Rainy Nights: Three Mysteries

by J. R. Rain

  I used the call box by the front gate. A man answered. I gave him my name and told him I was a private investigator and that I would like to speak to Rick Horton. There was a moment of silence, then the gate clicked open. I pushed it open all the way and followed a red brick path through a neat St. Augustine lawn. All in all, this brooding and romantic Victorian-era home seemed a little out of place in Tustin, California.

  Just as I stepped up onto the entry porch, the door swung open. A small man with wire-rim glasses leaned through the open door. “Please come in,” he said. “I’m Rick Horton.”

  I did and found myself in the main hall. To my right was a curving stairway. The ceiling was vaulted and there were many lit candles. The house was probably dark as hell during the day, perfect for a slumbering vampire.

  I followed the little man through an arched doorway and into a drawing room. I’ve only been in a few formal drawing rooms, and, unlike the name suggests, there wasn’t a single drawing in the place. Instead, it was covered in landscape oils. I was asked to sit on a dusty Chippendale camelback sofa, which I did. The sofa faced a three-sided bay window with diamond-pane glass. The window overlooked the front lawn and a marble fountain. The fountain was of a mermaid spouting water. She easily had double-D breasts, which were probably a distinct disadvantage for real mermaids. Just outside the window three classic fluted Doric columns supported a wide veranda.

  He sat opposite me in a leather chair-and-a-half, which was perfect for cuddling. I wasn’t in the cuddling mood. Rick Horton wore single gold studs in each ear. He seemed about twenty years too old to be wearing single gold studs. Call me old-fashioned. He was dressed in green-plaid pajamas, with matching top and bottom. He had the air of a recluse. Maybe he was a famous author or something.

  “Do you have a license I can see?” he asked. As he spoke, he looked a bit confused and out of sorts, blinking rapidly as if I were shining a high-powered light into his eyes.

  I held out my license and he studied it briefly. I hated the picture. I looked deathly ill: face white, hair back, cheeks sallow. I looked like a vampire. The make-up I had been wearing that day seemed to have evaporated with the camera’s flash. The picture was also a little blurry, the lines of my face amorphous.

  He sat back. “So what can I do for you, Ms. Moon?”

  It was actually Mrs., but you choose your battles. “I’m looking into a shooting.”

  “Oh? Who was shot?”

  “My client; shot five times in the face.” Horton didn’t budge. Not even a facial twitch. “And I think you shot him, Mr. Horton.”

  That was a conversation killer. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock ticked away, echoing along the empty hallways, filling the heavy silence.

  “You come into my house and accuse me of murder?” he said.

  “Attempted murder,” I said. “My client did not die, which is how he was able to hire me in the first place.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  His attempt at moral outrage was laughable. His heart just didn’t seem into it.

  “Kingsley Fulcrum,” I said.

  “Yes, of course, the defense attorney. It was on the news. Watched him hide behind a tree. It was very amusing. I wished he had died. But I didn’t shoot him.”

  I analyzed his every word and mannerism on both a conscious and subconscious level. I waited for that psychic-something to kick in, that extra-sensory perception that gives me my edge over mere mortals, that clarity of truth that tells me on an intuitive level that he’s our man. Frustratingly, I got nothing; just the fuzziness of uncertainty. His words had the ring of truth. And yet he still felt dirty to me. There was something wrong here.

  “Did you hire someone to shoot Kingsley?” I asked.

  “Maybe I should have an attorney present.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “Maybe you’re wired.”

  “I’m not wired.” Weird, but not wired.

  He shrugged and sat back. “I can’t express to you how happy I was to see that son-of-a-bitch get what he deserved. Trust me, if I had shot him I would be proud to say I had. But, alas, I cannot claim credit for what I didn’t do.”

  “Did you hire someone to kill him, Mr. Horton?”

  “If I had, would I tell you?”

  “Most likely not, but never hurts to ask. Sometimes a reaction to a question speaks volumes.” More than he realized.

  “Fine. To answer your question: I did not hire someone to kill Kingsley Fulcrum.”

  “Where were you on the day he was shot?”

  “What day was it?”

  I told him.

  “I was here, as usual. My father left me a sizable inheritance. I don’t work. Mostly I read and watch TV. I’m not what you would call a go-getter.”

  “You have no alibi?”

  “None.”

  “Do you own a .22 pistol?”

  He jerked his head up. Bingo. “I think this interview is over, Ms. Moon. I did not shoot Mr. Fulcrum. If the police wish to question me further, then they can do so in the presence of my attorney. Good night.”

  I stood to leave, then paused. “Hewlett Jackson was found dead today, shot nine times in the head.”

  Horton inhaled and the faintest glimmer of a smile touched his lips. The look on his face was one of profound relief. “Like I said, the police can interview me with my attorney present.”

  I found my way out of the creepy old house. I love creepy old houses. Must be the vampire in me.

  24.

  You there, Fang?

  I’m here, Moon Dance.

  I visited a suspect tonight, I wrote. When I instant message, I tend to get right to the point.

  The one you thought might be the shooter?

  Yeah, that one, but now I’m not so sure he was the shooter.

  Fang paused, then wrote: Doesn’t feel right?

  I’m not sure.

  You’re getting mixed signals.

  Yes, I wrote. Fang was damn intuitive himself, and often very accurate in his assessments of my situations. I loved that about him. But he feels dirty, though.

  Well, maybe he’s connected somehow.

  Maybe. When I mentioned the gun, I got the reaction I was looking for.

  There you go. Maybe his gun was used, but he wasn’t the killer.

  Maybe.

  There was a much longer pause. Typically, Fang and I chatted through the internet as fast as two people would talk. Perhaps even faster.

  I have a woman here, he wrote. She wants my attention.

  I grinned, then wrote: Have fun.

  I plan to. Talk to you soon.

  * * *

  It was time for my feeding.

  I checked on my children; both were sound asleep. I even looked in on Danny. He once slept only in boxers. Now he sleeps in full sweats and a tee-shirt. His explanation was simple: He didn’t like brushing up against my cold flesh.

  Screw my cold flesh. I never asked for this.

  I walked quietly through the dark house. I didn’t bother with the lights because a) I didn’t need them and b) I didn’t want to disturb the others. Danny recently commented that the thought of me wandering through the house at night creeped him out. Yeah, he said creeped. My own husband.

  Screw him, too.

  In the kitchen, I paused before the pantry. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the cupboard and reached for what I knew would be there: A box of Hostess Ding Dongs. I opened the box flap. Inside, two rows of silver disks flashed back at me. There was something very beautiful about the simplicity of the paper-thin tinfoil wrappings.

  As I removed three of them, saliva filled my mouth. My heart began to race.

  I sat at the kitchen table and unwrapped the first Ding Dong, wadding the foil wrapping tightly into a little silver ball. Before me, the chocolate puck gleamed dully in the moonlight. My stomach churned, seemed to turn in on itself, roiling like an ocean wave.

  The first bite was small and exploratory. Christ, the
chocolate tasted so damn good I could have had an orgasm. Maybe I did. Rich and complex and probably fake, the cocoa flavor lingered long after the first bite has been swallowed.

  There was no turning back now.

  I quickly ate the first Ding Dong and tore into the second. When I finished it, the third. Finally, I sat back in the wooden chair and felt like a royal glutton. Granted, most of my tastebuds were gone, but chocolate somehow made it through loud and clear.

  Outside, through an opening in the curtained window over the sink, the sky was awash with moonlight. Tomorrow was a full moon. Tonight it was almost there, but not quite. I wondered if the almost-but-not-quite full moon had any affect on Kingsley. Maybe a few extra whiskers here and there. Teeth and nails a bit longer than usual.

  I giggled about that and considered calling and teasing him, but it was two in the morning. Life is lonely at two in the morning.

  My stomach gurgled.

  Here it comes, I thought.

  I wondered again how long Kingsley had been a werewolf. I also realized he never really admitted to being one. Perhaps he was some variant of a werewolf. Perhaps a were-something else. Maybe a were-kitty.

  I shifted in the chair to ease the pain growing in my stomach. Some serious cramping was setting in.

  How old was he? Where was he from?

  I suddenly lurched forward, gasping. I heaved myself out of the chair and over to the kitchen sink. I turned on the faucet just as the Ding Dongs came up with a vengeance, gushing north along my esophagus with alarming ferocity.

  When done, I wiped my mouth and sat on the kitchen floor. I checked my watch. I had kept the Ding Dongs down for all of ninety-three seconds.

  I wanted to cry.

  25.

  I don’t sleep in a coffin.

  I sleep in my bed, under the covers, with the blinds drawn. I go to bed the moment the kids head off to school, and wake up a couple of hours before they get out. Ideally, I could sleep through the entire cycle of the day, but I’m a mom with kids and ideally is out the window.

  My sleep is deep and usually dreamless. It’s also rejuvenating in ways that I can’t fully comprehend. Prior to closing my eyes, usually minutes after my children have left for the day, I am nearly catatonic with fatigue. So much so that I sometimes wonder if I am dying—or perhaps nearly dead—and the deep sleep itself revives me, rejuvenates me, rebuilds me in supernatural ways that I will never understand.

  And the moment my head hits the pillow I’m out cold. That is, until my alarm goes off at its loudest setting. I awaken grudgingly and exhausted, fully aware that I should still be sleeping, and that I should never, ever be seeing the light of day. Nevertheless, I do get up. I do face the light of day, and I keep trying to be the best mom I can.

  My sleep is usually dreamless. But not always. Sometimes I dream that I am a great bird. I fly slowly, deliberately, my powerful wings outstretched, flapping slowly. I never seem to be in a hurry.

  Sometimes I dream of my kids, that I infect them with my sickness and they become like me: Hungry for blood, shunned by society, living a secret life of fear and confusion and pain. I usually wake up crying.

  Today, I did not wake up crying. Today, I woke up with a smile on my face. Yes, I was still exhausted and could have used a few more hours of sleep, but nonetheless I woke up with a happy heart.

  Today, I dreamed of a man. A great hulking creature of a man with the broadest shoulders I’d ever seem and a mane of hair as thick as any wild animal. A man whose eyes glowed amber under the moonlight and whose grin was more wolf than human. In the dream, Kingsley had been stalking me in the deep dark woods. Sometimes he was half-man, and sometimes he was all wolf. The biggest wolf I’d ever seen.

  In the dream, I was hiding from him, but it was a game, and I had no fear of the man-wolf. I was hiding behind the trunk of a massive pine tree as he searched the forest for me.

  We seemed to do this forever, playing, and I had a sense that we could do this forever, if we so desired. That nothing could stop us. Ever. Finally, I stepped out from behind the tree and just stood there on the wooded path. Kingsley, the man, came to me, hunger in his amber eyes. I had forgotten about such hunger. Pushed it aside. I had assumed such a look would be forever lost to me, replaced only by Danny’s disgust and horror.

  But not with Kingsley. He hungered for me.

  More important: He accepted me.

  Then he was upon me, pouncing, taking me up in his great arms and lowering his face to mine. And as he did so, something flashed out of the corner of my eye. The golden amulet, the same one worn by my attacker years ago. I tried to ask Kingsley about the amulet but he lowered his face to mine and took me completely and wholly to a place I had never thought I would go again.

  And that’s when I awoke, smiling.

  Wow.

  A minute later when I had regained my senses, I got out of bed and, averting my eyes from the light sneaking in through the blinds, made my way into the living room. There, under the china hutch, I found the box and opened it. Inside was the medallion with the three ruby roses.

  I reached in and turned it over. There was blood on it. A tiny speckle that I had missed.

  Why had Kingsley refused to discuss the medallion in my dream? Then again, how could he have even known about the medallion?

  Then again, I reminded myself, it was just a dream.

  Better yet, why are you dreaming of another man? You are a married woman. Dreams like that could lead to trouble.

  A lot of trouble.

  I returned the medallion to the box, closed the lid and smiled again.

  It had been, after all, a hell of a dream.

  26.

  Before I became a full-time creature of the night, I was a federal agent for the Department of Housing and Urban Development, or HUD. Although its acronym was not as sexy-sounding as the FBI, my ex-partner and I busted our fair share of bad guys; in particular, real estate scam artist and loan swindlers and those who preyed on the poor.

  Anyway, Chad Helling and I had been partners for just over two years when I had been forced to quit and find a night job. He understood. Or, rather, he understood the given reason.

  He and I were still close, and through him I used the federal government’s resources for all they were worth. In exchange, I did some pro bono investigating work for him.

  Chad answered his cell on the third ring. “Hey, sunshine.”

  “Sunshine?” I asked.

  “Sorry. Poor choice of words. What’s up?”

  “I need some help,” I said.

  “What else is new?”

  I ignored that. “The name’s Rick Horton out of Tustin. I need to know if he has a twenty-two caliber pistol registered to his name.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  “You got it, Sunshine.”

  “Asshole,” I said, but he had already hung up.

  It was late evening. I tried Kingsley at his office number, but was not surprised to discover that Kingsley had called in sick since this was the night of the full moon. I tried his home number. It was answered immediately.

  “Tonight’s the big night,” I said. “Arooo!”

  “Who’s this?” asked a stuffy voice.

  Whoops!

  “I’m, uh, Samantha Moon. May I speak to Kingsley?”

  A pause on the other end. I thought I heard a noise from somewhere in the background. Perhaps my imagination was playing tricks on me, but, son-of-a-bitch, I thought I had heard the howl of a dog.

  Or a wolf.

  “Master Kingsley is...indisposed at this time. I’ll tell him you rang.”

  Master Kingsley?

  “Please do,” I said, trying to match the upper crust voice. I think I warbled perhaps a little too long on do. The line was disconnected, and not by me.

  Almost immediately my cell vibrated in my hand. I looked at the face-plate. It was my ex-partner.

  “Yup, a twenty-two caliber pistol is re
gistered to one Rick Horton,” said Special Agent Chad Helling. “If you knew that why did you need me?”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “I surmised.”

  “That was a hell of a surmise. We could use someone like you at HUD. Too bad you keep such strange hours.”

  “Thanks, Chad. I owe you one.”

  “Or two; I’ve lost track.”

  27.

  It was 6:30 p.m., and the kids were playing at a neighbor’s house.

  I was in my study going over my notes and reviewing the internet video feed of Kingsley’s shooting. Despite myself I laughed as I watched Kingsley ducking and dodging the bullets. Although immortal, each shot must have hurt like hell, and, at the time, the bullets had done serious enough damage to render him almost useless.

  I paused on the clearest image of the shooter, which was still pretty grainy. Unfortunately, due to the poor quality of the image, it was impossible to tell if the shooter had been Rick Horton. Whoever it had been was wearing a generic warm-up jacket and a red ball cap. Seemed obvious to me that the shooter was wearing a fake mustache, too, but I couldn’t be sure. It just seemed too prominent, and in one frame it even stuck out at an odd angle, as if the glue had come undone. This, too, was noted in the police file.

  I now knew Horton owned a .22, and a .22 was used in the crime. Where did that get me? Not much, but at least it was a start.

  I felt uneasy, unrested, undead.

  Shrugging my shoulders, which at this time of the day suddenly seemed twice as heavy, I absently rubbed—or sought—an ache in my neck that seemed always to move just beyond my fingertips. Like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands. Since my attack, since my change, my body ached in places and in ways I had never thought possible.