I turned to fetch my bag. The truck was about to crest the slope when the engine coughed. Sparks shot from the undercarriage.
An explosion ripped open the engine compartment and shook the ground. The fenders flew apart, and the hood went spinning. An enormous fireball welled inside the cab, shattered the windows, and ballooned upward. The hot blast slapped my face.
Coyote.
I screamed his name.
The flaming carcass of the pickup rolled backward down the dip, right toward me. A chorus of car alarms wailed throughout the neighborhood.
I wanted to reach into the cab and snatch Coyote free. But the inferno warned me off. No one could've survived, not even a vampire. Helpless, I stepped back and raised my arm to shield my face from the heat.
The truck jumped the curb and smashed through the chain-link fence. The truck rumbled straight for Coyote's home and crashed through the porch to settle inside his kitchen like a gigantic Molotov cocktail.
A second explosion sent jets of flame cascading out the door and windows. The roof hopped a few inches, fire erupting past the joists, and broke into pieces. The rear end of the truck tipped up as the floor gave way and the house collapsed onto itself.
I stumbled dumbstruck toward the flaming ruins, unwilling to comprehend what I'd witnessed. I wanted to believe that at any second Coyote would reappear, either jumping from the flames like a rodeo clown or simply popping into plain sight as if he'd always been there.
Coyote's magic warning sticks lay trampled under tire marks. His truck had been outside the circle when the bomb was planted. That's why we didn't get a warning.
People streamed from the local houses, approaching cautiously, their faces slack with horror and disbelief. They pointed at me, muttering to one another, "Who is that? Did he kill the viejo in the house? Why did he do it?"
The fire ate Coyote's house and the timbers cracked as if the flames had teeth. The roof settled into the burning hole of the basement, the furnacelike heat incinerating everything.
Police sirens blared in the distance.
I didn't need any cops. One of them might have planted the bomb. I had to leave. Now.
I shouldered my overnight bag and retreated into the weeds of the ravine. I hustled through the ravine and into the shade under the overpass.
A column of smoke fouled the air to the west. Fire trucks and more police cars zoomed past.
I rested against the concrete pillar of the overpass, dismayed and shocked. I couldn't believe it.
Coyote was dead.
I replayed the horrific ordeal. The sparks shooting from the front. The blast tearing the truck apart. The terrible fire consuming the cab.
Who ordered the hit? Cragnow, I'm sure. With Petale Venin's blessing.
Shock gave way to anger, and my kundalini noir tightened.
Who had planted the bomb? The police, some of Paxton's? Or Cragnow's vampire guards?
And why? To kill Coyote and me? Or just me?
The blackest of my thoughts returned. Coyote. Gone. Roasted into ash. The hopelessness of the situation crushed me. My legs folded and I sank against the pillar.
A crow sat on a chain-link fence close to the overpass. The crow squawked and flew into the shadow of the overpass to land on the dirt. The crow stared at me with its glossy marble-like eyes. It squawked again. A shiny metallic capsule clung to its right leg. A message from the Araneum.
A wave of resentment tore at my insides. New orders from my anonymous bosses? What good was their grand omniscience if they let Coyote die?
I snatched a pebble from the ground. "I've had enough of this, you stupid bird." I flung the pebble at the crow.
The pebble bounced off its skull. The bird staggered and fell on its butt. The crow shook its head, extended one wing to lever itself up, and stood. The crow advanced and squawked angrily.
It stopped by my feet and raised the leg with the capsule. I reached for the leg, and the crow hopped back.
"I'm not in the mood for games," I said.
The crow strutted into the darker shadows under the overpass. I pushed myself up and followed.
The crow stopped and raised its legs again.
I knelt to unfasten the capsule.
The crow's beak snapped on my finger.
I pulled away, clasping the injured digit. "You little shit, what was that about?"
The crow tilted its head and squawked. It raised the leg with the capsule.
"Okay, so we're even. But watch yourself. Bite me again and I'll introduce you to a knife and fork."
The crow shrugged its wings, unimpressed by my threat.
I undipped the capsule. It looked identical to the one I'd seen back in Denver, a pinky-size tube of filigreed platinum and yellow gold. Rubies rimmed the cap.
Opening the capsule, I let the odor of rancid meat escape, a reminder of the source, a swatch of vampire skin.
I tapped the capsule and a thin curled leaf of vampire parchment slid free. I flattened the parchment into a buff-colored translucent square, curious about the instructions sent by the Araneum.
The parchment was bare. I held it up and studied the surface for evidence of writing. Did the ink fade? Had they used an invisible formula? What was the secret?
The crow squawked to get my attention. It picked a short stick from the ground and dragged one end through the dirt, making squiggles. The crow stopped and gazed at me.
"What are you getting at?"
The bird rolled its head, the gesture saying, "Figure it out, stupid," and dragged the stick through the dirt again.
"You're writing something?"
The crow kept working the stick.
"You want me to write something?"
The crow spat the stick.
"What?"
The crow walked back and forth in front of me, leaving claw tracks in the dust.
"A report?"
The crow didn't answer.
The parchment was too flimsy to write on without support. I slipped a notepad out of my overnight back. I placed the parchment on the notepad, clicked my ballpoint, and wondered what to write. Couldn't be much; the parchment was smaller than the palm of my hand and too thin to write on both sides.
What could I say?
I started with the most important.
Coyote dead. Assassinated. The Araneum surely knew who he was.
Cragnow Vissoom betrayed great secret. Takes orders from Councilwoman Petale Venin, human immune to hypnosis. Cragnow and Venin plan coalition of undead and humans, start of new empire.
Far-fetched? Not really, since it was true.
What was I to do?
I finished my message. Will continue with direct action. Vissoom and Venin to die with undead accomplices.
Your servant, Felix Gomez.
My writing started with neat block letters and deteriorated into a scrawl bunched up along the bottom of the parchment. I rolled the parchment into the capsule and screwed the cap tight.
The crow hopped close. I fit the capsule to one leg. The crow stepped away. Rather than fly off, it stared at me. Its gaze was pensive, melancholy. What did it know? Was this note to be the last testament from me?
The crow turned about and sprang into the air, its black wings a blurry rush of feathers. The crow sailed into the bright sunlight and disappeared.
A new emotion rose inside me and crowded aside the dark shock of Coyote's death. Something more than anger.
Revenge.
I had my own orders. Direct action. Kill Cragnow and Venin.
How?
I had lost my partner. Roxy's files and most of my possessions were burned up. I gazed at the urban sprawl beyond the sanctuary of the overpass. Which was the way forward?
I had the clothes I wore and what was inside my overnight bag: a few toiletries, a notepad, two loaded magazines of silver bullets, plus the stash of eight thousand dollars.
So I had money, a gun, and ammunition. That was a start.
My cell phone hummed i
n my pocket. I withdrew the phone and flipped it open. I didn't recognize the number, a local area code.
"Hello? Hello?" The man's voice sounded familiar.
"Yes," I replied.
"Felix? It's Lucky Rosario."
Chapter Forty-Two
I COULD'VE TURNED into ice. Rosario calling now?
"I want out, Felix."
"Out from what?"
"Everything. My business with Cragnow. That whole mess."
"Gimme a second." I had to reorient my thoughts from losing Coyote and back to the investigation. "You seemed happy with the arrangement. The money. The girls."
"The hell with that. We're talking about murder."
Damn right, this was about murder. "What do you mean? Whose murder?" I wanted him to say Roxy's.
"Rebecca Dwelling and Fred Daniels."
Big surprise.
"You're saying Cragnow was behind the murder of Rebecca and Fred?" I wanted Rosario to spell it out in bold capital letters.
"Yes."
"Cragnow admitted it?" I asked.
"Admit? Hell, he bragged about ordering the killings. And there's another murder. Katz Meow."
I had expected that news but still, hearing it stung. "What makes you sure Katz was murdered? Last I checked, she was still missing."
"Not anymore. She's in the morgue. With a bullet hole."
A bullet hole. Same as Roxy. "Who killed her?" I asked.
"Don't know."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Give me cover."
"If you mean protection, go to the police. Cut a deal with them."
Rosario's voice lowered to a desperate whisper. "You know I can't. Julius Paxton is in Cragnow's back pocket. I squeal to the cops, and you'll find me on a table next to Katz."
"And you think I can help?"
"Felix, I'll tell you everything I know. Enough to bury them all for good."
The alarm in my kundalini noir tripped. Cragnow or Paxton could be using Rosario to track my cell phone.
"Rosario," I said, "I'll call you back at your number. But double-cross me, and I will hurt you."
"Hold on, Felix—" he blurted as I palmed my cell phone and turned it off.
If Rosario's information was any good, it could be my break to get at Cragnow and Venin.
First, get as much distance as possible from here, in case my call had been monitored.
I hiked under the overpass until I came across a path that led into East Los Angeles. I couldn't imagine finishing this investigation chasing after Cragnow in a city bus. I needed wheels. Something fast and cheap.
A Yamaha V-Max motorcycle sat on the lawn of a house. In the world of crotch rockets, the V-Max was king testosterone. A FOR SALE sign asked 34,800 OBO.
Dents, scratches, faded paint, and blued chrome exhaust told me this bike had been ridden awhile. Gray duct tape covered the edges of the seat. The tires had plenty of tread. The wheels and disk brakes looked true.
I sat on the V-Max and worked the foot and hand controls. Other than needing a wash, the bike was in fair shape, considering the high mileage on the odometer.
I could zap the owner and rip him off, but while I might be a lecherous, bloodsucking killer, I was no thief. Besides, bad karma had plagued me enough in this case; I didn't need any more.
I walked up to the house behind the Yamaha and rang the doorbell. A man appeared at the screen door and stepped out. He was a slender Chicano about my height in his late twenties, with the smudge of a soul patch, tattoos, and wearing denim cargo shorts and a wife beater.
We rapped about the bike. He kept calling me cuñado. Brother-in-law.
I asked, "How's it run?"
"Cuñado, it's got more huevos than two of you."
Good enough. We haggled over the price and settled on $3,800.
"Cuñado, aren't you going to give it a ride first?"
"If it doesn't have huevos," I said, "I'll come back for yours."
I gave him cash. He handed a pair of stiff leather gloves and an envelope with the title, registration, and keys. He added a beanie helmet in dark matte gray with two bloodshot eyes glued to the front.
"Better wear it, cuñado. State law."
I cruised the neighborhood to get a feel for the machine. After a few minutes I couldn't resist and goosed the throttle. The V-Max shot forward like it wanted to fly. This bike had plenty of huevos. I smiled.
I stopped at a 7-Eleven to gas up and buy a street map. Rosario wanted to talk. I studied the map, looking for someplace public yet open enough for me to check that Rosario arrived alone. There were plenty of neighborhood parks close to here. Too small. How about Elysian Park north of Dodger Stadium? Maybe.
Beyond that, the much larger Griffith Park with its woodsy, hilly trails. Good enough.
My kundalini noir grumbled. Last I had to eat was the posole and blood. A carnicería would have cow's blood, but considering the trauma of the day, I wanted something more nourishing and comforting—fresh human.
A red Ducati sport bike glided to the curb in front of the 7-Eleven and stopped next to my V-Max. The rider swung a booted leg off the Ducati. A red leather riding suit with black mesh trim hugged feminine curves. She flipped up the front of her helmet. The cheek pads scrunched her features, but I recognized the eyes. She was the yuppie in the Ferrari that night Coyote and I were chased from Dale Journey's church.
The woman looked at my Yamaha. She gave a dismissive shake of her head, as if to say, what a P.O.S.
I was hungry, and this woman had shown up. What timing. I took off my sunglasses and contacts. Guess what, lady? It's snack, time.
I asked about her bike, we made eye contact, and wham, she was mine.
I led her by the hand around back, where we hid between the crib for recycling cardboard and the Dumpster.
I removed her helmet and unzipped the jacket. Her perspiration and perfume wafted in a mouthwatering aroma. Her neck was more delicious than I remembered. I took my time, no sense being a pig.
My kundalini noir satisfied, I put the helmet back on her head, zipped the jacket, and left her slumped against the wall behind the Dumpster.
I rode to Griffith Park. I passed the golf course, then the Greek Theatre, and stopped near the bird sanctuary. Steep, wooded hills hemmed the narrow grassy patches along the road. I could easily move about hidden from view. Rosario would meet me here.
I left Griffith Park and stopped at a pay phone. So what if Cragnow or Paxton listened in? I had a plan.
Rosario answered on the second ring.
"Time to talk." He'd better recognize my voice. "Jot this down." I gave him directions into the park from the south side, entering through Vermont Canyon Road
. "Be there at three-thirty."
The phone rustled, as if Rosario was shifting it on his shoulder. I imagined his fat neck sagging against his collar. "Yeah. I got it."
"And Rosario, you want me to help you, right?"
He kept quiet. His reply was heavy. "I'm not playing games with you, Felix."
"Good. I don't think Roxy Bronze or Katz Meow need the company."
Chapter Forty-Three
I DROVE BACK to Griffith Park and left my motorcycle close by, where I could get at it in a hurry. I knelt behind a shrub along the west side of the field and observed the road winding toward the bird sanctuary.
I gave myself a half hour to reconnoiter the area. Taking off my sunglasses, I read the auras of the park visitors. No orange vampire auras. All red, nothing suspicious.
At twenty after, a black Porsche Cayenne drove up Vermont Canyon Road
, paused in front of the bird sanctuary, and U-turned to park in the lot south of the open field. Rosario got out. He was alone. His white dress shirt reflected the sunlight with a metallic sheen. He carried a folded newspaper under one arm. Looking about, he dabbed his hairline with a kerchief. Dark circles the size of volleyballs marked the sweat stains under his armpits. He undid his necktie and tossed it into his Porsche before
shutting the door. The alarm beeped.
What was with the newspaper? Is that where he carried his .45 automatic?
Rosario made his way around the other cars parked in the lot. A woman pushed a stroller. An elderly couple checked a tourist book.
Rosario halted in the middle of the small clearing, turned his gaze to the left and right, rolled up his sleeves, and stood on the grass with his back to the woods.
His aura bubbled with anxiety. Tendrils of fright snaked and withdrew. His fear was unfocused. He fished the kerchief from his breast pocket and mopped sweat from his face and neck.
I studied the area again. I looked for auras shimmering with aggression. Nothing. Nobody was interested in Rosario but me.
I replaced my sunglasses, palmed my little .380 pistol, and approached Rosario from his left.
He turned his big head and looked at me. Sweat trickled into his eyes, and he squinted at my pistol.
I motioned to the newspaper. "If that's your piece, I hope you put it together right this time."
"It'll shoot straighter than that popgun you got." Rosario wiped his neck again. "It's goddamn hot. Can't we do this in the shade?"
"No. I like the view."
"Where do we start?" he asked.
"At the beginning. What brings you here?"
"To save my ass from prison. White-collar crime is one thing, murder something else. Katz. Rebecca. That scumbag Fred Daniels."
And Roxy Bronze. "When did Cragnow tell you about these murders? How? Over the phone? At your office? His place?" How forthcoming was Rosario going to be? Would he admit to visiting Cragnow's home?
"Last night. At his house up in Coldwater Canyon."
Okay, Rosario was being straight.
He said, "I was at a cocktail party at Cragnow's place."
"A party with whom?"
"Mordecai Niphe and I were there to discuss business with Cragnow. We were passing the time with his girls when…" Rosario wadded the kerchief and dabbed his cheek. "We got trouble. First it was big, ferocious dogs barking. They sounded huge, like wolves. Then some shooting began."
I knew about the wolves and the shooting. "Back up. What business do you and Mordecai Niphe have?"
X-Rated Blood Suckers Page 23
