Blood Crimes: Book One (10 page)

      Carol lit a cigarette and blew some smoke from the side of her mouth, anything to get the taste of the room out of her throat. Her face froze as she caught a look of herself in the bar mirror. Under her red wig, her face had a washed out, tired look. Fuck, who could blame her? The guys in the bar, though, weren’t going to pay too much attention to a woman’s face, and Carol’s body, while thin, still looked damn good in a pair of very tight shorts that covered maybe an inch of her thigh and a tank top that exposed her belly along with a diamond stud piercing. Half the men in the place had already tried coming on to her, but she blew them off. She had her eye on one guy in particular; the one that
Jim
picked out when the two of them were camped out in their car across the street.
Jim
had good intuition about these things, and the more she watched the guy the more she was convinced
Jim
was right once again.

      The guy, who Carol heard addressed as Duane, was talking to a nearly skeleton-thin woman who had the pale drawn look of a drug addict. As thin and haggard as she was she could’ve been anywhere from thirty to sixty. From what Carol could hear of their conversation, Duane had given her drugs recently and wanted services in lieu of payment, and she just wanted him to get lost—that she already made the mistake of fucking him once and she wasn’t going to do it again. He was a big man with a thick body, and he had a large ham hock-sized hand wrapped around her upper arm. She was trying to break free, but didn’t have a chance. With the way his face darkened, Carol had the impression that he was moments away from dragging the woman to the men’s room to force payment. His voice got too low for Carol to hear what he was saying, and the woman started to look badly scared. While he talked to the woman, he kept leering over at Carol. She caught his eye in the bar mirror and smirked at him. He did kind of a double take, making sure he saw what he thought he saw, then with a wolfish grin pushing up his thick lips, he let go of the woman he had been so intent with seconds before, and walked over to Carol. He stood so his body touched hers. Out of the corner of her eye, Carol could see the other woman glancing back nervously as she fled the bar.

      “Cleveland’s got a smoking ban,” he said.

      “Is that so?”

      She blew smoke toward him. That amused the hell out of him. His grin grew more wolfish and he showed off small corn kernel-sized teeth. She couldn’t believe how small those teeth were, especially given how big the guy was. They were like fucking baby teeth. She couldn’t help smiling at that.

      Duane mistook the reason for her smile.

      “You see something you like?”

      “
M
aybe.”

      He edged closer to her. “You gonna keep smoking?”

      “I have to. I have this oral fixation. I have to suck on something.”

      He was close enough so that his groin pushed against her thigh. Fuck, she was glad she was breathing in cigarette smoke, otherwise she’d be gagging. The guy smelled like shit—like he had crapped in his pants days ago and never realized it. His breath was almost as putrid.

      “How about I give you something else to suck on?” Duane said, his lips set in a heavy leer, his eyes dulling.

      She downed the rest of her drink. “Buy me another drink and I’ll suck on that.”

      He laughed, but it didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He waved over the bartender.

      “Hank, set this pretty lady with whatever she’s drinking.”

      “Tequila,” Carol said.

      “Tequila,” Duane repeated.

      The bartender gave Carol a wary look. He’d been flirting unsuccessfully with her earlier, and she knew he wanted to warn her not to have anything to do with Duane, but he poured her a fresh shot of tequila and took the ten dollars Duane gave him. The bartender started to make change, but Duane told him to keep it. He kept his attention focused on Carol, and began stroking her thigh with a thick index finger.

      “You got one smokin’ body, little lady,” he said.

      She gave him a hard smile and blew more smoke in his face. He smiled the way a snake might stare at a small rodent, then took her cigarette from her fingers and flicked it to the floor before stubbing it out with his heel.

      “I got something much better for you to suck on,” he said softly, a glint of violence in his eyes. “What do you say, little lady?”

      “Charming. You mean right here in front of everyone?”

      He laughed, gave a look towards the men’s room. “Nah, no need for a show. You and me can step into my private office. Then we can go back to my place and have us a special little party.”

      She gave him a cool look, then reaching for his pants, she pulled his loose fitting chinos out enough so she could dump her shot of tequila in them.

      “What the fuck?” he yelped, jumping back a step.

      “Go fuck yourself,” Carol told him. “You think buying me a drink gives you the right to ask me to suck you off? I got news for you, asshole, you smell like shit.”

      Duane stood frozen for a long few seconds, violence hardening his features.

      “Uh, uh, you little bitch,” he said, shaking his head. He grabbed Carol by her upper arm the same as he did the other woman, and started to jerk her off the stool. “The skank ho’ I was going to fuck is gone ’cause of you, so you’re it. And you know why I smell like shit? Because you’re smelling my dick. I like to fuck little tight bitches like you up the ass so hard that the shit comes pouring out of them. So what’s it going to be, bitch? You going to take it willingly up the butt-hole all night, or do I got to knock your pretty little teeth out and carry you out of here? And if you think anyone here’s gonna give a shit—”

      A rifle barrel poked him in the forehead, interrupting him. He let go of Carol and blinked dumbly at the bartender, who stood rigid with the stock of the rifle against his shoulder and one finger tensing on the trigger.

      “Leave the lady alone.”

      “Hank, what the fuck you doin’? This ain’t none of your business.”

      “Fuck you it isn’t. Now get out of here!”

      “What, you gonna shoot me, is that it, Hank? You that fucked up in the head?”

      “If I have to, Duane, I’ll do it happily. Now get the fuck out!”

      Duane grinned savagely, his eyes brightening and showing a mix of bemusement and fury. “You should know better than to fuck with me, Hank. Be seeing you around, dumbass.”

      Duane reached for Carol as if he was going to touch her cheek, but the bartender poked him hard between the eyes with the tip of the rifle barrel. Duane lost his footing and stumbled backward, all the while grabbing at his head. He checked his palm to see if he was bleeding, saw that he was and his eyes flashed with rage. He pointed an accusatory finger at the bartender. “You are one dumb fuck. If you think this is over you’re nuts.”

      The bartender lowered his rifle so it was aimed at Duane’s crotch. “You better just leave before I make a gelding out of you.”

      Duane took a couple of hurried steps away, then turned to show Carol an obscene gesture he made with two fingers and his tongue. After that he slipped out the door. The bartender’s hands shook as he put the rifle back under the bar. His skin color had dropped to a milk-white.

      “Was the rifle loaded?” Carol asked.

      The bartender looked sick to his stomach. He nodded.

      “Too bad you didn’t shoot that asshole.”

      “Yeah, I probably should’ve.” He showed Carol a queasy smile. “I think you could use a drink, huh?”

      He didn’t wait for an answer. He poured Carol a shot of tequila on the house and pulled on his lower lip as he watched her drink it.

      “It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to leave before he comes back,” he said. “You want I should call you a cab?”

      Carol shook her head. “I’m staying only a couple of blocks from here,” she said. She reached out and touched the bartender’s arm, all the weariness in her face fading into a kind of melancholy. At that moment she was absolutely breathtaking. “Thanks for being my protector.” She slid off the barstool and headed towards the exit. The room went silent as everyone in the place stopped to watch her. The bartender broke the silence by yelling out to her that he wanted to call her a cab. “That psycho’s probably out there waiting for you,” he said.

      “I’ll be fine,” Carol told him.

      “Let me at least walk you home then.”

      “That’s really not necessary, but thanks.”

      Carol waved to him as she left the bar.

      She knew the bartender was right, that Duane would be out there waiting for her. She had done this enough times to know that, and besides,
Jim
’s intuition with these things was almost never wrong. She walked briskly away from the bar. It didn’t take long before she could feel Duane’s presence and imagine the soft padding of his running shoes as he raced to catch up to her. Good. This was what
Jim
needed before he could feed and, just as badly, this was what she needed. She needed to be brought back to that moment of helplessness from three years ago when that punk scumbag ripped off her clothes so he could bend her over and violate her. She needed that feeling so she’d have no remorse for Duane, and more importantly, so she could enjoy what was going to happen to him.

      When she reached the next alleyway, Duane emerged from the shadows and rushed forward, overpowering her. He dragged her into the darkened alley. His filthy hand covered her mouth and muffled what were half-hearted screams for help. If he listened more carefully he would’ve realized the noises were more of a hysterical laugh.

      “You fucking bitch ho’,” he whispered, his lips against her ear, his breath hot and smelling like spoiled cat food. She fought hard to keep from throwing up. She put up only a token resistance as he dragged her deeper into the alley and whispered to her all the things he was going to do to her, how he was going to leave her for the rats after he was done and how that shot of tequila was going to turn out to be the most fucking expensive drink she ever had a guy buy for her. This was what she needed to hear to get the white hot rage burning inside. She needed to hate this piece of shit enough to be at peace with what was going to happen. Some bleeding hearts would argue that what she and
Jim
were doing was entrapment, but fuck them. She did nothing to warrant this animal trying to rape her and worse, and if it wasn’t her it would’ve been some other woman being victimized. Fuck him, fuck everyone who might shed a tear over what was going to happen to this piece of scum, she was going to love every second of what was coming.

      It came fast. Duane had thrown her to the ground and was pulling his foot back to kick her in the head when the bottom half of his face exploded into a pink spray. There was nothing left—mouth, jaw, chin, all of it gone. He fell to the pavement like a sack of guts. Carol watched as
Jim
emerged from the shadows. He bent over Duane’s mostly dead body and used a knife to slit Duane’s throat and drain the dying thug’s blood into a bucket until it was half filled. Just as Carol needed to be brought back to her place of hate and rage, she knew that
Jim
needed his victims to be predators, and just as importantly, he needed to save her from them. As long as these were bad men stopped in the middle of preying on the weak and innocent, he could justify what he needed to do to survive. Carol watched stone-faced as Duane turned into a corpse, and as
Jim
satisfied his hunger.

      
Jim
stayed sitting on his haunches long after he finished feeding. He wiped the blood off his face with a towel that he had brought, then remained motionless like some sort of stone gargoyle. After minutes of this, he asked Carol if she were okay.

      She nodded, said that she was.

        “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

      “Just a few bruises. I’ll live.”

      “He almost kicked you,”
Jim
said glumly.

      “But he didn’t. You stopped him before he could.”

      
Jim
nodded, still looking glum, still unable to face Carol.

      “I heard the things he whispered to you. I’m so sorry.”

      Carol’s face tightened as she was brought back to just a few minutes before. She bent over the dead man’s body and searched his pockets, then counted the money she took out of a tattered and stained billfold.

      “All he had was thirty-seven dollars,” she said.

      “That’s too bad.”

      “Fuck. Yeah it is. We’re going to run out of money in a couple of days.”

      “I’ll get us more.”

      “I’ll help you.”

      He frowned, shook his head. “No need for that. I’m not putting you in any more danger tonight. I’ll do it myself.”

      Carol didn’t argue. She knew it would be pointless.
Jim
stood up, still avoiding looking at her. She reached toward him and took hold of his face with both her hands and forced him to look at her. This had become a ritual for them. After every killing, he’d be overcome with a sense of worthlessness. Seeing him vulnerable like that would only stir up her emotions and make her want to do anything to ease his pain. She was never more attracted to him than right after a killing.

      Reluctantly, he met her eyes.

      “You did what you had to,
Jim
,” she said, repeating the same mantra that she did after every killing, but still with only genuine love and caring and feeling in her voice. “He was nothing but scum. He was going to rape another woman before he got interested in me. You stopped him from hurting me. He’s not worth suffering any guilt over, no more than if you had killed a rabid dog.”

      
Jim
’s eyes softened as he smiled weakly at her, not because he believed her, but thankful for the effort. The two of them embraced with Carol’s thin arms squeezing
Jim
as hard as she could. Her mouth searched for his, but he pulled back. He didn’t want her tasting the dead thug’s blood, nor did he want to risk her picking up any diseases.

      “After I clean up,” he promised her. 

      It was several hours later that
Jim
walked into a biker bar a few miles upriver from The Flats. There were maybe fifty Harleys parked out front, and the place was crowded with a mostly even mix of men and women. A live band covering Grand Funk Railroad songs from the 70s played on a small stage. Before finding the bar,
Jim
had brought Carol back to their motel, showered off the blood that had splattered on him and had changed into some clean clothes. He also used Listerine and, convinced it was now safe, embraced Carol before he left with a long passionate kiss. She still wanted to go with him, but he convinced her that it would be better if he went alone.

      He squeezed through the crowd to the bar and ordered a Bud that he wasn’t going to be drinking, then found an inconspicuous spot to stand and watch the activity around him. It didn’t take long to spot the drug dealer supplying the room; if the guy wasn’t a drug dealer he had a serious bladder problem with the number of trips he made to the men’s room. He wore a black leather jacket, faded jeans and storm trooper boots, and had gang-style tattoos decorating his neck and shaved skull. Hooded grinning skulls wrapped in barbed wire, winged dragons and Chinese letters. He probably would’ve been good looking if he let his hair grow over his tattoos and his face hadn’t been scarred by a fire. Other guys in the bar would seek him out, and after a brief discussion, they’d head to the men’s room. The drug dealer was a big guy, but two much bigger guys dressed the same and with the same pattern of tattoos on their shaved skulls followed him into the men’s room for each transaction.

      
Jim
waited until the drug dealer was approached by another buyer, then made a beeline to the men’s room. The band was playing Some Kind of Wonderful and the place was lively with all the attention turned toward the stage.
Jim
snaked through the crowd unnoticed. He found an empty stall and crouched on the toilet seat, sitting on his heels. A couple of minutes later a small crowd entered the men’s room. From the crack in the stall door,
Jim
saw the money and drugs trade hands. The customer left first while the drug dealer stayed behind to add more money to his roll.

      In a fluid panther-like motion,
Jim
sprung forward, pulling himself head first through the three-foot opening between the stall and the ceiling, and landing inches behind the drug dealer. Before the dealer could react,
Jim
banged his head off the sink. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The sound of the blow made only a dull thud, but it was enough to get one of the bodyguards turning around.

      “What the fuck—” the bodyguard started. Before he could finish his thought,
Jim
clanged his head off his partner’s. The bodyguard slid to the floor. His partner, though, wobbled on his feet, and stared groggily at
Jim
.

      “You’re a fucking dead man,” he mumbled, his words coming out like a punch-drunk boxer’s. He reached clumsily inside his leather jacket, but before he could do anything else,
Jim
grabbed him by the collar and head butted him hard enough to knock him out. Using one hand he half-lifted and half-dragged the guy to the empty stall and propped him on the toilet so he was sitting up.
Jim
stood back and gave the man a hard stare. He didn’t like the fact that the guy had gotten a look at him, but fuck it, getting his head clanged the way he did probably left him too groggy to see straight. Besides,
Jim
didn’t plan on staying in Cleveland long, and as much as the world would be a better place without these three, it wasn’t his call. He left to get the other bodyguard, stacked him on top of the first, then did the same with the drug dealer. He locked the stall from the inside and slid under the opening at the bottom. Glancing under the stall he could only make out one pair of legs.

      The drug dealer’s roll lay on the floor.
Jim
took off the rubber band holding it together and counted over nine thousand dollars.
M
ore than enough to keep him and Carol going for months.

      A window opened up into an alleyway in back of the bar.
Jim
went through it and disappeared into the night. 
 
 

Chapter 5
 

      Faces of the perverts and rapists and sociopaths that
Jim
had killed over the last three years blurred in his mind into something generic, something almost cartoonish. Outside of that first thug who attacked Carol in Newark, it was hard for him to recall any of them. Even the latest one from only several hours before. Their faces just kept fading in and out, never quite coming into focus. He forced himself to concentrate, to try to picture what at least one of them looked like, but couldn’t do it. Whenever he came close, the image would morph into Bluto from those old Popeye cartoons. Giving up, he forced himself to count how many of these predators he had killed since hooking up with Carol. It took a while but he came up with a number—a hundred and ten, plus the two vampires that Serena had sicced on him. Fuck. If this kept up and he lived to a ripe old age he could go down as one of the deadliest serial killers in history, or the most successful vigilante, depending on your point of view. The fact that these were all violent sociopathic thugs, the worst that humanity had to offer, only slightly helped to ease his conscience. No matter how hard he tried convincing himself otherwise, it still came down to that he was robbing them of any chance of redemption. Even though he had to kill them for his survival, he probably wouldn’t be able to do it if they weren’t trying to hurt Carol. Not that he hadn’t killed before becoming a vampire.