Once inside her car, she locked all the doors and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel, trying to think. She'd have to run. Get out of Buffalo, out of New York. Everything she'd built over these last years would be gone—her career, her education—none of it would matter now. She'd start all over again. She'd saved some money, enough to last her a year if she was careful. A scrape of sound had her sitting up quickly and looking around. No one there, but she shouldn't be sitting here in the open like this. She drew a deep breath and started the car. The car at least was hers, free and clear. She'd paid cash for it, one less thing for her to worry about, one less trail to lead them to her.
She drove out of the parking lot and headed for home, knowing as she did so that by tomorrow, she wouldn't have a home any longer.
Sarah turned onto her street, driving past the duplex and around the block to park in the alley. A worn fence with a rickety gate opened from the alley to the scruffy back yard she shared with Mrs. M. There was a padlock on the gate, but it was on the inside and it hung open most of the time. Neither one of them spent much time back here, except to take out the trash. Sarah fumbled with her key ring as she crossed to the house, trying to remember which one opened the back door. She'd never used it before, but she was sure Mrs. M. had given her a key when she first moved in.
She found the right key and shoved it into the lock, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. Her first thought was to check every shutter and curtain downstairs, closing them all before hurrying upstairs to drape towels over the uncovered halves of her bedroom windows. It was dark with the windows covered, so she turned on a few lights and walked from room to room taking inventory. There was really nothing in the way of furniture that she couldn't leave behind. Maybe she'd done that unconsciously over the years, never buying anything that meant something to her. Maybe a part of her had known this day would come when she'd have to abandon everything once again.
In her study, she opened a small safe tucked into her lower desk drawer. Her passport and a spare driver's license were there, although she'd need a new ID before long. Credit cards would be the easiest way of tracking her, so those would have to go right away. She swiveled her chair around and logged onto the computer, going to her bank's web site. With a few key strokes, she'd transferred all of the funds from her checking account into a separate account under her maternal grandmother's name. Gramma Maude was long dead and wouldn't mind. Sarah had been her only granddaughter and they'd been close. She'd died before everything fell apart, which was probably a good thing. In any event, the account wouldn't remain open long. Eventually, someone—the press or the police—would trace the transfer. But by then the money would be gone, withdrawn in cash from banks or ATMs on her way to wherever she ended up.
That done, she took a look around her study. None of the furniture mattered, but her books would definitely come with her. So would the desktop computer and, of course, her laptop. The boxes from when she'd moved in were downstairs in the closet beneath the stairs. She could start packing tonight and be gone by tomorrow. Her rent was paid through the end of the month, but she'd give Mrs. M. enough to cover an additional month to make up for her sudden departure.
She crossed the hall to her bedroom. There were no memories here. No lost loves, no hot nights of passion. She thought again of Raj. He'd be a passionate lover, there was no doubt of that. Memories of their few encounters still sent shivers through her bones and tightened her gut with longing. What would it have been like if they'd made love?
She closed her eyes and deliberately put the thought away. That was never going to happen. Unless she ran into him at a stop sign on her way out of town, she'd never see him again. Pain swelled in her chest at the thought and she rubbed it absently, surprised to find herself crying. “Don't be stupid, Sarah,” she scolded herself. “He's not even speaking to you."
She drew a deep, stabilizing breath. Clothes, she thought purposefully, marching over to the closet. All of her clothes would go. She didn't have that many, and couldn't afford to leave them behind, in any event. Not if she was going to be living on her savings for awhile.
She was standing there, staring around and wondering where to start, when the doorbell rang downstairs. She froze, listening, and jumped when her phone rang loudly in counterpoint to the persistent doorbell. She ignored the phone; whoever it was would go to voice mail. Instead, she moved quietly over to the window, wincing when the old hardwood floor creaked noisily beneath her feet. Lifting the corner of one of the towels she'd slung over the curtain rod, she saw a black van parked out front. It was a cargo-type van, with no windows, and there was something about it—a disheveled man emerged from the back, looking as if he'd been sleeping inside, or maybe living there. He slammed the double doors noisily and shuffled around to the side where he opened the big sliding door as well. The interior was surprisingly well lit and filled with equipment, some sort of . . . Sarah drew back in dismay. It was a press van and she knew now where she'd seen it before. It had been in front of the restaurant where'd she met Blackwood; she remembered it from her mad dash down the street.
Her heart sank as Blackwood's phony smile filled her thoughts. The press had been there the whole time. No wonder he'd planted himself so prominently in the front window, he'd wanted them to see her, to get pictures of the two of them together. He'd lied to her. Whether she agreed to work with him or not, he already had plans in motion to publicize the whole thing.
She cursed the sleazy con man, fighting off the panic that was trying to rear its ugly head. No sense in panicking. It was only one guy—her doorbell rang again and she heard someone shout down below. Okay, two guys. The man in the van looked up and shouted something back. It was most likely one of the tabloid newspapers, or maybe one of those entertainment magazines. They followed Blackwood's adventures closely, although she'd never been able to figure out why.
Okay. She could deal with this. She'd pack quickly, taking only what she needed for the next month or so. Most of her clothes, even her books would be safe here as long as she paid the rent. She could use the time to set up her new identity, find a new place to live and then when everything had calmed down, come back and get the rest of her stuff. That was a plan. Yes. She could definitely do that. She grabbed a suitcase from her closet and started packing.
Two hours later, the local press had arrived in force, not to be outdone by the tabloids when it came to a story about one of their own. They'd knocked repeatedly on her door until she thought their knuckles must be bleeding. They'd even questioned Mrs. M. next door, cameras rolling. Sarah had called and warned her, and her landlady had taken it all in stride, even seeming to enjoy the notoriety a bit.
Sarah thanked her landlady again and hung up, and then just for the hell of it, she checked her voice mail, deleting one message after the other, pretty much on the first syllable uttered. That ass Blackwood had called several times, offering the dubious safety of William Cowens's home as a refuge. How kind of him, Sarah thought viciously, considering he'd sicced the press jackals on her in the first place.
She went upstairs to continue packing, telling herself this whole thing would blow over quickly. Some other story would capture the tabloid's attention and they'd move on from Sarah and what was really not much of a story at all. She peeked out the window again. The anchor woman from the local news was down there, doing some sort of live feed. But the tabloid guys seemed to be packing their gear. It was supposed to be cold tonight, and besides, there was only so much coverage they could milk out of a locked and shuttered house. Once they were gone, she'd load a few things into her car and be gone before sunrise with no one the wiser.
This was not good. Sarah peeked out the upstairs window for the umpteenth time. This was definitely not good. Rather than giving up and going home once the sun went down, the crowd of reporters crowding her front lawn had only grown. Tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill over, but she brushed them away, just as she had ten minutes ago, and ten mi
nutes before that. Crying wouldn't do a damn thing. She'd considered going out there and making a statement, but dismissed that idea almost immediately. She knew from past experience that the media's hunger only grew with feeding. And it was never sated, especially not in this day and age when there was no secret too personal, no detail too intimate, to be blared across the pages of papers, magazines and web sites, where they were sucked up in turn by a public who had wholeheartedly embraced the peoples’ right to know every damn thing.
A siren burst had her rushing back to the window. Red lights flashed as a police sedan arrived. About time, she thought furiously. All of those reporters and cameras had to be violating some regulation or other. Let the cops clear them out and she'd be right behind them, running as far and as fast as she could. A pounding started on her door downstairs, but she ignored it as she had all the others.
"Sarah Stratton,” a deep voice shouted. “Police. Open up."
Okay, well that was new. She hurried downstairs, taking the time to open one shutter enough to verify it was the cops. Okay, so it wasn't the cops; it was just one cop. Tony Scavetti. And what the hell was he doing here? “Open the door, Sarah!” He pounded again, shaking the cheap door in its frame, and she began disengaging the various locks while she still had a door to open.
Sarah stood in her front room facing down Scavetti who was angrier than he had any right to be. She hadn't asked for any of this. “Look,” he was saying. “This is bullshit. I want this media circus over now. I'm taking you into—"
"I'm not going anywhere,” she insisted, refusing to be bullied. She knew her rights. “If you want this to end, I suggest you start by getting rid of those clowns outside.” She stabbed a hard finger in the direction her overrun front yard. “I've done nothing wrong."
Scavetti took a step closer, intruding on her personal space, trying to threaten her with his greater height and bulk. “If I have to arrest you—"
"On what grounds?” Sarah demanded, getting right in his face. She'd spent her entire life being smaller than most everyone else. He'd have to come up with something a lot better than size if he wanted to intimidate her.
"Interfering with an ongoing investigation, withholding evidence, and—"
Sarah barked a laugh. “What evidence would that be, Tony?” she scoffed. “You want to tell the D.A. I've been keeping my dreams from you? What are you now, my shrink?"
Scavetti flushed angrily and opened his mouth to reply, but someone else had started pounding on her door. “Sarah,” a woman was shouting.
Sarah frowned. Her first instinct was to ignore it, just as she'd ignored all the ones before, but there was something familiar about the voice. She started toward the window closest to the door, but Scavetti got there first.
"Who the fuck is that?” Scavetti snarled.
Peering around him through the half open shutter, Sarah did a double take. It was the woman from the restaurant bathroom. The one who'd knocked her purse over. What the hell was she doing here?
As if she'd heard Sarah's unspoken question, the woman called urgently through the door, “Sarah, my name's Angel. I work for Raj. I want to help you. Let me in."
Sarah's heart did a little flip. Raj? But that meant he'd known about her meeting with Blackwood. Had he been spying on her all this time? Why would he do that unless . . .
"Sarah, please. Let me help you."
Sarah hurried over to the front door. If there was one person in this whole mess she trusted, she realized suddenly, it was Raj.
"What the hell are you doing?” Scavetti demanded. He reached for her, but Sarah snapped the locks open first, pulling the door open just enough to peek out cautiously. “How do I know Raj sent you?"
"I don't know,” the woman Angel said, seeming flustered by the question. She started to say something, but cut herself off with a curse, placing her fingers to one ear as though listening. Looking closely, Sarah saw she was wearing some sort of radio earpiece, like Raphael's security wore. She nodded at whatever the other person was saying. “Go ahead and call Raj,” Angel said to Sarah. “No, wait. Call Emelie. She says to tell you—"
If the woman knew both Raj's and Emelie's names, then she had to have been sent by Raj. Sarah opened the door and stepped back. Angel pushed her way inside and closed the door quickly, shutting out the rush of noise and bodies that tried to follow her. “Thanks,” she said breathlessly. “And I really do work for Raj."
"You were at the restaurant today."
"I was. We knew about the Blackwood meeting and didn't want you going there alone. For good reason, as it turns out."
"I don't understand,” Sarah said. “Why would Raj—” Scavetti cleared his throat noisily behind her. “Ah,” she said turning slightly to indicate the pissed off detective. “This is Detective Scavetti, Buffalo PD. He wants—"
"You don't have to go with him,” Angel said immediately, giving Scavetti an unfriendly look. “Raj will be here—"
"What the fuck does that damn vampire have to do with any of this?"
Angel cut him off with a cold stare. “We will wait until he gets here before anything is decided."
"Who the hell appointed him God?” Scavetti snarled. “I don't have to wait for any fucking vampire—"
"Stop,” Sarah shouted at Scavetti. “We'll wait,” she said told him firmly. “Unless you're prepared to take me out of here kicking and screaming in front of all of that.” She gestured at the crowd of overheated press people.
Scavetti frowned, clearly thinking about doing just that.
"Come on, Tony,” she cajoled. “What can it hurt to wait until Raj gets here? If you drag me out there it'll be all over the papers. And what good will that do? You don't want me involved in your case, and that's pretty much the last thing in this world that I want either. Maybe together we can figure something out."
Scavetti stared at her, and she could tell he wasn't happy. But she also knew she'd touched a nerve about the press being all over the story. He finally gave her a short, unhappy nod.
"Fine. We'll wait.” He checked his watch. “Ten minutes. After that, I don't give a fuck what you say. I'm taking your ass out of here."
Sarah knew when to quit. “Thank you, Tony. I'm going upstairs to pack a few things, just in case,” she said.
"Good idea,” Angel said. She gave Scavetti a smug look as she followed Sarah up the stairs. “I'll help you with that."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Thirty-two
Raj opened his eyes to the familiarity of his Buffalo lair. The lights were already up, set on a timer so when he woke there would be the little bit of light he needed to see by. As he swung out of bed, the light increased until it reached a steady, soft level of illumination. His first thought was hunger, but he didn't have time to stop for a live donor. Or so he told himself. He was unwilling to face his growing reluctance to tap anonymous women for blood and sex. Unwilling to deal with the significance of that reluctance in light of his feelings for Sarah Stratton—who was history, he reminded himself firmly.
He went over to the bar refrigerator and pulled out a unit of bagged blood. Loosening the release valve enough to prevent the contents from exploding all over his microwave, he set it for a quick warm up. Less than a minute later, he rolled the bag between his hands to even out the temp and downed it quickly, trying not to think about the woman he'd rather be drinking from instead.
The memory of Sarah's sweet blood hit him anyway—the sudden burst of it when he'd nicked her full lip with his fangs, the warmth as it caressed his tongue and slid down his throat with exquisite slowness. His brain moved on, thinking how delicious it would be to tap her vein, to pierce the velvet softness of her neck as his cock slammed into her tight little body. He could feel her soft curves beneath his hands, could hear her hungry little cries as he'd pressed her against the wall—Enough!
He threw the empty bag aside in disgust and forced his thoughts elsewhere. Sarah wanted nothing to do with him, and he had far
better things to do than to chase after a woman who thought he raped little girls for fun. He felt the heated rush of righteous anger and welcomed it, letting it fill his gut with determination as he started the shower. He leaned against the tile wall, eyes closed, arms stretched straight ahead of him as the hot water pummeled his neck and back, reviewing what he knew so far. He pictured again the faces of the young women, imagined the scenes at the blood houses where they'd disappeared. When he came to Estelle Edwards, his thoughts skiddedto a halt. It all came down to her. She was the orange in the bowl of apples, the lone rose in a bouquet of daisies. She was the key. A researcher who specialized in blood, who'd been seen talking to Krystof and then told her husband she had a contact in the vampire community who could provide—
He swore viciously when the thought hit him. He slammed his fist against the tile so hard it cracked beneath the strain.
Young women were missing, but so were old vampires! Old, but not powerful. That was the crucial element. They were old enough to have fully manifested the one aspect of most interest to human researchers—resistance to disease and aging—but not powerful enough to master children of their own or to bend other vampires to their will. What if the missing vampires were prisoners, just like the young women? What if all of them—vampires and humans—were nothing more than Estelle Edwards's lab rats?
But then why bring Raj in to unravel it? Krystof had to know he'd never stand for something like this. Unless that was the old man's plan all along? Maybe he'd lost control of the project and didn't know how to shut it down himself. Christ! That didn't make sense, either.
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