by Matt Kincade
Rob looked Carmen up and down. “Entirely satisfied.”
Carmen rolled her eyes.
“Alex, how’s a hick like you score a piece like that?”
“He’s got a secret technique,” Carmen said. “It’s called not being a creepy asshole.”
Rob laughed. “I never got the hang of that one.”
“Rob and his brothers run a hunter outfit called the Coffin Crew,” Alex told Carmen.
“We’re working security today, so we won’t be there for the ceremony, but it’s good seeing you.”
“You too, man. Tell Brian and Terry I said hi.”
“Will do.” Rob unlocked the gate for them, and they rolled on through. Carmen looked in the rearview mirror to see him melt back into the desert.
Carmen twisted in her seat to see Rob disappear into the desert. “That guy was…”
“A creepy asshole?” Alex finished. “Yeah. Sorry ’bout that. Can’t stand him. But he sure can kill vampires. Coworkers, you know? What the hell you gonna do?”
They jostled along the dusty road until they came around a low hill and found a row of parked cars, trucks, and a row of motorcycles. Carmen recognized Jen’s van. Nearby was a cluster of pop-up white gazebos. They shaded a row of buffet tables that held a variety of snack foods and alcohol. A crowd of a few dozen milled around.
Alex killed the motor. “Well, this is the gang.”
Carmen looked around at the crowd. It made up largely—though not entirely—of men, and featured a staggering variety of styles. There were a handful of greasy biker types with ratty beards; they wore leather chaps, blue jeans, and black leather vests with patches on their backs that said HELL HUNTERS MC.
Paramilitary types were well represented, wearing any combination of fatigue pants, combat boots, and assault vests. But most of the crowd looked just like normal folks to Carmen.
Cooper was there, dressed in a crisp khaki suit, the coat slung over his shoulder. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and his tie loosened. He chatted amicably with a blond femme fatale in leather pants. A group of four clean-cut young men in camo fatigue pants and black T-shirts grazed the snack table. Nearby, a grizzled old man with a week’s worth of white stubble poured tequila into a red plastic cup. Despite the heat, he wore a black full-length duster coat and a warped fedora.
Carmen spotted Jen talking to a young man who looked like an Asian college student. Jen waved, and Carmen headed her way. Alex followed.
“Carmen!” They hugged. “How are you?”
“I’m well. Ankle’s at one hundred percent.”
“And how about you, Alex? All healed up?”
Alex smirked. “Shit, darlin’, nothin’ keeps me down for long.” He touched his hat brim. “Hey, good seein’ you, but we got a lot of people to meet. C’mon, Carmen. I’ll show you ’round.”
“I’ll see you,” said Jen.
Alex put a hand around Carmen’s shoulder as they walked toward the buffet table. The old man in the duster turned. He grinned, revealing yellowed horse teeth. The duster swung open, and Carmen saw some kind of drum-fed rifle underneath. “Hello, Alex,” he said. “Who’s the lady?”
Alex introduced him to Carmen as “the Judge,” and they shook hands. The old man’s hand was dry and calloused and surprisingly strong. “So how long have you been running with Alex?” he asked.
“Just a few weeks.”
Alex added, “She’s new to the business.”
The Judge nodded. “Did you ever meet Mack?”
“Once,” answered Carmen. “He was a nice guy.”
“He was,” the Judge said. “He was. I’m going to miss that son of a bitch.”
Alex poured gin into two red plastic cups and handed one to Carmen. “No, thanks. It’s too early for me,” she said.
“Just hold on to it,” said Alex.
Jen walked by and tapped Alex on the shoulder. “Looks like we’re getting started.”
A large circle formed as the attendees stood shoulder to shoulder. Alex and Carmen found places among the crowd. The Judge came and stood next to them.
“Is everybody here?” said Jen. No one answered, which she took to mean yes. She looked around the circle. “Since The Judge here probably knew Mack longer than any of us, I think he should start off.”
The old man stepped forward. He cleared his throat and looked around the circle. No one spoke. He pulled out a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. “Mack always loved this stuff,” he said. “Me and Mack were running together since half of you were in diapers. I never met anybody with more…goddamn it.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “Mack was a legend. He didn’t do the dirty work, but he was responsible for more kills than I can count. He worked miracles. I trusted him with my life, and he never let me down. He was one of the old guard, and there are less of us every day. Goddamn it, I’m gonna miss you buddy.” He took a swig from the gin bottle and poured the rest on the ground. He fished a quarter from his pocket and tossed it into the center of the circle. “Here’s a coin to pay the ferryman. Rest easy, my friend. You earned it.”
Standing at the Judge’s right side, Alex stepped forward and said, “Ol’ Mack, well, he listened to some awful goddamned music.” A few muted chuckles escaped from the crowd. “But I never held that against him. We gave each other a lot of shit. But he always had my back. He was a brother to me—the brother I never had. Brother, I wish I’d been there for you like you was always there for me. Godspeed, Mack.” He poured his cup out on the ground.
Everyone looked to Carmen. She hesitated. “It’s all right,” Alex whispered. “Just say whatever comes to mind.”
“Mack…” she started. “I only met him once. But he was a perfect gentleman. He made me feel at ease. And he didn’t look down on me for being…out of the loop, I guess. And I can see he meant a lot to all of you. So here’s to you, Mack.” She poured out the cup.
Jen stepped forward next, said her piece, and poured out her cup. So it went around the circle, as each of them shared a memory or two and poured out their drink.
As the ceremony came full circle, the Judge stepped forward again. He spoke, but in a language Carmen didn’t know. A few others in the crowd spoke along with him, but most stayed silent, staring at the ground.
Finished, the Judge raised his head. “Now let’s all do like Mack would have wanted, and get shit-faced.” The crowd erupted in a cheer, and the drinking began in earnest.
Carmen leaned in to Alex. “That sounded like a Catholic Mass. Was that Latin?”
Alex answered as they followed the crowd toward the refreshments. “It was Latin, but it wasn’t Catholic. People been hunting vampires longer’n you might think.”
While Alex sipped on a bottle of beer and chatted with Jen and Carmen, two of the bikers approached. Alex raised his beer and said, “Cutter, man, how are you!”
“Good, man, good.” He and Alex shook hands and hugged. “Helluva a thing about Mack.” Cutter was Alex’s height but probably weighed ten pounds more, all of it muscle. His dirty-blond hair was tied in a ponytail that reached past his shoulders. A spray of stubble dotted a chiseled, underwear-model chin. Under a black vest, he wore a blue chambray shirt, the sleeves rolled up past the elbows. He carried a large knife in a sheath on his left hip.
“Hey, this is my buddy, Pretty Boy,” said Cutter. He gestured toward his friend. Pretty Boy had a face like a dump truck. His head was shaved, and his a physique could kindly be described as rotund. His T-shirt was stained and stretched, and advertised some heavy metal band.
“Pleasure.” Alex touched the brim of his hat. Pretty Boy nodded.
“Listen man, I was just telling Pretty about that thing you did at the barbecue last year, with the silver dollars, and he didn’t believe me.”
“Nobody can do that shit,” said Pretty Boy.
“What’s this trick he’s talking about?” Carmen interjected.
“Ain’t nothin’,” said Alex. “Besides, I ain’t got no coins with me.”
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“I do,” said Cutter. He pulled out a handful of silver dollars. “Brought ’em just for the occasion.”
“Aw, come on.” Alex rolled his eyes. “I don’t feel like it.”
A small crowd had gathered around. Jen wandered over. “Oh, come on, Alex. Let’s see it.”
“Aw, goddamn it.” Alex sighed. He handed his beer to Carmen. “All right.” He barely nodded to Cutter.
It happened too fast to register. Without warning, Cutter flung the handful of silver dollars skyward. They glinted in the sunlight. Alex spun and crouched. In an eye blink, his chrome .45 was in his outstretched hand and spitting fire. The shots echoed and rolled off the distant mesas. Brass cartridges spun away through the air.
Alex tucked the gun away behind his back in the same smooth motion. An instant later, the silver dollars plopped into the dust. The crowd applauded. Alex adjusted his hat brim and took his beer back from Carmen. He emptied the bottle in one long pull.
Cutter walked over and picked up one of the coins. He peered through the bullet hole punched in the center of the coin. “See?” he said to his friend. “What did I tell you?”
Pretty shook his head. “Nuts, man. That’s fuckin’ nuts.”
Carmen picked up another one of the coins. It, too, had a perfect hole drilled through its center. She held it in her hand and followed Alex.
She caught up to Alex at the drink table. He pulled a fresh beer from an ice chest and twisted off the cap.
“That was amazing,” said Carmen.
Alex sipped at the beer. “Weren’t nothing.”
“How do you do that?”
“Don’t rightly know. Just do it.”
Alex felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Cooper. “Coop,” he said. “How you doin’?”
“Getting along,” said Cooper. “Is this the girl you told me about, from the vampire’s house?
“Yeah, this is Carmen. Carmen, Cooper.”
“Miss,” Said Cooper. He didn’t offer his hand. He stared at her through mirrored aviator shades, as the wind played with the few remaining hairs on the top of his head. His face was as unreadable as a hockey mask.
“A pleasure,” said Carmen, without much sincerity.
“Cooper here helps me out sometimes,” said Alex. “He works for the CIA.”
“I don’t work for the CIA,” said Cooper.
Alex chuckled. “See? That’s exactly what a CIA agent would say.”
Cooper surveyed the crowd. “Listen, I think I was the last one to talk to Mack before he died.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He mentioned he was working on something for you.”
Alex nodded. “That’s right. He was runnin’ down some leads for me.”
“That’s what he said. Well, I haven’t been able to find out much. But I got hold of some of the wreckage from his camper.”
“How in…? Naw, never mind. You wouldn’t tell me anyways.”
Cooper pulled out a stack of photocopies. The pages they depicted were singed and tattered. “This was his notebook. I can’t make any sense out of it.”
Alex took the pages and flipped through them: doodles, scrawled notes, all of it practically illegible. “Thanks. We’ll see what we can figure out.”
“And one other thing,” Cooper said. “I managed to pull some strings and keep this information out of the hands of the proper authorities, but I got hold of his call logs. The last call he received was from a Dr. Peter Stein, a botanist at New Mexico State University. Does that mean anything to you?”
Carmen and Alex looked at each other. “A botanist? Yeah, that just might be something.”
Chapter Fifteen
“You know,” Carmen said, “I hated college.”
The campus was made up of modern, angular buildings painted in khaki and terra-cotta, blending in with the surrounding terrain and the desert landscaping.
Alex and Carmen walked side by side down a broad tree-lined walkway. Alex had on crisp new blue jeans and a black bowling shirt, topped, as always, with his beat-up cowboy hat. Carmen wore jeans and a black-and-red plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. They made their way through the crowds of young, attractive, happy people.
Two kids—they were probably twenty, but Carmen couldn’t think of them as anything else—played Frisbee on the lawn. A young bottle blonde in a New Mexico State University T-shirt walked past them, chatting loudly on her phone, detailing to someone just how awful last night’s frat party was.
“Never went to college myself. Seems like it mighta been fun, though.” Alex turned his head to watch the coed go by. Carmen thumped him on the arm. He smiled and hooked an arm around her waist.
“I guess maybe that was the problem,” Carmen said. “I wasn’t there to have fun. I was taking classes with people who were going on to be doctors and engineers, but I felt like I was surrounded by idiot children. I guess I’ve always just been the serious type.” She smiled. “And stepping back on a campus makes me suddenly feel like I forgot to study for an exam.”
“All right, we’re lookin’ for Casseter Hall, right? Here’s the place.” It was a tall, boxy building, painted the same desert colors as every other building in the state. He pulled open the double doors and held them for Carmen. Inside, the place was blessedly cool. The students in this part of the campus seemed more serious, leaning over books or laptops, whispering together in groups, holding up flash cards. The building was full of taxidermied animals in glass cases, framed collections of insects, displays of local minerals and fossils. They wandered down the hallway until they found an office door labeled PROF. PETER STEIN, BOTANY. Alex rapped on the glass.
Professor Stein opened the door. “I’m not able to add any more students until—” He stopped, looking over his visitors. He was lean but healthy looking, with a hooked posture from long hours of bending over books and specimens. Well tanned, he had fully gray hair and a distinguished face. “Can I help you?”
Alex put out his hand. “Name’s Alex. This is Carmen. We talked on the phone?”
Stein’s demeanor changed from cautious curiosity to enthusiasm. He shook Alex’s hand. “Oh, yes! Mack’s colleagues! Please come in!” They stepped into the cramped office. Potted plants crowded every horizontal surface. A full-length bookcase lined one wall, and a tiny desk lay buried in paper work. “Please excuse the mess. Thank you for coming in.” He gestured towards a pair of chairs in front of the desk. “Please, sit down.”
“Thanks for having us,” said Carmen, as she eased into her seat.
“I’m so sorry to hear about Mack,” said the professor. He walked around his desk and sat in his rickety old office chair. “I knew him for many years. He was actually a student of mine once. He consulted with me on several cases. How long have you worked at his private investigation firm?”
“Four or five years, on and off.” said Alex.
Carmen said, “Since his passing, we’ve just been trying to get up to speed on the cases he was working. We understand he sent you a sample of something?”
“Yes, that’s right. An unknown vegetable substance.”
“That’s the one,” said Alex. “You got any idea what it was?”
Stein nodded. “Well, the very simple answer is that it’s a grape. I could tell that without even without taking it out of the bag. There were intact seeds and exocarp, really quite easy to identify. Clearly Vitis vinifera. So not just a grape, but a wine grape.”
Alex furrowed his brow. “Wine grape?”
“That’s right. A cultivar of grape used for producing red wine. It’s easy to tell, just by the size and texture of the skin. But here’s where things start to get strange.” Dr. Stein adjusted a stack of paperwork on his desk, resulting in an avalanche of papers sliding to the floor. He sighed and ignored it. “In the last few years, viticulturists have begun compiling genetic information about wine grapes. We’re tracing the history of the grape, from its humble origins in ancient Phoenicia, all the way to
modern varieties. Mack was a good friend of mine, so I wanted to give him as much information as I could. So I ran a simple gel electrophoresis of the sample—”
“A which now?” said Alex.
“A DNA test…like on the police shows?” Dr. Stein pulled out a stack of transparent films showing black-and-white dots of DNA ladders. “I’m sure you’ve seen something like them before. Comparing the patterns on these films to those of known grape cultivars will give us precise information about the origins of a particular specimen. Grape plants are for the most part cloned, so the genetics within a cultivar are identical. A Sauvignon Blanc grape from France, for example, will be an exact genetic copy of a Sauvignon Blanc grape from California. They are, in essence, the same plant. But the fascinating thing is, this grape that Mack sent me doesn’t exist.”
Carmen made a quizzical face. “It doesn’t exist? How’s that possible?”
Dr. Stein smiled. “Well, obviously it does exist. What I mean is, it doesn’t match any known cultivar, and it doesn’t fit very neatly into our family tree. It’s apparently very old. And don’t get me wrong, there are many old grape varietals. But this one isn’t known to modern viticulture.”
“So what does that mean?” asked Carmen.
“Well, here’s my theory. In the 1860s, a disease called phylloxera blight nearly wiped out the wine industry worldwide. Before the problem was solved, several grape varieties went extinct. I suspect this is one of them. Maybe it survived, isolated from the epidemic in someone’s backyard. I can tell you about where it comes from in history.” From the mess on his desk he pulled out a family-tree sketch of wine varieties. “It’s somewhat like these Spanish cultivars, your typical mission grape. These are the grapevines the first Spanish missionaries brought to the New World to make sacramental wine in the 1600s. But again, this grape is more…I hesitate to say primitive, but it’s closer in character to much older varieties. Do you know where Mack found this?”
Alex exchanged glances with Carmen then said, “‘Fraid not, Professor. Wish we did.”
