by Ward Parker
“I’m calling you because you’re a reporter and the world needs to know how great Taylor was. She was, like, the most wonderful person I’ve ever known,” Cindi said in a squeaky voice. “All she cared about was making the world a better place.”
“Yes, I heard about making the world a better place,” Matt said. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
After enough polite conversation eulogizing Taylor had taken place, Matt began carefully digging.
“Do you know where she was on the night she lost her life?”
“After the Junior League event, she was with me and a bunch of friends at a party in a house on the beach,” Cindi said. “Later, we stopped for some ice cream. And then he came in.”
“Her ex-boyfriend, David?”
“No. David was at the party earlier. And that’s another story.”
“What do you mean?”
“They went out for years, from the end of high school and into college. He went to Gulf Stream, too. But then, you know, she got into drugs and he broke up with her. When she was in recovery, she hoped they could, like, get together again. But he has another girlfriend now. She was at the party. Taylor was not at all happy to see them together. It was like, you know, really awkward.”
“Does David have any bad feelings for Taylor? Anger or resentment?”
“No,” Cindi replied. “I think he was happy to be free of her. She was a real mess back then and he told me he just wanted her to get clean and find happiness. There’s talk he and his girlfriend might get engaged.”
“Okay,” Matt said, mentally crossing David off the list of potential suspects. “So who’s the ‘he’ who came to the ice cream shop?”
“Kyle. He’s, like, really bad news. Some dude Taylor met at the recovery place and had a fling with. But he’s back into using. Or dealing. Or both, I don’t know. And Taylor was so upset about seeing David with his girlfriend, she just went off with Kyle. On his motorcycle. She wanted him to get drugs for her. Some Reboot.”
“Reboot? What’s that?”
“Some new drug showing up at clubs and parties lately. I don’t know anything about drugs, but Reboot is supposed to make you hallucinate and it really messes up your mind. We tried to stop her, but she was too upset. If we had stopped her, she’d be alive today.” She began sniffling.
“Don’t blame yourself. If she wanted to relapse, no one could stop her.”
“She was upset. If we took her home that night, if we, like, got her away from Kyle, she would have gotten over the cravings. I just know it.”
“You did all you could. Did you tell all of this to the police?”
“Yeah, some detective. But he didn’t sound very grateful. Maybe he knew about Kyle already.”
“Do you think Kyle killed her?”
She didn’t speak for a while. Then sighed. “I don’t know, but he would be my first choice if I had to guess.”
“Was he ever violent with her?”
“I didn’t see her much when she went out with him, but I heard she had bruises on her face and arms more than once.”
“Do you know how I can find Kyle?”
“I don’t know his last name. But he hangs out at the nasty surfer bar on Pelican Avenue downtown. He’s really fat and tall and hairy.”
“Hairy?”
“Long hair, huge beard. He’s gross. You can’t miss him.”
Matt thanked her and said goodbye. He wondered who the police’s suspect was. He called, texted, and emailed Detective Affird who responded as he usually did: crickets chirping.
The “nasty” surfer bar on Pelican Avenue was actually a place Matt enjoyed drinking at from time to time. In Jellyfish Beach, it was hard to find a bar where the clientele was under seventy and The Ripped Tide was one of them. It wasn’t particularly nasty in Matt’s opinion, just old, funky, and a bit dirty. Okay, yes, he would concede the bathrooms were nasty, Matt thought as he went in after consuming his second beer. He’d been waiting at the empty bar hoping for Kyle to show up. The bartender, a young surfer chick with dirty blonde hair and more ink and piercings than he could fathom, said Kyle was there most nights except when he was in jail or the emergency room.
Sure enough, while Matt was standing at the urinal, the flimsy wall of the bathroom began to vibrate from the roar of a Harley pulling up outside. He hoped it was Kyle. When he returned to the bar, the bartender caught his eye and nodded toward a large man who looked like a cross between a grizzly bear and the Swamp Thing. Scary, hairy, and in the mood to kill.
This dude ought to be the main suspect, Matt thought. He was the last person known to have seen Taylor and he looked like he wouldn’t hesitate to kill someone. Anyone.
Being a general-assignment reporter in a small, affluent market such as Jellyfish Beach did not normally involve the risk of getting disemboweled while seeking out a source. Matt hoped he wouldn’t be the first at the Journal to achieve this distinction.
“I’d like to buy him one of whatever he ordered,” Matt whispered to the bartender.
The bartender poured a shot of tequila and a shot of Jagermeister. When she put them both in front of Kyle, Matt cringed. Cindi was right, this man really is gross, he thought.
The bartender leaned over the bar and said something to Kyle. The gross one looked over at Matt.
“What are you in the market for?” Kyle asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Pot, coke, opiates, what? I’ll warn you the heroin has been full of fentanyl lately, so you buy at your own risk. Lots of opiate-heads OD-ing, so stuff like coke and meth are back in fashion, if you aren’t already addicted to opiates.”
“All I want is a little information,” Matt said.
“Jesus.” The gross one gulped down the tequila, quickly followed by the Jagermeister.
Matt felt nauseous just watching. “What happened to Taylor Donovan?”
“Are you a cop? No, you look too dweebish to be a cop.” Kyle stood and moved next to Matt, standing too close with his enormous bulk and ripe unwashed body odor, breathing his unholy cocktail of alcohol breath in Matt’s face. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. Taylor called me and asked me to pick her up at some ice cream place on the beach. I picked her up. We went for a ride. Got into an argument. And she jumped off at the beach. I left her there. I had no idea she’d get killed.”
Taylor really dated this lowlife? Matt wondered.
“I was told she wanted to buy drugs,” he said.
“Yeah. Reboot. This new kind of LSD going around. I don’t deal with any of that crap. She wanted me to drive her to a dealer I know, the only one around here who sells it. It’s one of the reasons we argued. I was giving her a hard time about the Reboot, so she asked for the name and address of the dealer. Then she jumped off my bike near his place, and I figured she walked there. That’s the last I saw her.”
“Where did you go afterwards?”
Kyle cocked an eyebrow. “You sure sound like a cop. I came straight here and the bartender that night can back me up.”
But you still had time to kill her before you got here, Matt thought.
“Do you know if Taylor took Reboot often?”
“She never took it with me and she never talked about it,” Kyle said. “Maybe she found out about it after she got clean.”
“Is it the kind of drug that lowers your defenses?”
“Never took it myself, but I’d think you’d be pretty helpless while you’re tripping your brains out.”
“Did you tell the police about this guy with the Reboot?” Matt asked.
“I’m no narc, dude. I just told them she was looking for drugs from some dealer on the beach.”
“Can you tell me how to find him? All I want is information about Taylor.”
Kyle’s eyes squinted with suspicion, but Matt quickly pulled some cash from his pocket. It was around $100, all he had left until payday, but he thrust it into the monster’s giant hands.
“I just want to find
out who killed her,” he pleaded.
Kyle shrugged, then nodded. “I used to be really into her. For a while.”
He pulled his phone from his jeans pocket and scrolled through his contacts.
“He goes by the name of Chainsaw. He’s in unit A-305 in Seaweed Manor.”
Those condos were near where Taylor’s body had been found, where he had met the nurse, Missy. They were right next to Squid Tower, where other bodies had been found.
“Is this guy violent?” Matt asked.
“Getting cold feet about visiting him?”
“No. But do you ever wonder if he killed Taylor?”
“Yeah, I wondered. Chainsaw is kind of an animal.”
Kyle the beast can say that without any irony? Matt wondered.
“But I don’t think he’s stupid enough to kill a rich girl,” Kyle continued. “At least not near his own apartment.”
“Chainsaw’s not one of those goth dudes who pretend they’re vampires, is he?”
Kyle laughed. “Hell no. He’s a biker like me. But I can’t vouch for any kinky stuff he does on his free time.”
Matt thanked Kyle and left the bar. He drove to an ATM to get a cash advance from his credit card to buy some Reboot he wasn’t going to use.
15
Fangs with a Sweet Tooth
During the nights Bernie had off, he kept the same graveyard-shift, waking-sleeping schedule. It was the only way to keep his body trained to sleep during the day. On one of these nights he drove past the small strip of shops on A1A near Squid Tower. A convenience store, an ice-cream shop. And a vampire.
Schwartz. He was lurking in the shadows near a handicapped parking spot, watching two young women eating ice cream cones just outside the door to the shop. They didn’t appear to notice him.
Bernie slowed down. Should he warn the women? Didn’t Detective Affird say some of the people who had gone missing or turned up dead were last seen here?
Schwartz never took his eyes from the women. He remained in the shadows, unmoving, his posture giving the air of a cat about to spring at a mouse.
Bernie did a U-turn and pulled into the strip center. How was he going to warn them without Schwartz going berserk and decapitating him? He backed into a nearby parking spot.
Just then an SUV stopped in front of the ice cream shop and the two young women got inside. It drove away leaving Schwartz standing there, red eyes burning. Missy had told Bernie that Schwartz had a sweet tooth. Did he prefer victims who had just eaten sweets and had a high blood-sugar level?
Well, he was going to have to loiter here a lot longer if he wanted dessert tonight.
As Bernie drove away Schwartz stared at his car. God, he implored, please don’t let him recognize it.
Then again, he drove a GMC Pacer that leaked oil. How many other Pacers were there in this town?
He was doomed.
He searched his pockets until he found Detective Affird’s card. Should he call him? No, Rudy had told him the Squid Tower residents’ privacy was just as important as their security in this job. If he found out that Bernie ratted out Schwartz, Bernie would be fired in an instant.
There was nothing he could do.
The next night Bernie was back at work. Since the moment he started his shift, he worried about the inevitable confrontation with Schwartz. But the old vampire didn’t pass through the gate. By three in the morning the last of the vampires were returning to the parking garage. It was hours before dawn, but this was considered staying up late for the geriatric residents of Squid Tower. The ones who dined right after sunset when the Blood Bus arrived had been tucked away in their coffins or on their memory foam mattresses for hours already.
Bernie peered out of the condominium’s gatehouse, counting the last-of-the-night’s cars as they inched past him through the residents’ automatic gate. All had elderly drivers hunched over the steering wheels, and most had pulled into the palm-lined entrance using their left turn signal to turn right. There were Cadillacs, Mercedes, BMWs, and plenty of Toyotas. Lots of New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts plates.
Schwartz’s Lexus was not among them. He must have stayed home tonight. Just the thought of him made the hairs on the back of Bernie’s neck prickle. He looked around at the parking lot, the landscaping lights, the dark, looming bulk of the high-rise, his haggard reflection in the gatehouse window. Nothing out there. Nothing on the security monitors either. Nothing but palm fronds quivering in the wind.
Bernie was a goldfish in a tiny illuminated tank, on display for all hidden predators lurking in the darkness. Especially the one with a vendetta against him.
When was Schwartz going to confront him about the ice cream shop?
The following night, when the headlights of the first vampires to return home struck the windows of his booth, Bernie woke up and wiped the drool from his chin. When Schwartz’s grimy Lexus approached the gate, Bernie took a deep breath, leaned out of the gatehouse, and waved, sporting a huge smile.
Schwartz drove past him, a look of annoyance on his face. But annoyance was better than hatred. And both were better than hunger.
Later, after midnight, Schwartz came shuffling past, carrying a small bag of trash to deposit in the dumpster. (Since they don’t buy and cook food, the undead don’t generate as much trash as living humans.) Bernie popped out of the gatehouse.
“Hi, Mr. Schwartz! Allow me to throw that away for you.”
Schwartz stopped, confused. Then angry. “Your job is to stay in the booth. You’re a gate guard, you moron.”
“You’re absolutely right, sir. Sorry about that!”
“I see you’ve heard I’m trying to get you fired. Being a little brown-nose is not going to help you at all.”
“No, sir, but I hope my improved work performance will not go unnoticed by you.”
Schwartz laughed. “Fat chance.”
“And rest assured I would never, ever, talk to anyone about your eating habits. Your secrets are safe with me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your hunting. I would never mention it if anyone asked. Like the police.”
Schwartz growled, sort of like a Rottweiler but sounding even more scary.
“Yes, you saw me at the ice cream parlor,” he said in a low voice. “Were you following me?”
“Of course not!”
“Look, you feeble-minded, Long-Island jackass. If you’re trying to blackmail me or something, I’ll kill you before dawn. If you’re expecting praise for not giving the police false information about me, then you’re more stupid than I thought. You signed a non-disclosure agreement when you were hired insisting on absolute secrecy. So don’t expect a pat on the head for obeying it. And don’t ever threaten me.”
Bernie sputtered various sounds without managing to utter an actual word from the English language.
“Killing you would be just like swatting an annoying mosquito. Don’t tempt me.”
He walked away toward the dumpster, his tall dress socks gradually sinking down his skinny ankles.
Well, that didn’t go very well, Bernie brooded. So much for trying a charm offensive.
Missy handed Bernie a pouch made of heavy black felt, tied shut with a leather cord long enough to wear around the neck. Bernie sniffed its pungent ingredients.
“Whew! Is there garlic in there?”
“Yes, of course there’s garlic,” she said. “As well as aloe, wolfsbane, blessed thistle, and other ingredients I will not divulge because I’m applying for a patent.” That must have been a joke.
Bernie had a strange attraction to her. Which surprised him, because she appeared to be in her forties, a bit younger than him, and he’d never been attracted to women older than twenty (which might explain why he hadn’t had a girlfriend since he was twenty-one). And he’d especially never been drawn to the New-Age type of chicks. But there was something about her—a kind of power.
“Did you cast any magic spells over this?” he joked.
Her expression was deadly serious. “No comment.”
And he’d never been attracted to witches, either.
“Can I share a secret with you?” Bernie asked.
She frowned. “It depends on what kind.”
“It’s about Mr. Schwartz.”
“I don’t think I want to hear any of Mr. Schwartz’s secrets.”
“No, this is important,” Bernie insisted. “Did you hear about the woman they found on the beach? The mayor’s daughter?”
“Yes, of course. It’s sad and horrible.”
“Well, the other night I saw Mr. Schwartz hanging around outside of The Cone of Uncertainty, the ice cream shop. It looked like he was stalking some girls there. Good thing someone they knew picked them up in an SUV.”
She stared at him for a moment. “But that doesn’t mean—"
“You told me about his sweet tooth,” Bernie said. “He wasn’t there jonesing over ice cream. He was hungry for someone with high blood sugar. We’ve had young women disappearing or showing up dead, and we have Mr. Schwartz stalking young women. And don’t say he wouldn’t break the rules and kill close to home, because I’ve seen him do it.”
“You mean the plumber?”
“Yeah. My boss told me to shut up about it. Just something to keep in mind.”
“Yes, I will. Thank you, Bernie,” she said as she left. “Be sure to wear your amulet every night, even when you’re not here.”
“I sure will,” he said, straining to give her his best smile. “Thanks for making it.”
16
The Race
Abe jogged down the beach at 3:00 a.m., along the firm stretch of sand just above the highest reach of the waves. No one was on the beach to get in his way at this hour. He had to work out so early in order to get in enough miles before it was time to leave for the office.
He had already run five miles. Now it was time to swim a few. He plunged into the ocean. The water was cool but not chilly. The surf was a little too rough to swim through but he pushed on anyway, waves pounding his face.
