Ray spills his grief quickly. We are back in the car and headed for home as the eastern sky begins to lighten. My lover sits silently beside me, staring at nothing, and my own dark thoughts keep my lips closed. My energy is at a low, but I know I mustn’t rest, not until I have formulated a plan to stop the black plague spreading six hundred miles south of us. He of the wicked eyes will make more vampires the next night, I know. Replacements for the ones I destroyed. And they in turn will make their own. Each day, each hour, is crucial. The human race is in danger. Krishna, I pray, give me the strength to destroy this enemy. Give me the strength not to destroy myself.
As Ray lies down to rest, I let him drink from my veins, a little, enough to get him through the day. Even that mouthful drains me more. Yet I do not lie down beside him as he closes his eyes to sleep. Let him dream of his father, I think. I will tell him of Los Angeles later.
I visit my friend Seymour Dorsten. Twice I have seen him since I destroyed the AIDS virus in his blood with a few drops of mine. His health is greatly improved. He has a girlfriend now and I tell him I am jealous, but he doesn’t believe me. I climb in his window and wake him by shoving him off his bed and onto the floor. He grins as his head contacts the hard wood with a loud thud. Only my Seymour would welcome such treatment.
“I was dreaming about you,” he says, his blankets half covering his face.
“Did I have my clothes on?” I ask.
“Of course not.” He sits up and rubs the back of his head. “What the eyes have seen, the mind cannot forget.”
“When did you ever see me naked?” I ask, although I know the answer.
He chuckles in response. I do not fool him, Seymour the Great, my personal biographer. Knowing our psychic bond, I wonder if he has spent the night writing about my trials, but he shakes his head when I ask. He watched a video with his new girl and went to bed early.
I tell him about Los Angeles, why I am bloody.
“Wow,” he says when I am done.
I lean back on his bed, resting my back against the wall. He continues to sit on the floor. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” I say.
He nods. “You want me to help you figure out where they’re coming from.”
“They’re coming from that monster. I have no doubt about that. I want to know where he came from.” I shake my head. “I thought about it all the way here, and I have no explanation.”
“There is always an explanation. Do you remember the famous Sherlock Holmes quote? ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’” Seymour thinks, his palms pressed together. “A vampire that strong could only have been created by Yaksha.”
“Yaksha is dead. Also, Yaksha would not have created a vampire. He was bound by the vow he made to Krishna. He spent the last five thousand years destroying them.”
“How do you know Yaksha is dead? Maybe he survived the blast.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“But not impossible. That’s my point. Yaksha was the only one besides you who could make another vampire. Unless you want to bring in the possibility that another yakshini has been accidentally invoked into the corpse of a pregnant woman.”
“Don’t remind me of that night,” I growl.
“You’re in a bad mood. But I suppose being stabbed twice in the same night, with your own knife, would do that to anybody.”
I smile thinly. “Are you making fun of me? You know, I’m thirsty. I could open your veins right now and drink my fill and there would be nothing you could do about it.”
Seymour is interested. “Sounds kinky. Should I take off my clothes?”
I throw a pillow at him, hard. It almost takes off his head. “Haven’t you been able to get that girl of yours into bed? What’s wrong with you? With my blood in your veins, you should be able to have who you want when you want.”
He rubs his head again, probably thinking it is going to be sore for the rest of the day. “How do you know I haven’t slept with her yet?”
“I can spot a male virgin a mile away. They walk like they’ve been riding a horse too long. Let’s return to our problem. Yaksha would not have made this guy. It’s out of the question. Yet you are right—Yaksha is the only one who could have made him. A paradox. How do I solve it? And how do I destroy this creature that clearly has at least twice my strength and speed? Tell me, young author, and I might let you live long enough to enjoy carnal pleasure with this silly girl you have foolishly chosen over me.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t answer your questions. But I can tell you where you must look to find the answers.”
“Where?”
“Where you left the trail last. Where you last saw Yaksha. He went up in the blast you set at your house, but even dynamite leaves remains. Find out what became of those remains, and you might find out how your new enemy came to be.”
I nod. His reasoning is sound, as always. “But even if I learn how he came to be, I still have to learn how to destroy him.”
“You will. Yaksha was a more difficult foe. He knew at least as much as you about what a vampire could or could not do. The way this guy is carrying on, he must be newborn. He is still learning what he is. He doesn’t know where he is weak. Find him, strike at that weak point, and he will fall.”
I slip down onto the floor and kneel to kiss Seymour on the lips. Gently I toss up his hair. “You are so confident in me,” I say. “Why is that?”
He starts to say something funny, but his expression falters. He trembles slightly beneath my touch. “Is he really that bad?” he asks softly.
“Yes. You are wrong when you say Yaksha was a more difficult foe. In his own way, Yaksha was a protector of mankind. This guy is a psychopath. He is bent on destroying all humanity. And he could succeed. If I don’t stop him soon, nothing will.”
“But you saw him only briefly.”
“I looked deep into his eyes. I saw enough. Believe what I tell you.”
Seymour touches my face, admiration, and love, in his eyes. “I have confidence in you because when you met me I was as good as dead and you saved me. You’re the hero in my story. Find him, Sita, corner him. Then kick his ass. It will make for a great sequel.” He adds seriously, “God will help you.”
I squeeze his hand carefully, feeling once more my weakness, my pain. It will not leave me, I am certain, until I leave this world. The temptation is there before me for the first time. To just run and hide in oblivion. Yet I know I must not, I cannot. Like Yaksha, I have one last duty to perform before I die and return to the starry heaven of my dream.
Or to a cold hell. But I do not like the cold.
No vampire does. Like snakes, it slows us down.
“I fear the devil will help him,” I say. “And I’m not sure who’s stronger.”
THREE
The sun is firmly in the sky as I sit in my office to sort out what to do next. Three types of professionals arrived after my house blew up six weeks earlier: firefighters, police officers, and paramedics. Ray told me this. They didn’t talk to Ray, who had dragged me out of sight into the woods, but I contacted them later once I had regained consciousness. I pleaded innocent to any knowledge of the explosion: its cause or the reason it was rigged. At that time they didn’t tell me of any human remains found in the vicinity. That, of course, doesn’t mean a body wasn’t found. The police could have withheld that information from me. For all I know I am still under investigation for the explosion and whatever was discovered in the area.
I need a contact with the local police and I need it immediately. The paramedics and the hospital would have the remains of Yaksha, but if I do not go through the proper channels and authorities, they will show me nothing. With my extensive contacts and wealth, I can develop a contact, but it will take time. As I sit at my desk, thinking, a light on my phone begins to blink. It is an out-of-state call. I pick it up.
“Yes?” I say.
“Alisa?”
?
??Yes. Agent Joel Drake—how nice of you to call.” I make a decision immediately, figuring it is a sign from Krishna that the FBI man has phoned at this precise instant. Of course, I do not believe in signs, I am just desperate. I add, “I’ve been meaning to call you. There are some things we should discuss that I failed to bring up last night.”
He is interested. “Such as?”
“I have a lead on who is behind the murders.”
He takes a moment. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I have a very good lead.”
“What is it?”
“I will only tell you in person. Fly into Portland this afternoon and I’ll pick you up at the airport. I guarantee you’ll be glad you came.”
“I thought you said you wouldn’t be leaving town for a few days?”
“I lied. Call the airlines. Book your flight.”
He chuckles. “Hold on a second. I can’t fly up to Oregon in the middle of an investigation. Tell me what you know and then we can talk.”
“No,” I say firmly. “You must come here.”
“Why?”
“The murderer is from here.”
“How do you know that?”
I pitch my voice in my most beguiling manner. “I know many things, Agent Drake. That one of the guys you found in the Coliseum had a javelin through his chest, the other had his skull stabbed open, and every bone in the neck of the third was shattered. Don’t ask me how I know these things and don’t tell your FBI pals about me. Not if you want to solve this case and get all the credit. Think about it, Joel, you can be the big hero.”
My knowledge stuns him. He considers. “You misunderstand me, Alisa. I don’t need to be a hero. I just want to stop the killing.”
He is being sincere. I like that.
“It will stop if you come here,” I say softly.
He closes his eyes; I hear them close. My voice will not leave his mind. He wonders if I am some kind of witch. “Who are you?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter. I will hold while you book your flight. Take the earliest one.”
“I will have to tell my partners where I’m going.”
“No. Just the two of us are going to work on this. That’s my condition.”
He chuckles again, this time without mirth. “You’re pretty gutsy for a young woman.”
I think of the knife that stabbed me in the belly less than twelve hours ago. “I have strong guts,” I agree.
Joel puts me on hold. A few minutes later he returns. His plane will land in three hours. I agree to meet him at the gate. After setting down the phone, I leave my office and crawl into bed beside Ray. He stirs and turns his back to me but doesn’t wake. Portland is an hour and a half away. I have only ninety minutes to rest before I must take on the enemy.
Joel looks tired when I pick him up at the airport. I don’t imagine he got much sleep the previous night. He immediately starts with his questions, but I ask him to wait until we are in my car. Once inside I put on music, a tape of my playing the piano. We drive toward Mayfair. I am still thinking how I should approach this matter. Since we are dealing with evidence that points toward a mysterious agency, I am not worried about staying conservative.
“Who is the pianist?” he asks finally.
“Do you like it?”
“The music is haunting, and the pianist is wonderful.”
An appropriate choice of words. “It’s me.”
“Are you serious?”
“You have asked me that twice today. I am always serious, Agent Drake.”
“Joel, please. Is Alisa your real name?”
“Why? Have you been researching me?”
“A bit. I haven’t turned up much.”
“You mean, you haven’t turned up an Alisa Perne in your computers?”
“That’s correct. What’s your real name and who taught you to play such exquisite piano?”
“I am self-taught. And I like to be called Alisa.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I answered one of them.”
He stares at me. For a few sentences I forgot to be careful how I pitched my voice, and the echo of my age creeps into it. My words and voice, I know, can throb like living ghosts. My music is not the only thing that is haunting.
“How old did you say you were?” he asks.
“Older than I look. You want to know how I know about the murders.”
“Among other things. You lied to me last night when you said you had not been in the Coliseum.”
“That is correct. I was there. I saw the three young men in the field killed.”
“Did you get a good look at the killer?”
“Good enough.”
He pauses. “Do you know him?”
“No. But he is associated with a man I once knew. That man died in an explosion at my house six weeks ago. The reason I have brought you here is to help me trace the remains of that man. We are driving to the Mayfair Police Station now. I want you to ask them to open their files to you.”
He shakes his head. “No way. You’re going to answer my questions before I do anything to help you.”
“Or you will arrest me?”
“Yes.”
I smile thinly. “That will not happen. And I am not going to answer all your questions, just the ones I choose to answer. You have no choice but to cooperate with me. Like you said last night—you have no leads. And you are more in the dark than you admit. You have several people who seem to have been killed by a person of extraordinary strength. A person so strong, in fact, that he seems superhuman.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
I snort softly. “It takes a great deal of strength to snap every cervical in a man’s neck. Isn’t that what the autopsy showed?”
Joel shifts uneasily, but I have his full attention. “The autopsy isn’t complete on any of the victims.”
“But the LAPD medical examiner has told you about the guy’s neck. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
He speaks carefully. “Yes. It makes me wonder how you know these things.”
I reach over and touch his leg. I have a very sensual touch, when I wish to flaunt it, and I must admit I find myself attracted to Joel. Not that I love him as I do Ray, but I wouldn’t mind seducing him, as long as Ray wouldn’t know. Having had ten thousand lovers, I don’t share most mortals’ illusions of the sacredness of fidelity. Yet I will not risk hurting Ray for sex, and I will not lie to him anymore. Joel feels the electricity of my fingers and shifts all the more. I like my boys fidgety.
“You want to say something?” I ask, my hand still on his thigh.
He clears his throat, “You are very alluring, Alisa. Particularly when you are being vague, or trying to be persuasive.” He stares down at my hand as if trying to decide whether it is a priceless jewel or a spider that has crawled into his lap. “But I am beginning to see through your facade.”
I remove my hand, not insulted. “Is that all it is? A facade?”
He shakes his head. “Where did you grow up?”
I burst out laughing. “In the jungle! A place not unlike where these murders are happening. I watched as that young man’s neck was snapped. A normal person couldn’t do that. The person you are looking for is not normal. Nor was my friend who died when my house blew up. If we can find what became of him, his remains, then we can find your murderer—I hope. But don’t ask me how these people are not normal, how they have such strength, or even why my house was blown up. I won’t tell you.”
He keeps looking at me. “Are you normal, Alisa?” he asks.
“What do you think?”
“No.”
I pat his leg. “It’s all right. You go on thinking that way.”
Yet, I think, he knows too much about me already.
When all this is over, I am going to have to kill Joel Drake.
FOUR
On the drive to Mayfair Joel tells me about his life. Maybe I pry the information out of him a bit. Maybe he
has nothing to hide. I listen attentively and grow to like him more with each passing mile, much to my disquiet. Maybe that’s his intention—to be open with me. Already, I think, he knows I am more dangerous than I appear.
“I grew up on a farm in Kansas. I wanted to be an FBI agent from the first time I saw that old series, The F.B.I., that starred Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. Do you remember that show? It was great. I suppose I did have dreams of being a hero: catching bank robbers, finding kidnapped kids, stopping serial murderers. But when I graduated from the academy in Quantico, Virginia, I was assigned to white-collar crime in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. I spent twelve months chasing accountants. Then I got a big break. My landlady was murdered. Stabbed with a knife and buried in a cornfield. That was at the end of summer. The local police were called in, and they found the body pretty quick. They were sure her boyfriend did it. They even had the guy arrested and ready to stand trial. But I kept telling them he loved his woman and wouldn’t have hurt her for the world. They wouldn’t listen to me. There is an old rivalry between the FBI and police. Even in Los Angeles, working on this case, the LAPD constantly withholds information from me.
“Anyway, privately, I went after another suspect—the woman’s sixteen-year-old son. I know, he sounds like an unlikely candidate—the woman’s only child. But I knew her son as well as the boyfriend, and the kid was bad news. An addict ready to steal the change from a homeless person. I was their tenant and I caught him breaking into my car once to steal my radio. He was into speed. When he was high, he was manic—either the nicest guy in the world or ready to poke your eyes out. He had lost all sense of reality. At his mother’s funeral he began to sing “Whole Lot of Love.” Yet, at the same time, he was cunning. His bizarre behavior hid his guilt. But I knew he’d done it, and, as you’re fond of saying, don’t ask me why. There was something in his eyes when I talked to him about his mother—like he was thinking about how nice it was finally to have the house all to himself.