After Dark (The Vampire Next Door Book 2) (8 page)

Some of the customers who walked in off the street often pretended to know art—they pretended to be cultured, sophisticated, and they were hell-bent on impressing someone, anyone. He often wanted to snarl
oh for God’s sakes just look and say it’s pretty then buy it and leave me alone.

One man went as far as to say he owned a Renoir in his home, locked in the safe. But if this person had that kind of cash, why wasn’t he vacationing on the French Riviera, instead of a tacky and worn out beach side tourist dump?

The world was filled with pretentious people, all living in fantasy land. And he wondered if Laura’s story was even true. Or was it all just fantasy? Did she really grow up that disgustingly wealthy? He found it hard to believe that anyone would leave that kind of life, but if it was true then she was experiencing one hell of a culture shock.

Where was she now?

Was she all right?

And he tried to tell himself it didn’t matter.

She left her sketch pad. He saw it, on the floor by the couch she had slept on. He picked it up, flipped through it.

The tiger and tigress behind iron bars at the local zoo. Their striped bodies were soft yet strong and lithe. But their eyes were sad, captive and lost, as if her own tragic soul was imprisoned within them.

And the black panther, drawn in a deep, sooty dark charcoal, also behind bars.

He flipped through, seeing her pictures of caged animals. He passed a few blank pages then stopped suddenly, and almost laughed out loud.

It was him. It was very good, he admitted, excellent almost. He was the only creature in her book that appeared peaceful.

He closed the book, put it away to wait for her return.

Where ever she was, he hoped she was safe.

Damn it. Martin sat at his desk and swore. Another homeless man. This time the body was dropped on the steps of the town’s public library. Martin wondered if anyone in the town actually ever read a book. All they ever seemed to do was lay on the beach and pick up women and drink beer.

But this morning the corpse was found on the steps, a trail of blood running up the concrete stairs, as if he had been torn to shreds somewhere else, then deposited there to greet all the people coming in the door.

There was no name attached with the homeless bum, no identification. No nothing.

And the teeth marks all over the throat, broken flesh all over his bloodied neck. Damn. Who, or what, the hell was doing this?

“Good mornin’ Marty!” McMurphy came in late and smiled brightly. He knew Martin hated to be called Marty. Hated it.

But Martin was glad he was in one of his good, quote unquote good, moods. He sipped his coffee to try and rid himself of the nagging headache he woke up with and tried to ignore McMurphy.

“I said, pleasant morning, ain’t it, Marty!”

“Yup,” he mumbled.

“All nice and sun-shiny! Why a nice pretty day like this makes me smile!”

Crazy bastard. Martin remembered it well, like it was yesterday.

They were partners then. But he couldn’t handle it anymore. He couldn’t work with McMurphy, not after what he did to that black kid.

The kid was flat on his back, behind the delivery entrance to a pizza place, screaming, “Don’t kill me, man!”

Hey, stop it! You’re killing him!

And he kept kicking the boy in the ribs, in the head, in the face.

Stop it! Stop it! Stop —

The kid died in the ambulance. And there was no investigation into it, even though Martin recommended it, quietly suggesting that maybe excessive force was used.

McMurphy said it was all self-defense, claimed the kid had a knife. No knife was ever found. And Martin needed to take care of his own kid. What could he do? Nothing. He could never have stopped it, anyway. The kid was half dead already by the time he arrived and saw what was happening. And McMurphy was built like a truck.

The boy was fifteen.

And so the next day he came in smiling, big and bright thousand watt smile, just like the grin he wore today.

He felt cold inside.

Who the hell was killing the homeless people? And why? Thinking about it made him sick.

Alexandra was walking out the door, dressed for the office. Cotton skirt, silk blouse, suede loafers. She looked more like a bookkeeper than what she really was.

And he reminded himself, again, that she was a bookkeeper. These people worked for a living, too.

“Martin?”

“No. Never mind. I’m sorry. You’re on your way out.”

“What’s wrong?” she could see he was distraught. Could she read him that well? It bothered him that she could.

“What you said, the other night, about people who pretend, I mean.” He looked around to be sure no one else was in the hallway. “Are you sure none of them hang around this town, this whole area?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Why?”

“Because it happened again.”

She made him a cup of tea and he sat down, tried to appear comfortable, “It’s all right if I’m a little late, really,” she began.

“It was really gross. Words cannot describe. Looked up some old files. There was a spree of killings like this several years back, two homeless people, three street kids, one hooker, all mutilated. And three years before that, one murder, looked the same. No one made a big deal because it was a wino. But his ear was chewed off. This stuff keeps happening, and no one seems to notice or do anything about it.”

She cringed.

“Sport killing. A hunter. I don’t wanna say it to your face, Alexandra. You people are hunters. Please, one of you knows something.”

“Damn you.” She stood up from the table. “You are just so damned sure we are all behind this. Well, just go ahead and throw all of us in jail, and it will still happen. People will still get butchered. How do I know it’s not you? You’re probably trying to blame us to cover yourself.”

“That’s stupid and you know it!”

“Sounds almost as stupid as what you say, doesn’t it?” She went to her refrigerator, “I am pouring myself a drink. And I do not care if it grosses you out.”

“Okay, yeah. So it makes me sick. So?”

She put it in the microwave. “Then you are a coward. Like all the rest.”

“Damn it.” He had trouble swearing around a woman, but this time he let it out.

“We are what we are because your kind made us what we are. We are survivors. We are stronger and smarter because you murdered us for thousands of years. You have done everything to destroy us. You are the hunters. You chased us to the ends of the earth. We came here because we thought it was the last safe place. But it isn’t. There’s nowhere left to hide.”

“Alexandra, look.” He reached for his jacket, realizing it was time to go. “I didn’t come here to argue. I need help, okay?”

The bell on the microwave rang. It startled him. “It’s just the evidence. They were killed at night, teeth marks all over their necks.”

“And none of us has any sensible reason to do it!”

He left.

She drifted quietly into the gallery the next evening while he was trying to deal with an irritating customer. To hide herself she looked at the pastel sketches of flowers in the darkened corner of the shop, pretending to see them, pretending to be interested in them.

He watched her, but the older lady demanded his full attention. “Well, madam, if you insist our prices are a bit too high, then come back in the morning to see the owner. We cannot accept fifty dollars for this painting; it is not a cheap print or a copy. You might certainly pay fifty dollars for a copy of an original work.”

“Young man! This shop is never open during the day. I have been trying to get in all week long!”

“Well, gosh lady, I guess Snake went out on another one of his drug binges again. Last time lasted about a month. You know, he’s a great artist though. He does produce his very best work when he’s high. Want to see an example? I’ll show you some of his really great stuff.”

She placed the small framed painting quietly down on the counter top in front of him and left. “Thank you. Please come again. Have a nice evening.”

Laura was trying very hard to kill a laugh. “I thought you owned the place?”

“I do. This place never really does open during daylight hours. And I was just kidding about the dope stuff. Promise.”

“I hope so. I was beginning to think you were almost like a normal person.” She continued then to look at the pastels, which she found to be very good.

And he looked at her.

“Who did these?”

“I did them.”

“Flowers?”

“Yeah. It’s not beyond my capacity, you know.” Again, he was sarcastic, as if he could not help it.

“But they’re so pretty, so soft. And bright. They almost look happy.”

“I suppose that’s what flowers look like. I buy them before the florist closes, take them home and do a rough sketch and start working before they droop.”

Laura imagined him sleeping alone in his dark lonely room, surrounded by beautiful fragrant flowers of all types, then she imagined herself dead, at her own funeral, surrounded by the same flowers, her casket in his dark home, alone with no one to mourn her passing. And for the first time the thought of death chilled her, instead of bringing her comfort.

She began speaking to calm herself. “Somehow, I just sort of imagined you would do something more, you know, dark.”

“Want to see something else?” he reached down behind the counter. “I was thinking about this one, maybe keeping it. I drove out to the desert one night, to start this, finished it from memory.” It was the desert landscape, in the night’s darkness. The sky was a deep silken blue, the stars were so bright they nearly seemed to flash off the canvas.

“I think I meant...” She hesitated. “By dark I meant moody.”

“Moody?”

“Because of what you are, I thought...”

“No,” he said simply. “It really isn’t true that we go stalking around brooding and all that garbage, although I know one of us who definitely is a grouch. Oh well.” He considered giving the painting to her but she did not seem interested in it.

She warily remained in the darker corner of the room, gazing at him as though he fascinated her. And he searched for something to say, anything, to wake her from her silent trancelike state.

“So, what’s up, kid?” Not the most intelligent statement, he admitted to himself. But it was something.

“You never finished it.”

“Huh? Finished what?”

“The story you started telling me.” Any excuse to spend a few hours with him, to just not be so alone.

And she did not know why, but she enjoyed his company.

“Tell me a story,” he smiled. “You sound just like a kid.”

“Want me to go?”

“No! It’s okay, come on. I’ll close this place up. Customers are just too bitchy tonight anyway.”

“...and so the soldiers went out searching through the forests to hunt him down, to try and find the place where he hid during the day. Back then, it was common to have several places to hide, in case one was unfortunately found.”

“To kill him?”

“No. To capture him. Remember? To find a way to control him. They would want someone like him on their side when there was a fight, for example. Or they could use him to intimidate enemies.”

“Oh. I see.” She strained her eyes to try to watch him in the kitchen. It was dark in there; but she listened. He seemed to be getting his food—that’s what he called it. She wished he would come back out to be in the same room with her again.

“But they could not find him, for that day he remained safe in the home of his girlfriend and her father, one of the few homes not yet burned to the ground.”

“Oh.” She grew more interested now. “You didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend.”

“Well, yes. He brought the family meat from the deer he killed, caught the fox that killed their geese, and the girl’s father had no big hang ups about him hanging around either, so basically, he let him hang around. Perhaps the girl’s father believed she would actually be better off with him than with any other guy. After all, he could read, and most people then could not. He had slightly better clothes, inherited a small amount of money, though he was not truly wealthy. However some of the peasants believed he was once a powerful baron himself, who had lost his lands and castle because of an ancient war. But it was not true at all.”

“Are you quite sure?” She interrupted him when he slowly emerged from the darkness and returned to the room and sat across from her. “I mean, perhaps he was a count, or something, and lived all alone in his dark castle.”

“With bats flying all around, right? No. He didn’t. And I am telling this story, not you. Okay? He just had a little three room place in the woods, with a thatched roof, or something primitive like that, and a stable for his horse, and kept a few sheep if hunting wasn’t too good. That was it. No castle.”

“You didn’t even tell me his name!” She whined.