Hard Times (A Sam Harlan Novel Book 2) (9 page)

“That thing you did at Jack’s house,” I said. “Could you do it again?”

Davenport shook his head. “Too soon. Don’t have it in me.”

I could smell whiskey on Davenport’s breath, and his red flannel shirt and stained jeans were rumpled, like he’d slept in them. I wondered if Davenport had come home drunk and collapsed in his driveway, unconscious, before finally making it into his house.

There was an old alcoholic in Arcanum, a man named Peter Humphrey. Everyone in town called him Whiskey Pete. The man was usually seen staggering around, a paper bag in his hand, trying to hide whatever booze he’d bought with the money given to him by well-intentioned townsfolk.

Sometimes he stopped by the diner and I would feed him scrambled eggs with bacon, toast, and several cups of coffee. Stacie complained, of course, calling it a waste of money, but I sincerely believed the occasional meal I provided was all that kept Whiskey Pete alive.

I would talk to him while he ate, telling him he had to give up the drink before it killed him. Pete would nod sheepishly and agree, then quickly look away. He had a very distinctive odor. It was the smell of alcohol seeping through the pores of his skin. Years of neglect to his liver had practically putrefied the sweat glands.

Billy Davenport smelled just like Whiskey Pete.

“You have some idea of what Jack did,” I said, wondering if I was wasting my time. “There’s a girl missing in Marshalltown. I have to find her, but I also need to protect the family.”

Davenport briefly returned my stare, then glanced away. “Sorry, son. Wish I could help.”

“You said you’re a medicine man. There’s got to be
something
you can do.”

Davenport refused to meet my gaze. “What I did at Jack’s place? That’s strong medicine. I don’t have my strength back.”

“If it’s money you want, I can pay.”

Davenport slowly shook his head. “Ain’t about money. Like I said, I can’t help.”

I wanted to argue, but I got the feeling that he wasn’t about to budge. “Sorry to bother you.”

Davenport’s face softened. “Ain’t no bother, son. You’re Jack’s family. That practically makes you
my
family.”

I turned and headed back to the truck. I heard Davenport shut the door behind me, and when I climbed in the cab, Callie raised an eyebrow. “Can he help?” she asked.

I grunted and shook my head. “I guess our medicine man is all out of medicine.”

* * *

We were just passing the turn off for Le Grand when Callie spoke. “I checked the
Times-Republican
website. There was no mention of Maria Mendoza’s death.”

“The vampire must have cleaned up his kill,” I said, “or mind-fucked the Mendozas so they didn’t notice.”

Callie winced. “Language, please.”

I frowned. “Sorry, Sister. I meant, mind-fudged. It mind-fudged the Mendoza family. Even if it cleaned up the body and blood after we left, surely they wondered where their grandmother went? Surely Leticia Mendoza wondered where
her
mother went?”

“I’m afraid you might be right,” Callie said. “The Church’s records are extensive on the subject. Vampires can impose their will on the human mind.”

I remembered how it had felt when I’d faced Silas and shuddered. His eyes had been so heavy, so full of weight when they pressed into my brain, causing my defiance to wilt.

Even Jack had forced his will on me. I remembered wanting to question him about why we weren’t going after my daughter, but then he would glare at me and it was like an ocean washing against me. Any resistance I might offer vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“How does it work?” I asked.

Callie stared out the window at the empty fields we passed. “Even a young vampire can twist the mind of a human,” she said, “but older vampires are more capable. The more unlikely the action, the harder it is for the vampire. A really
old
vampire like Henry Hastings could make a human do almost anything.” She paused. “It’s one of the most unholy of acts. It subverts man’s free will.”

“That’s important?” I asked.

She sighed. “Many of man’s philosophical problems with God exist because people don’t understand the importance of free will. It’s one of God’s greatest gifts, Sam. Perverting that is just … wrong.”

“Okay,” I said. “The vampire is twisting people’s minds and messing with their heads. Why?”

She turned to stare at me. “What?”

“Yeah, that too,” I said, “but why? Why is it messing with people’s heads? Why doesn’t it just feed and flee? What does it want? Why kill Maria Diaz if it had already manipulated the old woman?”

Callie leaned back in her seat. “Those are all good questions. It wants something. More blood? More life-force? Maybe it means to drain the entire family?”

“We can’t let that happen,” I said. “This is exactly why we decided to do this, remember? To keep other families from suffering the way we suffered?”

“You’re right,” Callie said, her voice hard as steel. “We must do what needs doing. We
must
save that family.”

* * *

I eased the truck into the grass in front of the Mendoza house, careful to pull over so the truck was mostly off the cracked pavement. The crisp morning air was finally starting to warm, but it looked like washed-out gray clouds would keep the sunlight from raising temperatures past the fifties.

There was a short Latino man in his late forties or early fifties working on the front door, a red metal toolbox next to his feet. He turned to watch as we approached, his face as blank as his eyes.

If I was right, the man was Leticia’s husband. He was thick and muscular, with short, stubby hands. Mostly, he looked tired. I cleared my throat. “Are you Juan Mendoza?” I asked.

The man nodded. “You a salesman?” he asked, in heavily accented English.

“We’re friends of Mary Kate Glick,” Callie said.

“The pawnshop woman,” Juan acknowledged, his eyes still blank.

“Yes,” I said. “She’s worried about her nephew. Colden hasn’t seen Elena in a few days.”

“She is with friends,” Juan said woodenly. “She will be back. Soon.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, so sudden and slight that I almost missed it. “Which friends?” I asked.

Juan’s eyes slowly focused on my face and his brow furrowed. “What?”

“Which friends,” I repeated. “Everyone says your daughter is with friends, but which friends?”

He opened and closed his mouth, working his jaw like he was chewing at an invisible bone. “I’m … not sure. One of her friends.”

“Can you
name
one of her friends?” Callie asked softly.

A look of sheer panic swept across Juan’s face, then his mouth opened in a snarl, baring his teeth. I took a step back and put my arm in front of Callie. I needn’t have bothered. The man’s face went slack.

“Elena is with friends,” he repeated, turning back to the door. He took a screwdriver and began screwing a new lock plate into the sill, as if we were no longer there.

I turned to Callie, who shook her head. “Juan,” I said. “What happened to your door?”

Juan craned his neck around and gave us another blank look. “You a salesman?”

“No. We’re just looking for your daughter. What happened to your door?”

“Door was broken,” Juan muttered, squinting at us. “I must fix it.”

“Who broke your door?” Callie asked, whisper-soft.

Juan paused, his hand still clutching the screwdriver. “I don’t know,” he finally managed, then shook his head. “Elena is
with
her
friends
.”

“Mr. Mendoza,” I said. “Where is your mother-in-law?”

Juan dropped the screwdriver and it skittered across the porch and under the white painted railing. He turned to us, the coppery skin of his face gone pale. “I don’t know.”

His hands started shaking and he shivered, pulling at the neck of his sweatshirt. “I
don’t
know.” He took a step toward the screwdriver. “I must fix my door.”

“It’s okay,” I said, reassuringly. “Everything is fine. Just tell us what happened.”

I reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder. He turned, like a frightened rabbit, then his face went blank. “You a salesman?”

Callie sighed and grabbed the arm of my trench coat, pulling my hand from Juan’s shoulder, and whispered, “He’s not going to tell us anything.”

I looked into Juan’s eyes and saw only emptiness. “Sorry, Mr. Mendoza. Didn’t mean to bother you.”

Juan nodded at us. “I have to fix my door.” He dropped to his knees and fished the screwdriver from under the railing, then resumed his work on the door without a second glance our way.

I followed Callie back to the truck. We got in and I said, “That’s spooky. It’s like he has flashes where he knows something is wrong, but then the lights go out and there’s no one home. Is that normal?”

“There were
many
reports in the Church files,” Callie said, crossing her arms and shrinking back against her seat, “but they weren’t specific. I would suspect that Mr. Mendoza has seen something or knows something, but the vampire’s compulsion is keeping him from acknowledging it.”

I watched through the truck window as Juan Mendoza went about repairing his house. “There’s
got
to be a way to break through to him.”

Callie shook her head. “I don’t know of anything.”

An idea occurred to me. “What about prayer?” I asked. “You and Katie are part of an ancient bloodline. Doesn’t that give you some type of power that we can use to our advantage?”

“It doesn’t
work
like that,” Callie said with a frown. “There’s no ceremony for it. I wouldn’t begin to know where to start.”

“What about the cleansing ceremony you used on me? Would that work?”

She bit her lip. “You’re grasping at straws. We don’t know whether it would work, and even if it would, how do you propose we get Mr. Mendoza to go along with it? He can’t even admit that his daughter is missing.”

As she spoke, a Marshall County Sheriff’s patrol car cruised by. I caught a glimpse of the driver’s face. It was Tommy Mueller, the deputy we had seen in the pawnshop the day before. He inspected the Mendoza home, and as soon as he had passed, he sped up and drove off.

I turned to Callie and raised an eyebrow. “
That’s
interesting.”

“You think Deputy Mueller is involved?” Callie asked.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s odd he showed up at Mary Kate’s? And Elias said he had a thing for Elena.”

“There are too many unknowns,” Callie said. “We don’t know
what
we’re dealing with.”

I agreed. We were blindly flailing about, and it wasn’t doing us any good. “Let’s go back to the restaurant. Maybe we can learn something from the rest of Elena’s family.”

* * *

It was nine in the morning and Fiesta Cancun was already open. It wasn’t like my diner, where breakfast was a mainstay of the community and coffee the lifeblood, but it appeared that the Mendoza family believed in opening early in case someone wanted a late breakfast or early lunch.

I followed Callie inside. There wasn’t a customer in sight. Elias wiped down tables with a cloth and a bucket while his mother, Leticia, wrapped silverware in paper napkins at a table near the front, sealing them with a paper ring and a satisfied nod.

Elias turned to us and smiled. “Be with you in a minute.” He finished cleaning the table in the corner, then placed the bucket near the door to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of menus as he approached. “Ready for lunch, folks?”

“We were here yesterday,” Callie said. “Remember?”

He frowned, his eyes tightening around the corners. “Yeah, I remember.” He motioned for us to follow and led us to a booth in the opposite corner from his mother. “What is it today?” he asked. “You still looking for Elena?”

We took the proffered menus and settled in the booth. “Have you heard from her?” I asked. “She call?”

“I
haven’t
heard from her.” He paused, as if thinking, then sighed. “She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself. Now, what can I get you?”

Callie spoke up. “Elias? Did you go home last night?”

He hesitated, then finally said, “No, I spent the night at my girlfriend’s house. Why?”

Callie shrugged. “Just wondering if Elena came home last night. Maybe you missed her?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Mom didn’t mention it.” His eyes focused on Leticia, sitting unaware of our conversation on the other side of the restaurant. “You want me to ask?”

“If you don’t mind,” I said. “It would be nice to tell Colden that his girlfriend made it home safe and sound.”

Elias rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

I watched him make his way through the restaurant to the table where his mom worked. He slowed as he neared, shook his head, and turned back to cast a despondent look our way.

“You think Elena came home last night?” Callie asked.

“No,” I said. “I just want to see what she says.”

Elias stopped at his mom’s table and bent over, speaking in hushed tones. I strained to listen, but couldn’t make out the words. Leticia answered with a grunt, then Elias shook his head angrily and quickly walked back to our table.

“Mom says she hasn’t been back, but she’s not worried,” Elias said. “She’s not too thrilled with me sleeping at my girlfriend’s house, though.”

“Mothers can be like that,” I said. “Not too fond of the girlfriend?”

“It’s not that,” he said with a grin. “She’s Catholic. Well,
we’re
Catholic. She doesn’t approve of, uh, you know…”

Callie blushed, her cheeks turning pink, and I chuckled. “I get it.”

Elias’s grin was infectious, his eyes dancing with merriment. “Yeah. Families. You love ’em, but you
can’t
pick ’em.”

I heard the sound of the restaurant door opening, and saw the beefy young man in the deputy’s uniform enter. He turned to inspect the restaurant and I recognized Tommy Mueller. He saw us and his eyes narrowed in recognition, then he saw Elias and his face hardened.

Elias turned, saw the deputy, and said, “Oh, shit.”

Deputy Mueller didn’t
storm through the restaurant, exactly, but I could tell by his heavy footsteps and the scowl on his face that he was clearly agitated. He stopped so close to Elias that Elias was forced to take a step back.