***
Inside the living room, sitting in the rarely used play-pen, the twins played happily and contently with their stuffed animals and other miscellaneous toys. Both had been fed earlier by Daddy and had absolutely no thought whatsoever of needing anything more. They never even noticed that Mommy and Daddy had left them alone for the half hour that they were left unattended. When Daddy returned, on his way out, as Mommy finished drying off, Robbie and Rebekah looked up at him, smiled and then went back to the play at hand.
7:19 a.m.
Big John Lancaster awoke with a shiver. As large as he was, it had to be fairly cold for him to even notice. During the fall while others were beginning to reach for sweaters he was still sporting one of his T-shirts. This morning, however, he noticed. Although it was 55 degrees outside, that was not the cold that he was feeling. Instead, it was the fever that had set in during the night because of the extent of his injuries.
His shaking uncontrollable, something else began to make itself known to him: foreign smells. They were familiar smells but strangely out of place. One was urine. The odor was strong in his nostrils and must have been what ultimately brought him back to consciousness. His eyes stung as they attempted to focus. He knew that it was his own because upon identifying the affect, he felt the causing wetness inside his jeans. The other odor was blood. He knew that that was his own as well, but whether the wound causing the escape of his blood was minor or major was unknown.
He found himself on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. What room he was in, he was not yet sure. He turned his head to the left and found his living room staring back at him; he turned to the right and found the dead old man and that horrible face staring back at him.
Big John rolled away from the body and immediately whimpered in excruciating pain. He froze for a moment, hoping the pain that was seemingly shooting throughout his entire body would subside. Eventually, it did just enough for him to attempt to crawl across the living room toward the entrance to the kitchen. Each movement brought with it an agonizing breath. His chest and arms screamed a furious protest. His head reeled.
Large, frankfurter fingers stretched across the space between him and the wood-paneled wall that loomed before him, desperately out of reach. It almost appeared to take a step away from him with each of his pathetic centimeter advances. He closed his eyes as another contraction of pain suddenly swept over him like an ocean wave of cold foamy water. It was as figurative a swell as it was literal. A trickle of crimson blood rolled up and over his quivering lower lip. He pictured himself touching the wall in some psychic attempt to block out the pain and the growing desire he felt within him to simply roll over and give up his ghost.
However, there was a reason that he refused to die: he knew what had attacked him. The thing that had plagued the city for days, keeping it at bay in fear, had tried to kill him. By all rights, he knew he should be dead. He was tore up pretty good inside. Each push forward, each attempt to claw his way along the floor, tore him further, but he couldn't stop. He refused to stop; to die. He had to help the cops nail the sorry bastard before he hurt anyone else. He even knew the bastard's name. Big John Lancaster had a story to tell.
Swallowing another wave of pain, although considerably smaller from others he had felt since waking, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to push off with his legs to close the distance between him and the wall.
“AH!” he screamed, tears streaming down his fingernail-scratched face as his fingers finally made contact.
Waiting for the pain to subside, he allowed his head to fall onto the dingy floor, his body to rest on its side. After a moment, he raised his head and looked up the length of the wall. His fingers gripped it as tightly as they could; the muscles inside his partly mauled right arm, weak from the attack, screamed bloody murder through their various nerve-endings in contempt of his work.
Pull! he screamed inside his brain as the work began. He let out a long whimper as he dragged himself painfully along the floor and into the other room. The telephone was five more feet away.
He coughed painfully, spitting up blood. The thick, warm trickle poured out of his mouth and onto his cheek.
If I can just make it to the damn phone!
His eyes transfixed, he held the phone in sight as if he might look away from it and lose forever. He reached out for the carpet before him and pulled himself further along. 911 was all that he needed to live.
911! 911!
Big John winced in agony as another wave of pain swept over him, sending more blood flowing out of his mouth. He coughed it up, spitting it out before him where the carpet and dingy linoleum met. He ignored it, dragging himself over it, smearing it all over his front as he pulled himself along.
Just a few more pulls! Big John Lancaster thought to himself as the phone slowly approached.
8:05 a.m.
The squad room of the police department, which had been a gym in a previous life—although it did have a few large pieces of exercise equipment still left in the north-west corner—was Standing Room Only and quite the amazing sight. Red, tired eyes and yawns abounded with dispatchers and sergeants, lieutenants and cadets, community service officers and patrol officers. Various colors and badges were present as well: Reedley, Hanford, Fresno, Tulare, Visalia and Selma.
“Hello there, stranger,” Detective Jackson sarcastically announced as his partner finally walked through the door. “Nice of you to join us this morning.”
“Come on, Jacks,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m not that late.”
“Almost! Where the hell have you been?”
The faintest grin crept across Michael’s face as he did his best to ignore his partner and prepare himself for the meeting that was about to take place.
Mark Jackson picked up on it immediately, as well as its meaning. “Why you dirty dog!”
Michael gave no acknowledgement of his partner’s alleged discovery. He just continued to maintain his professionalism and await his chief. He was at the front of the room, conferring with members of the Fresno and Tulare County Sheriff’s Department. There was a delegation of the California Highway Patrol. He recognized three of them. They were taking seats now at the front of the room, preparing to begin.
“You know I had the same offer at my house this morning, but I chose to uphold the community’s trust!” Jackson leaned over and whispered.
“Alright, already!” Michael complained with an embarrassed frown. “Do you want to stand up at the podium and announce it to the group?”
“Yes, I do!”
“Alright,” the chief suddenly spoke without introduction.
The room quieted down immediately. The chief didn’t wait for it. There was no time for propriety with so many having been murdered in as many days.
“I don’t need to tell you sitting here this morning that we have come together to tackle perhaps the most challenging case some of us may ever face. Were this San Francisco or Los Angeles, we might not even be having this conversation. This little town is under siege. We’ve lost three, two of which were our own.”
No one interrupted while the man spoke. There were no notes passed back and forth between the men and women; there was no whispering, no leaning over in some secret communication. This was big, and there was no time for games.
“We’re being joined in this by many jurisdictions. All three of the counties are being represented here today: Fresno, Tulare, and Kings. And we have members of the California Highway Patrol as well. Beginning this morning, the citizens of this town will begin to see and feel such a police presence as has never been seen before. Yesterday, we had four to seven cars on the street at any one time. This afternoon, before the start of Farmers’ Market at four o’clock, we’ll have fourteen. Tonight, we’re hoping to have twenty, and that will be around the clock.”
Michael and his partner bo
th caught sight of the Graveyard Dispatcher in the small window in the squad room door to the left. She had been filling in while the regular dispatcher, Lainie Bishop, was on leave. Rochelle Serpa peeked through the glass, wondering whether to interrupt. At forty-four, and the eldest of the dispatching group, she did not act anything but professionally while on duty. Off, she was the life of the party, holding her own with the liquor, the dirty joke, the dart or the pool cue. She knew the politics of both the police department and City Hall. She did not seem to be awed by the display of force assembled within the room before her.
Serpa held information that needed to be passed on to the chief and she meant to deliver it. So, with a look of determination and a demeanor that told all of those assembled that I know what I’m doing and what I have is just as important as what you can do, she quickly entered the room and walked over to her chief. She handed him the note and took a step back, awaiting possible further instructions.
The chief took the note without a word and quickly tossed it upon the podium before him. The dispatcher, wearing a wireless unit on her belt connected to a microphone at her ear, briskly walked out of the room.
“Lopez, Jackson.” The chief was speaking only to them now. “This morning we answered a 911 on West Kern. A man was attacked last night. He’s en route to Selma. Guerra and Alaniz need you.” He sighed. “There’s another body.”
10:11 a.m.
Barbara laughed, making silly faces and odd noises in between doing so, as she sat on the floor of the living room with the twins. The twins found the entire scene endlessly amusing, holding frozen smiles as they studied only her, awaiting further entertainment. There were toys scattered here and there along and beyond the baby blanket where they laid, but at the moment at least they didn’t seem to notice or care. The game had been ongoing since she had finished feeding the babies and set them down, fully intending to step away from them to do her Bible study for the morning. Robbie and Rebekah, however, would not allow her to leave them.
It wasn’t as if they had begun throwing tantrums, sensing her desire to walk away. Rather, something about them was so intriguing this morning that she felt herself unable to pull away. She paused with the nonsense for a little while and waited, leaned back into a sitting position, and simply watched them. Neither did anything but watch her and continue to smile.
“What in the world has gotten into you guys today?” she asked them. She waited on them as if she fully expected a response. “You haven’t cried today, haven’t been fussy. Momma took her time with your breakfast this morning and you acted as if you were two of the most patient babies ever to walk across God’s green earth. What’s up with that?”
The babies smiled and just stared away, always at her, never taking their eyes off of their mother.
Barbara played with them a bit more, but as incredible as they were behaving, she ultimately needed that last cup of coffee. And if she was going to continue to hold fast to the routine of spending a few moments with the Lord every day, then she figured she had better get to it while the getting was good. This can’t last forever, she told herself, taking one last look at the babies as she climbed to her feet. Their smiles had wilted somewhat but immediately sprang back to life as she once again gave them her full attention.
“What?” she said as she walked away, continuing to look their way. “Momma needs some coffee, angels. You had your milk, now I’m going to have mine. Okay?”
They just giggled.
Barbara took her favorite tan mug from the counter and dropped two non-dairy creams and two sugars into it. She had bought the cup from church. It read: Kingsburg Community Church in bright red letters. She poured herself another cup, mixed the contents well with a spoon she had left in a spoon rest and turned off the coffee pot. She carried the coffee to her seat at the dining room table next to her Bible and sat down.
She turned to where she had left off the day before—Romans, chapter 8. Finding the place where she thought that she needed to resume her reading, she closed her eyes and offered up a prayer.
“Lord, I thank you for everything that you have provided to me and my family. You are so gracious; so kind. You bless me so much beyond what I deserve, since what I deserve is death.” Something stopped her there. What was it? As fast and as clearly as it had come it was gone again. Was it something that she had said? She couldn’t pinpoint what it might have been. There was some recollection there at the tip of her memory.
She continued. “Thank you for my children, Jerod, Robbie and Rebekah. Thank you for their health and well-being. Thank you for protecting us in all that we do, and wherever we go. Thank you for my husband, especially now, as he struggles under these present circumstances. Help him and Mark to be protected, while they work to keep this community safe. I pray that you will give them insight and wisdom to discover what it is that has been hidden from them. Help them to decipher clues and evidence. Reveal the evil that has begun to afflict this town to the authorities, to Michael and Mark. I know that Michael doesn’t even give a thought to being a hero to this town, but would rather see the criminal or criminals brought to justice. Praise you, Father, for being Lord over this town and this family, and for loving us the way you do, in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
Prayer closed, Barbara took a peek at the twins who she found continuing to stare her way. At least they’re not fussy, she thought, and set her mind to her study. She began by skimming over what she had read Wednesday morning. Silently, she read until she got to Romans 8: 31. It was yet another bit of scripture that she was well familiar with, but it stopped her just the same. It read: “What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who is against us?”
Barbara glanced away from the words on the page and found herself staring at a picture across from her on the mocha painted wall. It was a picture of the Plaza de Porlier, taken by Alan Blaustein that she had picked up one day, but couldn’t remember where just now. It was a large expanse of brickwork between buildings which had an arrangement of benches between some trees, back to back. The picture appeared to have had been taken in the early morning because there were no people about. Beautiful street lamps provided a warm glow to the scene, but she stared only at the nondescript tree at the center of the picture, its leaves long gone. She brought a solitary finger to her lips as if she was waiting for some thought to occur to her. God’s word continued to play somewhere between her ears. It made her feel empowered suddenly, protected. As if nothing could harm her or her babies, no matter how hard they tried to break down her door or climb through her window.
Climb through my window?
She heard a distant voice. It wasn’t coming from the street or from a neighbor, but from a recollection of something that had occurred very recently
It was a mean voice. Not loud or vulgar, but lacking of love or decency.
And it was addressing her.
“Madam,” he was saying to her playfully. “Your children seem to be crying!”
“Oh, my God!” Barbara panicked, as the memory came flooding back to her for the first time since the attack. Her hand fell onto the table with a thud, causing her coffee to rock within her mug like the ocean in rough seas, nearly spilling some.
The beast was coming through her babies’ nursery window once again as vividly now this morning as he had the night before when it had been real. She began to shake in her seat. He was speaking to her again, mocking her because they both knew that she was utterly powerless to prevent him from doing anything at all should he please to steal her babies, rape her or murder any one or all of them. She felt herself being thrown to the floor as if she were nothing of consequence, and now she felt the dull ache of the bruise on the back of her right leg and buttock. She wondered how Michael hadn’t noticed what must be terribly ugly today when he was making love to her.
The thought of their quick lovemaking didn’t stay in her head long as the voice was speaking again. “
Oh, but surely you don’t think me gluttonous. I will gladly share them with you.”
Share what? Barbara screamed in thought, her mouth tight, her heart racing, her hands clawing slowly at the ruby colored dining tablecloth. Share what? My babies? Share with whom? Who else has been in my house? Before the answer could find her, however, there was movement to her right, on the floor. Who’s there? She started to pull herself from the tree on the wall and the memory seemingly contained only there. Her babies came into view finally. Though she realized that it was important that she remember what had taken place the night before, after apparently suppressing nearly everything, the sight of her children shocked her free. And by the looks on their tiny faces that was currently more important than her memories.
The babies appeared as if they had seen not only her, but the horrific visions in her head as well, because they sat transfixed, as if frozen with fright.
“Oh, my babies!” she said, leaving the table and quickly going to them. “Did Mommy scare you?”
She went to her knees before Robbie and kissed him on the side of his little face, then hugged him. Reluctantly, she let him go, but she had two to think about. She repeated the gesture with her daughter. It seemed to do the trick for their expressions started to change back to nearly what they were prior to her beginning her Bible study. It occurred to her now, however, that there would be no going back today, nor did she want to. It wasn’t a protest to the Lord or any such thing. She wasn’t going back for coffee either. For whatever reason—and she knew it wasn’t some unknown, mysterious aligning of the planets, but God—she and her babies had been rescued, saved. With that in mind, she didn’t plan to do much of anything else this morning, and perhaps the entire day, but baby her babies.
There was one thing that she did not entirely let go of. And that was the question of who exactly had it been that had done the rescuing. Who had the Lord of heaven and earth used to do the work? The answer to this question was the one thing that had not come back to her. Who was it that the beast was speaking with when he wasn’t speaking to her? And why did she continue to characterize her attacker as a beast? Where had that come from?
As she wondered this, Rebekah turned her head. This was not the end, however. She then began to move about as if attempting to turn her entire little body as well. Barbara followed her progress. Both of the twins had begun to show much maturity of late, especially today, but this was new. At first, she shuffled only her little feet, kept warm by yellow socks not nearly as tiny as they had once been. Now hands had joined in providing balance. Barbara would have thought her incapable of getting very far with this endeavor, whatever it was, but now that her hands were in play, she seemed to be picking up steam. And not only her, but suddenly Robbie was doing his level best to turn himself around as well. Incredibly, both were turning the same direction. Rebekah must have finally found the place that she liked, seemingly facing the kitchen table, because she stopped and just sat there. Barbara might have wondered whether she was looking for something, or perhaps at something, had she had her wits about her, but she didn’t and she did not ask herself or them.
Behind the table in the background, Barbara could also see the front door from her vantage point. As if on some cue, there came a knock upon it.
Barbara only glanced at the door and did nothing. She felt frozen.
Another knock. It sounded like Vanessa Jackson’s friendly knock. Barbara should know it, considering her best friend visited a couple of times a week between substitute teaching in town. As if in a fog, Barbara stood and slowly walked over to the door.
“Good morning, my dear,” Vanessa announced cheerfully, immediately stepping over the threshold and giving her girlfriend a quick hug. “How are you? Wow, you look terrible! Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
She walked into the dining room and set down her purse upon the table. Smiling, she stepped out into the open area between the dining room and the kitchen upon spotting the twins on the floor of the living room and waved at them dramatically with both hands; her short straight black hair did not move, but her long gold hoop earrings did.
“Well, I don’t know exactly what I’ve just seen, to tell you the truth,” Barbara said after a momentary pause.
Vanessa turned back to her friend and looked her over. “You look beautiful, as always.” Barbara was dressed in a Liz Claiborne v-necked tan blouse with a bit of lacing around the “v” and brown capri pants. Her feet were bare. The outfit was nothing at all to write home about. It was comfortable and nice enough to simply throw on some sandals and go to town should the need arise. “You just look troubled.”
Immediately, Barbara had two sets of “troubling” things, to borrow Vanessa’s word, that she could have mentioned. It’s not every day that one finds oneself attacked and lives to tell about it. The policeman’s wife inside her knew that it did, in fact, happen all the time, at every hour and minute of the day somewhere in the world; however, it didn’t happen to her, and that was the key. Not as exciting, but certainly as intriguing was the notion of her babies suddenly becoming psychic or paranormal or whatever they were now, other than just a few days older than the last time Vanessa had seen them. They could have sat down and discussed both topics at great length. Barbara could have put on another pot of coffee and used her friend’s surprise arrival as the excuse necessary to get more coffee into her. However, in the end, she blinked instead.
“No, everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” Vanessa asked, giving her a chance to reconsider.
“Yep.”
“Good.” Vanessa flashed a wry smile. “Now step aside. I didn’t come to see you! I just came from the doctor. I need all of the positive reinforcement I can get.”
She quickly moved away from her best friend and plopped herself onto the floor with the babies, leaving Barbara to close the door behind her, a sad expression crawling onto her face as she began to understand her meaning. The twins grinned wide with the attention and showed no sign of any unpleasantness that they may have previously concerned themselves with.
Barbara sat herself down beside her dear friend, throwing her right arm around Vanessa Jackson and giving her a squeeze.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
The woman closed her eyes briefly and quickly shook her head before devoting herself to the babies before her.
11:30 a.m.
The detectives stood outside the Recovery Ward of Selma District Hospital like two impatient expectant fathers from the 1950’s waiting outside the Maternity Ward. They had arrived at the hospital twenty minutes prior. Before that, they had spent a couple of hours at the Lancaster residence, yet they still did not even know what John Lancaster looked like. He had gone through a successful surgery and was now into his recovery. His doctor had explained to them that his patient would be coming out of the anesthesia soon. He was unsure, however, as to what kind of condition he might be in when he did or whether he could field any questions at all.
The doctor had just gone in to see the patient again at their urging. A few moments later, he reemerged.
“Can we speak to him, Doc?” Jackson jumped from the chair and asked the man in the white coat.
“Detectives,” he began. “I understand your position, so I'm going to let you in. However, don't stay long. Please don't force him to talk if he isn't coherent or finds it difficult to remain conscious. He’s a strong man, but he’s got a lot of healing to do, and he’s just now coming out of the anesthesia.”
Inside the private room, behind light green curtains, Big John Lancaster lay silently. Only the sound of his even breathing could be heard within the room as his tightly bandaged chest rose and fell. His eyes blinked as he stared at the ceiling above him, as if his thoughts were lost in the recollection of the attack which had put him there. When the detectives came into the room and approached the bed, he closed his eyes and swallowed.
<
br /> “How are you feeling, Mr. Lancaster?” Michael asked him with a smile. He was surprised that the man had survived, considering the condition the medics said they found him in when the ambulance finally got to his home.
“Ca' me, Bi' John.” The man turned the few inches he could without hurting himself and whispered. “E’ry'body does.”
“Okay, Big John, this is Detective Jackson. I'm Lopez.”
Big John blinked. It was the only way he had of acknowledging them.
“And are we glad to meet you, Big John!” Jackson smiled. “This case has been a regular S.O.B.! Frankly, we wondered whether we'd ever get a break in it!”
“'ell.” He turned his head back to the ceiling and closed his eyes to focus his spinning thoughts. “'irst thing's 'irst. W'at the papers say is 'ot 'ullshit! 'ee's a 'ampire...” Big John coughed. He took a second and cleared his dry, hoarse throat.
The detectives looked at each other, not certain that they were following the victim well. Big John wasn't speaking very clearly, and although there wasn't much he could do about that, he knew he had to try harder.
“He is a vampire!”
“What do you mean?” Michael glanced first to his partner. Jackson furrowed his brow in surprise. “You mean he wears a cloak and turns into a bat or something?”
Big John opened his eyes wide and shot an angry look toward Michael. “You 'ink I did 'is to m'self?”
“I'm sorry.” Michael held out his hands, signifying that he had meant no offence.
The man closed his eyes again, swallowing some pain swells and, it seemed, an urge to sleep. “'ees six 'eet tall wit’ long da’k ‘air. Rea’ long.” He coughed again. When he was ready to continue, he glanced back to the detectives. “'ees stronger 'an a' two a' you!”
“PCP?” Jackson said, looking at his partner. He was referring to the drug commonly called “acid” on the street. It was known to give some extraordinary strength under some circumstances such as extreme duress or during moments of adrenaline.
Big John laughed. It made him cough and wince. He shook his head as he cleared it, holding his eyes closed, concentrating on speaking. “No, man. The guy 'ain't no dope 'iend. ‘ ee 'ain't no psycho! ee's real!”
“C'mon, John!” Michael said. “What are we supposed to do with...?”
“Look, man!” Big John interrupted him the best that he could. He gingerly opened his eyes and gave him another look, but yet another cough rose up to prevent him from saying anything further.
“Look, John.” Michael leaned over him to get his attention through the coughing fit. “That's more than enough. We'll get the doc!”
Big John nodded. He knew that however important it was to tell his story to the detectives, all of the activity was making things worse. He was becoming weaker by the moment. He closed his eyes and turned his head in the other direction to try and get some much needed rest. In doing so, he clearly displayed the deep marks on his throat.
Jackson turned and silently stared at his partner, but he could see that he, too, saw the same distinct lacerations.
As the detectives turned to leave the man to start what looked like a long recuperating process, Big John cautiously turned his head back toward them and seemed to nod for him to return to his side. Michael saw it and stopped his partner.
“Yeah, Big John?” he said, reaching his bedside and leaning out over his face.
“'ee said 'is 'ame was Na'aniel.”
“What?” Michael stepped back from the man with a start as if he had just been told that the killer was his own brother. “He told you his name?”
Big John closed his eyes and nodded once, then turned away.
Michael turned around as well. He joined his partner at the door and said, incredulously, “The bastard's name is Nathaniel! Sound familiar?”
As he grabbed the door handle on his way out of the room, Michael stopped and turned around. “As our only witness, John, we'll be putting an officer at your door for twenty-four hour protection.”
Big John didn't bother turning around this time. He didn't have the strength. Instead, with the fingers of his wounded right arm, he waved the police detectives off. Michael studied the man for a few moments and finally understood why.
It was as if he were saying, “U’less you ‘an have him sit on my win’ow-ledge, don't ‘aste your time. Find the ‘astard's coffin!”
12:23 p.m.
“I’m sorry, ’Nessa,” Mark Jackson said into his personal cell phone as he heard nothing but silence on the other end of the line.
“It’s not your fault,” came an eventual reply from his wife.
“Well, actually it kind of is, isn’t it?” he sighed, running the fingers of his left hand over his beard that was beginning to feel in need of a trim once again. He stared out the window absently as the conversation continued to erode negatively. It had never been a very uplifting discussion in the first place. Vanessa had just called because she was feeling blue with the latest setback in their attempt to become pregnant.
“We don’t know that. Don’t blame yourself,” his wife told him, but her voice was cracking and he could tell that she would not be able to talk for much longer without tears. “Listen, we’ll just keep trying. Okay?”
Mark nodded silently.
“I need to go, baby,” she said.
“You gonna’ be alright?” Mark asked.
“Yeah. You be careful out there.”
“I will,” he said, sitting up, preparing to end the conversation.
“Bye.”
“You know, Jacks, sometimes I feel like a complete ass!”
“Why?” Mark put his phone inside his slacks pocket and turned to his partner.
“I sit beside you and tell you about my kids, sometimes proud as hell, and other times taking them for granted. Here you two are, trying to have one, just one, and not yet able to. I’m just sorry.”
“It’s fine, Mikey,” Jackson told him, slapping his right leg. “I love your family. You know that. Hearing about them just makes me want one of my own more and more. In fact, since we’re apologizing...”
“Yeah?”
“That bit about me upholding the community trust this morning...”
“Yes?”
A pause.
“Yes?” Michael was beginning to grow a little exasperated by the delay.
“I think I had the same breakfast you had!”
“No!” Michael threw up his hands dramatically, feigning disgust. “After the hard time you gave me!”
Jackson smiled, not at his partner but in the reliving of the experience. “Sorry.”
They saw the familiar Ford Taurus making its way toward them. It made a left turn and drove down the lane of the Selma District Hospital, eventually snaking its way back around and joining them there beside them. Bold white letters read: CHIEF OF POLICE, contrasted against the black paint of the car. Michael watched as he approached, measuring his words, wondering whether what he had to tell the man would sound any more tangible aloud than it did swimming around inside his head. He was sure Jacks did the same, and that he also didn’t think very highly of his chances.
“Alright, boys,” the chief said through the open driver’s side door as he parked beside them. “You got me out here. What’s so damned important?” His eyes immediately found Jackson’s beard that Department Regulations dictated he was not supposed to be wearing. The chief had been reminding him of this fact since it had first appeared after Thanksgiving, to no avail. He blinked and looked off of it.
Michael sighed, still not yet fully prepared to speak.
“We spoke to John Lancaster,” Jackson began. “It took a while. We had to wait for him to get out of surgery. He’s got broken ribs. He’s going to be here a while.”
“Was he able to give a description of his assailant?”
“Yes, he was.”
“Well?”
“You’re not going to
like it,” Jackson added. He and Michael exchanged glances.
“Chief,” Michael was speaking now. “When I spoke to the coroner he told me that the bodies had no blood in them; with the damage done to Mancuso, that wasn’t difficult to believe. However, Browning, who had very little damage done to him, appeared to the coroner like he had been siphoned.”
The chief just stared at him.
“He found bite marks.”
“The man back there in room 31 told us that he was attacked by a man, claiming to be after his blood,” Jackson said, leaving one piece of the story behind. “He claims he saw the teeth and they are real.”
The chief sat there motionless for a moment, visibly contemplating the implication of the facts. His face twisted in a grimace. “Let me guess. We’ve got a freak in town who thinks he’s a vampire, right?”
The chief looked away from his detectives and shook his head in disgust or exhaustion or perhaps a combination of both. “A serial vampire killer in Kingsburg!” he said softly to no one at all. “We’re in over our damn heads!”
3:18 p.m.
“Hi, baby,” Barbara said with a wide smile as she got down on her hands and knees and crawled up to her son's little face. He grinned back at her as they touched noses, and then he reached out and tried to grab her cheeks. “Boy! You and your sister have been quiet today, huh? Yes, you have,” she said softly, smiling. “How come, sweetie?”
Then she moved to the left and kissed her daughter's cheek. She was lying quietly on her back on the same blanket with her brother. At the sight of her mother, though, she began to smile and speak her baby-talk, mildly kicking her arms and legs about her. “What's my name?” she smiled down at her and then kissed both of her cheeks again and again. “Say, 'Mommy!'” Then she sat back against the couch to watch them. Robbie and Rebekah are usually pretty good together, she thought. But not like this.
Barbara let her mind trail off as she looked over her children. Today they seemed so...content. They hadn't cried when it was time for them to be fed, but had simply waited patiently like a good boy and girl until Mommy came to feed them. When it had been time for another diaper change, once again they hadn't made a fuss. All day neither baby had cried once. They were the babies that every expectant parent hoped for but never got. Barbara shook her head at the difference in her children, pleasantly thankful. She glanced heavenward in thanks, enjoying it while it lasted, fully expecting that normalcy would return soon.
“Hi, Mom!” Jerod said as he quickly opened and then closed the front door behind him, turned and ran for the bathroom. He dropped his books outside the door in the hallway just seconds before the dam broke.
“Some things never change!” she giggled. “Huh, babies?”
5:19 p.m.
“Sleep as long as you want, Mom,” Jerod had smiled when she asked him if she could go take a nap. “The twins are fun today.”
“Thank you, honey,” she had told him. “Watch what you want on TV, but please keep it low, okay, and make sure you keep an eye on your brother and sister.”
“No problem, Mom.”
That was nineteen minutes ago. Now she was completely asleep. Lying on top of her bed underneath a light blanket, Barbara turned quietly and readjusted her position. The movement didn't wake her. Inside her head, she did not dream of the previous night’s events, but of something new. She was sitting at the dining room table, just as she did every morning; a mug of coffee placed on her right. However, today there were no children present, nor was there a Bible on the table before her. She sat with her hands clasped together, back straight, head held at attention.
Beside her there was a man. Though he was as close to her as any man had ever been, excluding Michael, who had been the only man to have gotten any closer, she could not really decipher his facial features. His hair was dark brown, she thought, and a bit long, curling around the edges. He seemed a strong presence though not necessarily muscular, and nothing in these first moments gave the impression of him being possibly threatening. He was speaking to her with the slightest smile. His words were like light music. He was speaking scripture, and later would come to realize that it was from the Book of Romans. The same book that she was currently studying, although ahead of her, not something that she had yet read.
“It is not as though the word of God has failed. For they are not all Israel who are descended from Israel.” He wasn’t reading the scripture to her, but rather teaching her the scripture, relating it to her so that she might better understand it. She understood this implicitly, though she still could not recognize her teacher. All that she knew was that it was right and good that he was there in her home.
“Neither are they all children because they are all Abraham’s descendants. It says, ‘Through Isaac your descendants will be named’. It is not the children of the flesh who are children of God, but the children of the promise. Shall we say,” he said with a warm grin, “there is injustice with God?” Barbara waited. He pointed at her in the direction of her heart. “May it never be! He told Moses that He would have mercy on whom He would have mercy. Is this right? And compassion on whom He would have compassion. So then it does not depend on the man who wills or the man who runs, does it? But on the God who has mercy.”
“But what of those who have terrible things happen to them?” she found herself asking suddenly, surprising herself.
The teacher sat back in his chair with this, ever smiling. “The scripture said to Pharaoh, ‘For this very purpose I raised you up, to demonstrate my power in you, and that my name might be proclaimed before the whole earth’. So He has mercy on who He desires, and He hardens who He desires.”
At this point Barbara had no more questions. At least none that she felt brave enough to ask.
Perhaps sensing this very fact, the teacher continued: “You will ask now, ‘why does he still find fault? For who can resist His will? But on the contrary, who are you who answers back to God? The thing molded will not say to the molder, ‘Why did you make me like this,’ will it? Doesn’t the potter have a right over the clay, to make from the same lump one vessel for honorable use, and another for common use?” He addressed her now. “Barbara, what if God, although willing to demonstrate His wrath and to make His power known, endured with much patience vessels of wrath prepared for destruction? And He did so in order that He might make known the riches of His glory upon vessels of mercy, which He prepared beforehand for glory.”
The teacher leaned forward, taking her hands in his own. His smile never seemed to fade. She leaned forward some, too. There was no threat, no impropriety here. This was just fellowship and God’s Word. This was unfolding the Lord Jesus Christ out on the table to reveal his heart and his life for us to follow after. There was only peace to be found here.
“Barbara,” the faceless man before her said. “What do you think of my Nathaniel now?”
“Who?” she asked, and the sound of her own voice startled her.
She flung open her eyes. She was no longer in the dining room, but alone, in her bedroom. How long had she slept? She turned toward the clock on the nightstand. The numbers didn’t register for a moment. She did the quick math. The nap had not lasted long at all by the look of it. Why had she awakened? Had something disturbed her? Typically, Barbara had never been one to take much stock in her dreams. But this time she remembered all of it and the first one as well; the one where she had been standing in a sea of flowers.
She sat up on her bed, throwing her feet over the side. She slid down until her bare feet touched the carpet and then sat there a moment, reliving all that she had seen and heard in the dream. It was impossible to picture the teacher that had sat at her table, but she could still hear his words like music. As she clasped her hands together again, this time in her warm lap, she could almost still feel the teacher’s hand there atop her own.
<
br /> 5:20 p.m.
Poienari Fortress
February 12th, 1747
There was a knock on the large metal door. It was not closed. That was not allowed.
“Good day, Nathaniel,” the vampire announced, stepping from the shadows of the dark corridor and into the torch-lit room. There had once been a time when Nathaniel was forced to make his home in a tiny pitch-black stone room with a pauper’s bed. Now he had a large suite with a torch for light, rugs on the floors, and a real bed. Warm blankets were stacked in an ante chamber, along with an abundance of fine clothes.
Reluctantly, Nathaniel turned around. “Hello,” he said rather coldly, and only glancing up at his host.
Vincent sighed. “What is it now?”
“What?” Nathaniel asked, oblivious to the question.
“Your lack of warmth,” the vampire said. He stepped closer and folded his arms. “I could understand it coming from me,” he said in a hush, as if trying to control his vicious temper. “My blood not being nearly as exquisite as yours, though I do not let that stop me. But you...? Are you not glad to see me?”
Nathaniel did not answer.
“Hello?” Vincent smiled sarcastically, and then quickly straightened up. He gritted his teeth together, clearly attempting to swallow the rising anger. It was one of the few, if not the only, battles that he ever lost.
“You already said that,” Nathaniel said, disinterested.
Suddenly the vampire grabbed Nathaniel and easily lifted him off of his feet. Had he blinked, he would have missed the action completely.
“What?” Nathaniel yelped like a dog, suddenly yanked by his choke chain, his feet dangling around the vampire's knees.
“Be short with me once again, my son, and...!”
“I'm not your son!” Nathaniel screamed defiantly into the vampire’s face, spittle misting its eyes and cheeks. It was that utter defiance which had pushed Vincent's anger and frustration over the edge, sealing his fate.
The vampire acted instantly. He did not wait to think. He growled loudly and then tossed the young man across the room as if he were still the boy that he had kidnapped a decade before. Nathaniel's arms waived spastically as the hewn stone wall and floor came rushing up to greet him. Upon impact, his body went limp and his defiance went silent; his long hair scattered about him, hiding him from view. Still blind with fury, the vampire followed and was quickly on him again. He reached through the mane of hair and grabbed him by the ruffled collar, shaking him.
“Where is that sharp tongue now, Nathaniel? Hmm? Where?” He did not stop shaking him until his eyelids had begun to flutter open. “It is due time you awoke, Nathaniel,” he shrieked. Spittle broke free of his vile lips and splattered Nathaniel's face this time. “Since you detest the reference so badly, I've come to the decision that it’s high time I gave you a real reason to hate being called my son!”
Nathaniel's eyes bounded open. He was not yet fully conscious; however, the beast’s words struck a chord of fear within him so deeply, like a prophecy long foretold, finally coming true. His reaction was pure instinct. This was not simply more of the vampire's goading. This was different. There was some secret meaning here. Ever since his first day held captive, Nathaniel had wondered what fate could be worse than watching his parents being butchered before him, and then being taken as a prisoner, learning to hate each and every horrible second of your life. Now much older than that boy, he had decided that there could be nothing worse. Death certainly wasn't to be feared after so dreary a life; it was to be tearfully longed for, prayed for. Therefore, as the vampire lunged for him, he almost smiled.
Death, finally!
But then he knew.
Vincent wasn't into mercy, was he?
The realization struck him in that last second and his eyes widened in complete and utter horror.
“No!” he screamed.
The vampire's fangs pierced his throat.
Nathaniel tried to muster the strength to scream again but could not, and there was no one to hear him anyway. Not high above the Arges River in this terrible place that had heard so much death and torture. A great many nobles from Targoviste had been impaled by Vlad on account of its lime mortar, brick and stone.
Horrible teeth bit deep into young jugular.
Nathaniel tried to work his way free but was suddenly so weak.
Vincent did not draw blood slowly. It wasn't his style. Like a young virgin, unpracticed, he took it as fast as it would come.
And it came.
It gushed from the wound at an excited pace almost too quickly for even he to swallow.
What followed was the worst of all as Nathaniel suddenly found himself drinking something that was being offered directly to his lips. It was thick and wet and salty, and he found himself thirsty for it. In fact he was insatiable. Vincent’s arm had been cut, but by whom he did not know. All that he knew was it was being applied to his lips and his tongue swept the small but gaping wound for everything that it could give him.