Jeanne C. Stein - Retribution

by Jeanne C. Stein

  My fault, I know. Williams brings out the bitch in me. And there isn’t time. Embarrassed, I hand Ortiz the folder and watch as he and a visibly aggravated Williams divide the lot. Soon their thoughts are centered only on the task of sorting through the files. I wait, anxious and uneasy. If this doesn’t yield anything important, I’m wasting precious time.

  I focus on the two men, willing them to hurry it up, marveling at how different the two are.

  At some point, Ortiz changed into civilian clothes. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen him out of uniform. He’s wearing slacks with a knife-edge crease and a long-sleeved polo shirt. He’s a vampire who looks a like a thirty-year-old human. He’s about five feet ten inches tall and weighs a lean one-sixty. He has the darkly handsome look of his Hispanic/Native American heritage: an aquiline nose, dark hair and eyes and olive skin stretched over high cheekbones.

  His expression is somber as he works. He’s been a deputy under Williams for as long as I’ve known him, but there’s more to their relationship. I don’t understand it and I have no desire to. Ortiz is genuinely nice while Williams is decidedly not.

  Finally, Williams separates one sheet from the stack and Ortiz, two. They look at one another.

  Here’s one.

  And two others.

  They’re showing each other the pictures they’ve chosen from the file. The picture Williams is holding is of the dead woman we found across the street. She looks much better alive.

  “Who are the other two?” I ask.

  Ortiz reaches for a slim leather folder on the table in front of him. He retrieves two artist’s sketches from inside. He holds the sketches next to the photos from Burke’s files, turns them around so I can see.

  The resemblance between sketch and photo are remarkable in both cases.

  Williams turns to me. “Remember the men who reported being attacked by women who cut them for their blood?”

  “These are the women?”

  “You tell me. These sketches were made from the victims’ descriptions.”

  I take the photos and sketches and lay them out on the table for a closer look. “I’m sold. Is this enough to get a warrant?”

  Williams shakes his head. “A warrant for what? We still don’t know what connection Burke has to these women except that they’ve used her product.”

  “That’s not enough?”

  He fans the thick file of photos. “Not when there are a hundred other women here who don’t seem to have gotten themselves into trouble.”

  I pick up the two photos and look to Ortiz. “Can I take these?”

  Ortiz nods. He makes a note of the names and addresses printed on the backs of the photos and slips the rest of Burke’s file and the sketches back into his folder. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to Coronado,” I reply. “To the address I found in Burke’s file. If I’m lucky, it’s hers. After I take care of her, I’ll visit these two.”

  Ortiz frowns. “You’re going to Burke’s alone?”

  I’m afraid Williams is going to insist on coming with me. I jump in before he can.

  “It’s better if I do. If I get caught, neither of you should be involved. Someone has to take care of Culebra and Frey. This is the address I found in her file at the warehouse.” I send it to him telepathically, adding, “If you don’t hear from me in two hours, then you can send the cavalry.”

  “I will.” Ortiz’ dark eyes flash. He writes the address in a notepad and slips it into his pocket. “Be careful, Anna.”

  Williams, for once, doesn’t say anything.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE ADDRESS I GAVE ORTIZ, THE ADDRESS ON J AVENUE I took from a utility bill in Burke’s office, is across the bay in Coronado. I can’t even claim gut instinct that it belongs to Burke. All I can do is hope it’s hers. If I’m wrong, I’ve wasted more precious minutes of Culebra’s life.

  It’s a quick trip across the bridge and straight down Fourth Avenue to J. The neighborhood is old money—wooden shingles, tile roofs. Multistoried houses with big yards and picket fences.

  Not what I expected. I expected a black magic woman to live in seclusion behind high brick walls covered with poison ivy.

  Doubt starts gnawing a hole in instinct.

  The street is dead quiet in the early morning hours. I park half a block from the address and work my way on foot to the alleyway that runs behind each house. When I get to the right house, I leap the fence and crouch down, watching, listening.

  I’ve got my gun in my hand. Ready this time. But I know it’s too much to hope that Burke will pass by a window. Too much to hope I’ll get a clear shot without giving myself away or allowing her to escape. Again.

  I see and hear nothing out of the ordinary. The house is dark. The only sound, the faraway ebb and tide of the ocean a half dozen blocks away. I don’t feel anything, either. None of the strange vibrations I did around Culebra. A bad sign. Wouldn’t I feel something this close to the place where a powerful spell is being cast?

  I touch the chain around my neck. Wouldn’t the amulet be sending a warning?

  The windows along the back of the house are shuttered. I make my way closer and try to peek between the slats. It’s no good. I sneak around to the front, staying low to avoid being seen from the street. It’s three a.m., but you never know when some insomniac pain-in-the-ass neighbor might decide to walk the dog.

  As soon as I find a window with the curtains parted enough for me to look inside, I know why I’m not getting any vibes from the place.

  The living room is empty. So is the dining room beyond it. No couch. No tables and chairs. Nothing. An empty expanse of space that goes from one end of the house to the other.

  Shit.

  My handy-dandy lock picks let me in through the back door. I pause to see if there will be an intruder alert, but none sounds. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a silent alarm going off somewhere, but by the time a response team gets here, I’ll be long gone.

  I run through the house, just to assure myself it isn’t a case of Burke not taking the time to go shopping for her new digs. But there isn’t a piece of furniture anywhere in the place. Not a pot or pan in the kitchen. The closets are empty. I don’t find so much as a scrap of paper. If she had been living here, she isn’t now.

  A dead end.

  Fatigue washes over me. Fatigue and guilt. Culebra is still near death and Burke has eluded me once again.

  I slip back outside, call Culebra’s cell. Sandra answers. Frey is asleep. There has been no change in Culebra’s condition. I can’t bring myself to tell Sandra that I’m not any closer to helping them than I was this morning.

  So, I lie. Tell her that I’ll have news tomorrow. That I’m close to finding Burke. If the despair I’m feeling is mirrored in my voice, Sandra doesn’t let on. She may be as good a liar as I am.

  When I’m back in the car, I call Ortiz. Tell him what I found, that is to say, what I didn’t find. I also tell him I’m too tired to do anything else tonight. Tomorrow I’ll go back to the warehouse and start all over again. I’ll grill that receptionist. She must be in contact with her boss. Either the human Anna or the vampire will get the information out of her.

  But now, I’m going home.

  He offers to call Williams. I quickly take him up on the offer and we say good night.

  AS SOON AS I WALK THROUGH THE COTTAGE DOOR, I sense it.

  Subtle as the drop in pressure before a summer storm.

  Someone is here.

  I pause, tasting the air, letting supernatural acuity take over from the human. It’s female, human, and she’s upstairs. In my bedroom.

  The vampire reacts without prompting. I slip back out the door, position myself under the balcony that leads from my bedroom and leap up. I land on all fours, silently, weightlessly, and look inside.

  A woman is on my bed. She’s gagged, bound hand and foot. In the quiet, I hear her labored breathing. I hear her heartbeat, frantic as she struggles against her c
onstraints. I smell her fear, acrid and harsh as bitter almond. I smell something else.

  I smell her blood.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE SLIDER HAS BEEN UNLATCHED AND LEFT OPEN. I slip inside, so quietly she doesn’t realize I’m there in the room with her. She’s bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts on her arms and legs. It drips from the rope binding her, pools under her on the bed.

  The call of it beckons. I take a step toward her.

  She’s naked, hands tied above her head, face pointed away from me, toward the bedroom door. She either detects movement, or some instinct sounds the alarm. She turns her head. The gag covers her mouth and chin. I don’t recognize her. When she sees me, her eyes widen. Her breath comes in gasps, the thudding of her heart turns thunderous, sending the blood rushing through her veins. The cuts weep more freely.

  I have to fight an overwhelming urge to lick at those bloody cuts. I fed from a human two weeks ago but still, I’m hungry. Now. And here’s a feast of blood.

  The vampire starts to rationalize. Why shouldn’t I? She’s in my house, in my bed for god’s sake. I won’t kill her. Just take what I need. I can make it pleasurable for her. It would be so easy.

  The human Anna inserts herself.

  You’re not going to feed from this woman. She’s been dumped here. She’s not a host. She’s scared. Take fucking hold of yourself and untie her.

  It’s like a dash of ice water. The head clears, the lust recedes from raging need to dull ache. My features must lose the animal fierceness because the woman’s body relaxes a little, her pulse slows. But the eyes still hold terror.

  I approach the bed with hands outstretched. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. This is my house.”

  She tries to wriggle away but one ankle is tied to the foot of the bed. She kicks toward me with her free leg. My words may be soothing now, but she has the memory of the vampire’s face. It will take more than words to overcome that image.

  I stand still and wait until she stops thrashing. “Will you let me take the gag out of your mouth?”

  A moment’s hesitation, then a jerky nod.

  Slowly, carefully, I lean down and untie the ends of a scarf. When I pull it free, there’s an instant when she looks up at me and I think she’s going to be all right. I smile at her, reach to untie the ropes binding her hands.

  She starts to scream. A loud, high-pitched, penetrating scream.

  Startled, I jerk back.

  My first thought is not for her welfare. It’s for mine. I have neighbors on both sides.

  I’ve got to quiet her.

  Once more I reach out, making what I hope is a reassuring shushing noise, trying to calm her.

  She screams louder.

  Jesus.

  I slam the slider shut behind me.

  She’s going to wake the entire block if I don’t do something.

  There’s a crash of splintering wood. Somebody is breaking in my front door.

  Too late.

  At the sound, the woman turns up the volume.

  Feet thunder up the stairs. Cops appear at the door, one shoves me away from the woman and one pushes me down onto the floor.

  The instinct to fight is squelched because of a voice in my head.

  Anna, it’s me. Relax. Don’t say anything.

  It’s Ortiz, back in uniform, with two of San Diego’s finest.

  Ortiz takes over. He gets the cop off my back and allows me to stand up. He tells him that he knows me.

  The second cop is untying the woman. He throws a sheet over her and when she sits up, she starts to babble. She tells the cops how I appeared in the room from the deck and not the inside door and how I looked at her with an animal’s face and yellow eyes.

  They look at each other and at me. I put on as normal a face as I can and shrug.

  Ortiz tells one of the cops to take me downstairs while he questions her. It’s not until they’ve taken her away in an ambulance and the CSI team has come and gone (with a set of my best Egyptian cotton sheets) that he joins me at the kitchen table. He sends my cop custodian away, too.

  “It was Burke,” he says.

  I hand him a cup of coffee. Dawn is breaking outside and it’s obvious I’m not going to get any sleep. Neither is he.

  “Burke.” Not really surprising. Another part of her little game?

  He takes a long pull at the coffee. “The woman says she was picked up leaving a downtown bar about midnight. Two men grabbed her. The last thing she remembers before getting stuck with a needle is a voice saying the name Belinda Burke.”

  “Not very subtle, is she? But what does dumping her here accomplish?”

  “Maybe she thought you’d lose it when you smelled the blood. We got an anonymous call that someone saw you carrying a bound and gagged woman into your house. Came in ten minutes before we got here. Before you got here, evidently.”

  “How’d you catch the call? When I left you, you were still with Williams.”

  Ortiz smiles. “Police scanner. When your address was broadcast, I beat it over here. Changed in the car. The uniforms assumed I was on duty.”

  I sip at my coffee, processing what Burke could hope to accomplish with such a stunt. I let Ortiz accompany me as I sort possibilities. Did she hope I’d land in jail to be off her trail? Give her a clear shot at Culebra? Was it simply a way to harass me? Let me know she can fuck with me whenever she wants?

  Ortiz shakes his head. “Any or all of the above. Maybe she hoped you’d kill that woman. That would be one way to get you off her trail.”

  Now I shield my thoughts. The woman was never in danger from me—not of being killed. She did come close to becoming a late night snack, though.

  I need to feed.

  I look at Ortiz. “How much trouble am I in?”

  He shrugs. “She admits you weren’t in on the abduction. She gave us good descriptions of the men who were and the van she was hauled off in. Unless we find hard evidence that you arranged it, you’ll be listed as a person of interest.” He laughs. “You didn’t arrange it, did you?”

  “Very funny.”

  He tips his cup toward me. “And you have the best alibi you could possibly have. At the time of her abduction you were hanging out with a cop and the former police chief.”

  I rub my eyes. The hunger is beginning to cloud my head. It shouldn’t be this strong. Too much blood tonight. First the woman at the pier, then the woman in my bed. It has awakened the hunger. The vampire is close to the surface, demanding sustenance.

  If Lance were here—

  But he’s not.

  And I can’t go to Culebra, either.

  Ortiz is watching me. My thoughts are closed to him, but he’s vampire, too. He may recognize the signs. He doesn’t impose himself, though; he sits quietly and waits.

  Maybe he can help. He’s got a live-in girlfriend to provide nourishment. Maybe he knows of others? If I’m going to be of any use to Culebra, I’ve got to have a clear head.

  “Ortiz?”

  He looks at me over the rim of the coffee cup.

  “I need to ask you a favor.”

  He nods at me to go on.

  I still haven’t opened my thoughts to him. It might be easier but for some reason, I don’t want it to be.

  “I need a host.”

  He puts the cup on the table, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “I thought you had this deal in Mexico.”

  “I did. I do.” Obviously Williams hasn’t filled him in on everything. I let him pick the story out of my head.

  “Wow,” he says. “I had no idea.” He’s quiet for a minute. Then he says, “I’ll call my girlfriend. There’s a friend of hers that I’ve used. Before I hooked up with Brooke, naturally. She might be available.”

  I feel embarrassed. I sit there while he calls his girlfriend and explains the situation. It’s like asking your little brother to get you a date. Humiliating.

  This is the uncool part.

  CHAPTER 20

  IN AN H
OUR, ORTIZ AND I ARE SITTING IN HIS LIVING room. His girlfriend, Brooke, is a petite brunette who is looking at me with open curiosity on her pert, co ed’s face. I guess she’s never met any female vamps.

  She couldn’t be more than twenty. She’s barefoot, dressed in a hoodie and a pair of sweats. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Isn’t she a little young? I ask Ortiz.

  He puts an arm across her shoulders and she snuggles against his chest like a contented kitten. Not for me.

  I’m seeing a side of Ortiz I wouldn’t have believed an hour ago. He’s always displayed an air of chivalry toward me. To see him on his home turf acting more macho than gallant surprises me. I realize at this moment, though, that I don’t know anything about Ortiz—even how long he’s been a vampire or how old he was when he was turned. Maybe he’s younger than I think. Maybe Brooke is older.

  And Brooke certainly seems to be enjoying the attention.

  I look around the room. I followed Ortiz in my own car from the cottage so I could take off right after—doing what I need to do. He and Brooke live in a new housing development in Chula Vista. The homes are upper middle class, two story, fifteen hundred square feet of yuppie suburban delight. This room is decorated in Pottery Barn essentials. I expect a dog and a couple of kids to materialize out of the woodwork.

  Hard to imagine why Ortiz, who will never be able to produce those kids, would choose to live here.

  The moment I think that, the hypocrisy rises up to thump me on the head. Look at my lifestyle. Aren’t I trying to do the same thing? Live a “normal” life?

  Brooke is still rubbing her cheek against Ortiz’ chest like she can’t get close enough. He takes her chin in his hand, turns her face up and kisses her. There’s no self-consciousness in the act, no embarrassment that I’m sitting right here with them.

  Sharing intimate moments with strangers may be the norm for these two.

  I’m relieved when the doorbell rings.

  Ortiz extricates himself from Brooke’s grasp and goes to answer it. The way Brooke is staring at me sparks the uneasy feeling that I may have asked the wrong vampire for a favor. It intensifies when Ortiz returns with a blonde in a raincoat.