Another day in paradise.
Jessica sighed. What happened to her life? Growing up as an only child in Wisconsin in the 1980s, Jessica could remember only one desire, or more appropriately, passion. To be a journalist. To one day hear her name mentioned in the same breath as Marguerite Higgins or Christian Amanpour. She never harbored illusions about winning a Pulitzer or becoming the prime time anchor on CNN or FOX News, keeping her aspirations more realistic. When she turned twelve, her father gave Jessica her first writing job drafting the weekly newsletter for the family farm outside of Madison. Granted, circulation was limited to her mother and father, plus a few farm hands who admired her ambition. But she had to start somewhere. From these humble beginnings, the progression seemed only natural. Staff writer on her high school newspaper during her freshman year, eventually working her way up to editor-in-chief by graduation. Staff writer on the Wisconsin State Journal, the college newspaper for the University of Wisconsin, followed by three summer internships on The Badger Herald, Madison’s moderate newspaper. Each step moved Jessica further toward her goal.
She turned down several job offers from local television stations across the Midwest out of concern that the newsrooms were less interested in her journalistic abilities then in hiring a young, attractive, leggy blonde to entice their viewing audience. She did not want to squander her career, wasting several years peddling mindless weather forecasts or an endless stream of crime reports in the vain hope that maybe, in several years, she might get a weekend or early morning anchor slot. Instead, she opted to move to Washington D.C. and land a job as a reporter with one of the nation’s major newspapers where she could put her talents to good use.
So how the hell did she wind up working for The Washington Standard? It was common for a city as large as Washington to support three major newspapers. The city had The Washington Post, which catered to a liberal, more cerebral audience, and The Washington Times, which catered to a conservative, more action-oriented audience. Jessica applied to these newspapers first, only to be told that no positions were available but please leave us your resume and we will call you when we need someone to cover the blizzard in hell, thank you very much. No one actually said it in so many words, but the meaning was clear. She had not come this far and worked this hard to be deterred by a little adversity. She applied for, and got a job with, The Washington Standard. Jessica reasoned that if she worked a few years on any major newspaper, busted her ass, and built up a respectable reputation, then she could write her own meal ticket.
Was that ever a miscalculation.
It did not take long for Jessica to realize that The Standard viewed the phrase journalistic integrity as an oxymoron. Even worse, mainstream Washington gave The Standard only slightly more credibility than the supermarket tabloids. The realization hit her hard one night during a black tie soiree on Capital Hill when a Republican staffer, upon learning where she worked, pointed out to his colleagues that the difference between the newspapers was that The Washington Times was unable to tell a lie, The Washington Post was unable to tell the truth, and The Washington Standard was unable to tell the difference. Though outwardly humiliated, deep down Jessica agreed. She always thought that The Standard needed a headline banner that read “All the news that’s shit we print.”
As much as Jessica hated to admit it, if things did not break soon, she would have to swallow her pride, move back to Madison, and salvage what little remained of her journalistic career.
Once at The Standard’s main office on New Jersey Avenue, where the street transitioned from the tourist neighborhood to the seedy, Jessica made a detour to the ladies’ room to wash off the cappuccino stain. Despite several minutes of scrubbing with soap and warm water, she could still discern a light stain on her blouse and trousers. Perfect. Strike two. She briefly entertained the notion of heading home and crawling back into bed, but feared that with her luck the commuter train would derail on its way back to Ballston.
Strike three waited for Jessica as she entered the newsroom. As she approached her cubicle, she saw a yellow legal-size piece of paper taped to her monitor with the words See me scrawled across it. The handwriting belonged to Dan Philips, her editor. Great. Philips could be curt and gruff when in the best of moods. This terse note did not bode well. Jessica summoned her courage and crossed the newsroom to Philips’ office.
“You wanted to see me?” asked Jessica, sticking her head through the open door.
Philips sat in his usual position for editing copy. He propped his legs up on the corner of the desk, leaned back into his leather chair, and clenched a red pen between his lips while chewing on the tip. He nodded and motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Jessica slid into the seat and waited quietly, knowing better than to disturb him. An old-fashioned journalist, Philips preferred to do his editing on paper, a habit left over from his days as a cub reporter covering Chicago’s inner city. He had spent five years in the Windy City vainly trying to generate a modicum of sympathy for the plight of crack whores, to get city hall to understand that welfare gave handouts to those who did not want to work while handicapping those who did, and to convince at least a handful of African-American teenagers that being a pimp or a dealer was not the best career choice. The experience had shaped his journalistic style, making him impatient with laziness or incompetence. More importantly, it made him a damn good reporter. So how the hell did he wind up here at The Standard? Rumor had it that his columns threatened to slaughter too many of the city’s scared cows and pork barrel projects, which pissed off too many people on both sides of the political aisle. When Philips finally got tired of banging his head against the wall and left Chicago, he had acquired enough of a reputation so that no respectable paper wanted to take on him and the political headaches that would ensue. The key word here being respectable.
At least, according to rumor. As far as Jessica knew, no one had yet mustered enough courage to ask Philips directly.
Finishing his review of the piece, Philips took the pen from between his lips and began to scribble on the last page. Without looking up, he said, “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry. The Metro was unusually crowded…”
“Why were you late?”
Jessica felt her mouth go dry and her palms begin to sweat. “As I said, the Metro was unusual…”
“I’m not asking for excuses.” Philips placed the cap back on the pen, then tossed it and the papers onto his desk. He swung his legs off the desk and turned to face Jessica. “I’m looking for facts. You were late for work. Why?”
“Because the Metro was unusually crowded,” she said tentatively.
“Why?”
“Because some nut burned out the Woodrow Wilson Bridge two nights ago.”
“That nut has a name.” Philips opened an edition of The Post that had been folded on his desk and, turning it toward Jessica, slid it in front of her. The lead story covered the incidents surrounding the car chase, crash, and fire on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. “Drake Matthews. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No.” Jessica took the newspaper and scanned the story.
“You will soon enough. You’re doing an investigative story on him.”
Jessica tried not to verbally express her indifference. “That won’t be easy. He’ll be in jail for a while.”
“Drake Matthews is going to be released later this evening.”
Indifference suddenly became intrigue. “Are you serious?”
Philips nodded. “I talked with a contact I have on the Police Department. Last night the mayor called Chief Roach and told him to release Drake.”
“Why?”
“Because someone very high level called the mayor and ordered it done.”
“His bail must have cost a small fortune.”
A wry smile pierced Philips’ lips. “No bail was posted. And I have it on good authority that all charges will eventually be dropped. And if that’s not enough to get your journalistic juices flowing, this is the fourth
time in three months that he’s been arrested, and the fourth time that all charges have been dropped.”
“Who the hell is Drake Matthews?” asked Jessica.
“That’s what you’re going to find out. I’ve assigned Bill Carter to you as photographer. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Of course.” Jessica had all she could do to restrain her excitement. Philips just offered her the proverbial opportunity of a lifetime, an opportunity she had been waiting years for. Jessica knew she could handle the assignment, and that once it had been successfully completed her career would take off. She had prepared for this for years. Trained for this. Played out this scenario in her mind. Jessica had no doubts she could do this job. Nonetheless, she needed to know the answer to one question.
“Why me?”
“Fair question.” Leaning forward, Philips rested his elbows on the desk and paused, carefully formulating his thoughts. “Normally I’d give this to a more senior reporter, but they’re currently all on assignment. I’ve been watching your work, and I think you’re up to it. So don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m counting on it.” Philips flashed a smile to show his confidence in her. Then grabbing another piece of copy from his desk, he leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up, and began editing.
Jessica quietly slipped out of the office, trying not to do a jig in excitement.
* * *
DRAKE LUMBERED THROUGH the lobby of his apartment building and made his way to the bank of elevators. He jabbed the up button several times, relieved when the doors immediately opened. Staggering inside, Drake pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, then leaned back against the wall as the doors slid shut. After the excitement two nights ago and close to forty-eight hours in a jail cell, the elevator’s ascent seemed pathetically long. When it finally lurched to a stop and opened onto a long, elegantly-carpeted hallway, Drake had to muster all his energy just to step out.
Thankfully his apartment was only two doors from the elevator.
Once inside, Drake emptied his pockets of keys and money, at least the money that had not fallen out during his joyride through Washington the other night. He then noticed a yellow sticky note stuck to the center of the foyer mirror. It read:
NO MESSAGES AT OFFICE
EVERYTHING QUIET
GET SOME REST
P.S. FED VAN HELSING
GIVE HIM A PET FOR ME
Drake smiled. Good ole Alison. He could always rely on her.
Exiting the foyer to the left, Drake crossed the living room to the den located off the balcony. As he stepped into the den, Van Helsing’s head shot up from his food dish, his lop ears lifted in attention. Upon seeing Drake, Van Helsing jumped straight up and raced up to the second floor of his cage. He made several tight circles, stopping only when Drake opened the cage door. With his hind quarters still hunched in the air, Van Helsing laid his chin on the floor, presenting himself to be petted. Drake reached in, grasped the lop ears between his fingers, and gently massaged. After several minutes of such attention, Van Helsing stood up and raced down the ramp to the first level, and nudged the cage door with his nose. Drake opened it, watching with a smile as his rabbit jumped onto the floor, shook his body, and trotted off to explore the apartment.
Drake followed Van Helsing across the den and back into the foyer as his furry companion raced down the hall toward the master bedroom. Drake followed, then veered into the kitchen. Not counting prison food, he had last eaten over two days ago before he and Alison had gone hunting. He needed a hot, home-cooked meal. Instead, he settled for a can of cold, store-bought chili dumped into a bowl and heated in the microwave.
As Drake’s meal warmed to a barely edible state, Van Helsing raced back down the corridor from the master bedroom and turned into the kitchen. The tiled floor did not provide him with the same traction and speed, and Van Helsing’s claws clicked across the floor as he slipped and skidded. However, once on the carpeted-floor of the dining room, he binked, hopping a foot into the air and turning ninety degrees, before disappearing into the living room.
Drake smiled. Of all the reminders of his early career as a vampire hunter, Van Helsing was the most positive. They had found each other nearly a year ago when Drake was a detective with the Boston Police Department investigating what at the time appeared to be a string of serial killings by a sadist with a penchant for blood. One particularly gruesome murder involved the slaughter of an entire family—mother, father, daughter, and infant son. The only survivor of this bloodfest had been a seven-pound mixed-breed rabbit, mottled brown and white in coloration, with lop ears. The poor thing cowered in the corner of its cage, thumping its rear legs in fear. The officer in charge of the crime scene wanted to drop the rabbit off at the animal shelter where its ultimate fate would be little different, though slightly less violent, than the rest of its family. Drake could not stand to see another life slip by, so he adopted the rabbit. Since he did not know its real name, he called him Van Helsing, rather apropos given Drake’s new profession. It had taken Van Helsing a few months before he became accustomed to his new home and felt assured of no longer living in danger, during which time the terrified rabbit either cringed in the corner of his cage or came out only to hide under furniture. But one night he ventured far enough to present himself for a pet, and Drake had obliged with a half hour ear massage. From that day on, the two had been the best of friends. Each night, Van Helsing eagerly awaited for his human companion, asking only for unconditional love in return. Van Helsing was the only one Drake could rely on.
The microwave beeped three times. Drake popped open the oven door, pulled out the bowl, and swirled the chili around. He took his dinner and a can of Diet Coke into the living room, inadvertently startling Van Helsing who had been grooming himself by the sofa. The rabbit bolted across the living room and disappeared into the den. Drake sat in a chair by the balcony overlooking Washington and ate his dinner.
Drake corrected himself. Van Helsing was not the only one he could rely on. He also could count on Alison. She had stood by him for nearly two years now. As his rookie partner in the Boston Police Department, she had been the first to believe Drake when he finally realized that their serial killer was actually a vampire. She had placed her own career on the line to help him track down and exterminate the creature. When the Boston Police commissioner refused to accept the facts of the case and hung Drake out to dry for “the use of grotesquely excessive force” in cleansing the city of that evil, she submitted her resignation in solidarity. And when he moved to Washington to pursue his new line of work, she had volunteered…. No, Alison had demanded to come along, claiming he could not do the job without her.
He could not argue with Alison on the latter. Since the two of them had begun hunting here in the District, she had saved his life on at least half a dozen occasions, or saved him from the even worse fate of being turned into a vampire himself. She also had spent many a night in the adjoining jail cell. He often thought of the old joke that a friend will always be there to bail you out of jail, while a buddy will be in the cell with you reminiscing about what landed you there in the first place. By that definition, Alison had proven herself a true buddy many times over. He would need her more than ever in the weeks and months ahead.
Finishing the chili, Drake placed the bowl on the end table, then sat back and waited patiently. Within a minute, he felt a gentle nudge against his ankle. Leaning over, he saw Van Helsing by his feet, the soulful brown eyes begging for attention. Just in case his human did not get the hint, Van Helsing hunched over and rested his chin on the carpet, presenting himself for another pet. Drake leaned over, scooped one hand under Van Helsing’s front paws and another under his butt, then lifted his furry companion into his lap. As Drake massaged the lop ears, Van Helsing hunkered down. Within seconds, Van Helsing began quietly grinding his teeth in a rabbit version of a purr.
Drake savored these moments of tranquility
because he never knew how long they would last. He had been operating in the District for only three months, but already had chalked up more than twenty encounters with the undead, seven of which had ended in his eliminating a vampire. Not to mention four arrests and no convictions. So far luck had been on his side. But luck was finite, and Drake knew he could not rely on it forever. Besides, so far they had only come up against snuffies, his term for the nameless, expendable army of vampires sired by the masters. Masters were stronger, more vicious, and more cunning, and would not be anywhere as easy to kill. There had to be at least one master out there. With Drake having killed seven of its minions, he felt certain that the master wanted to meet Drake as much as Drake wanted to meet him.
* * *
ALISON STOOD IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR, checking to see if her outfit had gotten damaged in last night’s encounter, and assessing how she looked in it. The black leather pants hugged her hips and legs. She pulled down on the sides of the black turtleneck sweater, admiring the snug fit. She wore the outfit for its functionality. Black to blend in with the night. Tight fitting so it would not get in the way during combat. And leather to withstand greater punishment. Nor did it hurt that the outfit complimented her toned physique. Since battling the undead for a living, plus two hours of daily martial arts training, kept her in excellent physical shape, she filled out her uniform quite nicely.
Too bad Drake never noticed.
Alison always felt guilty whenever she thought about Drake in that way. She had been harboring mixed feelings about him since she first became his partner on the Boston Police Department nearly a year ago. During that time, they had become colleagues in a life-and-death struggle which had led them to become best friends. Her feelings were probably the result of all the time spent together, or the dangerous nature of their work that created a close bond, or maybe that Drake had been the only man in her life for the past year. In any case, she found herself wanting to take their relationship to a romantic level. Only the fear of ruining that friendship prevented her from pursuing her fantasy.
The Vampire Hunters: Book I of The Vampire Hunters Trilogy Page 3
