Blood Law

by Jeannie Holmes

  The men said their good-byes, and Harvey departed with a promise to give the spy idea more thought.

  He sank into the driver’s seat of his county cruiser and started the car’s engine. Darryl still bothered him, and suspicion gnawed at him. As he drove away from the Holy Word Church, he decided that he’d drive out to Darryl’s later and talk to him. It was the only way he could be certain his self-reassurances weren’t anything more than bald-faced lies.

  When Varik arrived at the high-school football field, Tasha hadn’t been surprised that he’d taken one look at the scene and called for Bureau backup. Now, aside from the coach who’d discovered the body, she was the only human inside a perimeter of yellow crime scene tape.

  Chief Enforcer Alberez had arrived a short time ago and begun questioning the coach, who was still very visibly shaken.

  Tasha kept one eye on the coach and his inquisitor and the other on Varik as he and a forensic tech worked the scene. The Enforcers were allowing her to observe but not participate in the evidence-gathering process. This was a federal case now. Her role as the liaison officer, as well as her prior involvement in the investigation, made it necessary for her to be there. It didn’t mean they had to let her do her job.

  She stood to the side, using the wooden bleachers to increase her field of vision. The other bodies had been left in a supine position, lying on their backs. This one was different.

  First, the killer had taken the time and effort needed to drag the corpse to the top of the bleachers. Second, the body had been left in an upright position. Heavy nylon rope encircled the victim’s arms and legs, which were spread wide between two upright support beams for the commentator’s booth, where the announcers sat during games. Everything else remained the same. No blood trail leading to the nude corpse of a male vampire. A cross-stake driven through the victim’s chest, and no head on the body.

  “These kinds of cases always creep me out,” Freddy, the FBPI forensic tech working with Varik, said, as he snapped a series of photos with a digital camera. “Why do I always get assigned to the sicko cases?”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Varik answered. He plucked the leather pouch from around the cross-stake, opened it, and dumped the contents into his gloved hand.

  Freddy snapped several photos of the contents. “What is that?” he asked, pointing to one of the items.

  Tasha moved closer as Varik lifted the small silver object. “It looks like a four-leaf clover charm.”

  Varik nodded. “That’s exactly what it is.” He examined the charm closely. An emotion flittered across his face, too quickly for Tasha to identify. His hand closed over the charm. “Didn’t the other pouches contain items personal to the victims?”

  “Two did,” she said. “Stromheimer’s wedding ring was included, and Williams had a bloody photo of him and his girlfriend. The first body didn’t have anything.”

  “So, the clover may be special to this vic,” Freddy surmised.

  Varik didn’t answer immediately, and appeared lost in thought.

  Tasha opened her mouth to question him. He seemed to shake free of whatever memory had gripped his mind and held up a Mississippi driver’s license.

  “Well, now we know what happened to Gary Lipscomb.” He turned the license around for Tasha to see.

  A photo of a smiling vampire stared at her. She read the information from the license. “Gary Lipscomb. Age one hundred and nine. Address is three-oh-eight-one Cabot Lane, Jefferson.” Her gaze flickered to Varik. “Cabot Lane is in the county, outside of city limits. The other vics lived here in town.”

  Varik returned the license and two bloody fangs to the pouch. The clover charm he slipped into a separate evidence bag.

  “Killer’s deviating from his established pattern.” She glanced at the corpse. “That’s not a good sign.”

  “I don’t think it’s a deviation,” Varik countered. “Lipscomb worked in Jefferson. His car was found at his job site. I think the killer either lured Lipscomb away from his car or picked him up somewhere else here in town.”

  “But where?”

  “Crimson Swan would be the most likely place.”

  “And it was just torched.”

  “Convenient, no?”

  She shook her head. “No, planned.”

  A techno beat sounded from Varik’s belt, and he checked his cell phone. He stepped a few feet away before answering.

  Tasha watched as Freddy and another Enforcer carefully severed the bonds supporting the body. They worked in unison to hold it upright for a moment, and then gently laid it on a wooden bench. She flinched when Freddy pulled the stake free and placed it in a flat white box.

  Varik returned as Freddy and the other Enforcer were prepping a black body bag. “Looks like we may have gotten a break.”

  “What happened?”

  “Owen Gibson, the truck driver seen arguing with Lipscomb a couple of weeks ago, just turned himself in to the Nassau County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Alex paced the length of the hotel suite, turned, and retraced her steps. She hated being out of the loop, feeling useless. Worry gnawed at her. Where was Stephen? Was he okay? Was he even alive?

  She replayed the scene from the previous night through her mind, trying to remember some detail that would help lead her to Stephen’s kidnappers. The memory kept shifting to her final confrontation with her brother in the hospital. She’d been so mad, so hurt by what he’d done. Guilt weighed heavily on her shoulders. If anything happened to him—

  “You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” her mother said from her seat on the couch.

  She glared at the blond-and-silver curls piled high on the back of her mother’s head and kept moving. “How can you be so calm? Aren’t you worried about Stephen?”

  “Of course I am, but is pacing the floor or wringing my hands going to bring him back? No, it’s not.” Her mother answered her own question.

  Alex reached the window and paused, looking over the rain-slicked pavement of the hotel’s parking lot. Part of her recognized the truth in her mother’s statement, but she still felt as though she’d failed Stephen. Yes, she was the younger sister, but she was also the Enforcer, the family’s protector. She should’ve been able to prevent Stephen from being taken, and she hadn’t.

  Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony filled the room.

  Alex checked the display on her cell phone and flipped it open. “Varik, is it—”

  “It’s not Stephen,” he said, by way of greeting.

  Her shoulders slumped in relief. She caught her mother’s gaze and shook her head. “Who is it?”

  “Gary Lipscomb.”

  “Ah, fucking hell.”

  “Tasha and I are on our way to the sheriff’s department now. You remember the BOLO we sent out for Owen Gibson?”

  “The truck driver who’d argued with Lipscomb. Yeah, I remember.”

  “Gibson just turned himself in.”

  Alex nearly dropped the phone in her haste to reach the exit. “I’m on my way. I can be there in—”

  “You’re staying where you are.”

  “Like hell I am.”

  “You’re not part of this investigation anymore, Alex. You can’t be present when we interview Gibson.”

  She began pacing in a circle in front of the door. “Then let me sit in the video observation room.”

  “Alex—”

  “You need me on this,” she said quickly. “I saw Stephen’s kidnappers, and—”

  “They wore masks! You can’t possibly identify any of them.”

  “But I saw one of them in the alley when he attacked me! Dweezil scratched his face.”

  Varik blew his breath out in frustration.

  Alex felt the sting of unshed tears. “Please, Varik,” she whispered tightly. “Stephen’s my brother. I have to do something.”

  The silence stretched out, and then finally broke. “All right,” Varik said. “You can sit in the video room, but that’s it. You will not interfere
with the interview in any way. Understood?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Damian’s going to have my fangs for this,” he muttered, and ended the call.

  Alex grinned and shouted triumphantly. She spun to face her bewildered mother and suddenly felt like a teenager again when she asked, “Mom, can I borrow your car?”

  “Stay here,” Varik said, pointing to the table in front of Alex. “I don’t want you to so much as step a toe out of this room.”

  They were in the video observation room for the Jefferson Police Department. A row of monitors glowed softly in the dimness, and each showed a different interview room, but only one was occupied.

  Alex stared at the man on the screen in front of her. “I want to talk to him,” she said. “I—”

  “Am no longer a part of any official investigation,” he finished her sentence and pushed her gently back in her seat.

  “Damn it, Varik. I can help!”

  He placed one hand on the table, the other on the back of her chair, and leaned into her personal space. “You really want to help?”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “Yes.”

  “Then for once in your life, trust me.”

  Her eyes were a swirling mix of emerald and amber, and she appeared to be mounting a comeback, but she surprised him. She seemed to deflate and crossed her arms in front of her, dropping her gaze and nodding in acquiescence.

  Tasha entered the room, and Varik backed away from Alex. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No, I was laying down the ground rules. That’s all,” Varik replied.

  “I see,” Tasha said, and took a seat beside Alex.

  He picked up a notepad and pen from another table. They were more for show than use because of the video recorders, but if Gibson confessed to anything, he’d need to get it in writing.

  “Varik?”

  He paused in the doorway and looked at Alex. Emotions passed behind her eyes, and the blood-bond hummed in his mind. She didn’t have to say anything for him to understand what she wanted to express. He directed a single thought along the bond: You’re welcome.

  She smiled weakly and then focused on the monitor in front of her.

  Varik closed the door and walked the short distance to interview room five, where Owen Gibson waited. He breezed into the room with an air of nonchalance. “Hello, Mr. Gibson,” he said, as he laid the notepad on the table and sat down across from the truck driver. “I’m Enforcer Varik Baudelaire, and I want to thank you for coming in today.”

  “Humph,” Owen Gibson snorted. “Didn’t have much choice, did I? I show up for work and find out the feds are looking for me. Boss threatened to fire my ass if I didn’t get it straightened out.” He picked at the edges of a jagged cuticle. “So, what’s this all about?”

  Varik studied the man and thought he looked more than a little like a grizzly bear. He was tall and carried at least fifty extra pounds around his waist. The fresh stains on his Harley-Davidson shirt stank of beer, as did his breath, although he’d tried to conceal it with liberal amounts of breath mints. Greasy brown hair was slicked back into a messy braid that snaked around his neck and ended in a bright red elastic band. A thick dark beard streaked with gray covered most of his face, but a pair of bright green eyes stared out from under the equally bushy brows. Faded tattoos adorned his forearms, one of a winged heart and another of a skull impaled by a spike.

  Varik smiled, flashing his fangs, which caused Gibson to squirm in his seat. “I have a few questions regarding a case I’m working.”

  “The dead vamps?”

  “You’re familiar with the case?”

  “I heard about it.”

  “Do you know a vampire by the name of Gary Lipscomb?”

  Gibson blinked and laced his fingers together, stilling his hands on the tabletop, before shaking his head. “I don’t know any vamps by name.”

  “He works for Morrison Distribution. You had an argument with him a couple of weeks ago. Called him a ‘damn bloodsucker’ and blocked his forklift.”

  “If you say so. I don’t remember.”

  “What started the argument?”

  “I said I don’t remember.”

  Varik pursed his lips and remained quiet. He waited to speak until Gibson wriggled with impatience. “Here’s my problem, Owen. I have a warehouse full of witnesses who are willing to swear that you had an altercation with Gary Lipscomb, and unfortunately, Mr. Lipscomb’s dead, so he can’t tell us his version of the story.”

  Gibson began shaking his head vigorously. “You’re not pinning a murder on me. I haven’t killed anybody, human or vamp. Hell, no.”

  “You argued with the victim. Now he turns up dead after being missing for several days. You can see where we might find all this puzzling, Mr. Gibson.”

  “I can explain that, the argument.”

  Varik inclined his head slightly and positioned his pen over the notepad, waiting.

  “It’s like this, okay?” Gibson sat forward, hands gesturing. “I got to Morrison Distribution to pick up a load of sporting equipment and I was running behind schedule. The vamp loading the truck—”

  “Gary Lipscomb.”

  “I didn’t know his name. All I knew was he wasn’t loading the stuff quickly enough. I was falling further behind because of it. I may’ve said some things in the heat of the moment, but I didn’t kill anyone, swear to God.”

  Varik scribbled a few notes, buying himself time. “How do you feel about vampires in general, Mr. Gibson?”

  “I, uh …”

  “Do you like them? Hate them?”

  “I don’t really know any. Personally.”

  “But surely you have an opinion.”

  “Yeah, of course, but—”

  “You know what I think? I think you don’t like vampires much, and when Gary Lipscomb screwed with your schedule, you got mad.”

  “Now, wait a second. You’re getting this all wrong. I—”

  “You look like you’ve seen some action. I’m willing to bet you even enjoyed killing Lipscomb.”

  “I didn’t kill him!” Gibson roared. “Yeah, I don’t like vamps much. I think they’re unnatural, but I am not a killer.”

  “‘Unnatural’?” Varik asked.

  “The Bible says that we—humans—are made in God’s image, and I don’t think He’d create something that’s sole purpose is to devour, to destroy, that image.”

  “If God didn’t create vampires, then who—”

  “Satan,” he said, and spread his arms wide, as if that explained it all. “He created—no, spawned—vampires in the pits of Hell and sent you demons here, to earth, to create chaos and discord among humans.”

  Varik stared at him and reassessed his previous evaluation. Instinct still told him Gibson wasn’t a killer, but he most certainly was a nutcase.

  “It’s all here.” Gibson pulled a crumpled pamphlet from his back pocket and tossed it on the table.

  A logo featuring a stylized samurai sword cutting through the equally stylized letters HSM glared up at Varik from the glossy paper. “Human Separatist Movement?”

  Gibson nodded.

  Varik picked it up and unfolded it. The cover showed a cartoon of a human mob cheering as one man drove a cross-shaped stake through a bat-winged vampire’s heart. An image of Gary Lipscomb’s body drifted before his mind’s eye. “Where did you get this?”

  “I don’t have to tell you—”

  “Where did you get it?” He shouted the question.

  Gibson recoiled. “From a guy at a diner here in town, Maggie’s Place.”

  “Who was it? What’s his name?”

  “The cook. I think his name was Bill.”

  Varik scooped up the pamphlet and left the room without saying another word. He saw Tasha standing in the doorway of the video room, staring down an empty hall. “What’s going on?”

  “Alex,” Tasha answered. “She just ran out of here like her ass was on fire.”

  “Ah, s
hit,” he breathed, and sprinted down the corridor.

  fourteen

  “HAM SANDWICHES WITH MAYO, SWISS CHEESE, AND homemade sweet pickles make the best lunches,” Darryl Black said, settling into his recliner. He balanced the plate of sandwiches on top of his glass of Mountain Dew and worked the lever to elevate the folding footrest. Once comfortable, he punched the power button on the remote that he’d duct-taped to the chair’s arm so he wouldn’t lose it.

  The small TV flickered once, then twice, before coming to life. He bit into the corner of the first sandwich and watched a replay of the Crimson Swan fire on the news.

  “Authorities are still investigating the apparent arson of Jefferson’s only blood bar,” a male voice-over said.

  Darryl applauded when the tower fell in a spectacular show of flames and sparks.

  The video switched to a studio view of the news anchor. “In addition to Crimson Swan’s destruction, Stephen Sabian, the bar’s owner and the son of murdered university professor Bernard Sabian, is missing. Anyone with information regarding either of these events is being asked to call the Jefferson Police Department or the FBPI’s national toll-free hotline.”

  Darryl made a rude hand gesture at the reporter and lowered the volume when the broadcast cut to a commercial.

  He smiled at the picture of Claire hanging on the wall next to him. “Well, what do you think, sweetheart?”

  The floorboards creaked and popped behind him. A shadow passed over Claire’s photo, moved along the wall, and merged with those behind the television. The screen flickered, and the hiss of static filled the room.

  He sighed and took a bite of his sandwich before looking to the portrait once more.

  Claire’s brown eyes bored into him, their warmth turning to accusation.

  “You’re not happy.”