"Never!" the Bloodsucker shouted, slapping the remote control down so hard on the end table that the little plastic door flew off the back and the batteries rolled across the table.
Max jumped up and raced out of the living room. He knew his master's moods. Better, maybe, than the Bloodsucker himself knew them.
Where was all this rage coming from? All these years, all the pain, the tears, he had never felt this rage before.
He got up and began to pace. He was wearing a long sleeve T-shirt with an oxford over it to prevent himself from scratching. He'd used calamine lotion twice tonight since he'd gotten home from work. His shirt would be ruined with the pink chalky stuff.
But, still, his forearms itched. They burned.
He passed the TV. There was a commercial on advertising floor cleaner. If only his floor could be that clean and shiny, everything would be fine. He'd be happy and loved. He would have a perfect beautiful wife. 2.2 beautiful children.
"I don't know what you think you're doing, Claire," he murmured under his breath. "You think you're smart, but you're not." At the curtained window, he spun on his heels and went the other way, ignoring his burning arms and the almost unbearable desire to scratch them.
"You think you're smarter than I am, but you're not." He grabbed a needlepoint pillow off the old couch and viciously sent it sailing across the room.
"You should have minded your own business, you know that? Done what your old boyfriend told you to do. You should have sat there and been quiet and waited for the state police to come in and take over."
That was what the Bloodsucker had been counting on. Depending on. He knew this so-called task force wouldn't be able to catch him. Not Captain Kurt of the State Police or Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. Not in a million years.
But Claire... she had him worried. She had that woman's sixth sense that he had never understood. That eerie intuition that had warned Patti, and April, and Phoebe and all the others, just a split second too late, that they should not have trusted him.
The question was, what to do about Claire. Did he want her out? Everyone said the suits would be taking over any day. Next week at the latest, right? Surely she wouldn't figure out who he was by next week. How could she? She had no evidence against him.
There was the barn, or course, the things in his car. They could all be very incriminating, but only if she got close enough to him to convince a judge to issue a search warrant. And on what basis would that be? She could speculate all she wanted, her woman's intuition was not going to get her a search warrant.
But Claire Bear was like a dog with a bone, all of a sudden. She was reading over the evidence again and again. She was re-interviewing friends and family members. What if she came upon something in the women's autopsies or the details of the crime scenes where he had left the women? He had been very careful, very smart, but what if he had overlooked something?
The Bloodsucker hated second-guessing himself like this. Questioning his own intelligence. He hated Claire Bear for making him question himself.
He rubbed his forearm with the heel of his hand, fighting the burning pain.
He couldn't have Claire Bear ruining everything. Not even a pretty, smart blonde such as her.
He passed the TV again. The Three Stooges. He stopped to watch for a moment. He liked the Three Stooges. Most people didn't realize that there had actually been four and that three of them had been brothers. He watched as they waddled into an old-fashioned bank, pretending to hold it up, napkins tied around their noses and mouths. How stupid was Patty Hearst? Even the Three Stooges knew you had to wear a mask when you robbed a bank!
The Bloodsucker began to pace again because his arms were itching so bad that he wanted to claw the fabric of the sleeves of the shirts to get to the bare skin.
He tried hard not to think about the pain. About the fear. About the bedroom door opening and Granny standing there with the straight razor in her hand.
A sweat broke out on his forehead as he forced one foot in front of the other, willing himself to think of something else. Anything.
His thoughts shifted to Claire Bear, again. He considered how stupid she was being with Ashley. Didn't she know that all teens acted out? Didn't she realize that all teens opened their bedroom windows once in a while and sneaked a smoke? Did she know how lucky she was to have such a smart, beautiful daughter?
Parents needed to be more appreciative of their children. They needed to realize what a precious gift they were. How imperative their job as a parent was, not just to the child, but to society in general.
He thought about Ashley, pretty Ashley with her hair blond again, and those piercing blue eyes. Claire was making noise about sending Ashley to her father. She was threatening to put her on a plane and ship her to Utah where the poor girl didn't know anyone. Didn't have any friends.
The Bloodsucker pressed his lips together and shuddered, remembering the pain of separation from his mother. The loneliness.
"You don't deserve her," he whispered angrily.
It was that moment that he realized what he had to do. What was his destiny.
He'd been thinking about Ashley for some time now. Thinking about how strong she was, how tough and determined. He had been thinking about how much he wanted to spend some time with her alone. He'd been thinking about her blood.
The Bloodsucker was tempted to take Claire Bear. He knew he could do it. That would certainly end her investigation, wouldn't it? She'd not be poking around anymore if she ended up in the trash, where she belonged. Where they all belonged, blond bitches like her.
But the better idea was to cripple her. To reduce her to a sobbing mass of spineless jelly.
The more imaginative idea was to invite Ashley to be his guest. To intercede before Ashley grew up to become what all women became. Before she reduced a good man to what he had been reduced to.
The Bloodsucker wanted to pat himself on the back. Now that was a clever idea.
Chapter 13
"Back off?" Claire said into the phone as she reached for a wooden spoon to stir her homemade marinara sauce. "Hell no, I'm not backing off."
She was standing in front of the stove in gym shorts, an ancient police academy T-shirt and bare feet. It was the first Sunday she'd taken off since summer began and she was pretty annoyed that Kurt would call her at home. Especially since, as of tomorrow, he would be in charge of her investigation and she would be working with him.
She'd pretty much resigned herself to shift of power, but that didn't mean she had to like it. And it didn't mean he had a right to call her at home this evening, when he could talk to her tomorrow at their first task force meeting at eight a.m.
"Claire, I'm not saying you can't look into the backgrounds of the employees, have a look around, but—"
"Kurt, don't you see—Hey, did the mayor say who was complaining about me being there?" She lifted the spoon out of the sauce.
"What?" Kurt asked irritably.
He had not taken the day off. He was in his office up in Dover trying to put out several fires at the same time. Her pissing off the mayor of Albany Beach was just one and apparently not even the largest.
"Did Tugman say who complained about me? I wonder if it was Dr. Larson." She tasted the sauce on the end of the spoon. It was so hot she flinched as it burned her tongue. "He's old for the profile, but he does live alone and he certainly has access to surgical equipment." She went to the sink for a drink of water.
Actually, there was another man she suspected. She knew it couldn't be him. She hadn't even interviewed him yet, but twice she'd caught him watching her. On the dining room table she had all her notes in a stack of manila folders. She'd marked one man's name in one of those folders with an ominous red question mark.
"Claire, listen to yourself. You're seeing ghosts around every corner. You're losing perspective, which is why, in the long run, you're going to see that the governor's office, for once, might be right about this. A task force is the
way to go. A small hometown police force like yours, you just don't have the experience to go it alone."
"Oh, and like anyone else in the state has much more experience?" She looked out the open window as she sipped the cold water in the glass to ease her burning tongue. The shadows outside had lengthened with the setting sun and it was almost dark out. "The last serial killer in Delaware was the 1-40 Corridor killer in the late eighties. What was his name? Pernell? How many people who worked that gig are still around?"
"Claire—"
"Don't you see, Kurt? Looking at everyone in the hospital, seeing each one as our possible killer is the way we're going to catch him." Setting down the water glass, she reached into the spice cabinet to her left and grabbed a container of red pepper. She shook it over the bubbling sauce. She didn't want to tell him about the man with the red question mark next to his name. Not yet. He wouldn't listen to her, anyway. Just as he wasn't listening to her now. "You know why?"
"No, tell me," he groaned.
"Because that's going to put the pressure on him. You should be doing your reading. Those behavior scientists with the FBI know these sickos. You put pressure on them and that's when they make a mistake. That's when even the smarter ones take a misstep. The misstep is when you catch them."
"We'll talk about this tomorrow."
"I'll be there." She gave a humorless chuckle. "Like I have a choice."
"There's one more thing."
"Yeah?" She pulled out a pot from under the counter.
"There's been some talk about the hate and discontent between you and the City Council and your boyfriend trying to smooth things over."
"My boyfriend?" Her tone was incredulous.
"Graham Simpson."
At the mention of Graham, her hackles went up. She was beginning to think she was in love with him, even though they'd yet to have a real date. "He's not my boyfriend."
"I just wanted to give you a heads up. The mayor is concerned that there could be a—"
"Kurt—did you hear what I said? Graham is not my boyfriend." She tossed the wooden spoon on the counter, not caring that it splattered sauce on the wallpaper. "What the hell is this? High school?"
"I'm just—"
"Well, don't," she said curtly. "Look, Graham and I, we're not dating, mostly because when the hell would I have time to date?" She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it over the crown of her head. "I barely have time to pee."
"How about we talk in the morning?"
She started to say something more, then stopped herself. "Sure. Okay. See you in the morning."
Claire turned the phone off and opened the cupboard to get the pasta. She had fettuccine and bow ties. Ashley always liked bow ties, but they had discussed fettuccine. She went down the hallway, headed for her daughter's room, but when she heard the shower running she opened the door without thinking.
"Hey, Ash—" Claire halted mid-step, mid-word. She had walked in on Ashley naked, just stepping into the shower, but it wasn't her teenage daughter's bare butt that made her cover her mouth with her hand in horror. It was the tattoo of a rose with blood dripping from it, the size of her hand, etched above Ashley's tailbone.
"Mom!" Ashley shrieked, grabbing a towel off the toilet lid to cover herself. "Get out!"
"What the hell is that?" Claire made no move to back out of the bathroom. "Ashley, what the hell is that on your back?" She felt as if she couldn't breathe. As if she were going to pass out. "Tell me that's not a tattoo of dripping blood," she begged, almost hysterically. "Tell me you didn't let that boy make you get a tattoo!"
"Chain didn't make me do anything," Ashley flung. "I wanted to do it. It's a symbol of our love!"
Claire closed her eyes for a moment. A symbol of our love? She didn't know if she wanted to laugh hysterically... or cry hysterically. As bizarre as it sounded, a line from an old Jimmy Buffett song ran through her head. Permanent reminder... of a temporary feeling...
"Shut the water off," Claire said quietly, eyes still closed. When Ashley didn't move, she shouted at her. "I said shut the water off."
She heard the sound of Ashley reaching past the shower curtain and turning off the faucet. The sound of spraying water ceased.
"Now." Claire opened her eyes as she breathed deeply. "Is it permanent?"
"Of course," Ashley sneered. "It's a tattoo. That's the point."
Claire fought the urge to smack her daughter across the mouth. She had never hit her before. Never come this close before. "You've seen him again since I forbid you to. When? How?"
"I haven't seen him." Tears filled Ashley's blue eyes as she tried to tuck the edge of the bath sheet in so that it would remain wrapped around her naked body. She looked so young undressed, blond hair falling past her shoulders, devoid of any makeup. Surprisingly innocent for a girl with blood droplets tattooed on her ass.
Claire folded her arms over her chest, waiting for the explanation.
"So fine, don't believe me." Ashley tried to get past her to escape to her room, but Claire wouldn't let her.
"The same day Chain got his, okay?" Ashley thrust out her hip.
"You mean the night you sneaked out of your grandparents' house?" There was just no end, to the joy with this child. "You told Detective Robinson that you went to a party and then you just walked up and down the beach. You didn't say a thing about stopping by a tattoo parlor."
"Not that night. The day you came to pick me up at work. When I came through the parking lot."
Claire thought for a moment, not even sure what day she meant. Then she remembered Ashley saying her back hurt from hauling bags of fertilizer.
Claire didn't know what to say. What to do. The tattoo was permanent... at least until she paid a plastic surgeon a hefty sum to remove it. She knew she could go after the business owner for tattooing a minor, but as far as she was concerned, that was only misdirecting who was responsible here. And that was Ashley. Ashley knew very well she was not allowed to get a tattoo. That was why she had been hiding it for two weeks. And quite effectively, it turned out.
Claire glanced away, so angry she felt as if she were looking through a haze of red. "Well, that's it," she said, throwing up her hands and walking out of the bathroom.
Ashley didn't follow her at once, but Claire wasn't halfway to the kitchen before her daughter was running barefoot down the hall after her, towel clutched around her.
"That's what?"
Claire could hear the fear in Ashley's voice. But there was still defiance there.
"You're going to Utah. You're going on the next plane I can put you on." Claire reached the stove and snapped off the burner under the sauce. Obviously there would be no cozy family dinner this evening. It was definitely a popcorn and vodka night.
"I'm not going to Dad's."
"Oh, yes you are. You're going as far from Chain and those friends of yours with the eyebrow piercings as I can get you." She spun around. "I'm—Jeez , Ashley, a tattoo? A tattoo? Of dripping blood, no less."
"It's a rose!"
"A rose with blood." Claire's voice caught in her throat and her eyes teared up. In her mind, the blood drops on Ashley's back represented the blood of the women who had been killed in Albany Beach this summer. The women she'd been unable to protect.
"I don't care what you say. You can't make me go!" Ashley turned and ran down the hall.
Claire knew she should go after her, but she just couldn't. Not right now. Instead, she backed up to lean against the counter, grabbed a paper towel to wipe her eyes and reached for the phone.
* * *
Ashley slammed her bedroom door so hard that the wall shook. She would have locked it, too, except that the lock had broken more than a year ago and her mother had conveniently not gotten around to installing a new doorknob that worked properly.
She flung the bath towel onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor and grabbed the T-shirt and shorts she'd worn to bed the previous night. She yanked the T-shirt over her head, not bothering wi
th a bra. "I don't care what she says," she muttered under her breath as she stepped into gray gym shorts. "I'm not going to live with that asshole. He's not my father. He's nothing but a sperm bank as far as I'm concerned."
She turned her head toward the door. "I'm not going," she screamed as loud as she could.
"You're going," her mother hollered back from somewhere in the house.
Ashley flipped her the bird. It should have made her feel better, but it didn't. She wiped at her eyes, feeling silly for crying. Then she rubbed her tender back where the tattoo was still healing.
She'd realized before she'd gotten up off the table that it had been a stupid thing to do. Chain had warned her that it wasn't a smart move. But by then, it was done. Her idea had been to earn the money herself to pay to have it removed. She knew it could be done. She saw it on TV.
So getting a tattoo was a stupid thing to do. So what! Didn't her mother know that fifteen-year-old girls did stupid things? And there were so many stupider things she could have done... like smoke crack or have sex with a bunch of guys.
She jerked open her bottom dresser drawer and fished around for the pack of cigarettes she knew was still there. She hadn't been smoking that much lately, but she needed a cigarette, if nothing else, just to do it in defiance of Mother Cop in the other room. Her fingertips brushed the smooth, hard side of the box and she snatched it out from under some sweaters. She had a lighter in the drawer beside her bed. For candles, Mom.
Talk about stupid things a teenager could do! Ashley could have gotten pregnant. That's what Tiffany Lane had done. Going into the tenth grade and pregnant. Tiffany wasn't even sure who the father was. How would Chief Drummond have liked that?
Ashley walked around the heap of clothes to the double windows beside her bed and took her time opening the curtains. She unlocked a window and lifted it up in rebellion against her mother's no smoking, no open windows at night rules. She grabbed the lighter from the drawer and flicked her Bic.
She'll Never Live Page 17
