Chapter Three
This time when Joann came around her body was curled tightly into the fetal position. Her cheek, pressed against the knobby, leather seat cushion, was wet from lying in a puddle of drool. Situational awareness, however, came slower than her physical condition. But as it did, she realized a couple of things. The car was back in motion, and the rope around her wrists wasn’t as tight as before.
The maniac, who’d said his name was Vincent Sabriento, had bitten her. The memory of sharp fangs invading the delicate flesh of her neck reset every one of her nerve-endings to a razor-thin edge. She must have passed out, but couldn’t remember if she’d fainted from blood loss or the horror of her situation.
She struggled to sit up, and then fell forward into the back of Vincent’s seat. He used the car’s mirror to look behind him. “You awake?”
“What do you think?” Feeling achy and cross, Joann snapped.
“Bitchy much? You must be hungry.” He chuckled. “Next gas station, I guess I’ll feed you.”
“Why bother?”
“Got to keep up your red blood cell production because anemic blood isn’t tasty.”
“Gross,” she muttered.
He laughed and flashed his fangs at her. “Hell, I just took a little taste out of you. Want to know what I did to Cailey Kantor?”
“No.” Joann was in no mood to pander to his ranting. She recognized the name and easily pictured the cute redhead. Both she and Cailey had worked the night shift. Cailey as a phlebotomist in the Turner Stoke clinic’s public laboratory upstairs, while Joann worked in Dr. Blautsauger’s basement department. Occasionally they’d seen each other at the time clock or in the break room.
“Well, I’m bored.” He pouted and patted the steering wheel. “This baby is meant for speed, and I hate going so slow, but I don’t want any cops on my tail.”
So Joann assumed it was simply to amuse himself that Vincent started a grisly recounting of how he’d found a drunk Cailey one Christmas Eve. He explained how he’d been looking for a victim and came across her standing on a footbridge spanning a tributary to the Amber River.
Joann listened in growing horror as he told her all about his attempt to stunt Cailey. Stunting, he laughingly described, was the cruel method of giving a human a small amount of vampire blood. The bare amount necessary to start changing into a vampire, but not enough to finish the turning.
“She should be dead”—Vincent informed Joann without a shred of remorse—“I wish she was dead, but that bastard, Gabe Blautsauger got to her first and finished her transformation.”
“Too sad for you,” Joann mumbled.
“If it weren’t for her”—his eyes glinted with malice—“you wouldn’t be here right now. You’d be safe and sound at home. Think about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“If she were dead, she wouldn’t have been able to tell my boss I was double-dealing.” Somehow, he managed to look offended. “Which I ain’t, but Osvaldo took her word over mine.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“That’s why I have to prove my loyalty to the Toltecs. Why I wanted to hand over the Blautsauger bitch to them. Not only is she the daughter of Osvaldo’s greatest enemy but they want the blood formula she’s working on.”
Pressing her lips together, Joann started considering her own boss and their research in a whole new light. Funny how she’d never questioned Dr. Blautsauger’s drive to create the perfect, synthetic blood. Now, however, it all made sense. The Doc didn’t plan to produce a new blood source for humanity. It was for vampires.
Something else Sabriento had said came back to her. That horror upon horror, her boss was a blood sucking vampire also. Her shell-shocked mind had one suggestion and it was one she’d follow. If she got out of this, she was going to mail her resignation in.
Even before he said so, she’d figured out he was taking her to Mexico. Where, oh hell, she’d be expected to recreate Dr. Blautsauger’s blood formula. It went without saying that her life wouldn’t be worth squat if she didn’t succeed.
****
Checking address numbers as he slowly drove down Joann Clarkson’s street, John came to an idling stop outside a tired-looking bungalow. A cracked sidewalk led to the sagging porch, and paint peeled from rotting window casements. Several scraggly bushes, badly in need of a trim, provided the perfect cover for a thief wanting to break in. Before he left, he ought to suggest she have them cut back.
When he took the time to look beyond the visible signs of wear, he saw several little touches that proved the resident did care. They were visible in the bird feeder overflowing with sunflower seeds and homemade suet cakes. And in the golden brown grasses woven into the Thanksgiving wreath she had hanging on her bright red door.
During Rafe Blautsauger’s phone conversation with Detective Whitehead, he’d learned Joann had returned to the clinic asking for her old job back because her husband had up and left her for another woman. Had the sob story been true? Was the timing a mere coincidence or was there a more sinister motive? Whitehead seemed convinced the woman was on the up and up, but John wasn’t as trusting. In his opinion, things appeared to be a little too pat with her suddenly coming back to work, and with Michaela rushing off into enemy territory.
Undeniably, he agreed with Whitehead, it was highly unlikely she’d trashed the place. John doubted that the brawny human cop had enough physical strength to turn over the massive analyzer let alone the slim woman pictured on her driver’s license. The raw violence in the enormous amount of destruction was vampire mischief. He suspected Osvaldo or his lackey, Sabriento, as the most likely culprits. It still didn’t mean Clarkson was innocent. No. He didn’t feel comfortable ruling out her involvement. Not yet.
Then there was the way Whitehead had bugged Mic’s lab. While he accepted the cop’s explanation for why he’d planted the device, it was highly illegal and audaciously ballsy. John felt he deserved a little grief for his actions. Well, the Blautsaugers wouldn’t take it easy on him.
John wasn’t overly worried, though, as he figured the cop could take care of himself. In the past, the human had proven himself quite resilient. Despite all the red herrings the local vamps were always smearing across his path, nothing had stopped his dogged pursuit.
Exiting the warm interior of his vehicle, John stood for a moment in the frigid early morning air. Automatically, his gaze swept left and then right, looking for trouble. It was quiet. Palming the ring of keys, he’d swiped from Clarkson’s purse, he headed up the fractured and uneven walkway to the Santa-red door. For form’s sake, he’d knock first, but, one way or another, he was getting inside—
“Yoo-hoo.” A lady called out from across the street. Turning, John saw a human female, comfortably set in her seventies, on the porch directly across from the Clarkson place. “Jo’s not home. Can I help you?”
Lifting his hand, he let her see Joann’s keys dangling from his fingers while he, in turn, absorbed the fact Michaela’s assistant hadn’t made it back. “She sent me here to fetch—”
“Oh, good,” the woman broke in. “He’s all ready to go.”
“What? Ma’am? Wait.”
Despite the directive, she disappeared back inside only to emerge less than a minute later with a wide-eyed and wild-haired toddler settled on her ample hip. Over her other shoulder, she’d hung a large bag bulging with everything a loving mother might consider vital to her child’s comfort.
“I’ve been sick with worry,” the lady spoke without pause as she thrust first the tot and then the diaper bag into John’s reluctant arms.
Though it was impossible to tell by looking, John surmised the little humanoid to be male. Since the unzipped coat was red and the kid was clutching a soft pink blanky decorated with—he squinted for a closer look—fluffy, Picasso-eyed kitties, he based his supposition solely on his sky blue footie pajamas.
Other than that, the kid had a genderless baby thing going with its mother’s dark brown eyes staring out from a sweetly rounded face framed by flyaway curls. John eyed the child warily, a shiver of dread going down his spine as he caught onto what the woman was jabbering.
“Joann promised—promised—mind you that she’d be here over an hour ago to pick him up. I haven’t been able to reach her, and my sister has been burning up my phone line. She’s called every ten minutes wanting to know where I am. Her appointment’s not until 8:00.” She sighed. “But if I don’t hurry, by the time I pick her up and get her there, we’ll be cutting it close.”
John began to panic when he noted how she was edging back the way she’d come. He tried to get a word in edgewise, but she was making it impossible.
“Now, you need to remind Joann, I can’t have her running late on days I drive my sister to rehab. God knows she only broke her hip. Yet, the way she’s acting you’d think she cracked her head open too,” the lady confided with a touch of asperity. “You know, I think she actually expected me to leave the little guy on his porch step.”
His. John filed the information. He’d been right that the kid was a boy.
“Ma’am,” John jumped in, and his arms instinctively clutched the little body which caused the tyke to squawk in protest. His high-pitched squeal had John emitting an involuntary grunt in response. And the strangled noise that came out of his suddenly dry throat sounded a lot like that of a wounded moose. Again, he attempted to hand the youngster back.
Pointedly ignoring him, she frowned down at her watch. “Let’s see. He woke up between five and five thirty. I fed him a banana with his cereal. Now if Joann takes much longer, you might want to offer him some milk and dry cereal for a snack. Sippy cup is in the bag.”
The kid dropped his blanket. When John bent to pick it up, however, the wily old lady used his momentary distraction to hustle to her car with astonishing speed. Before he quite knew what happened, he was left in the middle of the street staring as her taillights faded into the distance.
He continued to stand there, a dumbfounded lump until a loud honk startled him. The paper lady eyed him suspiciously as she tossed a rolled newspaper into the yard. John trudged slowly back to the curb. What in the hell should he do now? Nothing came to mind, so he drew in a deep, bolstering breath, and finally peeked down at the kid. Puppy brown eyes were staring right back at him.
Make that big eyes filled with doubt. Unhappy eyes. The toddler’s lower lip trembled, and it had John losing every shred of his reputed toughness. Maybe the neighbor’s sister had a point and leaving the kid on the porch was a viable option.
His cell chirped at the same time the kid began to wail. His tiny, round, face squished up—except for the location of his mouth. That was a wide gaping hole. His deceptively strong little body wildly bucked as he struggled to break free. Knowing his hands were big and strong had John carefully hanging on. It would be a delicate balancing act to keep the boy secured without bruising his baby-tender skin.
Several interminable seconds passed before John managed to get him under control by restraining him inside the crook of his arm. Only then did he bother to dig his cell phone out of the back pocket—right as the infernal nuisance stopped ringing. He might not be sure what sin he’d committed to deserve this, John thought bitterly, but this had to be some sort of karmic revenge coming back to bite him.
It might be payback for thinking it funny to send the cop into the lion’s den.
“Take it from me, kid. Never taunt fate or her sister. Karma will kick you in the butt,” John imparted a bit of tried and true wisdom to the boy but felt it was unappreciated.
At the same time, he gingerly jostled him. Not that he knew what good bouncing a child on his hip would do, however, he had some vague recollection of seeing mothers using the move on fractious tots. Currently, he felt desperate enough to try anything. He’d dance like an ass right there in the middle of the street if it would shut the kid up. He’d do backflips or, God Almighty, stick a fork in his eyeball.
Instead of calming him, however, the boy reacted like a baby goat and headbutted him. The hard baby head savagely rammed John smack dab in the center of his chest. After that, the kid proceeded to maliciously smear his dirty face against the Enforcement-issued work shirt. Holding the squirmy little body away from him, John found the professional logo practically obliterated by sticky, green snot and yellow banana.
Definitively proving, in John’s opinion, there was no age limit on assery.
“You little sh—Ow,” John jerked and nearly yelled when the kid lunged forward and planted his sharp baby teeth right over his left nipple. Leaving, he was sure, the mother of all purple nurples.
He glared down at him, and the little terror triumphantly glared back.
And his damn phone started its infernal chirping again.
Spotting Rafe’s number on the caller ID, he hit the accept button and growled, “What do you want?” His nipple stung, and he had a sore spot on his ribs. Suddenly, John realized he was grinning despite himself. He’d taken on larger opponents and come out less damaged. And if the tot had gone after anyone else, John had to admit; he’d be applauding Cody’s fighting instincts and the slick way he used everything in his tiny arsenal.
“What the hell is making all that racket?”
“Clarkson’s kid,” John bit out. “Tell me you know where she is.”
“Cody?”
“Short male, dark hair and eyes. The kind that tends to favor diapers as outerwear?” John hitched the blanket back up over the tot’s fuzzy covered legs. With his tiny face all screwed up again, John thought he looked like a demonic Kewpie doll. “We hadn’t gotten around to exchanging names yet.”
“Why—never mind. I called to let you know we just heard from Leto. Clinic security cameras show Sabriento shoving Joann into the backseat of an older, green Ferrari. Still no word on Michaela.”
John’s heart sank. “Shit.”
“At least we got a bead on Clarkson,” Rafe added, though his tone wasn’t encouraging. “Leto sent everyone out canvassing. On the off-chance, Hank Booker stopped by the I44 toll gate and questioned the attendant. A male, matching Sabriento’s description, plus a sleeping woman passed through about thirty minutes ago. Headed west.”
Was the fool planning to drive his hostage all the way to Mexico? Admittedly, John had heard that earlier at the Servuco House, Cailey had enacted a beautifully warped and wicked bit of revenge. With almost surgical precision, she separated the Nosferatu traitor from Osvaldo’s teat by letting it ‘slip’ within the Toltec’s hearing that Sabriento was a double agent.
This almost Machiavellian ruse had worked perfectly. Sabriento was now a marked vampire with both Nosferatu and Toltec vamps hunting him. And that had to be the motive behind his kidnapping attempt. John gave his forehead a mental slap.
The fool wanted to prove his allegiance to Osvaldo. It made sense. Frantic to reinstate himself into his boss’ good graces, Sabriento had probably hoped to abduct Michaela. The reasoning, John assumed, was if Sabriento handed one of the Blautsaugers over to Osvaldo it would prove his fidelity. Finding the doctor gone, afraid to leave empty-handed, he’d gone berserk. Wrecked the lab and then recklessly nabbed Clarkson.
Of course, Sabriento would be aware that Enforcers would have the airport locked down—monitoring all incoming and outgoing flights. Driving was the only option left to the cut-off vamp. That is, at least, until he was well outside the area.
Not that John blamed Cailey. Not one iota. Matter of fact, he admired her cunning. It had been absolutely diabolical, and the perfect payback for Sabriento’s clumsy attempt to leave her stunted and frame Gabe. Instead of a wooden stake, she’d used words, but the result had been every bit as lethal.
Still…why take the human in Michaela’s place, John pondered? No clout there as she wasn’t a Blautsauager. No way did John believe the Toltec leader would consider Clarkson an adequate substitute for Dr. Michaela Blautsauger. Unless—it had to be—what Osvaldo wanted was Mic’s blood formula, and Sabriento planned to convince him the assistant could reconstruct the research.
And if Clarkson couldn’t weave straw into gold—and John didn’t believe she could—it didn’t look good for her.
On that upsetting thought, he couldn’t help but glance back down at her little boy. John’s stomach might revolt against the sight of slimy ooze stretching from Cody’s tiny, red nose to his once immaculate work shirt. However, his heart softened. He didn’t want the kid orphaned, especially not before the holidays. It just wouldn’t be right.
Tearing his gaze off the web of snot, he found Cody regarding him. Intently. It was weird knowing he was being sized up by those enormous and distrustful baby eyes. And he found it beyond creepy when the kid didn’t so much as blink while staring balefully back.
“What’s being done to recover Clarkson?” he asked Rafe and knew they could both hear the note of desperation in his voice.
“Nothing,” Rafe said regretfully. “Unless you do something.”
“Okay. I’ll go. Where do I drop off the kid?”
“Not here.” The answer was so decisive that John knew it would be fruitless to argue. He found out why when Rafe acidly pointed out, “Your decision to send the cop here has caused a major fight. I’d like to know what in the hell the poor slob ever did to you—for you to throw him under the bus. He’s not even here yet, and Cass is all but chomping at the bit. She’s ready to play in his head, and everyone else is yelling at her. Of course, she’ll mesmerize him if she wants as the power is hers.”
“Tell her to listen to him first,” John fervently advised. “I’ve looked into his background. He was Navy Seal before going into law enforcement. He’s well trained. Smart. Before I even got a handle on the lab situation, he was picking up all sorts of clues. Don’t underestimate him.”
“Yeah, but—”
“You’re not thinking,” John butted in without a qualm. “If Mic is headed to Mexico and right into enemy territory, and I’m confident she is, then a military trained human is an asset.”
“How so?”
“For one? A human can enter the area and extract her without arousing Toltec suspicion.”
“Point taken,” Rafe admitted, even as his reluctance came through. However, John was pleased to hear a new and more thoughtful note enter his partner’s voice. It confirmed he wouldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand. “I don’t like the idea of relying on a human to protect my sister, but it’s valid.”
“Good. Now tell me where I can leave this kid. Time’s wasting if I want to get on Sabriento’s trail. I think his plan is for Clarkson to reproduce Mic’s blood formula and her life won’t be worth spit if she can’t.”
While John was speaking, he’d returned to his SUV, and opened the front passenger door. But when he tried to place Cody inside, the little one contrarily decided to stay put. Tightly wrapping his little arms and legs around John’s neck and waist he clung like a baby octopus. “I need someplace to stash the kid,” John repeated. “Where do you suggest?”
“Got no idea.”
“That’s it?” John winced when his harsh tone set the kid off into another screaming fit. Since there was no fighting the baby kudzu vine, he gave in and supported his padded butt with one hand.
“Metta’s injured, so she’s out.” Rafe sounded just as frazzled. “Thanks to you, I’m going to have a human here to protect. I might give him a hard time, but I won’t leave him to Cassiopeia’s less than tender mercies.”
“What about the Maguires?” John pleaded desperately. Morgan’s parents were kind people.
“You can try,” Rafe said shortly and disconnected.
There was no answer at the Maguires. For that matter, he couldn’t reach any of his Enforcement friends either. Feeling as if the world was suddenly out to get him, he tried Morgan’s parents once more and gave up.
“Shit,” John muttered. All dignity lost, he attempted to call his old mentor, Justin Stefka. Again, there was no answer. Every second wasted, he frowned grimly, increased the risk for the little boy’s mother. Cody might well end up an orphan if John didn’t get a move on, and that was something he just couldn’t allow.
“Thit,” Cody echoed. The word came out strangely comprehensible considering the mucous-thickened baby babble.
For a split-second John allowed his eyes to close, and he rested his forehead against the icy metal roof of his SUV.
“Hey, moron,” the newspaper lady shouted as she drove back the other way, now flinging papers into the yards on the opposite side of the street. “You can’t let a baby ride in the front like that. He needs a car seat, and it goes in the back. It’s the law.”
Although he hadn’t known, John lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
“Thit.” The tot’s tiny tongue flicked out of his doll-like mouth to lick at the goo smearing his lips, “Thit, thit, thit.”
And that, John, thought glumly, was a complete and accurate summation of their current situation.