The young woman is now on the sidewalk across the street. Her stalker isn't far behind.
Amber pauses to let a yellow cab pass, then hurries into the road. She cringes at the sound of her heels clacking against asphalt.
The girl walks into a parking garage.
Amber knows this is where the stalker will strike. It's an ideal location. She reaches the other side of the street and feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns to see Michael standing behind her.
“You're really going to do this?” he asks.
“Yes. I am. I thought you'd be up for it.”
“It's been a long time,” he says.
Amber turns to walk away.
Michael grabs hold of her arm. “Hey.”
Amber pulls her arm free of his grip. “
What
?”
“I'm not trying to stop you. He's a scumbag. I get it. The World is better off without him.”
“It is,” Amber agrees. “Better off without them all.”
Michael's heart starts to pound with excitement. Did Amber just confess to being a serial stalker of rapists – and who knows what other kinds of degenerate scum - for food, and maybe even sick kicks?
The man they're pursuing disappears into the mouth of the parking garage.
“Anything else?” Amber asks. “Or should we wait for him to rape her?”
“The blood issue ...” Michael says, “it's not the only thing.”
Amber listens with growing impatience.
Michael goes on: “I haven't been around someone like you in ... well,
forever
.”
“You mean a woman?”
“No. I mean,
like us
. I think I might be out of practise.”
Amber takes Michael's hand - “Come on” - and pulls him towards the parking garage. “We can talk about it later.”
*
The young woman approaches a red Chrysler Sebring Convertible. Its soft top is up. Her body quivers. It's cold down in the parking garage, and not particularly well lit. She unlocks her car with the fob
and opens the door, but, before she can enter, a man in a suit pounces from behind and pins her arms to her sides. She opens her mouth to scream, but a hand is placed over it. Frantic, she kicks out.
The man says in her ear: “We're gonna have some fun.”
His breath stinks of booze.
“
Fancy trading up
?”
Still keeping a tight hold of his struggling victim, the man turns to discover an even better specimen of womanhood standing several feet in front of him. He spends a few moments checking her out. “What the hell are you supposed to be? Some kind of fucking vamp?”
Amber can't help but smile.
The man weighs up his options, then discards the girl.
She stumbles to the ground.
“You,” Amber says to the younger woman. “Get the hell out of here - not in the car. You're drunk.”
The man steps between the girl and the older woman. “She's not going anywhere.” He plunges a hand into his right front pocket and produces a knife.
Amber looks amused. She drops her purse. “You got what it takes to fuck us both?”
“Because of you she saw my face. She wasn't supposed to see my face. I can't let her leave -
either of you
.”
Amber advances with a well-measured step. "Pressure of your big city job just a little too much for you?"
“Stop where you are,” the man snaps.
Amber ignores him and takes another step. “I bet you've just been passed by for promotion.”
“
Shut the fuck up
.”
“You must be, what ... mid-forties?”
“I'm warning you!”
“Can't be easy. Your best years are behind you, you're full of insecurities and you can't get laid without force.”
The man has heard enough. Roaring with anger, he slashes for the woman. But the woman is fast, and effortlessly evades his attack. She then grabs his knife hand and twists it to such a degree it snaps at the wrist.
He drops the knife and shrieks like a little girl.
They always do
.
Amber seizes the man by the throat and stifles his outcry - “Didn't think you had it in you” - then pushes him out of view.
The man's back slams hard against a wall. Moments later, this incredible, savage woman is sinking her teeth into his neck, and all he can do is stare, wide-eyed, at a flickering overhead florescent light.
His body gives an involuntary shudder and his bladder loosens.
Amber feeds for almost an entire minute. During this time, she doesn't so much as spill a single drop of blood. Once sated, she looks into the man's bleary eyes and coldly remarks: “I've had better – oh, and you've pissed yourself.” She then takes a fistful of his hair, jerks back his head and makes a cut on the side of his neck using the index finger of her left hand.
Blood spurts from the arterial wound on the man's neck. He sinks to his knees then collapses forward, shattering the bone in his nose completely.
Amber casually strolls towards her purse. She picks it up and pulls out her compact mirror. The area surrounding her mouth is clean and her lipstick isn't even smudged.
Impressive
.
The frightened young woman is huddled against the front tire of her car. She watches Amber approach. Her mascara is clumped and her eyeliner is running down her cheeks.
Amber crouches before the girl. “Here, let me see.” She puts a hand under the younger woman's trembling chin and starts to wipe around her eyes with a cleansing pad.
“Thank you ... for what you did,” the girl says. Her voice is timid and wavering. “I won't tell anyone I saw you.”
Amber finishes up and closes her purse. “Tell them the truth. Just give me fifteen minutes after you leave before calling the cops - don't take your car. You've had too much to drink.”
“Okay,” the girl says.
“Don't look over there when you get up. Not if you want to sleep. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Both women stand. The younger of the two is slightly unsteady on her legs. Amber helps her stabilize.
The girl thanks Amber again, then dips her head and hurries for the exit.
Amber watches her go. The girl doesn't look back.
“
What will you do now
?”
Amber turns to see Michael standing over the dead man's body. “What I always do. Disappear.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Why would you want to do that? You appear to have a life.”
Michael approaches her. “Not really. I'm a bit of a nomad, truth be told.”
Amber shakes her head. “You don't even know me. We only met about an hour ago.”
“That's what makes it all the more exciting.”
Amber looks hesitant.
“C'mon, go with the flow. Maybe it's fate.”
“I don't believe in fate.”
“But it was another woman I followed into the club, kept my eye on her the whole time. I thought you were her until I got up close.”
“Disappointed?”
“Nope.”
As nice as Michael seems – especially on the eye – Amber wonders if she really needs the baggage.
Perhaps that's exactly what she needs
.
She turns from him.
... And then she senses it.
Michael watches Amber walk towards a silver Ford Focus. "Is everything okay?"
He decides to follow.
Amber approaches the front of the car. A pair of feet are poking out past the fender. “Seems I wasn't the only one spilling blood here tonight.”
Michael peers past Amber's shoulder. “So this one has nothing to do with you then?”
“I'm not a psychopath,” she replies.
“Relax. It was a joke.”
Amber negotiates her way past Michael and looks in the direction of the parking garage exit. “Can't you sense it?”
Michael looks nonplussed. “Sense what?”
“God, you really are out of practice. It's the same feeling I had tonight with the man who attacked the girl.”
“And?”
“Well, whoever did this - to this other man.” Amber folds her arms. “They're going to do it again if they're not stopped.”
July, 1994; Texas, USA
It was the dying moments of twilight.
Tufts of cotton-candy cloud drifted aimlessly across a magnificent burnt orange hue that was slowly being replaced by a deep indigo spread. Below the horizon, the World was quickly becoming enveloped by a ubiquitous blanket of shadow.
The silver Buick Skylark coasted along Interstate 10 at a leisurely pace. Shrinking from view in the rear view mirror was the town of Van Horn. Lying ahead: a flux of endless possibility.
Alyssa blew cigarette smoke out the window and gazed at the mountains to the north-east. They were now nothing more than indistinct dark shapes against an ever-changing backdrop. She noticed a little ash had fallen onto the bust of her black cotton tank top. She swept it off, then turned on the radio, hoping to find some decent music. Twisting the dial back and forth revealed religious babble, a discussion about World Cup soccer, and country music. Country music didn't count. Undeterred in her quest for the ideal sound, she flipped open the glove box and went rummaging for an audio cassette. An old album by The Carpenters fell out onto the floor along with some papers and a pen. She continued to search and found another tape - a ninety minute TDK one. It was wound about a third of the way through. Something was written in blue ink on an adhesive white paper strip stuck across the top:
The Best Of Classic Rock
.
It was just what the doctor ordered.
She popped it into the slot and cranked up the volume. Santana's
Black Magic Woman
trailed off before the familiar sound of Boston's
More Than a Feeling
filled the speakers.
Alyssa put her arm out the window and tapped the side of the door in time with the music. Van Horn was non-existent in her mirrors now. She had spent the day there, holed up in a darkened room within a small bed and breakfast inn. She'd slept reasonably well, but, longing for nightfall, had found herself waking occasionally to gaze at an old analog clock on the bedside table. She hadn't eaten in almost a day - at least, not properly. This old car belonged to her last bite. He'd been an asshole anyway, and was now slowly rotting in a shallow ditch a few miles south-east of Sierra Blanca. Yes, it had been gentlemanly of him to respond to a damsel in need of a ride, but choosing payment in the form of a free trip down the love canal ... well, that had been a mistake.
He'd said his name was Bradley Evans, and he'd come on strong.
Evans
...
She decided this would be her new last name. Alyssa Evans had a nice ring to it.
The Buick's beams illuminated the journey ahead. Painted lines in the middle of the blacktop came sweeping from the darkness, only to be swallowed up by the car's front bumper. It was a mesmerizing sight, if you stared at it long enough.
Alyssa took one last drag on the end of her cigarette then flicked it out the window. She blew the smoke past her cherry colored lips and
looked up. A smattering of stars shone brightly against the ink blue sky.
She welcomed the sight. It made her feel secure.
She drove for sometime, content as she listened to the music. Meat Loaf's
Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad
came and went, as did Van Morrison's
Brown Eyed Girl
, but it was during the playing of
Cover Of The Rolling Stone
by Dr. Hook that she spotted a car up ahead, stopped on the west-bound strip. It looked like a younger woman was in need of assistance. She considered turning a blind eye. She was heading in the opposite direction, after all, and it wasn't like it was her problem.
Then she thought of men like Bradley Evans.
She turned down the music and pulled onto the shoulder. The reflection in the side mirror was of a completely desolate stretch of highway. The road ahead looked exactly the same. She opened the door and got out of the car, then pushed her hands into the rear pockets of her jeans and strolled onto the median strip.
The girl she approached had ash blonde hair. It was tied back in a pony tail. She wore a bright cotton blouse and cut-off denim shorts. Cute ankle socks were visible above her sneakers. Alyssa reckoned the Bradley Evans type would approve.
The young woman watched Alyssa draw closer. She waved the small flashlight she held and called out, "Can you help me?"
Joining the girl, Alyssa asked, “What exactly happened?”
“It just died,” the girl replied. “While I was driving.”