“Phaedra’s way of saying good riddance to a lot of bad memories.”
Inside the sleeping bag I discovered bottles of Phaedra’s medications, full of pills and capsules. She wouldn’t need these anymore.
I asked, “Where’s the toiletry bag?”
“What for?”
“Phaedra stashed jewelry and money. Stuff that’s easy to pawn for quick cash.”
Jolie asked, “She’s been planning her getaway?”
“Seems that way.”
“And Nguyen went with her? Not a brownnoser like him. Doesn’t make sense.”
We went back down the mountain. I hoped to see Nguyen and Phaedra and give myself a laugh for all the grief I’d suffered for nothing.
But no Phaedra. No Nguyen.
His motorcycle remained where it had been. The panniers were unlocked and empty save for a few small parts and loose pennies. I’m sure he traveled with some belongings, bags of blood and makeup at least.
Boot prints had been tracked around the Buell. I recognized mine, Jolie’s, Phaedra’s, and a fourth set, which had to be Nguyen’s. So the two of them had come back to the motorcycle, retrieved his things, and then what?
Jolie went down the road.
I lost Phaedra’s and Nguyen’s prints in the rocks and hard dirt. I tried the scout trick of spiraling out from the motorcycle to pick up their trail. The only tracks I found were their prints going from the morada to the motorcycle.
Jolie returned. Her aura burned in anxious confusion. “Nothing. Either they grew wings or hiked out a different way.”
I tried Phaedra’s number again. Voice mail.
The paranoia felt like a cold rain. Wisps of fog snaked through the trees. The silence of the forest sucked hope from me.
CHAPTER 58
Jolie zipped the front and the sleeves of her motorcycle jacket. “The cops are going to swarm all over town. We better get.” She stood next to her motorcycle and put on her helmet. “Besides, I’m sick of this place.”
“What about Nguyen’s motorcycle?” I asked.
“He’s the Araneum’s boy. They can take care of it.”
She mounted her BMW. I got into my Toyota and followed her down the road to the highway.
Back in Denver, we spent the next several days tracking Nguyen’s whereabouts. There wasn’t much to go on. His last address was in Sacramento, California, and none of the vampires in that nidus had recently heard from him. Phaedra was another snipe hunt.
Another week passed, and about ten one morning, I got an unexpected phone call.
Sal Cavagnolo asked, “You heard from Phaedra?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“I see.” He sounded disappointed. “I’m in town. Let’s meet and chat.”
“I don’t have much to say.”
“That’s all right,” he replied. “Maybe I want to talk and need somebody to listen. Do it as a favor to me.”
Cavagnolo’s voice reminded me too much of all the trouble I had in Morada. “Sorry, I’m all out of favors.”
“Remember, I bought you all those fucking guns. You owe me.”
True. “Okay. Where? When?”
We met at Gaetano’s. Mid-afternoon. I figured Cavagnolo chose the place out of nostalgia because back when, the bistro was Denver’s mob central.
I watched from across the street. Cavagnolo arrived alone. The last of the lunchtime clientele wandered out. No one’s aura betrayed any signs of trouble.
I let him wait for ten minutes, replaced my contacts, and went in.
Cavagnolo sat at a back table. He didn’t smile when he saw me, nor did he offer to shake my hand. Fine, I didn’t want to shake his, either.
After I sat, he turned a copy of the Pueblo Chieftain for me to read.
The headline for an article below the fold was: “Investigation into Gruesome Murder Site Continues.” Here in Denver, the story no longer ranked the front page.
The situation at Dr. Hennison’s played out like this: he was a disgraced physician who ran a meth lab and surrounded himself with a cult of drug peddlers. There was a turf war with other meth dealers and a confrontation erupted with disastrous consequences. The fire so consumed the remains that medical examiners had identified only sixteen people.
Thirty-two others remained missing, including some locals, and the passengers and driver of a Greyhound bus found abandoned outside of Morada. The police said most of the passengers had criminal records. Rumor was that they were part of the meth ring and had hijacked the bus.
County records showed the property was deeded to Dr. Hennison. DNA testing identified some of the partial remains as belonging to him.
“Unfortunately,” remarked the chief investigator, “the response by firefighters had so contaminated the crime scene that most of our conclusions may remain speculative.”
Complete destruction. Gruesome remains. A macabre mystery. For me, good news.
Cavagnolo asked, “What was that shit with the mutilations?”
I told him what he expected to hear. “Intimidation. Maybe voodoo. Santeria. Some of these druggies get pretty paranoid and start believing in the occult to protect them.”
He replied, “I thought so.”
I pushed the newspaper back to him.
His droopy eyes and expression begged at me.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
He put a finger on the newspaper. “Gino?” As in, was he there?
“Yeah.”
If Cavagnolo’s expression fell any lower, his face would be on the table.
“I couldn’t do anything for him,” I said. “He was dead.” Actually undead but why quibble?
“Phaedra?”
“She wasn’t there.”
“You sure?”
“I saw her the day after all this happened.”
“Where?” Cavagnolo withdrew his finger from the newspaper and his voice rang with hope.
“In the mountain park. Close to town. She had a hideaway.”
“Yeah. That place.” Apparently he knew more about Phaedra than she suspected. “The sheriff didn’t find much there.”
I waited for Cavagnolo to mention Nguyen’s motorcycle, and when he didn’t, I was sure the Araneum had scrubbed the area of vampiric presence.
The waitress brought a basket of bread, a saucer of olive oil, and a small bowl with marinara sauce. Cavagnolo ordered a Diet Coke and the veal parmesan special. I asked for a cup of coffee.
“That’s it?” Cavagnolo asked. “The food here is delicious.”
I knew that. But the only meals I’ve gotten from Gaetano’s were takeout, which I ordered without garlic and once home, drowned in blood.
“Coffee is fine. I didn’t know you had lunch in mind. I’ve already eaten.”
Cavagnolo pleaded with his hands as if to refuse was to hurt him. “What’s an extra bite?”
I slapped my belly. “Gotta watch the weight. I prefer to get my bites somewhere else.”
“At least try the bread. The garlic seasoning is incredible.”
“No thanks,” I insisted. “Allergies.”
“You mean one of those gluten aversion things?”
“No, it’s the garlic.”
“Allergic to garlic?” He tore a chunk of bread and chomped on it. “Might as well give up breathing.”
That too, but not because of allergies.
I didn’t want Cavagnolo to think because we both worried about Phaedra that we were now on the road to becoming big chums. I decided to push him off balance.
“How does this affect…the thing?”
“What thing?”
“The deal you got with your buddies.” I pointed to an American flag over the bar. The feds.
“Oh.” Cavagnolo kept quiet. Nothing like the possibility of blackmail to drive a wedge between us.
He surprised me with a smile. “Can you believe it? The cops asked me about this Hennison creep. For once my hands were cleaner than a virgin’s panties.” The smile t
urned shrewd. “What’s come out of this deal is that I’ve gotten a bigger blank check to do what I’ve always been doing.”
“Playing the system?”
“Like a fucking piano.”
The waitress brought the Diet Coke and my coffee. Cavagnolo sipped the soda and his eyes focused on the faraway. My coffee was cold. I thought about asking for another, but no, I wasn’t staying.
He gave a long sigh, like he’d dropped a great weight off his shoulders. “Much as I’ve tried to help, that girl has always been trouble. Wouldn’t surprise me if all this shit spooked her and she took off.”
“Run away? Where to?”
“Who the fuck knows? It’s not the first time. Phaedra acted like she was hearing voices from another planet. I think everyone’s accepted the inevitable.”
“What are you getting at?”
He put the soda down. The droopiness was gone from his eyes and they looked hard. Stoic. “Why the concern? You don’t have a thing for her, do you?”
“No, I don’t have a thing for her. She’s a kid in trouble, that’s all.”
“What makes you think you’re so special to her?”
I turned her into a vampire.
“No matter what you’ve done,” Cavagnolo continued, “I’ll tell you how she’ll show her gratitude. The same as she’s done with everyone else. By leaving you on a goddamn limb. I know her. She used the excuse of the Huntington’s to break all the rules. Drugs. Sex. She stole from her school. Her aunt. From me. I’m saying this out of love. Her problems aren’t just here.” Cavagnolo tapped his brow. “But here as well.” He thumped his chest over the heart.
Not anymore.
His voice trailed to a mumble. “She ran off on her own, no?”
She was last seen with Nguyen, but I didn’t need to mention this. “As far as I know.”
“Then forget it. A girl her age, she wants to run away, you couldn’t keep her home by chaining her legs to the goddamn plumbing. I told you before. She is nothing but fucking trouble.”
Cavagnolo grabbed a hunk of bread and ran it through the marinara. The sauce dripped off the crust like blood. “Trust me, the next time you see Phaedra, you’ll regret it.”
CHAPTER 59
I was back in my office in the Oriental Theater. Three weeks had passed since my return from Morada. I should’ve been concerned with getting new cases: schmoozing my contacts and hanging out at the lawyer watering holes. So far all the work I’d accomplished was to open and sort my mail into two piles. Stuff I’d ignore today. Stuff I’d ignore tomorrow.
Jolie lay next to me. Our naked bodies pressed against each other.
The disappearance of Phaedra and Nguyen rekindled the anguish we’d felt after losing Carmen. We’d fallen back on each other. Sex was a way to feel safe and familiar. In the familiar we could feel our individual sorrow.
I spooned against Jolie as best I could on the narrow chaise longue. Our feet dangled off one end.
I slipped my arm under hers. “You seem distracted. What’s going on?”
“Besides losing Phaedra and Nguyen?” She clasped my hand and stared at the far wall.
I waited for her to complete an answer but she didn’t.
Jolie rubbed her head along my shoulder. “How much longer are we going to keep screwing?”
Sex wasn’t what troubled her. “You mean today?”
“No.” She let go of my hand. “I mean until we move on.”
I cupped her breast and dragged my fangs across the back of her neck. “Might take a while.”
She slapped my thigh and sat. “Then take care of business on your own. I gotta go.”
Jolie shimmied into her panties, a tank top, and leather motorcycle pants. The black cuffs made her naked feet look pink and raw. I slipped on jeans and an aloha shirt that I didn’t bother to button. The rest of our clothes remained on the floor.
Someone knocked. My ears and fingertips buzzed in alarm.
Jolie’s aura flashed with surprise.
Her eyes asked: Who could this be?
I responded with a shake of my head. The other three tenants on this floor had never bothered me. As far as I knew, I was alone in the building today. No one could come up without getting buzzed through the entrance.
Another knock.
My fangs and talons grew to fighting length.
A dog barked.
Dog?
Jolie put her back to the wall beside the door, her talons and fangs extended.
I approached the door. My contacts were out, so I’d zap first and ask questions later. My reflexes tensed to respond at vampire speed.
The dog gave another bark. I opened the door.
Orange glows surrounded two female vampires. Both wore sunglasses. The dark-skinned one was Phyllis. She held the leash to her weird retriever/blue heeler mutt.
The other vampire was a blonde wearing wraparound shades and a black trench coat. Her nose and cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut salami. Her hair was as shiny and perfect as a sheet of polished gold. The haughty attitude told me she must also be from the Araneum.
Jolie stepped into view.
Phyllis removed her sunglasses. She gave a wan, fangless smile that said: I’m here with bad news, let’s make the best of it.
I stood aside. “Phyllis, I can’t say it’s good to see you”—I motioned to the other vampire—“or your friend.”
The blonde took off her sunglasses and folded them into a pocket.
Jolie surprised me by making the introduction. “This is Nathacha De Brancovan.”
Nathacha glanced at our naked feet, my open shirt, and the clothes scattered by the chaise longue. Jolie had lingering fang marks on her shoulders and neck. I’m sure I had plenty of my own.
Nathacha’s undead eyes smoldered with disdain, first at Jolie, then at me. “Am I interrupting?” she asked in a dismissive French accent, more a statement than a question.
The last conversation I wanted to have was with someone from the Araneum. I already had enough grief; I didn’t need to parade my troubles in front of an audience to feel worse. “Would it make a difference if I said yes?”
“Of course not,” Nathacha answered.
The dog strained to get in. Phyllis held the leash tighter. Nathacha entered first. No question about the pecking order here.
Nathacha swooped toward the chaise longue and gave the discarded clothing another once-over. She didn’t step close, like she was afraid of contracting sex cooties. She circled behind my desk and pushed my executive chair adjacent to an ottoman.
Phyllis took another chair from in front of my desk and turned it around, careful not to scoot close to Nathacha. These two may be from the Araneum, but they sent out a vibe like a pair of magnets repelling each other.
Phyllis sat and clipped the dog’s leash to the chair’s chrome tubing.
After unbuttoning her coat, Nathacha relaxed into her chair as if we were here for a long meeting. With her shiny pewter blouse, black flared pants, and black slides with stiletto heels and long points, she might have been mistaken for the senior editor of a fashion magazine. She crossed her ankles across the top of the ottoman, claiming her presence as the alpha bitch.
Phyllis said to me. “Close the blinds.”
I didn’t like the mystery or taking orders. “Any reason?”
“Just close them,” Nathacha said.
I wanted to tell her to get off her Frenchie ass and do it herself, but if this was bad news, I better keep my mouth shut and not make it worse. I went to the windows and shut the blinds. The room became twilight dark.
Phyllis pulled a filigreed cylinder from the pocket of her wind-breaker. She held the cylinder in her hand like a baton. The cylinder resembled the message capsules the crow brought but was the size of a rolling pin.
My previous messages were tiny swatches of parchment. What tome did Phyllis carry in that cylinder? I’m sure we needed the darkness to keep the vampire parchment inside from bursting into flames.<
br />
Phyllis shook the cylinder, implying that I should take it. I’d rather hold a live grenade.
I grasped the cylinder. It weighed about a pound, same as a live grenade.
Nathacha said, “Open it.”
This was a moment when I wanted to push the fast-forward button. I only wanted to deal with the aftermath and skip the thorny details along the way.
The faceted rubies on the cap of the cylinder made for an easy grip. The cap twisted off. The horrendous odor of rotted meat belched out. I let the air clear before peering inside the cylinder. It held a rolled sheet of parchment.
I gave the cap to Phyllis. I tapped on the end of the cylinder like it was a bottle of ketchup. The edge of the parchment slid out. I pulled it free. A rubber band kept the parchment in a roll. I clipped the rubber band with a talon. The parchment uncurled with a snap and released another gust of funky smell.
Jolie tugged at my shirt. I sat beside her on the chaise longue. She took the cylinder from me.
I read the parchment. The writing was in calligraphy. The top two lines read:
Mémorandum
Des mesures disciplinaires pour Felix Gomez
Great, the damn thing was in French. Disciplinary measures? If this was punishment, the Araneum should’ve at least had the balls to give it to me in a way I could understand. The writing started neatly enough but a third of the way down the page, the lines became sloppy as if the author had gotten rushed. Spots and smears of brown ink—or blood?—marred the copy.
This parchment was thicker than the onionskin messages the crow brought. There was a watermark along one long edge. I held the parchment to the overhead light. The watermark was a faded tattoo of the Virgin of Guadalupe, something a barrio gangster would wear on his back. Despite what he might have done, I pitied the guy the parchment had come from. Vampires don’t willingly donate their skin.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“Felix, this is the second time that you’ve failed the Araneum,” Nathacha replied.
Failed. The word hit me like a gob of spit.
She added, “Because of you, we lost Carmen Arellano.”
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