines here, boys, but I get the impression you and your chief think there was more to this Niemann character than a run-of-the-mill serial killer. There’s some stuff in here ’bout records of this guy goin’ back a long, long time, too.”
Matt and Shooter glanced at each other. Shooter shrugged. “You might as well level with him, Matt.”
“Chief, without getting too technical, we believe there exists in America a group of people infected with a disease that leaves them with symptoms very similar to the myth about vampires. These people live an extraordinary length of time, and because of their infection, they need fresh blood to live. It is our belief Roger Niemann was one of these people and that he killed like he did in order to survive.”
Boudreaux smiled. “So, to cut to the chase, you think this Niemann fellow was a vampire, and that either he or one like him is responsible for our Ripper murders?”
Matt held up his hand. “Not a vampire in the supernatural sense, Bill. It’s just a disease that causes some of the same characteristics of the old fables.”
“Chief,” Shooter added, “I hope you won’t dismiss our concerns or think we’re nuts because of this.”
Boudreaux shook his head. “Not to worry, Shooter. I’ve lived here in New Orleans for all of my life, an’ I gotta tell you I’ve seen some things that’d make the hair on the back of your neck stand up plumb straight. Remember, this is the land of voodoo, and New Orleans is the capital.” He grinned. “No, I don’t dismiss nothin’ out of hand, but I do like to see some proof ’fore I go off half-cocked.”
“All we’re asking is for you to allow us to do our own investigation,” Shooter said. “We’ll keep you informed of anything we find out, of course.”
“Are you carryin’, son?” Boudreaux asked.
“Uh, no, sir,” Shooter said. “But I did bring my service revolver with me. It’s in my suitcase at the hotel.”
“Well, I suppose if you’re gonna go nosing around our city, you oughta have some protection. Stand up, Shooter.”
Shooter got to his feet, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me: ‘I solemnly swear to uphold the laws of the commonwealth of Louisiana.’ ”
Shooter held up his hand and repeated the words.
“Now,” Boudreaux said, “you’re an honorary deputy and that allows you to go armed in our state.”
“Thanks, Chief,” Shooter said.
“You can thank me by findin’ the bastard who’s killin’ my citizens,” Boudreaux said. He fished in his shirt pocket and brought out a card, which he handed to Shooter. “Here’s a card with my home number and cell phone number. You’ll be able to reach me twenty-four hours a day.”
Matt got to his feet. “Chief, before we go, let me just emphasize how powerful Niemann is. When we tracked him to his ship and the SWAT team attacked him, he fought back with only a sword.”
“He went up against a SWAT team with a sword?” Boudreaux asked unbelievingly.
Shooter nodded. “Yeah, and he managed to take out eight men before we got him.”
Boudreaux
looked from Matt to Shooter. “In that case, maybe I’d better swear your friend in, too. You may need all the firepower you can carry if you manage to find this guy.”
Twenty-three
TJ got out of her cab and checked the address against the card the woman had given her. It was correct and the sign over the small storefront office read DE LA FONTAINE ANTIQUES.
When she put a hand on the doorknob, TJ got such a feeling of foreboding she almost turned around and left, but she forced herself to open the door and enter. After all, she told herself, her life might depend on what she learned inside.
A couple was inside, walking the aisles and occasionally picking up objects and checking the price tags. They were obviously tourists, with the man wearing Bermuda shorts and the woman in a dress of outlandish colors.
The attractive dark-haired woman from the other night appeared from behind the counter and smiled at TJ. When TJ started to speak, the woman shook her head, cast her eyes at the tourists, and motioned TJ through a door into a back room.
“Make yourself comfortable, dear,” she said in a voice devoid of accent. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
TJ took a seat at a large, ornately carved table in the rear of the room and glanced around her at the antiques, which filled every corner. She was no expert, but she thought the pieces were exquisite and knew they were probably worth a small fortune.
After a few moments, TJ heard the front door shut. Seconds later, the woman appeared. “I’ve put the Closed sign on the door so we won’t be disturbed,” she said.
When TJ said nothing, the woman approached and held out her hand. “I am Carmilla de la Fontaine,” she said.
TJ shook her hand. “I’m TJ O’Reilly.”
“Yes,” Carmilla said. “I know.”
“Have we met?” TJ asked.
“No, dear. I got that from your mind the other night.”
“You read my mind?”
Carmilla made a dismissive motion with her hand. “Not exactly, but I was able to get certain impressions.”
TJ put her face in her hands. “I’m so confused,” she moaned.
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