One Night Burns (The Vampires of Livix, #1) (19 page)

When the shadows from the trees elongated as the sun set I went back out to the garage. Garin had a computer on the work bench hooked to the idling engine. Bars and indicators on the computer screen hopped around like the stanzas of a music equalizer.

“How about coming inside the house now?”

“One more test to finish. Stand over by the basketball hoop in case this thing blows up.”

“Is that likely to happen?”

“No but that’s a safe spot anyway.”

I moved back and watched him. He pressed keys on the computer and the engine started accelerating. Even I could tell it skipped unevenly. He took some tools to the engine and measured voltages with a small meter in several locations then twisted a couple of screws under the back of the engine. With the half-open throttle the engine skipped and hammered and rocked. I thought the whole car frame might bound off its blocks. He changed a switch on his meter and prodded wires and connectors around the top of the engine. He pushed the meter and tools into his back jeans pockets and pulled apart a connector and banged it. He took a screwdriver and cleaned out some debris and possible corrosion. Then he carefully pressed the connector back together. The roughness smoothed out and smoke and soot from the now living cylinder fogged onto the floor.

Garin stepped back to the computer and looked over a few screens that he flashed through glancing in satisfaction. He started pressing the keyboard key accelerating the engine.

The motor roared in a guttural and throbbing wail that raised to a banshee shriek. Like a séance that went terribly wrong. Demons from hell. Flashing teeth in the dark. I took another step or two backward. Maybe he wasn’t kidding about it blowing up.

He killed the throttle and let the power train idle for a few moments. Like the sweaty and heaving sides of a stallion run hard at the edge of abuse it now needed to walk around and cool down. Eventually he shut it down. He flipped the light switch off and punched the button behind the door jamb. The garage door rumbled down behind him as he came toward me.

“That engine sounds great.”

“Took me awhile to find the dirty connector. A wasp built a nest in it while it sat in the junk yard.”

He followed me into in the house. I turned on the television and we watched the news. No local incidents. Weather promised to continue much as we had been having. Which meant an equal chance for snow or a desert-like drought tomorrow. A few sitcoms later and I became sleepy. The clock showed a late hour. I fell asleep against Garin again.

“Hey, wake up.” Garin stood up from the couch. A knock came from the front door and Garin opened it.

“Both of you come with me.” said Mr. Branoc.

We arrived at the remains of a grim battle by a warehouse cross-docking facility. The vampire police team had closed off the end of the building with their police cars. Two dozen mutilated vampires and human bodies lay in twisted groups of mayhem. I gasped at the grisly scene.

Garin said, “Those two are some of the group that escaped when they attacked me at the apartment.”

I added, “ – and are the same from Traverse City … it’s the cowboy – ”

Garin said, “But the others I don’t recognize. What happened? What does it mean?”

“That’s what I hoped you’d be able to tell me.” Mr. Branoc moved over by another body, a human, crouching down, “Here is a local militia insignia.”

I said, “I saw those at the Victorian Parade. They passed out fliers.”

“Yes, that’s the group.” Branoc said, “An informer told me this could happen tonight but we don’t know why. We’ve had to do a lot more cleanups out here. The rate of new questions is exceeding our ability to find clues and answers.” he stood up, “We usually have to follow the money on these things.”

“I think I know how to check on that,” said Garin.

“Be careful if you do follow anything up.” Branoc continued, “Usually the militia attacks are violence on vampires and doesn’t mean much other than random acts but with the evidence at your mother’s it looks more sinister. Still possibly planted to lead us astray from whatever is going on.”

“Sir – this old brown Malibu took a lot shots. Protected some of them for a while.”

“Not that you’d notice the damage with the bottom third of the doors and fenders rusted through like they are.”

“A sleeper ghetto racer,” the agent moved around to the front of the car. He shined his flashlight through the engine compartment, “Look under the hood. Is that a corvette engine?”

Garin leaned over the fender. “No. It’s a brand new Cadillac V-6, but it outputs as much horsepower as many of the classic ’60’s and ’70’s V-8 muscle cars. Reworked power train but not the exterior nor passenger seating. That’s odd.” Garin got down on his hands and knees and looked under the chassis. “Everything is redone under there except the body and the rear springs. Really odd.”

Branoc said, “Not if you want to camouflage your vehicle. If we had more time I’d like to figure out which one of these groups owned the car. But we won’t get that luxury.”

Another agent approached, “Sir, I found a single different shell casing, far off, but matches the ballistics marks on several of the bodies. They missed cleaning after this one.”

“So a third party involved themselves? With a range weapon?”

Police sirens screamed out of the distant darkness.

“We’ve gotta go,” said Branoc. Then to his officer, “Finish with the evidence spray down and let’s go. The regular police are getting agitated with my pranks lately.”

One of the officers drove Branoc’s car so Branoc opened his pad and jotted notes. We sat in the back seat. The cars bounced through back lots and alleys leaving the industrial center. Crossing through an area filled with hundreds of different buildings grouped near the airports and rail lines.

Garin asked, “Can I get a list of the names?”

Branoc asked, “Why?”

“I work at the Bank of Draydon. And I’d like to see if a money trail can be followed.”

Branoc wrote on a new sheet. “While not standard procedure I’m not opposed to using whatever resources you can provide. These are the ones we could identify.” He tore it off and gave it to Garin but added, “Be careful. Kick up a stone with scorpions and you’ll get stung.”

“Yes.” Then Garin asked, “What’s the name of the warehouse?”

“WareWulf Logistics” said the driver, “Your Silver Bullet Transport.”

I whispered to Garin, “So there are actually werewolves?”

He shook his head. He said to Branoc, “I think raw materials for my family’s business go through there.”

The local police screeched to a halt at the back of the warehouse. They got out with their revolvers raised and armored vests on but the wet pavement appeared as the most dangerous warehouse feature. A worker dawdled outside another part of the building finishing a smoke. One of the officers approached him. The worker took a drag on his cigarette then blinked in the flashlights, “Hey, weren’t you just here?”

-:- Sixteen -:-

“Hi Marilyn.” Garin answered his phone.

I looked at him.

“Sure, you can come over. How about this afternoon?” he looked out toward the garage, “Yes. Eleven would work well.” the phone clicked off.

“My Marilyn?”

“Yes. I guess she did some estate work for my mother and has some papers and other things to give me.”

“Marilyn is a patent attorney,” I said. “Probably shouldn’t be doing estate work though it’s pretty simple paperwork.”

“My mother must have known Marilyn from her intellectual property work and she was more comfortable working with her than going to yet another individual.”

“I guess she could have set it up and sub-contracted to a specialist too. Not a lot of law practices in town and sales are more about the relationships anyway.”

I made a sandwich for myself while Marilyn and Garin discussed the contents of a box of papers she brought over. They sat in the small sitting area near the front door. Other than cursory things in class I mostly ignored that particular area of law. If I ever planned on staying here or another small town I might want to pay more attention. I hoped for working in a big glamorous city when I graduated but I started seeing how a sleepy little town could have more than enough intrigue. I mindlessly put the little box of cheese and small tub of sandwich dressing back in the nearly empty refrigerator. Along the bottom shelf stood fifty dark bottles of Massai for a vampire. The icy cold in the refrigerator gushed out of the open door like a fog and covered my bare feet on the deeply stained wooden floor. A chill ran up my spine and ended in prickly hairs at the back of my scalp. Would this be my choice. When I am twenty-one? Do I want this?

I head louder chitchat from the front room now. A little laughing from Marilyn. Garin called to me, “Hey, If you’re ready to go to the plant, Marilyn offered to drive us instead of the cab I thought of calling.”

“ – It’s not more than a couple miles out of my way back to town,” said Marilyn.

I said, “Let me get my shoes and a sweatshirt.”

Marilyn and I talked about one of her clients that wanted to meet later this week or next and I thought I could go. It would be good thinking about something other than the contents of those bottles in the refrigerator.

Marilyn dropped us off outside the security gate and the black shiny guard box flanked by two strips of cement. Each cement lane smudged by tire black and old oil drips showed the amount of traffic that passed here every day. Tall chain link fencing stretched into the distance with any artful placement of trees and shrubs purposefully trimmed low. Razor wire in four layers topped the chain link fence like icing swirls around the top edge of a deadly birthday cake. A burly security guard close to retirement came out of his booth, “Can I help you?”

“I’m Garin. I’m here to talk with Yashar and Sandro.”

“You have a meeting scheduled with them?”

“No. But I think they can clear a few minutes.”

“Wait here.”

I could see the guard like a shadow behind the mirrored glass talking on a handset. The glow of a computer monitor flashed off a screen saver and he typed some information. Then he grabbed something out of a drawer and came back out.

“Here are your IDs. Clip them on your shirt about here,” he said pointing to where his beer gut hung over his almost weight lifter thick belt. The belt looked like an old western tooled saddle hung with cuffs and pistols and ammunition cartridges. “Make sure you keep them on as they have radio frequency tags that let you in or out of any area you do or don’t have authority clearances for.”

I looked at the ID. My picture taken right from where we stood (now I saw a little camera) as well as another from college or somewhere. Maybe a Faceplate post from my sister? And more information on there than my driver’s license, including where I worked, “How did you get my name? I didn’t say it and I’ve never been here before.”

“Welcome to the Internet.” He grinned, “We’ve got government business and high security requirements. So everything is tied together and we mine the data. I’m sure the system shows the bar code from your breakfast cereal you scanned at the grocery store self-checkout.” He twisted his torso to look over his shoulder, “Shirley with take you up to the offices.”

Another guard rode up in a little electric plant runabout. It looked like a bright yellow painted golf cart without the top. Shirley, a male guard, grunted from behind mirrored sunglasses for us to climb on the seat hanging off the rear of his cart. A lack of suspension and the uneven lots we crossed at speed made the ride bounce like the back of a catamaran I rode at spring break a few years ago. The ride thankfully ended quickly.

We stood in an immaculate lobby with lounging couches and chairs that looked dated yet new and barely used. Flanking the furniture and filling the corners of the room burst potted plants simulating some sort of indeterminate life. A smiling receptionist pulled off her headset and motioned us to one of the couches, “They’ll be right up for you.”

“Thank you,” said Garin as we took our seats.

Yashar and Sandro walked through the thick bullet proof sliding glass doors, “Good afternoon Garin!” greeted Yashar. Sandro trailed behind him.

Garin stood and said, “This is Anna. She’s my personal assistant.”

Sandro shook my hand as I stood up, “I’m Sandro Gruber, Vice-President of Engineering and Development.” He moved aside.

Yashar took my hand and said hello.

Yashar waved us forward to some solid wood doors on the opposite side of the sliding glass they came through. He motioned for us to take seats around the mirrored table. As the door clicked shut with the sound of a refrigerator seal, Yashar said, “This is a secure room. We can discuss anything here. We could plot the demise of a foreign dignitary and none would know but us,” his eyes raised as he tilted his head toward me.

Garin said, “Anna knows I’m a vampire. I think she’s figured out the two of you are as well.”

Everyone looked at me. I seemed at risk for something. “Yes. I know too much about vampires.”

Garin said, “I thought I should visit my mother’s company now that it’s been transferred to me. I wondered if you could give me a tour so I can be involved now.”

Yashar and Sandro looked at each other. Then Yashar spoke, “You’re mother must have never told you. Because of the top secret military weapon development and manufacturing security nature of our business at Ramsburgh Industries she ran this at arms length. More of a passive investor. She didn’t even have the proper government clearances. I’m sorry to say, neither do you. Even being a vampire. We’re not the ones to make the calls on that. You should know that this plant only supplies parts.”

“Then I’ll need to see what you provided my mother. Any quarterly financial statements?”

“Sure.”

“I might want a few other key metrics that should be easy to provide.”