Hard Times (A Sam Harlan Novel Book 2) (6 page)

Mary Kate sighed. “Tommy and Colden were friends in high school. Tommy was two years older. He went to college for a year after he graduated, then attended the police academy. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Tommy would become a cop. His father is the county sheriff. Tommy was practically born for his job.”

Callie cleared her throat. “Elias Mendoza seems to think that Deputy Mueller had a thing for Elena. Is that true?”

“Perhaps,” Mary Kate admitted. “When they were younger. Tommy has … changed since then.”

“Did part of that change involve a sudden dislike for Colden when he started dating Elena?” I asked.

Mary Kate eyed me shrewdly. “You see things pretty clearly, for such a young man. You’re not much older than Tommy, are you?”

I barked out a laugh before I could stop myself. “In my experience, age is subjective. You were about to tell me where the Mendozas live?”

* * *

It was a short drive to the Mendoza family home, an old two-story house with crumbling blue siding and a rusted-out black Nissan in the gravel driveway. I glanced around. We were on the northwest side of Marshalltown, and the Mendoza’s overgrown backyard butted up against an empty soybean field. The nearest house was hundreds of yards away, and if you looked carefully between the houses, you could stare off for miles into the distance, the empty fields broken only by an occasional lonely hedgerow standing guard against the relentless wind.

I eased the truck off the loose rock road and parked in front of a vacant lot next door, the weeds so tall they swished against the floorboards.

Callie stared at the house. I could tell by the look on her face that something was on her mind.

“What?” I finally asked.

“You noticed it, didn’t you?”

I had. When Mary Kate had spoken, there’d been a hitch in her voice. A hesitation. Something so small that I never would’ve noticed before the change sharpened my senses. “You think it’s something supernatural.”

Callie nodded. “You can feel it, can’t you?” she asked, waving her hand.

“Yes,” I admitted. I had felt it since the restaurant. “What do you suggest we do?”

She turned her green eyes to me. The setting sun’s red glow gave them an amber shine. “You want to find Elena.”

It wasn’t a question. Callie, a woman I had known for less than two months, already understood me better than anyone on earth. I shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I
do
think we can find her.”

Callie smiled, face full of grim determination. “I agree.”

* * *

I knocked softly on the door. When it finally opened, I found myself staring into an older version of Leticia. She was a bit shorter and wore a dark floral-print dress, and I guessed her to be in her late sixties. Her face was so similar to Leticia’s as to be a mirror image, but the old woman wore the wrinkles and creases on her face like badges of honor.

The woman gave me the once-over and turned her attention to Callie, whose smile was as empty as the field now surrounding the Mendoza house.

Apparently satisfied that we posed no threat, the woman spoke in heavily accented English. “Yes?”

“Ma’am, my name is Sam, and this is Callie. Mary Kate sent us. She’s worried about Elena.”

“You are looking for Elena?” the woman asked, her face puckering.

“You
are
Maria Diaz?” I asked. “Elena is your granddaughter?”

The old lady nodded her head. “Why is Mary Kate so concerned about my granddaughter?”

“Colden hasn’t heard from Elena in over two days. He’s worried about
her
, and that makes Mary Kate worry about
him
.”

Callie cleared her throat. “Mrs. Diaz? May we come in?”

The old woman eyed us suspiciously, then finally nodded. She opened the door and motioned for us to enter. I followed Callie through the front door and into the Mendoza family living room.

The living room was like any other living room—if the living room was straight from the Spanish Inquisition. The dark-paneled walls were covered in crucifixes. There were small ones and large ones, crucifixes made from glass and from plastic resin. A three-foot-tall wooden crucifix hung against the far wall. The body of Christ was carved in frightening detail, the wood painted in shades of brown and black. Christ’s face was a mask of agony, his eyes rolled back in his head, his body wracked with pain.

The only other decorations were a few photos of the Mendoza family. I stepped closer and inspected one.

The family stood in front of the cash register of their restaurant. Maria Diaz was there, and so was Leticia. A tired-looking burly man who I guessed was Leticia’s husband stood next to Leticia, his arm draped casually over her shoulder. The children were lined up in what appeared to be chronological order, with Franco at the right, followed by Elias, then a beautiful girl, a spitting image of her mother, who I guessed to be Elena. Next to Elena was another girl, pretty but not
that
pretty, not quite filled out to the other women’s proportions, and I recognized her as the girl we had seen waitressing in the restaurant.

The entire family wore black polo shirts, with the restaurant logo stitched in blue and gold thread. I noticed something else in the photo. None of them were smiling.

I filed that piece of information away for future reference, then turned back to Mrs. Diaz. “Ma’am? Do you know where Elena is?”

The old woman motioned to the two reclining chairs across from the sofa, the threadbare fabric of the seats worn away to almost nothing. “Please, be comfortable,” she said.

I looked to Callie. She shrugged and took her seat in the broken-down recliner. I hesitated, then followed her lead and sat in the other. Mrs. Diaz sat on the sofa, her legs crossed, her hands clasped together.

“Elena is fine,” she said firmly.

I scratched my head. “Mrs. Diaz, people keep saying Elena’s fine—”

“Call me Maria,” she said, bowing her head.

“Maria,” I said, “I just want to know if Elena is okay. Everyone says she’s fine, but no one knows where she
is
.”

“You know today’s youth,” Mrs. Diaz said, arching an eyebrow. “They run about. I’m sure she’s fine.”

There was something about Maria’s speech. I stared into her dark eyes, but the eyes of the woman staring back were empty. Hollowed out.

Callie reached up and fingered the silver crucifix about her neck. “Maria? Are you Catholic?”

Maria nodded her head, her eyes drawn to the crucifix like a moth to a flame. “Yes.”

“Do you still have faith in God?” Callie asked, continuing to stroke her crucifix.

The old woman shuddered. “When I was a young woman in Mexico, I attended mass with my mother. I prayed for God to protect us. To keep us safe.” The woman’s voice was slow, with a heavy cadence.

Callie nodded, her index finger lightly stroking her crucifix. “What did you need God’s protection from?”

The old woman glanced around the room, her eyes dancing from crucifix to crucifix, until they finally came to rest again on the one around Callie’s neck. “Young women must be careful. They are afraid of men. They must avoid the dark.” Maria shuddered again, and her voice lost its distinctive cadence. “I’m sorry, why did Mary Kate send you?”

I saw the worried look on Callie’s face. Whatever had been happening with Callie’s crucifix was now finished. The old woman eyed us suspiciously.

I leaned forward. “Mary Kate’s worried about your granddaughter. Do you know where Elena is?”

For a brief moment, the woman’s eyes widened with some emotion I couldn’t recognize. Then, like that, it was over. Her eyes went slack, her eyelids almost closing. “I was going to make cookies?” She nodded. “Yes. I was going to make cookies. Would you like cookies?”

I was sick of asking the same questions. There was something definitely wrong with the Mendoza family. “Maria,” I said sharply. “Tell me what’s going on. Where is Elena?”

The old woman’s eyes widened and her mouth snapped shut, her jaw clenched tight, the muscles straining in cords visible under the skin of her neck. She rocked back onto the sofa and went rigid.

Then I felt it—an oily presence, like something rotten, brushing against the back of my neck. I had last felt it six weeks before.

I turned to Callie and saw fear in her eyes. She looked like she might vomit, but managed to whisper, “Vampire.”

* * *

The vampire was fast. It streaked through the room as the sound of splintering wood from the front door echoed against the walls. I grabbed for my Colt before realizing I had left it in the toolbox in the back of the truck.

Callie turned, her crucifix emitting a blinding white light that danced among the crucifixes hanging on the walls, a crazy shimmering that lit the room like a million prisms. The vampire recoiled at it, throwing up its arms to keep the glare from its face, and shifted its trajectory.

My heart thudded in my chest. I still had my silver Bowie knife in its sheath at my waist, under my trench coat. I was reaching for it when the vampire’s arm flicked out, so fast I could barely track, then a gaping hole the size of my fist erupted in Maria’s neck as the vampire passed.

Maria choked out a breath as blood spurted in thick streams from her neck. Her eyes went wide, a surprised look on her face, and she grabbed for where her throat used to be. She convulsed, her legs kicking uselessly against the couch, one of her sandals flying across the room from the force of her dying spasms.

I couldn’t focus on her because the vampire was coming at me. As I struggled to stand, I yanked my knife from its sheath, trying to clear it from my trench coat before the vampire was upon me.

I saw the creature’s eyes. They had gone solid black, the way I remembered Silas’s, right before he tried to kill me. I got the knife loose just as the silver-white glow from Callie’s crucifix increased in intensity, like a miniature sun, then the vampire was past me and gone, back through what remained of the front door.

I turned to Callie, who stood frozen in shock. It had taken only seconds for the vampire to rip through the house. The oily presence still lingered against the back of my neck but was fading quickly.

There was a wet sucking noise, then a thud as Maria fell off the sofa. I jumped over the coffee table and grabbed her arm.

It was too late. She went limp as blood gushed from her neck. I grabbed at her flower-print dress and pulled, trying to free enough material to staunch the blood. I saw shades of yellow and white from the bones of her spine, ligaments and tendons hanging loosely, and so much blood that I couldn’t tell where to apply pressure.

“Sam. Sam!”

I looked up at Callie as I pressed my hand against Maria’s neck. “We’ve got to
do
something,” I said helplessly.

Callie was standing at the end of the coffee table, shaking her head. “She’s gone, Sam. It’s too late.”

She can’t be gone.

My eyes drifted from the bloody remains of Maria’s neck to her face. Her eyes were wide and glassy and she stared at the ceiling. Her body was still, and I smelled the bitter ammonia of urine that filled the room as her bladder emptied.

I sagged against the sofa and yanked my hand back. It was slick, like a bright scarlet glove, and I resisted the urge to vomit. “This can’t be happening,” I said.

“We have to leave,” Callie urged. “We
can’t
be found here.”

I nodded. She was right. We had to go.

The sun had
set and the sky was dark, the faint ruddy glow in the west all that remained of the day. The nearest streetlight was a block away, and cast a pitiful light against the loose rock road. I poked my head out of the door of the Mendoza home and took a good look around. No one seemed to have noticed the commotion.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and reached out with my senses. The dark, oily feeling had disappeared. The vampire was gone.

I motioned for Callie to follow, and we made our way to the truck. She climbed in the passenger side while I opened the tailgate and removed my Colt and shoulder holster from the toolbox in the back. I glanced around again, making sure no one was looking, then grabbed a roll of paper towels and tore off a wad of them. I wiped the blood from my hand, then stuffed the bloody towels in a thick black garbage bag that I tossed in the bed of the truck.

The street was still quiet when I opened the driver’s door, climbed inside, and started the truck. Callie had removed a police scanner from the glove compartment and was fiddling with it.

“Have you heard anything?” I asked.

“Nothing yet,” she said. “We better go.”

I nodded, then started the truck and headed west. I didn’t bother with the headlights and navigated by the faint starlight. We were on the edge of town, and it only took a few minutes before I turned north on a dusty dirt road well away from the city limits. We drove for nearly a mile until I found a lot where a home had once stood, the old farmhouse long since destroyed. All that remained was a crumbling foundation.

I flipped on the headlights long enough to pull through the tall grass and weeds, following the remains of the old driveway for a few car lengths, then carefully navigated the truck behind the giant oak trees that stood guard over what was left of the house’s foundation.

“Are we safe here?” Callie asked, as I turned off the headlights.

“Someone would have to be looking,” I said, glancing back to the road. I reached over and withdrew a handful of wet naps from the glove compartment and wiped the remaining blood from my hand.

The police scanner emitted a faint glow that illuminated the cabin. “Can you cover that up?” I asked.

Callie nodded and cupped her hand over the police scanner.

I pushed the switch on the overhead cabin light so when I opened the door, the cabin stayed dark. I got out and withdrew the Colt and its holster, slipped off my trench coat, and threaded my arms through the supple leather straps.

I checked the Colt and dropped the magazine, verifying by weight alone that the magazine was fully loaded with silver bullets. It was another skill I had developed over the last six weeks. I holstered the Colt under my left arm and checked to make sure both magazines were secured firmly in place under my right.