The Scene (28 page)

             
“I asked if you’d be okay,” Mike said.

             
“I was until I saw the…” I swallowed hard holding back bile. No breakfast was an excellent idea. Mike had obviously done this a time or two.

             
“You don’t have to look at it anymore.” He pulled me into his body with one arm.

             
“It’s her. I know it is. Why would someone do this?” My body was quivering violently. A side effect of violent vomiting and exposure to extreme gore.

             
“They always have a reason. Mommy didn’t love them. The dog told them to. Nazis are coming through the soap dish. It will never make sense to anyone sane.” His voice was low and soothing.

             
“Who did this?” I said, voice beginning to return to normal.

             
“I don’t know. I was hoping maybe you did.”

             
“No. In fact, until now, I thought maybe it was her. After last night, I was almost positive she was one of the bad guys.” I pulled away from him and stood on my own just fine.

             
“Her and who else?” he asked.

             
“Not sure. There is one name you could check; I don’t have a last name, Diego. It might be an alias, but she had a friend in town, from Fresno, named Diego. Cyrus might tell me if I cornered him. Then again, he might not even know. I have a name and number of a girl in Fresno. I don’t think she’d speak with you though. These people are so fucking secretive. Where’s Malcolm?” I asked out of nowhere.

             
“Malcolm?” He looked at me like I was insane.

             
“Yeah. Malcolm McTavish, he owns this building. He has an office in the back up the steps. He owns this one and Macabre Saturnine. And a magazine too.”

             
“I have some calls to make here. Reports, cop shit.” He smiled. He was trying to get rid of me. I understood why. I had just puked all over his crime scene. I’d get rid of me too. And honestly, I really wasn’t up to standing around a naked body the rest of the morning.

             
“Okay. I can call Cyrus and Shantressa and see what they know. I can call Tatum and see where Malcolm is, or how to contact him.”

             
“No you won’t. You’re going to take the car back to my house and wait there until I get home. Then I will make calls. You can speak with this Cyrus, I’m sure you’re right about no one wanting to talk to me. At least no one wants to kill me. You do nothing without me. You hear me?” He held me by my biceps and looked directly into my eyes.

             
“Yeah, okay. You’ll be okay here? I can wait. I can help you.” I offered help I wasn’t ready to give. But I had to keep up appearances. No one wants a flaky reporter.

             
“You can help me by getting some breakfast and going home, to my house, and calling me when you get there.” He said slowly and concisely. As if I wasn’t really listening.

             
“Fine.” He handed me the keys.

             
“You still carry?” he asked. He was talking about my gun. That was the second time he’d asked about it. Generally, he disliked the fact that I carried it around town with me, but recently, he seemed comforted by the fact I was packing heat.

             
“Yeah. It’s at your house.” I gave him a smug smile.

             
“Load it, and wait. You remember how to use it?”

             
“Point the business end at what you want dead, pull the trigger. I got it.” On his insistence, I allowed him to teach me how to shoot the day after I bought it. I have to say, he did a pretty damn good job teaching a girl how to handle a gun. I wasn’t a sharp shooter, but could kill what I wanted dead.

             
“Be safe.” He kissed me. Just a slide of his lips across my cheek. No lip action but too close for my taste. I smiled and walked away. There was no way in hell I was letting him start that shit again.

What’s done is done.

I loved his Suburban. It’s new and leather and not a piece of shit. I drove in comfort to the nearest drive-thru. I shouldn’t have been hungry after my barf-fest but strangely enough I was famished. I ordered a coffee and two breakfast sandwiches and added a hash brown for good measure. I shoveled food into my face as I drove home, to Mike’s. I had killed off the last sandwich by the time I was getting off the freeway.

I
’m officially a beefcake.

             
I made the drive to Mike’s house, in Sun Valley, in a record fifteen minutes. After a celebratory pat on the back, I hopped out of the car and made my way to the door. Once safely inside, I called Mike as I promised.

             
“Hello.”

“Hey
, I’m here,” I said.

             
“Good. Did you eat?”

             
“Yes, daddy.” I allowed my sarcastic tone to roll off my tongue.

             
“Lock it up and wait. We have some stuff to go over when I get home. I’ll be a few more hours here. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.” He was always good about checking in, I’ll give him that much.

             
“How will you get home?”

             
“Take a cruiser. I’ll see you in a few.” He sounded weird. I wondered what it was he wanted to talk about.

             
“K. Bye.” I hung up. I avoid long conversations with him at all costs.

             
I stood in his living room with no sense of purpose. I felt completely helpless hiding out in someone else’s house. I dialed Tatum. He couldn’t stop me from calling my best friend.

             
“You called me, who are you?” The voicemail talked at me after a half a ring. Either she had it off or she sent my call to voicemail.

Bitch
.

             
“It’s me. We have a…situation. Call me. I’m at Mike’s.” I hung up.

             
I flopped my fat fast-food-full ass on the couch and turned on the TV. The morning news was on. Breaking news about Regina was gliding across the bottom of the screen on a red and white ticker. That was fast. The colors reminded me of the corpse they were speaking of. There were no new leads; police are baffled, blah, blah, blah. Not baffled, overworked. Actually in my opinion, if the first three girls had been investigated properly, these jack-offs might be behind bars right now, instead of running amuck. We did have leads. Following up on them was the hang up. Shit, I knew where they could find their precious little bad guys.              

It’s really easy to find too. Just look for the flashing lights and headless stiff. I’ll draw a fucking map if that helps. It’s the vampires I tell you. The vampires!

Then again, I could be wrong. It could be someone else entirely. Maybe it’s a set-up, a conspiracy. I’d hate to place blame where it didn’t belong. Like the boy who cried wolf and all that. Dylan Hart, the girl who cried vampire.

             
The wolf eventually came and ate that boy.

CHAPTER 27

             
I sat Indian-style on the hardwood floor in Tatum’s house. All of her stuff had been taken out making it a barren wasteland of late fifties architecture. A white rumpled cloth lay on the floor in the middle of the room. Abruptly, as if someone had turned on a faucet, blood began to appear in the center of the white mass. Quickly, the red spot grew into a wet mess of blood seeping through the material and pooling in its wrinkles. I suddenly became aware that under the white cloth was a body. What first appeared to be a lump of innocent fabric was now quite obviously a human figure. As I stared at the blood flowing from the cloth onto the floor, the limbs of the body began to move. First an arm twitched, and then a leg, before I knew it, the torso began to rise from the floor. I sat in an empty space of hardwood and blood with a now moving corpse. As the figure sat upright, the white cloth slid downward exposing a deathly pale, headless torso. Blood flowed from the cropped neck like a morbid water fountain. I clamped my hands to my mouth stifling a scream. As the cloth fell further, it exposed the full form of a human torso. In the center of the breasts, a large wooden picket protruded gruesomely. The scene was a mirror of Regina’s horrifying death. But this was not Regina. The corpse lifted bound hands toward me. Pleading in their own grisly way. Reaching for me. Tied around the wrists of the headless woman was a thick lock of corn silk blonde hair.

             
I sat up screaming. Breathing labored, heart pounding, nearly leaping from my chest. I looked around frantically trying to figure out where I was. After only a moment, I remembered I was at Mike’s. I had fallen asleep on his couch waiting for him to come home. I glanced at the clock below the TV. I’d been asleep almost four hours. I checked my phone. Mike hadn’t called yet.

             
Trying to slow my breath and heart rate, I took a few cleansing breaths in and out.

             
“Get ahold of yourself, Dylan,” I whispered to myself. My mind flashed unexpectedly to the image of Tatum, bound and headless. I dropped my face into my hands and I cried for the first time in almost a year.

             
It was almost five o’clock before Mike called to tell me he was on his way. The conversation was quick and ended abruptly. It is a rare occasion, as of late, that any conversation with Mike is this way. Something was wrong.

I picked my crap up off his floor and did the few dishes I had used while he was out. My crying fest had left my face splotchy and make-up-less. I made my way to the bathroom and washed my face with the coldest water I could tolerate. I even brushed my teeth and freshened up my deodorant in preparation for his arrival home. I considered pulling something out for dinner but decided against it,
because, well, I’m lazy and don’t care that much.

             
“Honey, I’m home!” He called from the entryway when he came in.

             
“On the couch.” I didn’t move an inch; nothing had changed.

             
“No dinner?” he said with a smile.

             
“Not on your life.”

             
He plopped his ass down next to mine. Shoes already off at the door, he kicked his sock clad feet up on the table. He’d lost his tie at some point and his top button was undone. In thirty seconds, the belt would come off and his shirt would get un-tucked. Exactly two minutes after that, the shirt would be completely unbuttoned and hanging loose around his thick core.

             
“You eat dinner?” There went the belt. Shirt now pulled out from his pants, hanging loosely at his waist.

             
“No. I was waiting for you to come home. How’d it go after I left? You ever talk to Malcolm?” I fought the urge to tell him about my dream. I knew if I started I might start crying again and that was one thing I swore I’d never do in front of anyone again.

             
“We’ll talk over dinner,” he said.

             
“No, tell me now. You’re acting seriously weird. Something happened.” My eyes squinted in an accusing fashion.

             
“No, I didn’t talk to Malcolm. I called and got his answering service.”

             
“So the owner of the building has no clue a body turned up on his doorstep?” I said curiously.

             
“Not exactly, I was able to contact that Cyrus guy through the service. Apparently, he’s the daytime contact for Mr. McTavish” One by one the buttons were popped open leaving his grey shirt wide over his chest. I know his ass too well.

             
“And?” This vague shit was starting to piss me off.

             
“He said he’d contact Mr. McTavish as soon as he’s available. He also told me to tell you he said hello and he’s sorry for the missed opportunity.” I blushed. He scowled.

             
“Did you question him about Regina? And the others? What about that Diego guy?”

             
“We, meaning you and me, will be meeting with both Cyrus and Malcolm this evening. According to Cyrus that is; he’s supposed to call me with a time and place.”

             
“You’re actually going to allow me to attend this interrogation?” I was genuinely surprised.

“I figured you might be an asset to the cause. And it’s not an interrogation, only suspects are interrogated, not innocent business owners. For the record, that is.” He knew me too well, too. He knew, more often than not, whatever he said to me was considered on the record. Probably not a good way to sustain a relationship, that’s why we aren’t in one. Well, that and more, a lot more.

“I tried to call Tatum.” Abrupt I know, but I knew he wouldn’t be happy with it at any moment, better to squeeze it into conversation.

             
“I told you not to make any phone calls until I got home.” He was very disappointed in me. Too fucking bad.

             
“She’s my best friend, Michael. I can’t just not call her. Besides, what did it hurt? She didn’t answer anyway.” I let the disappointment resonate in my voice. The headless image flashed through my thoughts. I squashed them down as quickly as I could.

             
“Maybe she was busy.” He wriggled his eyebrows up and down.

Pig.

              “So what about Diego?” I asked, changing the subject.

             
“I did look into that name. I called in a favor from Fresno and got some interesting information. ‘Diego’ was an alias used by a local nut job named Fredrick Wells. Good ol’ Freddy got himself locked up in the psyche ward at county for cutting himself and drinking his own blood on the steps of the court house in Fresno. While he was there, he stole eight pints of blood. He was committed for a year after that in what used to be Cedar Vista Psychiatric. He was released in January of this year. “

             
“Perfect timing.  The first body turned up February sixth. Regina left Fresno and came down here a few weeks after that. Cyrus was up there too, recruiting Reggie. Shantressa told me Diego went bat shit, I didn’t know she meant literally loony bin nuts. Said he hit Regina and she left not too long after that.” I wasn’t necessarily talking to anyone in particular, just letting my thoughts flow into words.

             
“I hate it when you know more than me. Where did you get all this information? Why didn’t you tell me all this sooner?” He was starting to sound angry.

             
“Vast powers of persuasion and manipulation, duh. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what was important and what wasn’t. Until now. All the pieces are finally coming together in my brain. Well, mostly. I have to be aware of the one percent margin of error and the fact that there’s a large chance all of these pieces mean dick and we know nothing. Also, all that I’ve been told could be lies.” I was beginning to think that last statement was very likely.

             
“My little optimist. Talk. Now. I need to know everything you know.” The anger in his voice was fading into urgency.

             
After a few moments of reluctance and coaxing, I was talking. I told him about the trip to Fresno. The coven we visited; bloodletting and Tatum; Cyrus and Malcolm; Dominika’s animalistic ass. Everything I knew, he knew. Minus a few details that would either piss him off or incriminate myself, of course. In the end, I’d been talking for nearly an hour. We began to discuss and theorize when my stomach growled violently.

             
“Food.” He stood in an instant and headed toward the kitchen.

             
A handful of minutes later, Mike emerged from the kitchen with a yummy treat for us. Pita chips and hummus are my favorite, but not his by far. I wondered if he’d gone to the store yesterday just for me.

             
“So, why is Reggie dead?” I asked. He stopped mid-dip staring at me.

             
“I don’t know. Depends,” he spit out, noshing on his chip.

             
“On?”

             
“Who would want her dead? Who are her friends? Who are her enemies?”

             
“I have no idea. I say it’s vampires for sure though,” I said as I crunched a chip smiling.

             
“Yeah, okay. It can’t always be vampires, Dylan.”

             
“Why not? For whatever reason everything else is now because of aliens. I say it’s all really because of vampires.” I shrugged.

             
“No, its people. Crazy fuck nuts, bound and determined to create blood sucking anarchy.”

             
“Or it’s that.” I nodded in concurrence.

             
“What about these people in Fresno? Did they seem to have a grudge against Regina?”

             
“Not exactly. They didn’t seem happy with her, but not like they wanted her dead. Besides I don’t think anyone of those losers could afford the gas to get down here. Hell, half of them probably still drive dad’s car.” I shrugged and continued shoveling food into my face.

             
“What about that Diego, Fredrick Wells?”

             
“Don’t know him; don’t even know who he is let alone where he is and whether or not he’d kill someone.”

             
He was quiet for a long time, glancing through a small lined notebook. When he finally spoke, I was taken aback by what he said.

             
“What about Cyrus?” he asked seriously.

             
“Why would you ask that? Are you trying to piss me off? We have already talked about Cyrus. I don’t think he was directly involved in killing anyone. Not to mention Reggie, she was his friend. I think.” I started recalling the argument between the two.

             
“Dylan, are you defending him or yourself? It doesn’t make you a bad person if you were duped by a professional liar.” I didn’t respond. “I have to tell you, I looked him up.” My head spun on a swivel to meet his eyes. “There is no record of a Cyrus Atossa living or working in California. Hell, there are no birth records for a Cyrus Atossa in the states.”

             
“He said he’s Persian,” I said defensively.

             
“There is no Persia. I haven’t heard back from Interpol yet, so I can’t confirm he’s foreign, but if he is, he’d need a visa. No record of that either. As far as the United States is concerned, Cyrus Atossa does not exist. Unless you Google search the name, then you get about a million half-naked pictures and a model bio.” He sounded disgusted at the thought.

             
“You put it through Interpol?! Dammit, Michael. He’s a working model. Don’t you think he could be using a fake name? What do they call that?...A stage name. Don’t you think Cyrus Atossa might be a stage name?” He was quiet for a few moments considering my alternative.             

             
“It is possible.” He hates to be questioned. He hates even more to be wrong.

             
“You just don’t like him because I do. Well, really I don’t. Not exactly. He irritates me to no end. He’s cocky and elusive and has some kind of slave complex with Malcolm. But for some fucked-up reason, I can’t throw him under the bus. Trust me, I have considered on more than one occasion that he’s involved with this shit somehow, and every time I am wrong.”

             
“You’re wrong because you found evidence to the contrary or because you talked yourself out of it?” He had a damn good point.

             
Why am I constantly defending him? I don’t really even like him that much. He’s hot; it’s not like I want to have his babies or anything.

“Neither and both. Okay. Example. That Pico and Norton girl. I thought when you told me you found a dead blonde behind Macabre Saturnine it was Cyrus because I saw him leaving that very club with a blonde the night before. Or it could have been Tatum, but that’s neither here nor there. It took me staring into the eyes of a corpse before I knew for certain it wasn’t the same girl. So no, I can’t say without a reasonable doubt he didn’t kill that blonde girl and leave her body in an alley. I can only say that he didn’t kill the other one. Unless another body popped up somewhere I don’t know about.”