7.

I drove north along Harbor Blvd, through downtown Fullerton and made a left onto Berkeley Street. I parked in the visitor parking in front of the Fullerton Municipal Courthouse, turned off my car, and sat there.

While I sat there, I drank water from a bottle. Water is one of the few drinks my body will accept. That and wine, although the alcohol in wine has no effect on me.

Yeah, I know. Bummer.

My hands were still feeling heavy from the boxing workout. I flexed my fingers. I couldn't help but notice my forearms rippling with taut muscle. I like that. I worked hard for that, and it was something I didn't take for granted.

I sat in the minivan and watched the entrance to the courthouse. There was little activity at this late hour. I wasn't sure what I was hoping to find here but I like to get a look and feel for all aspects of a case. Makes me feel involved and informed.

And, hell, you never know what might turn up.

Two security guards patrolled the front of the building. So where had they been at the time of Kingsley's shooting? Probably patrolling the back of the building.

Behind me was a wooded area; above that were condominiums. A bluejay swooped low over my hood and disappeared into the branches of a pine tree. A squirrel suddenly dashed along the pine tree's limb. The jay appeared again, and dove down after the squirrel.

Can't we all just get along?

When the guards disappeared around a corner, I got out of the van and made my way to the court's main entrance. My legs were still shaky from the workout; my hands heavy and useless, like twin balloons filled with sand.

The courthouses consisted of two massive edifices that faced each other. Between them was a sort of grassy knoll, full of trees and stone benches. The benches were empty. The sun was low in a darkening sky.

I like darkening skies.

Shortly, I found the infamous birch tree. The tree was smallish, barely wide enough to conceal even me, let alone a big man with broad shoulders. As a shield, it was useless, as the additional bullets in Kingsley's head attested. To have relied on it for one's sole protection of a gun-wielding madman was horrifying to contemplate. So I did contemplate it. I felt Kingsley's fear, recalled his desperate attempts to dodge the flying bullets. Comical and horrific. Ghastly and amusing. Like a kid's game of cowboys and Indians gone horribly wrong.

I circled the tree and found four fairly fresh holes in the trunk. The bullets had, of course, been dug out and added to the evidence. Now the holes were nothing more than dark splotches within the white bark. The tree and Kingsley had one thing in common: both were forever scarred by bullets from the same gun.

The attack had been brazen. The fact that the shooter had gotten away clean was probably a fluke. The shooter himself probably expected to get caught, or gunned down himself. But instead he walked away, and disappeared in a truck that no one seemed to remember the license plate of. The shooter was still out there, his job left unfinished. Probably wondering what more he had to do to kill Kingsley.

A hell of a good question.

According to the doctor's reports cited in a supplementary draft within the police report, all bullets had missed vital parts of Kingsley's brain. In fact, the defense attorney's only side effect was a minor loss in creativity. Of course, for a defense attorney, a lack of creativity could prove disastrous.

Someone wanted Kingsley dead, and someone wanted it done outside the courthouse, a place where many criminals had walked free because of Kingsley's ability to manipulate the law. This fact was not lost on me.

Detective Sherbet had only made a cursory investigation into the possibility that the shooting was related to one of Kingsley's current or past cases. Sherbet had not dug very deeply.

It was my job to dig. Which was why I make the big bucks.

I turned and left the way I had come.

8.

"So how often do you, like, feed?" asked Mary Lou.

Mary Lou was my sister. Only recently had she discovered that I was, like, a creature of the night. Although I come from a big family, she was the only one I had confided in, mostly because we were the closest in age and had grown up best friends. We were sitting side-by-side at a brass-topped counter in a bar called Hero's in downtown Fullerton.

I said, "Often. Especially when I see a particular fine sweep of milky white neck. Like yours for instance."

"Ha ha," she said. Mary Lou was drinking a lemon drop martini. I was drinking house Chardonnay. Since I couldn't taste the Chardonnay, why order the good stuff? And Chardonnay rarely had a reaction on my system, and it made me feel normal, sort of, to drink something in public with my sister.

Mary Lou was wearing a blue sweater and jeans. Today was casual day at the insurance office. This was apparently something that was viewed as good. She often talked about casual day; in fact, often days before the actual casual event.

"Seriously, Sam. How often?" she asked again.

I didn't say anything. I swallowed some wine. It tasted like water. My tastebuds were dead, my tongue good for only talking and kissing, and lately not even kissing. I looked over at Mary Lou. She was six years older than me, a little heavier, but then again she ate a normal diet of food.

"Once a day," I said, shrugging. "I get hungry like you. My stomach growls and I get light headed. Typical hunger symptoms."

"But you can only drink blood."

"You mind saying that a little louder?" I said. "I don't think the guy in the booth behind us quite heard."

"Sorry," she said sheepishly.

"We're supposed to keep this quiet, remember?"

"I know."

"You haven't told anyone?" I asked her again.

"No. I swear. You know I won't tell."

"I know."

The bartender came by and looked at my nearly finished glass of wine. I nodded, shrugging. What the hell, might as well spend my well-earned money on something useless, like wine.

"Have you tried eating other food?" asked Mary Lou.

"Yes."

"What happens?" she asked.

"Stomach cramps. Extreme symptoms of food poisoning. I throw it back up within minutes. Not a pretty picture."

"But you can drink wine," she said.

"It's the only thing I've found so far that I can drink," I said. "And sometimes not even that. Needs to be relatively pure."

"So no red wine."

"No red wine," I said.

My sister, with her healthy tan, put her hand on my hand. As she did so, she flinched imperceptively from the cold of my own flesh. She squeezed my fingers. "I'm sorry this happened to you, Sis."

"I am, too," I said.

"Can I ask you some more questions?" she asked.

"Were you just warming me up?"

"Yes and no."

"Fine," I said. "What else you got for me?"

"Does the blood, you know, have to be human blood?"

"Any mammalian blood will do," I said.

"Where do you get the blood?"

"I buy it."

"From where?" she asked.

"I have a contract with a butchery in Norco. I buy it by the month-load. It's in my freezer in the garage."

"The one with the padlock?" she asked. I think her own blood drained from her face.

"Yes," I answered.

"What happens if you don't drink blood?"

"Probably shrivel up and die."

"Do you want to change the subject?" she asked gently.

She knew my moods better than anyone, even my husband. "Please."

Mary Lou grinned. She caught the attention of the bartender and pointed to her martini. He nodded. The bartender was cute, a fact not lost on Mary Lou.

"So what case are you currently working on?" she asked, stealing glances at the man's posterior.

"You done checking out the bartender?"

She reddened. "Yes."

So I told her about my case. She remembered seeing it on TV.

"Any leads yet?" she asked, breathless. Mary Lou tended to think that what I did for a living was more exciting than it actually was. Her drink came but she ignored it.

"No," I said. "Just hunches."

"But your hunches are better than most anyone's."

"Yes," I said. "It's a side effect."

"A good side effect."

I nodded. "Hey, if I have to give up raspberry cheesecakes, I might as well get something out of the deal."

"Like highly attuned hunches."

"That's one of them," I said.

"What else?" she asked.

"I thought we were changing the subject."

"C'mon, I've never known...someone like you."

"Don't you mean something?"

"No," she said. "That's not what I mean. You're a good mother, a good wife, and a good sister. You are much more than a thing. So tell me, what are the other side effects?"

"You saying all that just to butter me up?"

"Yes and no," she said, grinning. "So tell me. Now."

I laughed. "Okay, you win. I have enhanced strength and speed."

She nodded. "What else?"

"I seem to be disease and sickness free."

"What about shape-changing?"

"Shape-changing?"

"Yes."

Having my sister ask if I could shape-change struck me as so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. Mary Lou watched me briefly, then caught on because she always catches on. Soon we were both giggling hysterically, and we had the attention of everyone in the bar. I hate having people's attention, but I needed the laugh. Needed it bad.

"No," I said finally, wiping the tears from my eyes. "I can't shape-change. Then again, I've never tried."

"Then maybe you can," she said finally, after catching her own breath.

"Honestly, I've never thought about it. There's just been too much other crap to deal with, and this...condition of mine doesn't exactly come with a handbook."

"So you learn as you go," said Mary Lou.

"Yes," I said. "Sort of like The Greatest American Hero."

"Yeah, like him."

We drank some more. My stomach was beginning to hurt. I pushed the wine aside.

"You ever going to tell me what happened to you?" Mary Lou's words were forming slower. The martinis had something to do with that. "How you became, you know, what you are?"

I looked away. "Someday, Mary Lou."

"But not today."

"No," I said. "Not today."

Mary Lou turned in her stool and faced me. Her big, round eyes were glassy. Her nose was more slender than mine, but we resembled each other in every other way. We were sisters through and through.

"So how do you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?"

"Look so normal. Act so normal. Be so normal. Hell, life's hard enough as it is without something like this coming out of left field and knocking you upside your ass. How do you do it?"

"I do it because I have to," I said. "I don't have a choice."

"Because you love your kids."

"Sometimes it's the only reason," I said.

"What about Danny?"

I didn't tell her about Danny. Not yet. I didn't tell her that my husband seemed revolted by the sight of me, that he turned his lips away lately when we kissed, that he seemed to avoid touching me at all costs. I didn't tell her that I was sure he was cheating on me and my marriage was all but over.

"Yeah," I said, looking away. "I do it for Danny, too."