Also by James Patterson

 

Roses are Red Pop Goes the Weasel Cat and Mouse 1st to Die Cradle and All When the Wind Blows Suzanne's Diary for Nicholas Miracle on the 17th Green (with Peter de Jonge) JA7VIES PATTERSON

 

VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

HEADLINE FEATURE Copyright © 2001 James Patterson

 

The right of James Ratterson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

First published in Great Britain in 2001 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING A HEADLINE FEATURE book 10 987654321

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

 

P&tterson, James, 1947Violets are blue 1. Cross, Alex (Fictitious character) - Fiction 2.Serial murders - United States - Fiction 3. Suspense fiction I.Title 813.5'4[F]

 

ISBN 0 7472 6348 5 (hardback) ISBN 0 7472 7432 0 (trade paperback)

 

Typeset by Letterpart Ltd Reigate, Surrey Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

 

HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING A division of Hodder Headline 338 Euston Road London NW1 3BH

 

www.headline.co.uk www.hodderheadline.com This is for my friend, Kyle Craig, who doesn't work for the FBI, but who has, I think, a really cool name. I should mention a few other patrons of the arts: Jim Heekin, Mary Jordan, Fern Galperin,Maria Pugatch, Irene Markocki, Barbara Groszewski/Tony Peyser, and my sweet Suzie. PROLOGUE

 

WITHOUT ANY WARNING Chapter One

 

Nothing ever starts where we think it does. So of course this doesn't begin with the vicious and cowardly murder of an FBI agent and good friend named Betsey Cavalierre. I only thought that it did. My mistake, and a really big and painful one. I arrived at Betseys house in Woodbridge, Virginia, in the middle of the night. I'd never been there before, but I didn't have any trouble rinding it. The FBI and EMS were already there. There were flashing red and yellow lights everywhere, seeming to paint the lawn and front porch with bright, dangerous streaks. I took a deep breath and walked inside. My sense of balance was off. I was reeling. I acknowledged a tall, blonde FBI agent I knew named Sandy Hammonds. I could see that Sandy had been crying. She was a friend of Betsey's. On a hallway table I saw Betsey's service revolver. Beside it was a printed reminder for her next shooting qualifier at the FBI range. The irony stung. I forced myself to walk down a long hallway that led from the living room to the back of the house, which looked to be close to a hundred years old. It was filled with the kind of country clutter that she'd loved when she was alive. The master bedroom was situated at the end of the hall. I knew instantly that the murder had happened in there. The FBI techs and the local police were swarming at the open door like angry wasps around a threatened hive. The house was strangely, eerily quiet. This was as bad as it gets, worse than anything else. Ever. JAAAES PA-TTERSON

 

Another one of my partners was dead. The second one brutally murdered in two years. And Betsey had been much more than just a partner. How could this have happened? What did it mean? I saw Betsey's small body sprawled on the hardwood floor and I went cold. My hand flew to my face, a reflex over which I had no control. The killer had stripped off her nightclothes. I didn't see them anywhere in the bedroom. The lower body was coated with blood. He'd used a knife. He'd punished Betsey with it. I desperately wanted to cover her, but I knew I couldn't. Betsey's brown eyes were staring up at me, but they saw nothing. I remembered kissing those eyes, and that sweet face. I remembered her laugh, high-pitched and musical. I stood there for a long time, mourning Betsey, missing her terribly. I wanted to turn away, but I didn't. I just couldn't leave her like this. As I stood in the bedroom, trying to figure out something coherent about Betsey's murder, the cell phone in my jacket pocket went off. I jumped. I grabbed it, but then hesitated. I didn't want to answer. 'Alex Cross,' I finally spoke into the receiver. I heard a machine-filtered voice and it cut right through me. I shuddered against my will. 'I know who this is and I even know where you are. At poor, dear, butchered Betsey's. Do you feel a little bit like a puppet on a string, Detective?You should/said the Mastermind,'because that's what you are. You're my favorite puppet, in fact.' 'Why did you kill her?'I asked the monster on the other end of the phone line. 'You didn't have to do this.' He laughed a mechanical laugh and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.'You ought to be able to figure that out, no? You're the famous Detective Alex Cross. You have all those big, important cases notched on your belt. You caught Gary Soneji, Casanova. You solved Jack and Jill. Christ, you're impressive.' I spoke in a low voice. 'Why don't you come after me right now? How about tonight? As you say, you know where I am.' VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

The Mastermind laughed again, quietly, almost under his breath. 'How about I kill your grandmother and your three kids tonight? I know where they are, too. You left your partner with them, didn't you?You think he can stop me? John Sampson doesn't have a chance against me.' I hung up and sprinted out of the house in Woodbridge. I called Sampson in Washington and he picked up on the second ring. 'Everything okay there?' I gasped. 'Everything's fine, Alex. No problems here. You don't sound too good, though. What's up? What happened?' 'He said he's coming for you and Nana and the kids,' I told John. 'The Mastermind.' 'Not going to happen, sugar. Nobody will get past me. I hope to hell he tries.' 'Be careful, John. I'm on my way back to Washington right now. Please be careful. He's crazy. He didn't just kill Betsey, he defiled her.' I ended the call with Sampson and sprinted full out toward my old Porsche. The cell phone rang again before I got to the car. 'Cross,' I answered, still running as I spoke, trying to steady the receiver against my chin and ear. It was him again. He was laughing maniacally. 'You can relax, Dr Cross. I can hear your labored breathing. I'm not going to hurt them tonight. I was just rucking with you. Having some fun at your expense. 'You're running, aren't you? Keep running, Dr Cross. But you won't be fast enough. You can't get away from me. It's you I want. You're next, Dr Cross.' PART ONE

 

THE CALIFORNIA MURDERS Chapter Two

 

United States Army Lieutenant Martha Wiatt and her boyfriend, Sergeant Davis O'Hara, moved at a fast pace as the evening fog began to roll in like a sulfurous cloud across Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. The couple looked sleek, even beautiful, in the waning light of day. Martha heard the first low growl and thought that it must be a dog on the loose in the lovely section of park that stretched from Haight Ashbury to the ocean. It came from far enough behind them that she wasn't worried. 'The Big Dawg!' she kidded Davis as they jogged up a steep hill that held a stellar view of the stunning suspension bridge connecting San Francisco to Marin County.'Big Dawg'was a pet expression they used for everything over-sized - from jet-liners, to sexual apparatus, to very large canines. Soon the thick fog would blanket the bridge and bay completely, but for now it was a gorgeous sight, incomparable, one of their favorite things in San Francisco. 'I love this run, that beautiful bridge, the sunset - the whole ball of wax,' Martha said in a steady, relaxed cadence. 'But enough bad poetry. It's time for me to kick your well-formed, athletic-looking butt, O'Hara.' 'That sounds like cheap-shot female chauvinism to me,' he grunted, but he was grinning, showing off some of the whitest teeth she had ever seen, or run her tongue across. Martha kicked up her pace a notch. She'd been a cross-country JA/V1ES PA-TTERS01M

 

star at Pepperdine University, and she was still in great shape. 'And that sounds like the beginnings of a gracious loser's speech/she said. 'We'll see about that, won't we. Loser buys at The Abbey.' 'I can already taste a dos Equis. Mmm, mmm, good.' Suddenly the two runners' playful exchange was interrupted by a much louder growl. It was closer, too. It didn't seem possible that a dog had covered so much ground so fast. Maybe there were a couple of'Big Dawgs'loose in the area. 'There aren't any cats in this park?' Davis asked. 'I mean, like a mountain lion variety of cat?' 'No. Of course not. Get real, pal. We're in San Francisco, not the middle of Montana.' Martha shook her head. Moisture jumped off her close-cropped reddish-brown hair. Then she thought she heard footsteps. A runner and a large dog? 'Let's get out of these woods, okay?' Davis said. 'I hear you. I don't necessarily disagree. Last one to the parking lot is dog chow.' 'Not funny. Lieutenant Martha. Bad joke. This is getting a little spooky.' 'I don't know about big cats around these parts, but I think I just spotted a little pussy.' Another loud growl - and this time it was really close. Right on the heels of the two of them. Gaining ground fast. 'C'mon! Let's go. Let's move it,'said Martha Wiatt. She was a little afraid now, running as fast as she could, and that was very fast. Another eerie growl pierced the gathering fog.

 

 

10 Chapter Three

 

Lieutenant Ma rtha Wiatt had definitely picked up her pace. She put some distance between herself and Davis. It wasn't that hard. She did triathlons for fun. He worked behind a desk, though God knows, he certainly looked good for an accountant. 'C'mon, c'mon. Keep up with me, Davis. Don't fall back,'she called over her shoulder. Her boyfriend for the past year didn't answer. Well, that settled any future debate about who was in better shape, who was the real athlete. Of course, Martha had known that all along. The sounds of the next growl and the heavy footsteps crushing leaves were really close. They were catching up to her. But what was catching up to her? 'Martha! There's something behind me. Oh God! Run! Run, MarthaV Davis shouted. 'Get the hell out of here!' Adrenaline charged through her. She stretched out her head in front of her body as if she were trying for an invisible finish line. Her arms and legs moved in synch like efficient pistons. She leaned her weight forward, the way all good runners do. She heard screams behind her and looked back - but she couldn't see Davis anymore. The screams were so terrifying that she almost stopped running. But Davis had been attacked by something vicious. Martha rationalized that she had to get help. The police. Somebody. Her boyfriend's screams were ringing in her ears and she was running in total panic, unaware of where she was going. She stumbled over a pointy rock and cartwheeled down a steep hill,

 

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crashing into the base of a small tree, but at least it stopped her fall. In a daze, she managed to pull herself up. Jesus, she was pretty sure she'd broken her right arm. Cradling it with the left, she ran forward in a clumsy stumble. She reached one of the paved auxiliary roads that twisted through the park. Davis's screams had stopped. What had happened to him? She had to get help. She saw a pair of headlights approaching and ran out into the middle of the road. She straddled the double center lines and felt like a total madwoman. For God's sake, this is San Francisco! 'Please stop, please stop. Hey! Hey! Hey!' She waved her good arm and shouted at the top of her voice.'Stop! I need help!' The white van sped straight for her, but then, thank God, it skidded to a stop. Two men jumped out and ran to her. They would help. The van said 'Red Cross' on its hood. 'Help me. Please,'Martha said.'My boyfriend is hurt.' Things went from bad to worse. One of them hit her with a closed fist. Before Martha realized what was happening, she went down hard. Her chin struck the pavement, bouncing like a wet ball. She was knocked almost unconscious by the powerful blow. She looked up, tried to focus her eyes, and wished she hadn't. Blazing red eyes stared down at her. A mouth was open wide. Two mouths. She had never seen such teeth in her life. They were like sharpened knives. The incisors were huge. She felt the teeth bite into her cheek, then her neck. How could that be? They tore into her and Martha screamed until her throat was raw. She rolled and twisted and kicked out at her attackers, but it did no good. They were incredibly strong. Both of them were growling. 'Ecstasy,' one of them whispered against Martha's ear. 'Isn't it exquisite? You're so lucky. You were chosen out of all the beautiful people in San Francisco. You and Davis.'

 

 

12 Chapter Four

 

It was a perfect, blue-skied morning in Washington - well, almost perfect. The Mastermind was on my cell phone. 'Hello, Alex. Did you miss me? I missed you, partner.' The bastard had been making obscene, threatening phone calls to me every morning for over a week. Sometimes he just cursed at me for several minutes; this morning, he sounded positively civil. 'What's your day look like? Any big plans?' he asked. Actually, yes. I was planning to catch him. I was inside an FBI van that was already on the move. We were tracing his call and would have the exact location very soon. A court order had been put through the FBI and the phone company was involved in 'trapping' the call. I was in the rear of the speeding van with three Bureau agents and my partner, John Sampson. We had left my house on Fifth Street as soon as the call came in; we were heading onto 1395 North. My job was to keep him on the line until the trace was completed. 'Tell me about Betsey Cavalierre. Why did you pick her instead of me?' I asked him. 'Oh, she's much, much prettier,' the Mastermind said. 'More fuckable.' One of the techie agents was talking in the background. I tried to listen to both conversations. The agent said, 'He's living up to his name. We've got a wire tap and should be able to trace the call immediately. It isn't happening for some reason.' 'Why the hell not?'Sampson asked and moved closer to the agents.

 

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'Don't know exactly. We're picking up different locations, but they keep changing. Maybe he's on a cell phone in a car. Cell phones are harder to trace.' I could see that we were getting off the D Street Exit. Then we headed into the Third Street tunnel. Where was he? 'Everything all right, Alex?You seem a little distracted,'the Mastermind said. 'No, I'm right here with you. Partner. Enjoying our little breakfast club.' 'I don't know why this is so goddamn hard,' the FBI techie complained. Because he's the Mastermind, I wanted to yell at him. I saw the Washington Convention Center on the right. The van was really clipping along, doing sixty or seventy on the city streets. We passed the Renaissance Hotel. Where the hell was the Mastermind calling from? 'I think we have a fix on him. We're real close,' one of the young agents said in an excited voice. Suddenly the FBI van stopped; it was chaos inside. Sampson and I pulled out our guns. We had him. I couldn't believe we had him. Then everyone inside the van groaned and cursed. I looked outside and saw why. I shook my head in disgust. 'Jesus Christ, do you believe this shit!' Sampson yelled and pounded the wall of the van. We were at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, the J. Edgar Hoover Building. FBI headquarters. 'What's happening now?' I asked the agent in charge. 'Where the hell is he?' 'Shit, the signal is roaming again. It's moving outside Washington. Okay, now it's back in the city. Christ, it just skipped out of the country.' 'Goodbye, Alex. For now anyway. As I told you before, you're next,' the Mastermind said. Then he hung up on me.

 

 

14 Chapter Five

 

The rest of my day was long, hard, and depressing. More than anything, I needed a break from the Mastermind. I'm not exactly sure when, where or how I got up the nerve, but I had a date that night. It was with a lawyer for the DA's office here in Washington. Elizabeth Moore was wickedly funny and nicely irreverent. She was a large woman with a really sweet smile that made me smile. We were having dinner at Marcel's in Foggy Bottom, a good spot for this kind of thing. The food is French, with a Flemish flair. The night couldn't have been going any better. I thought so, and I was pretty sure that Elizabeth would agree. After the waiter left with our orders for dessert and coffee, Elizabeth put her hand lightly on top of mine. Our table was lit by a simple crystal votive candle. 'All right, Alex. We've gone through all the preliminaries. I enjoyed the preliminaries,' she said. 'Now what's the catch? There has to be a catch. Has to be. All the good ones are taken. I know that from experience. So why are you still playing the dating game?' I understood exactly what Elizabeth meant, but I pretended to look slightly puzzled. 'Catch?' I shrugged, then I finally started to smile. She laughed out loud. 'You're what - thirty-nine, forty?' 'Forty-two, but thanks,' I said. 'You passed every test I could possibly throw at you . . .' 'Such as?' 'Such as picking a great spot for dinner. Romantic, but not too

 

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romantic. Such as being right on time when you arrived to pick me up. Such as listening to some of the things that actually interest me. Such as being very handsome - not that it matters to me.Yeah, right.' /! also like children, wouldn't mind having more/I added.'I've read all of Toni Morrison's novels. I'm a decent plumber. I can cook if I have to.' 'The catch?' she said again. 'Let's leave it.' Our waiter returned, and right as he was pouring a steaming cup of coffee for Elizabeth, the beeper on my belt went off. Oh Jesus. Busted! I looked across the table at her - and I blinked. I was definitely the first one to blink. 'You mind if I take this? It's important. I recognize the number the FBI in Quantico. I won't be long. I'll be right back.' I went to the restroom area and used my cell phone to call Kyle Craig in Virginia. Kyle has been a solid friend for many years, but ever since I became liaison between the Bureau and the DC police, I've seen way too much of him. He keeps dragging me into the nastiest murder cases on the FBI's docket. I hated taking his calls. Now what had happened? Kyle knew who was calling back. He didn't even bother to say hello. 'Alex, do you remember a case you and I worked about fourteen months ago? A runaway girl was found hung from a lighting fixture in her hotel room. Patricia Cameron? There have been two murders in San Francisco that match up. Happened last night in Golden Gate Park. This is a very bad scene - the worst I've heard about in a while.' 'Kyle, I'm having dinner with an attractive, very nice, interesting woman. I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'll call you. I'm off duty tonight.' Kyle laughed. I amused him sometimes. 'Nana already told me. Your date's a lawyer, right? Listen to this one. The devil meets with this lawyer. Says he can make the lawyer a senior partner, but the lawyer has to give him his soul and the soul of everybody in his family. The lawyer stares at the devil and asks, "So what's the catch?" 'After he told his joke, Kyle went on to tell me more than I

 

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wanted to hear about the similarities connecting the awful murders in San Francisco to the one I had investigated in DC. I remembered the victim, Patricia Cameron. I could still see her face. I shook off the image. When he was finished, and Kyle tends to be thorough if a bit long-winded, I went back to join Elizabeth at our table. She smiled ruefully and shook her head. 'I think I just figured out the catch,7 she said. I did my best to laugh, but my insides were already tied up in knots. 'Honestly, it's not as bad as it looks.' It's much worse, Elizabeth.

 

 

17 ^ it

 

Chapter Six

 

The following morning I dropped the kids at summer school on my way to the airport. Jannie is eight; Damon just turned ten. They're really good kids, but they're kids. You give them a tiny advantage, they take a lot, and then they take a little more. Someone, I don't remember who, said that'American children suffer too much mother and too little father.' With my kids, it's been the exact opposite. 'I could get used to this,'Jannie said as we pulled up in front of the Sojoumer Truth School. Helen Folasade Adu - Sade - was singing softly on the CD. Very nice. 'Don't get used to it. It's a five-block walk from our house to school. When I was a little boy in North Carolina, I used to walk five miles through tobacco fields to school.' 'Yeah, right,' Damon scoffed. 'You forgot that you used to walk barefoot. Left that part out.' 'I did. Thanks for reminding me. I used to walk barefoot through those nasty tobacco fields to school.' The kids laughed and so did I. They're usually good to be around, and I'm always videotaping them. I do it in the hopes that I'll have nice movies to watch when the two of them go bad in their teenage years. Also, I'm afraid I might get CRS someday - the can't remember shit disease. It's going around. 'I have a big concert on Saturday,'Damon reminded me. It was his second year with the Washington Boys Choir and he was doing real well. He was going to be the next Luther Vandross, or Al Green, or

 

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maybe he was just going to be Damon Cross. 'I'll be home by Saturday, Damon. Trust me, I wouldn't miss your concert.' 'You missed quite a few already,' he said. It was a sharp little dig. 'That was the old me. This is the new and improved Alex. I've also attended several of your concerts.' 'You're so funny. Daddy,' Jannie said, and laughed. Both kids are smart, and smart-assed as well. 'I will be home for Damon's concert on Saturday,'! promised.'Help your grandma around the house. She's almost a hundred years old, you know.' Jannie rolled her eyes. 'Nana's eighty years young, or so she says. She loves to cook, do the dishes, and clean up after us,' she said, imitating Nana's wicked cackle.'She truly does.' 'Saturday. I can't wait,'I said to Damon. It was the whole truth and nothing but. The Boys Choir was one of Washington's secret treasures. I was ecstatic that Damon was good enough to sing with the group, but most of all that he loved what he was doing. 'Kisses,'! said.'Hugs too.' Damon and Jannie groaned, but they leaned in close and I wondered how much longer they would be willing to give me hugs and pecks on the cheek. So I took an extra few while I could get them. When the good times come with your kids, you've got to make them last. 'I love you two,' I said before I let them go off to school. 'What do you say?' 'We love you too,'Damon and Jannie chorused. 'That's why we let you embarrass us to death in front of our school and all our friends,'Jannie said, and she stuck out her tongue. 'This ;s your last ride to school,' I told her. Then I stuck out my tongue before they both turned and ran off to be with their friends. They were growing up way too fast for me.

 

 

19 Chapter Seven

 

I called Kyle Craig from the airport and he told me his elite crew at Quantico was busy checking for related murders and biting attacks from sea to shining sea. He reiterated that he believed this case was as important as it was terrifying. I wondered what else he knew. Usually more than he tells. 'You're up early, Kyle, and you're busy. This case has caught your full attention. Why is that?' 'Of course it has. It's totally unique. I haven't seen anything remotely like it. Inspector Jamilla Hughes will meet your flight if she can. It's her case and she's supposed to be competent. She's one of two women in Homicide in San Francisco, so she probably is fairly good.' On the plane trip from DC I read and reread the faxes I'd gotten that morning about the horrific murders in Golden Gate Park. Inspector Hughes' preliminary crime-scene notes were precise and detailed, but most of all gut-wrenching. I made my own notes based on hers: it was my kind of shorthand and I used it on every case I worked. Male and female victims found dead at 3:20 A.M. in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. Why there? Visit park if possible. Victims hung by feet from oak tree. Why hung? To drain the bodies? Why drain the bodies? Rite of purification? Spiritual cleansing? Bodies naked and covered in blood. Why naked? Erotic? Sex crimes? Or just brutal? Exposing the victims to the world for some reason? Male's legs, arms, chest severely gouged - victim appears to have been

 

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bitten repeatedly. Male actually died from bites!!! Female bitten - but not as severely. Also cut with sharp object. Died from massive blood loss, Class IV. Female lost over 40% of her blood. Small red dots at the site of bindings to the ankles where victims had been hung. Called petechiae by the ME. Teeth marks on male appear to be those of large animal. Is that even remotely possible? What animal would attack a jogger in a big city park? Seems far-fetched to say the least. White substance on male victim's legs and stomach. Could be semen. What game were the killers playing? Autoerotic? I remembered the related case in Washington. How could I forget it? A sixteen-year-old runaway girl from Orlando, Florida, had been found dead and severely mutilated in a hotel room downtown. Her name was Patricia Dawn Cameron. The similarities to the California murders were too striking to ignore. The girl in DC had suffered savage bites all over her body. She had been hung by her feet from a hotel room lighting fixture. Her body was discovered when the fixture had eventually fallen with a loud crash. Patricia Cameron had died of blood loss, another Class IV. She had lost nearly seventy percent of her blood supply. The first question was an obvious one. So why did somebody need all that blood?

 

 

21 Chapter Eight

 

I was still thinking about the strange, terrible bites, and all that blood, as I walked off the plane and into crowded San Francisco International Airport. I looked around for Inspector Jamilla Hughes. Rumor had it that she was an attractive black woman. I noted that a businessman near the gate was reading The Examiner. I could see the bold headline on the front page HORROR IN GOLDEN GATE PARK, TWO MURDERED. I didn't see anyone waiting, so I began to look for signs directing me to public transportation. I only had a carry-on bag; I had promised to be home by Saturday for Damon's concert. I had my marching orders and I planned to keep my promises from now on. Cross my heart. A woman walked up to me as I started away from the gate.'Excuse me, are you Detective Cross?' I had noticed her just before she spoke to me. She was wearing jeans, a black leather car coat over a powder blue T-shirt. Then I spotted the tell-tale holster under her jacket. She was probably in her mid-thirties, nice looking, down-to-earth, pleasant for a homicide detective, who often come on a little gruff. 'Inspector Hughes?' I asked. 'Jamilla.'she extended her hand and smiled as I took it. Nice smile, too.'It's good to meet you. Detective. Ordinarily, I'd resist the sell out of any idea that originated with the FBI, but your reputation precedes you. Also, the murder in DC was awfully similar, wasn't it? So welcome to San Francisco.'

 

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'Good to be here.' I returned the smile as I shook hands with her. Her grip was strong, but not overly so. 'I was just thinking about the murder in DC/I told her.'Your crime-scene notes brought it all back to me. We never got anywhere with the murder of Patricia Cameron. You can add that to the file on my so-called reputation, the one that preceded me.' Jamilla Hughes smiled again. Sincere. Nothing overdone about it; nothing overdone about her either. She didn't particularly look like a homicide detective, and that was probably good. She seemed a little too normal to be a cop. 'Well, we'd better hurry. I've contacted a veterinary dental specialist and he's meeting us at the city morgue. He's a good friend of the medical examiner. How's that for showing you the sights of San Francisco?' I shook my head and grinned.'Actually, it's exactly what I came out here to see. I think I read about it in one of the tour books. When you're in San Francisco don't pass up a chance to see the morgue.' 'It's not in the tour books,' Jamilla said, 'but it should be. It's a whole lot more interesting than any trolley-car ride.'

 

 

23 Chapter Nine

 

Less than fifty minutes later, Jamilla Hughes and I were inside the morgue at San Francisco's famed Hall of Justice. We had joined the chief medical examiner, Walter Lee, and the dental expert, Dr fang. Dr Alien Pang took his time examining both bodies. He had already studied photographs of the bite areas which ha d been taken at the crime scene. He was a small man, completely bald, with very thick black-rimmed glasses. At one point during his examination, I noticed Inspector Hughes give a wink to the ME. I think they found Dr Pang just a little strange. So did I, but he was very thorough, and obviously serious about the job he had taken on. 'Okay, okay. I'm ready to talk about the nature of the bites now.' He finally turned to us and made his pronouncement. 'I understand you're making casts of the bite marks, Walter?' 'Yes, we lifted the marks with fingerprint powder. The casts should be ready in a day or two. We swabbed to gather saliva, of course.' 'Well, good. That's the right approach, I think. I'm ready to state my piece, my educated guess.' "That's excellent. Alien,'Lee said in a soft, very dignified voice. He wore a white coat with the nickname Dragon stitched on one pocket. He was a tall man, probably six-two, and weighed at least two-fifty. He carried himself with confidence. 'Dr Pang is a friend I have used before,' Lee continued. 'He's a veterinary dental expert from the Animal Medical Center in Berkeley. Alien is one of the best in the world, and we're lucky to have him on this case.'

 

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'Thank you for your time, Dr Pang,' Inspector Hughes said. 'This is terrific of you to help.' 'Thank you.' I joined in with the hallelujah chorus of praise. 'It's perfectly all right,'he said.'I'm not exactly sure where to start, other than to say that these two homicides are most interesting to me. The male was severely bitten, and I'm relatively sure the attacker was, well, it was a tiger. The bites on the female were inflicted by two humans. It's as if the humans and the large cat were running together. Like they were a pack. Extraordinary. And bizarre, to say the least.' 'A tiger?' Jamilla was the one to express the disbelief we were all feeling.'Are you sure? That doesn't seem possible, Dr Pang.' 'Alien,'Walter Lee said.'Explain, please.' 'Well, as you know, humans are heterodonts; that is, they have teeth of different sizes and shapes, which serve different functions. Most important would be our canines, which are situated between the lateral and the first premolar on each side of each jaw. The canines are used to tear food.' Walter Lee nodded, and Dr Rang continued. He was speaking solely to the ME at this point. I caught Jamilla's eye, and she gave me a wink. I liked that she had a sense of humor. Dr Pang now seemed in his own world. 'In contrast to humans, some animals are homodents. Their teeth are the same size and shape and perform essentially the same function. This is not true of large cats, however, especially tigers. The teeth of tigers have been adapted for their feeding habits. Each jaw contains six pointed cutting teeth; two very sharp, recurved canines; and molars that have evolved into cutting blades.' 'Is that important in terms of these murders?' Jamilla Hughes asked Dr Rang. I had a version of the same question. The small man nodded enthusiastically. 'Oh, of course. Certainly. The jaw of a tiger is extremely strong, able to clamp down hard enough to crush bone. The jaw can only move up and down, not side to side. This means the tiger can only tear and crush food, not chew or gnaw.' He demonstrated with his own teeth and jaw. I swallowed hard, and found my head shaking back and forth. A

 

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tiger was involved in these murders? How could that possibly be? Dr Pang stopped talking. He reached up and scratched his bald pate rather vigorously. Then he said, 'What completely baffles me is that someone commanded the tiger away from its prey after it struck - and the tiger obeyed. If that didn't happen, the prey would have been eaten.' 'Absolutely amazing/the medical examiner said, and gave Dr Pang a pat on the back. Then he looked at Jamilla and me. 'What's the saying -"catch a tiger, if you can"? A tiger shouldn't be all that hard to find in San Francisco.'

 

 

26 Chapter Ten

 

The large, white, male tiger was making a chuffing sound, a muted, backward whistle. The sucking noise came from deep inside its wide throat. The sound was almost unearthly. Birds took flight from a nearby cypress oak. Small animals scampered away as fast as they could. The tiger was eight feet long, muscular, and weighed just over five hundred and eighty pounds. Under ordinary circumstances its prey would have been pigs and piglets, deer, antelope, water buffalo. There were no ordinary circumstances in California. There were lots of humans, though. The cat pounced quickly, its lithe, powerful body moving effortlessly. The young blond male didn't even try to resist. The tiger's massive jaw opened wide, then clamped down onto the man's head. The cat's jaws were strong enough to pulverize bone. The man screamed,'Stop! Stop! Stop!' Amazingly the tiger stopped. Just like that. On verbal command. 'You win,' the blond man laughed and patted the animal, which released his head. The man twisted sharply to the left. His movements were almost as quick and effortless as the cat's. Then he pounced. He attacked the tiger's vulnerable creamy-white underside, grabbing onto flesh with his teeth.'Got you, you big baby! You lose. You're still my love slave.' William Alexander stood off in the distance, watching his younger brother with a mixture of curiosity and awe. Michael was a beautiful

 

-------------- 27 -------------- JAAAES PATTERSON

 

man-child, incredibly graceful and athletic, strong beyond belief. He wore a black pocket T-shirt and powder blue shorts. He was already six feet three and a hundred-eighty-five pounds. He was flawless. Both of them were, actually. William walked away, staring into the distance at the rich, green hills. He loved it out here. The beauty and the solitude, the freedom to do anything he wanted to do. He was very quiet inside - an art that he was still mastering. When he and Michael were small boys, this whole area had been a commune. Their mother and father had been hippies, experimenters, freedom lovers, massive drug-takers. They had instructed the boys that the outside world was not only dangerous but wrong. Their mother had taught William and Michael that having sex with anyone, even with her, was a good thing, as long as it was consensual. The brothers had slept with their mother, and their father, and many others in the commune. Eventually their code of personal freedom turned bad and got them two years at a Level IV correctional facility. They had been arrested for possession, but it was aggravated assault that put the brothers behind bars. They were suspected of much more serious crimes, but none could be proved. As William stared off at the foothills, he marveled at the concept of the unbridled mind. Day by day he left behind the shabby baggage of his past life. Soon he would have no false morals, or ethics, or any of the other bullshit inhibitions taught in the civilized world. He was getting closer to the truth. So was Michael. William was twenty. Michael was only seventeen. They had been killing together for five years, and they kept getting better and better at it. They were invincible. Immortal.

 

 

28 Chapter Eleven

 

That night, the two brothers hunted in the town of Mill Valley in Marin County. The area was beautiful, small mountains teeming with strapping, healthy evergreen and eucalyptus trees. The redwood house was maybe a hundred yards ahead, up a steep, rocky slope that they climbed with ease. A brick walkway led to an entryway with double wooden doors. 'We have to go away for a while.' William spoke without turning around to Michael. 'We have a mission from the Sire. San Francisco was just the start.' 'That's excellent,' Michael said, and he began to smile. 'I enjoyed what went down there very much. Who are these people, the ones in the big, fancy house?' William shrugged. 'Just prey. The/re nobody.' Michael began to pout. 'Why won't you tell me who they are?' 'The Sire said not to talk, and not to bring the cat.' Michael asked no further questions. His obedience to the Sire was complete. The Sire told you how to think, feel, and act. The Sire was accountable to no one, to no other authority. The Sire despised the straight world, as did they. This definitely looked like the'straight world'. The large house had all the trappings: gardens tended and watered daily; a small pond filled with koi; several layers of terraces leading up to a large house with over a dozen rooms - for just two people. How obnoxious could anyone be? William walked right in the front door and Michael followed. The

 

-------------- 29 -------------- JA/VIES PATTERSON

 

foyer had a twenty-foot ceiling, a ridiculous crystal chandelier, a spiral staircase to heaven. They found the couple in the kitchen, preparing a late meal, both of them sharing the preparations like the goodie-goodies that they were. 'Yuppies at play,'William said, and smiled. 'Whoa!' the male said, and threw up both of his hands. He was close to six-four and well-built. He was working like kitchen help at the vegetable sink. 'What the hell do you guys think you're doing? Let's take it outside.' 'You're the trouble-making lawyer/William said, and pointed at the female. She was early thirties, short blond hair, high cheekbones, slender, with small breasts. 'We came for supper.' 'I'm a lawyer, too,' the domineering male said. 'I don't think you two were invited. I'm sure of it. Get out! You hear me? Hey, you assholes, hit the road.' 'You threatened the Sire.'William continued to talk to the female. 'So he sent us here.' 'I'm going to call the police.'The woman finally spoke. She was upset now, the nubs of her breasts rising and falling against her shirt. She had a small cell phone in her hand and William wondered if she had pulled it out of her ass. The thought made him smile. He was on her in an instant and Michael took down the husband almost as easily. The brothers were incredibly fast and strong - and they knew it. They growled loudly, but that was only an element of surprise, a scare tactic. 'We have money in the house. My God, don't hurt us,' the male shrieked loudly, almost like a woman. 'We're not after your obscene money - we have no use for it. And we're not serial killers, or anything common like that,' William told them. He bit down into the struggling woman's luscious pink neck - and she stopped fighting. Just like that, she was his. She gazed into his eyes, and she swooned. A tear ran down her cheek. William didn't look up again until he had fed. 'We're vampires,' he finally whispered to the murdered couple.

 

-------------- 30 -------------- Chapter Twelve

 

On my second day in San Francisco, I worked out of a small cubicle near Jamilla Hughes' desk at the Hall of Justice. I attended a couple of her briefings on the Golden Gate Park murders, which were thorough and highly professional. She was impressive. Everything about the murder case was weird and wrongheaded, though. No one had a fix on it yet; no one had a good idea, at least none that I'd heard so far. The only thing we knew for sure was that people were being murdered in particularly horrible ways. It happens more and more frequently these days. Around noon, I got a call on my cell phone. 'Just checking in,' the Mastermind said. 'How is San Francisco, Alex? Lovely city. Will you leave your heart there? Do you think it's a good place to die? 'Or how about Inspector Hughes? Do you like her? She's very pretty, isn't she? Just your type. Are you going to fuck Jamilla? Better hurry then. Tempus fugit.' He hung up. I went back to work. Lost myself for a couple of hours. Began to make some minor progress. Around four o'clock, I was staring out at the start of rush hour San Francisco-style - pretty mild, actually - while I talked to Kyle Craig. He was still at Quantico, but he was definitely heavily involved in the case. Kyle was in a position to choose the cases he became personally connected with, and he told me this was going to be one of them. We'd be working together again. I looked forward to it. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and saw Jamilla

 

-------------- 31 -------------- JAAAES PATTERSON

 

approaching. She had her leather jacket half-on and was struggling into the second sleeve. Going somewhere?'Hold on, Kyle/I said into the receiver. 'We have to go/ she said, 'to San Luis Obispo. The/re going to exhume a body. I think it's related.' I told Kyle that I had to leave right away. He wished me happy hunting. Jamilla and I took the elevator down to the parking garage beneath the Hall of Justice. The more I saw of her work, the more I was impressed; not just by her savvy, but by her enthusiasm for the job. A lot of detectives lose that after a couple of years. She obviously hadn't. Are you going to fuck Jamilla? Better hurry then. 'Are you always this pumped up?' I asked her once we were inside her blue Saab and heading out toward Highway 101. 'Yeah. Pretty much,' she said. 'I like the work. It's tough, but interesting, honest most of the time. I could do without the violence.' 'This case in particular. The hangings give me the creeps.' She looked over at me. 'Speaking of life-threatening situations, you'd better buckle up. We've got a hike ahead of us, and I used to drive funny cars as a hobby. Don't be fooled by the Saab.' She wasn't kidding. According to the road signs, it was about 235 miles to San Luis Obispo. Heavy rain peppered the car most of the way. She still got us there by eight-thirty. 'In one piece, too.' She nodded and winked as we whisked off the highway at the San Luis Obispo exit. It looked like an idyllic spot, but we were there to exhume the corpse of a young girl. She had been hung and her blood had been drained.

 

 

32 Chapter Thirteen

 

San Luis Obispo is a very pretty college town, at least from the outside looking in. We found Higuera Street and drove down it to Osos, past small local shops, but also Starbucks, Barnes & Noble, the Firestone Grill. Jamilla told me that you could always tell the time of day in San Luis Obispo by the scents and aromas: like barbecue smoke in the afternoon on Marsh Street, or the aroma of wheat and barley at night outside the Slo Brewing Co. We met Detective Nancy Goodes at the police station in town. She was a petite, attractive woman, with a nice California tan, very much in charge of her homicide investigation. In addition to contacting us about this exhumation, she was also the lead on the murders of two students from Cal Poly that didn't seem related to our case, but who could tell for sure. Like most homicide detectives these days, she was busy.

 

'We've got the permissions we need to exhume the body,' Goodes told us on the way out to the cemetery. At least the rain had stopped for now. The air was warm, thanks to Santa Ana winds. 'What can you tell us about the murder. Nancy? You worked the case yourself, right?' Jamilla asked. The detective nodded. 'I did. So did just about every other detective in town. It was very sad, and an important case here. Mary Alice Richardson went to the Catholic high school in town. Her father's a well-liked doctor. She was a nice kid, but a bit of a wild child. What can I tell you, she was a kid. Fifteen years old.'

 

-------------- 33 -------------- JAAAES PATTERSON

 

'What do you mean she was a wild child?' I asked Detective Goodes. She sighed and worked her jaw a little. I could tell this case had left a wound. 'She missed a lot of school, two or three days a week sometimes. She was bright enough, but her grades were just terrible. She hung with other kids who liked to experiment - drugs like Ecstasy, raves, black magic, heavy drinking, all-night parties. Maybe even a little free-basing. Mary Alice was only arrested once, but she was giving her parents a lot of premature gray hairs.' Jamilla asked, 'Were you at the crime scene. Nancy?' I noticed that she was respectful of the other detective at all times. Very non- threatening toward Nancy. 'Unfortunately, I was. That's one of the reasons I worked so hard getting the permissions we needed to dig up her body. Mary Alice died a year and three months ago, but I will never, ever forget how we found her.' Jamilla and I looked at each other. We hadn't heard the particulars of the murder yet. We were still playing catchup. Goodes continued.'It was pretty clear to me that she was meant to be found. Two kids from Cal Poly were the ones who actually discovered the body. They were parking out near the hills. It's a popular spot for submarine races. They went for a little moonlit stroll. I'm sure they had nightmares after what they saw. Mary Alice was hanging from a cypress tree by her bare feet. Naked. Except the killers left her earrings, and a small sapphire in her belly button. This wasn't a robbery.' 'How about her clothes?' I asked. 'We found the clothes: UFO parachute pants, Nikes, Chili Peppers T-shirt. No trophies were taken to our knowledge.' I glanced at Jamilla. "The killer trusts his or her memory. Doesn't need trophies for some reason. Or so it seems. None of this follows any of the usual paths for serials.' 'No, it doesn't. I agree with that one hundred percent. Do you know what scarification is?' Detective Goodes asked. 'I've come across it,' I said. 'Scars, wounds. Most often on the legs and arms. Occasionally the chest or back. They avoid the face,

 

-------------- 34 -------------- VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

because then people might make them stop. Usually the scars are self-inflicted.' Detective Goodes nodded. 'Mary Alice had either cut herself over the past couple of months, or someone else did it for her. She had over seventy separate cuts on her body. Everywhere but the face.' The detective's white Suburban pulled onto a gravel road, then we passed between rusted wrought-iron gates. 'We're here,' Nancy Goodes announced. 'Let's get this over with. Cemeteries make me twitchy. I hate what we're going to do. This makes me so sad.' It made me sad, too.

 

 

35 Chapter Fourteen

 

I have yet to meet a relatively sane person who is anything but twitchy in a cemetery late at night. I consider myself to be mildly sane, therefore I was twitchy. Detective Goodes was right, this was a very sad affair, a tragic conclusion to a young girl's life. The backdrop for the cemetery was the rolling foothills of the Santa Lucia Mountains. Three patrol cars from the police department in San Luis Obispo were already parked around the gravesite of Mary Alice Richardson. The medical examiner's van was parked nearby. Plus two beat-up trucks without any clear identification on them. Four cemetery workers were digging in the bright light cast from the patrol-car headlamps. The soil looked rich and loamy and was thick with worms. When the hole was of sufficient depth, a backhoe was brought in to finish the job. The police observers, including myself, had nothing to do but stand impatiently around the grave. We drank coffee, exchanged small talk, cracked a few dark jokes, but nobody really laughed. I turned my cell phone off. I didn't need to hear from the Mastermind, or anybody else, here in the cemetery. Around one in the morning, the container of the casket was finally uncovered by the cemetery workers. A lump rose in my throat, but I looked on. Beside me stood Jamilla Hughes. She was shivering some, but sticking it out. Nancy Goodes had retreated to her Suburban. Smart lady. A crowbar was used to pry off the top of the liner. It made an

 

---------------- 36 -------------- VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

unpleasant groaning noise, like someone in deep pain. The hole in the ground was approximately six feet deep, eight feet long, less than four feet wide. Neither of us spoke. Every detail of the exhumation held our attention now. My eyes blinked too rapidly in the eerie light. My breathing was uneven and my throat felt a little raw. I was recalling crime-scene pictures of Mary Alice that I'd seen. Fifteen years old. Hung two feet off the ground by her ankles, left that way for several hours. Drained of nearly all her blood. Another Class IV death. Viciously bitten and stabbed. The victim in Washington hadn't been stabbed. So what did that mean? Why the variations on the murder theme? What did they do with all the blood? I almost didn't want to know the answers to the questions throbbing inside my head. Tattered gray canvas straps were carefully secured to the casket and it was finally, slowly raised out of the ground. My breathing was ragged. Suddenly I felt guilty about being here. I had the thought that we shouldn't be disturbing this poor girl in her grave. It was an unholy thing to do. She had been violated enough. T know, I know. This sucks. I feel the same thing,'Jamilla said out of the side of her mouth. She lightly touched a hand to my elbow. 'We have to do it. No other choice. We have to find out if it's the same killers.' T know. Why doesn't that make me feel any better about this?' I muttered. 'I feel all hollowed out.' 'That poor girl. Poor Mary Alice. Forgive us,'Jamilla said. A local funeral director, who had consented to be on hand, carefully opened the casket. Then he stepped back, as if he had seen a ghost. I moved forward to get my first look at the girl. I nearly gasped, and Jamilla's hand went to her mouth. A couple of the cemetery workers crossed themselves and bowed their heads low. Mary Alice Richardson was right there staring up at us. She was wearing a flowing white dress and her blond hair was carefully braided. The girl looked as if she had been buried alive. There had

 

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been virtually no decay of the body. There's an explanation for this/the funeral director said to us/The Richardsons are friends of mine. They asked me if anything could be done to preserve their daughter for as long as possible. Somehow they knew their little girl would be seen again. The condition of the body, once interred, can be in any state of decay. It depends on the ingredients. I used an arsenic solution in the embalming process, the way we used to in the old days. You're looking at the result.' He paused as we continued to stare. This is the way Mary Alice looked the day she was buried. This is the poor girl they murdered and hung.'

 

 

38 Chapter Fifteen

 

We got back to San Francisco at seven in the morning. I didn't know how Jamilla could drive, but she did just fine. We forced ourselves to talk most of the way back, just to keep awake. We even had a few laughs. I was bone-tired and could barely keep my eyes open. When I finally closed them inside my hotel room, I saw Mary Alice Richardson in her coffin. Inspector Hughes was drinking coffee at her desk when I arrived at the Hall of Justice at two o'clock that afternoon. She looked fresh and alert. None the worse for wear. She seemed to work as hard as I did on a case, maybe harder. I hoped it was a good thing for her. 'Don't you ever sleep?' I asked as I stopped to talk for a moment. My eyes went to the clutter at her work-space. I noticed a photograph of a smiling, very good-looking man propped on her desk. I was glad that she had time for a love life at least. It made me think of Christine Johnson, who was now living out here on the West Coast. I felt a stab of rejection. The love of my life? Not anymore. Unfortunately, not anymore. Christine had left Washington and moved to Seattle. She liked it there a lot, and was teaching school again. Jamilla shrugged. 'I woke up around noon, couldn't get back to sleep. Maybe I'm too tired. The ME in Luis Obispo says he'll send us a report late today. But listen to this. I just got an e-mail from Quantico. There have been eight murders in California and Nevada that bear some resemblance to the Golden Gate Park ones. Not all of the victims were hung. But they were bitten. The cases go back six years. So far. They're looking back even further than that.'

 

-------------- 39 -------------- JA/VIES PATTERSON

 

'What cities?' I asked her. She glanced down at her notes. 'Sacramento - our esteemed capital. San Diego. Santa Cruz. LasVegas. Lake Tahoe. San Jose. San Francisco. San Luis Obispo. This is so goddamn creepy, Alex. One murder like this would be enough to keep me sleepless for a month.' 'Plus the murder in Washington,' I said. 'I'm going to ask the Bureau to look at the East Coast.' She grinned sheepishly.'I already did. They're on it.' I teased, 'So what do we do now?' 'What do cops always do when they wait. We eat doughnuts and drink coffee,' she said and rolled her dark brown eyes. She had a natural, very attractive beauty, even on just a few hours' sleep. The two of us had a late breakfast at Roma's around the corner. We talked about the case, then I asked her about other cases she'd solved. Jamilla had a lot of confidence, but she was also modest about her contributions. I liked that about her. She definitely wasn't full of herself. When she had finished her omelet and toast, she sat there nervously tapping her finger against the table. She had several tics, seemed wired most of the time. I knew she was on the job again. 'What's the matter?' I finally asked. 'You're holding something back, aren't you?' She nodded. 'I got a call from KRON-TV. The/re close to doing a story revealing that there have been several murders in California.' I frowned. 'How the hell did they find out?' She shook her head. 'Who knows? I'm going to give a reporter I know at The Examiner the okay to break the story first.' 'Hold on a second,' I said. 'You sure about that?' 'I'm sure. I trust my friend as much as I trust anybody. He'll ground the story in reality at least. Now help me figure out if there's anything we want the killers to read in the newspapers. It's the least my friend can do for us.' When we got back to the Hall of Justice there was bad news. The killers had struck again.

 

 

40 Chapter Sixteen

 

It was another bad one, another hanging. Two hangings, actually. Jamilla and I split up as soon as we arrived at the murder scene in Mill Valley. We had different ways of doing things, different crime-scene techniques. Somehow, though, I thought we would arrive at the same conclusions about this one. I could see the signs already - all of them bad. The two bodies were hung upside down from a rack used to hold copper pots. The scene of the murders was a contemporary kitchen inside a large, very expensive house. Dawn and Gavin Brody looked to be in their mid-thirties. Like the other victims, they'd been drained of most of their blood. The first curiosity: although the Brodys were naked, the killers had left behind their jewelry. A pair of Rolex watches, wedding bands, a large diamond engagement ring, hoop earrings studded with countless small diamonds. The killers weren't interested in jewels or money, and possibly they wanted us to know it. So where were the victims' clothes? Had they been used to clean up the mess, to mop up blood? Was that why the killers had taken the clothing with them? They seemed to have interrupted the Brodys, who were both successful lawyers, while they were preparing a meal. Was there some symbolism involved here? Or dark humor? Was it a coincidence, or had they purposely attacked the couple at dinner time? Eat the rich? Several small town police officers and FBI techies were crowded

 

-------------- 41 -------------- JAAAES PATTERSON

 

into the kitchen with us. I figured that the damage had already been done by the Mill Valley police. They were well-intentioned, but had probably never worked a major homicide before. I saw a few dusty footprints on the natural stone kitchen floor. I doubted they belonged to the killers, or the Brodys. Jamilla had made her way around the large kitchen and now she came up to me. She'd seen enough already. She shook her head, and really didn't have to say what she was thinking. The local police had messed up this crime scene pretty badly. "This is beyond strange,' she finally said in a low whisper. "These killers have so much hatred in them. I've never seen anything like it. The rage. Have you, Alex?' I looked into Jamilla's eyes, but said nothing. Unfortunately, I had.

 

 

42 Chapter Seventeen

 

The story detailing a 'rampage' of West Coast murders dominated the front page of the San Francisco Examiner. All hell had broken loose. Literally. William and Michael watched it unfold on TV that night. They were impressed with themselves, though they had expected the news story to break soon. They were counting on it in fact. That was the plan. They were the special ones. The chosen team to get the job done. Now they were on their mission. On the road again. They were chowing down at a diner in Woodland Hills, north of LA, off Highway 5. People in the restaurant noticed the two of them. How could they not? Both were over six feet two, blond ponytails, strapping, well-muscled bodies, dressed completely in black. William and Michael were the archetypes of modem boyhood: wild animal meets entitled prince. The news was playing out on W. The murders were the lead story of course, and the sensationalized coverage lasted for several minutes. Frightened people in Los Angeles, LasVegas, San Francisco and San Diego were interviewed on camera and had the most incredibly insipid things to say. Michael frowned and looked over at his brother. "They got it all wrong. Mostly wrong anyway. What idiots, what fucking drones.' William took a bite of his dreary sandwich, then he stared up at the TV again. 'Newspapers and TV always get it wrong, little brother. They're part of the larger problem, of what has to be fixed. Like those

 

-------------- 43 -------------- JA./V1ES PATTERSON

 

two lawyers in Mill Valley. You finished here?' Michael wolfed down the remainder of his extra-rare cheeseburger in a voracious bite. 'I am, and I'm also hungry. I need to feed.' His beautiful blue eyes were glazed. William smiled and kissed his brother on the cheek.'C'mon then. I have a good plan for tonight.' Michael held back. 'Shouldn't we be a little careful? The police are out looking for us, right? We're a big deal now.' William continued to smile. He loved his brother's naivete. It amused him. 'We are an incredibly big deal. We're the next big thing. C'mon, little brother. We both need to feed. We deserve it. And besides, the police don't know who we are, always remember this, the police are incompetent fools.' William drove their white van back down the road they had traveled on through Woodland Hills, before they stopped at the diner. He was sorry they hadn't brought the cat, but this trip was too long. He pulled into an obnoxiously lit shopping mall and studied the signs: Wal-Mart, Denn/s, Staples, Circuit City, Wells Fargo Bank. He despised every one of them as well as the people who shopped there. 'We're not looking for prey here?' Michael asked. His bright blue eyes darted around the mall and he looked concerned. William shook his head. The blond ponytail wagged.'No, of course not. These people aren't worthy of us, Michael. Well, maybe that blonde girl in the tight blue jeans over there is marginally worthy.' Michael cocked his head sideways, then licked his lips. 'She'll do. For an appetizer.' William hopped out of the van and walked to the far end of the parking lot. He was strutting a little, smiling, his head held high. Michael followed. The brothers crossed through the back yard of the Wells Fargo Bank. Then the full parking lot of the Denn/s restaurant that William thought smelled of bacon grease and fat people. Michael began to smile when he saw what his brother was up to. They had done this kind of thing before. A somber black-and-white sign loomed straight ahead of them. It was backlit. Sorel Funeral Home.

 

-------------- 44 -------------- Chapter Eighteen

 

It took William less than a minute to crack open the back door into the funeral home. It wasn't a problem since security was minimal. 'Now, we feed,' he said to Michael. He was starting to get excited and his sense of smell led him to the embalming room. He discovered three bodies stored in the refrigerators. 'Two males and a female,' he whispered. He quickly examined the bodies. Two had been embalmed, one hadn't. They were fresh. William knew about necrology, including what went on in funeral homes. The embalming process involved draining blood from the veins, then injecting a formaldehyde-based fluid. Tubes connected to pumps were inserted into the carotid artery and the jugular vein. The next step involved emptying the internal organs of their fluids. After that, much of the work was cosmetic. The jaws of the dead were wired shut. The lips were arranged and sealed with some kind of glue. Eye caps were placed under each eyelid to prevent the eyeballs from sinking into the head. William pointed to a centrifuge, which was used to drain bodies of blood and other fluids. He began to laugh.'We won't be needing that tonight.' All his senses were heightened. He felt larger than life. His night vision was excellent. Nothing more than the illumination from a table lamp would be needed. He walked to the last of three stainless steel tables and took the unembalmed body in his arms. He carried the dead, a woman in her early forties, to a nearby porcelain table.

 

-------------- 45 -------------- JA/VIES PATTERSON

 

William looked at his brother and gently rubbed his hands together. He took a deep breath. They had raided funeral homes before, and though it didn't compare to a fresh kill, prey was prey. Besides, the dead woman was a fairly good physical specimen for her age. She was attractive and compared favorably to the female they had attacked and fed upon in San Francisco. There was a nametag on the body: Diana Ginn. T hope some funeral director didn't have Diana first,7 William said to his brother. Pathetic geeks sometimes took jobs at funeral homes so that they could ravage the dead at their leisure. They'd do unnecessary searches into vaginal and anal cavities. Another kinky pastime was to have sex with the dead in a coffin. It happened more than people could imagine. William found that he was excited. There was nothing to compare to this. He climbed up on the embalming table and positioned himself above the woman. Diana Ginn's naked body was ashen, but pretty enough in the dim light. Her lips were full and blue. He wondered how she had died, since she didn't look sick. There were no obvious wounds. She hadn't been in an accident. William carefully pried open the eyelids, looked into her eyes. 'Hello, my sweet giri.You're beautiful, Diana,'he whispered dreamily. "That isn't just a cheap pickup line. I mean it. You're extraordinary. You're worthy of tonight, of Michael and me. And we will be worthy of you.' He let his fingers lightly graze her cheeks, then the long neck, her breasts, which weren't pert now but more like sacs of pudding. He studied the intricate lines of her veins. So beautiful. He was almost dizzy with lust for Diana Ginn. While William crouched low over the body, his brother lightly stroked the woman's bony feet, her thin ankles, then slowly, lovingly moved his hands up the long legs. He was moaning softly, as if he were trying to waken her from the deepest sleep. 'We love you,' Michael whispered. 'We know you can hear us. You're still here in your body, aren't you. We know, Diana. We know exactly how you feel. We're the undead.'

 

-------------- 46 -------------- Chapter Nineteen

 

continued to be impressed with the tremendous discipline and hard work of Jamilla Hughes. What drove her? Something buried in her past? Something more obvious in the present? The fact that she was one of two women homicide inspectors in the San Francisco Police Department? Maybe all of the above? Jamilla had already told me that she hadn't taken a day of comp time in almost two years. That sounded kind of familiar. A couple of times during the next day at the Hall of Justice I mentioned her incredible work ethic, but she shrugged it off. She was well respected by the other homicide inspectors. She was a regular person. No false airs. No bullshit about her. I found out that she had a nickname. It suited her - Jam. I spent a couple of hours in the afternoon rinding out what I could about tigers. Area zoos and shelters were being canvassed in an attempt to locate every single tiger in California. The murderous cat was our best lead so far. I was keeping my own list of facts, different things that struck me. Someone had been able to command and control the tiger before and after it had attacked and bitten Davis O'Hara in Golden Gate Park. An animal trainer? A vet? The jaw of a tiger was so strong that it could crush bone, and then pulverize it. And yet, someone had been able to call the tiger off its prey. All tiger species were considered endangered. Their existence was being challenged by both loss of habitat and poaching. Could the killers also be environmentalists ?

 

-------------- 47 -------------- JAAAES PATTERSON

 

Tigers were being poached for their suspected healing powers. Almost every part of the cat was considered valuable, and in some cases, sacred. Tigers had magical significance in some cultures, especially in parts of Asia. Could that be important to the case? I had lost track of the time, and when I looked up from my note-taking it was already getting dark outside. Jamilla was striding down the corridor in my direction. She had on a long black leather jacket, and looked ready to leave. She'd put on lipstick. Maybe she had a date. She looked terrific. 'Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,' she recited a line from Blake's poem. I answered with the only other line I could remember. 'Did He who made the Lamb make thee?' She looked pensive, then she smiled. 'What a team. The poet detectives. Let's get a beer.' 'I'm pretty beat and I have a few more files to check. I think I'm still jet-lagged.'Even as I was saying the words, I wasn't sure why the hell I was saying them. She put up her hand.'All right already. You could have just said no, you're not my type. Jeez, man. I'll see you in the morning. But thanks for all your help. I mean that.' I saw her smile as she turned, then walked away, down the long hall to the elevators. But then I saw her shake her head. After she was gone, I sat at the desk overlooking the streets of San Francisco. I sighed, and then I shook my head. I could feel a familiar weariness settling in. I was alone again and I had no one to blame. Why had I turned Jamilla down for a couple of beers? I liked her company. I didn't have any other plans; and I wasn't that jet-lagged. But I thought I knew the reason. It wasn't too complicated. I had gotten close to my last two partners on homicide cases. Both Patsy and Betsey were women I liked. Both had died. The Mastermind was still out there. Could he be in San Francisco right now? Was Jamilla Hughes safe in her own city?

 

 

48 Chapter Twenty

 

The ringing of the telephone in my hotel room woke me early the next morning. I was groggy, still half-asleep when I picked up. It was Jamilla, and she sounded a little breathless. 'I got a call late last night from my friend Tim at The Examiner,' she told me. 'He's got a lead for us. This could be good stuff.' She quickly rilled me in on the sketchy details of an attempted murder, an old case. We had a witness this time. She and I were going on the road again. She didn't ask if I wanted to go - it was apparently a done deal. 'I'll pick you up in half an hour, forty minutes at the latest. We're going to LA. Wear black. Maybe you'll get discovered.'

 

United flies an hourly shuttle between San Francisco and Los Angeles. We just made the nine o'clock and were in LA an hour or so later. We didn't stop talking for the entire trip. We rented a car at Budget and headed to Brent-wood. I was as pumped up about the new lead as she was. The FBI was also in on the game in LA. On the way to Brentwood, she checked in with her pal Tim at The Examiner. I wondered if Tim was a boyfriend. 'You find out any more for us?' she asked. She listened, then repeated what she heard for me. Part of it we already knew. 'Two men attacked the woman we're going to see. She managed to get away from them. Lucky girl, incredibly lucky. They bit her severely. Chest, neck, stomach, face. She thought the perps were in their mid-forties to mid-fifties. The attack occurred over a year ago, Alex. It was a big story in the supermarket tabloids.'

 

-------------- 49 -------------- JA/VIES PATTERSON

 

I didn't say anything, just listened to her, took it all in. This case was so strange. I hadn't seen anything quite like it. 'They were going to hang her from a tree. There was no mention of a tiger in any of the articles my friend was able to dig up. A detective from the LAPD is meeting us at the station house. I'm sure we'll hear more details from him. He was the lead detective on the case.' She looked over at me. She had something here, something good. 'Here's the kicker, Alex. According to my source, the woman believes her attackers were vampires.'

 

 

50 Chapter Twenty-One

 

We met with Gloria dos Santos at the police station in the Brentwood section of LA. It was a one-story concrete building, about as non-descript as a post office. Detective Peter Kim joined us in a small interview room, which was about six by five feet, soundproof, with padded walls. Kim was slender, around six feet, in his late twenties. He dressed well, and seemed more like an up-and- coming Los Angeles business executive than a policeman to me. Gloria dos Santos obviously knew Kim, and they didn't seem too fond of each other. She called him'Detective Fuhrman', and she used the name over and over, until Kim told her to'can it'or he would lock her the hell up. dos Santos wore a short black dress, high black boots, leather wristbands. There were about a dozen earrings in strategic locations on her body. Her frizzy black hair was piled high, but some also cascaded down to her shoulders. She was only an inch or two over five feet and had a hard face. Her lashes were thick with mascara and she used purple eye shadow. She looked to be in good physical shape - like all the other victims so far. She stared at Kirn, then at me, and finally at Jamilla Hughes. She shook her head and smirked. She didn't like us, which was fine - I didn't much like her either. She sneered. 'Can I smoke in this rat-trap? I'm going to smoke, like it or not. If you don't like it, then I'm going the hell home.' 'So smoke,' Kim said. 'But you're not going home under any fucking circumstances.' He took out some David's ranch-style seeds

 

-------------- 51 -------------- JA/VIES PATTERSOISI

 

and started to eat them. Kim was a strange boy himself. dos Santos lit up a Camel and blew out a thick stream of smoke in Kirn's face. 'Detective Fuhrman knows everything that I know. Why don't you just get it all from him? He's brilliant, yknow. Just ask him about it. Graduated with some cumma honors from UCLA.' 'There are a few things we aren't clear about,' I said to her. "That's why we came all the way from San Francisco to see you. Actually, I came from Washington, DC.' 'Long trip for nothing. Shaft,' she said. Gloria dos Santos had a zinger for every occasion. She wiped her hand over her face a few times as if she were trying to wake herself up. 'You're obviously high as a kite/Jamilla cut in. "That doesn't matter to us. Relax, girl. These men who attacked you hurt you pretty bad.' dos Santos snorted. 'Pretty bad? They broke two ribs, broke my arm. They knocked me down 'bout six times. Fortunately, they knocked me right down a goddamn hill, side of a mountain, actually. I started rolling. Got up. Ran my ass off.' 'The initial report said that you didn't see either of them very well. Then you claimed that they were in their forties or fifties.' She shrugged. 'I don't know. It was foggy. That's an impression I had. Earlier that night, I went to the Fang Club on West Pico. It's the only place where you can meet real vampires and live to tell about it. So they say. I was going to a lot of Goth clubs back then - Stigmata, Coven 13, Vampiricus over in Long Beach. I worked at Necromane. What's Necromane?' she asked, as if it were a question we would want answered. She was right. 'Necromane is a boutique for people who are really into the dead. You can buy real human skulls there. Fingers, toes. A full human skeleton if that's your thing.' 'It's not,' Jamilla said. 'But I've been to a shop like that in San Francisco. It's called the Coroner.' The girl looked at her contemptuously. 'So I'm fucking impressed? You must be very cool. You must live right on the edge.' I spoke again. 'We're trying to help you. We--' She cut me off.'Bullshit, you're trying to help yourselves. You've got another big case. Those kinky murders in San Francisco, right? I can

 

-------------- 52 -------------- VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

read, man. You couldn't care less about Gloria dos Santos and her problems. I got lots of them. More than you know. Who gives a shit, right?' Two people were killed in Golden Gate Park. It was a massacre. Did you read that? We think it might be the same men who attacked you/1 told her. 'Yeah, well let me tell you something you better get straight. The two men who attacked me were vampires'. Got that? I know this is impossible for you to wrap your little minds around, but there are vampires. They set themselves apart from the human world. That means - they aren't like you! 'Two of them almost killed me. They were hunting in Beverly Hills. They kill people every fucking day in LA! They drink their blood. They call it feeding. They chew on their bones like it's KFP, that's Kentucky Fried People, chumps. I can see you don't believe me. Well, believe me.' The door to the interview room opened quietly. A uniformed patrolman popped in and whispered something to Detective Kim. Kim frowned and looked at us, then at dos Santos. "There was a killing on Sunset Boulevard a short time ago. Someone was bitten and then hanged at one of the better hotels.' Gloria dos Santos's face twisted horribly. Her eyes grew small and very angry. She flew into a rage, started to scream at the top of her voice. 'They followed you here, you assholes! Don't you get it? They followed you! Oh my God, they know I talked to you. Oh Jesus Christ, they'll get me. You just got me killed!'

 

 

53 PART TWO

 

BLOOD LUST Chapter Twenty-Two

 

I always liked working tough murder cases with Kyle Craig, so I was glad that he would be joining Jamilla Hughes and me in Los Angeles later that day. I was surprised, however, when I saw him already at the murder scene in Beverly Hills when we arrived. The body had been found at the Chateau Marmont, the hotel where John Belushi had overdosed and died. The hotel looked like a French castle and rose seven stories over the Sunset Strip. As I entered the lobby, I noticed that everything looked to be authentic 1920s, but dated rather than antique. Supposedly, a studio boss had once told the actor William Holden, If you have to get into trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont.' Kyle met us at the door of the hotel room. His dark hair was slicked back and it looked like he'd gotten a little sun. Unusual for Kyle. I almost didn't recognize him. 'This is Kyle Craig, FBI,'I told Jamilla.'Before I met you, he was the best homicide investigator I ever worked with.' Kyle and Jamilla shook hands. Then we followed him into the hotel room. Actually, it was a hillside bungalow: two bedrooms, a living room with a working fireplace. It had its own private street entrance. The crime scene was as depressingly bad as the others. I recalled something typically pessimistic that a philosopher had written. I'd once had this same thought at a grisly crime scene in North Carolina: 'Human existence must be a kind of error. It is bad today and every day it will get worse, until the worst of all happens.' My

 

-------------- 57 -------------- JA/VIES PATTERSON

 

own philosophy was a little cheerier than Schopenhauer's, but there were times when he seemed on the mark. The worst of all had happened to a twenty-nine-year-old record company executive named Jonathan Mueller, and in the worst possible way. There were bites on his neck. I didn't see any knife cuts. Mueller had been hung from a lighting fixture in the hotel room. His skin was waxy and translucent and I didn't think he had been dead very long. The three of us moved closer to the hanging body. It was swaying slightly, and still dripping blood. 'The major bites are all in his neck/I said.'It looks like role-playing vampires again. The hanging has to be their ritual, maybe their signature.' 'This is so goddamn creepy,'Jamilla whispered.'This poor guy had the blood sucked out of him. It almost looks like a sex crime.' 'I think it is,' Kyle said. 'I think they seduced him first.' Just then the cell phone in my jacket pocket went off. The timing couldn't have been worse. I looked at Kyle before I an swered the call.'It could be him,'I said. 'The Mastermind.' I put the receiver to my ear. 'How do you like LA, Alex?' the Mastermind asked in his usual mechanical drone. 'The dead pretty much look the same everywhere, don't they?' I nodded at Kyle. He understood who was on the line. The Mastermind. He motioned for me to give him the phone and I handed it over. I watched his face as he listened, then frowned deeply. Kyle finally took the phone away from his ear. 'He broke off the connection,' he said. 'It was like he knew you weren't on the line anymore. How did he know, Alex? How does the bastard know so much? What the hell does he want from you?' I stared at the slowly revolving corpse, and I didn't have any answers. None at all. I felt drained myself.

 

 

58 Chapter Twenty-Three

 

It was Friday already and we were in the middle of a nasty, sordid mess that wasn't going to be over soon. In the afternoon I had to make a tough phone call home to Washington. Nana Mama answered after a couple of rings, and I immediately wished that one of the kids had picked up instead. 'It's Alex. How are you?' She said,'You're not coming home for Damon's concert tomorrow, are you, Alex? Or did you forget all about the concert already. Oh, Alex, Alex. Why have you forsaken us? This isn't right.' I love Nana tremendously, but sometimes she goes too far to make her point. 'Why don't you put Damon on the phone?' I said. 'I'll talk to him about it.' 'He's not going to be a boy for very much longer. Pretty soon he'll be just like you, won't listen to a word anybody says. Then you'll see what it's like. I guarantee you won't like it,' she said. 'I feel bad enough already, guilty enough.You don't have to make it worse, old woman.' 'Of course I do. That's my job, and I take it as seriously as you obviously take yours,' she said. 'Nana, people are dying out here. Someone died a horrible death in Washington to get me involved in this mess. It keeps happening. There's a connection I have to find, or at least try to.' 'Yes, people are dying, Alex. I understand that. And other people are growing up without their father around as much as they need him to be - especially since they don't have a mother. Are you aware

 

-------------- 59 -------------- JAWIES PATTERSON

 

of that? I can't be mother and father to these children.' I shut my eyes. 'I hear what you're saying. I don't even disagree with you, believe it or not. Now, would you please put Damon on?' I asked again.'As soon as I get off the phone, I'll go out and see if I can find a mother for my children. Actually, I'm working with a very nice female detective. You'd like her.' 'Damon's not here. He said if you called, and weren't coming home, to tell you thanks a lot.' I shook my head, and finally smiled in spite of myself. 'You got his inflection down perfectly. Where is he?' 'He's playing basketball with his friends. He's very good at that, too. I think he'll be an outstanding two guard. Have you even noticed?' 'He has soft hands and a quick first step. Of course I've noticed. You know which friends he's out with?' 'Of course I do. Do yoM?'Nana shot back. She was relentless when she was on the attack. 'He's with Louis and Jamal. He picks good friends.' 'I have to go now, Nana. Please give Damon and Jannie my love. Give little Alex a big hug.' 'Alex, you give them love and hugs yourself,' she said. Then she hung up the phone on me. She had never done that before. Well, she hadn't done it very often. I sat there, pinned to my chair, thinking over what had just been said, wondering whether or not I was guilty as charged. I knew that I spent more time with the kids than a lot of fathers, but as Nana had so skillfully argued, they were growing up fast, and without a mother. I had to do an even better job and there were no goddamn excuses. I called home a few more times. There was no answer, and I figured I was being punished. I finally caught up with Damon around six that night. He had just gotten home from a rehearsal for his concert with the Boys Choir. I heard his voice come on the line, and I sang a little Tupac rap ditty he likes. He thought that was funny so I knew everything was okay. He had forgiven me. He's a good boy, the best I could have hoped for. I

 

-------------- 60 -------------- VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

suddenly remembered my wife, Maria, and was sad that she wasn't here to see how well Damon was turning out. You would really like Damon, Maria. I'm sorry you're missing it. 'I got your message. I'm sorry, Damon. I wish I were going to hear you tomorrow. You know I do. Can't be helped, buddy.' Damon sighed dramatically. 'If wishes had wings,' he said. It was one of his grandmother's pet sayings. I had been hearing it for years, ever since I was around his age. 'Beat me, whip me, beat me,' I told him. 'Naw. It's all right. Daddy,' Damon said, and sighed again. 'I know you have to work, and that it's probably important stuff. It's just hard for us sometimes. You know how it is.' 'I love you, and I should be there, and I won't miss the next concert,' I said to him. 'I'll hold you to that,' Damon said. 'I'll hold myself to it,' I told him.

 

 

61 Chapter Twenty-Four

 

Iwas still at the precinct house in Brentwood at around seven-thirty that night. I was tired and finally looked up from a thick sheaf of police reports on the sadistic murders that had taken place in nine West Coast cities, plus the one in DC, that we knew about. The case was scaring the hell out of me, and certainly not because I believed in vampires. I did believe in the weird and horrible things people could sometimes do to one another: savage bites, sadistic hangings, draining blood out of bodies, tiger attacks. For once, I couldn't begin to imagine what the killers might be like. I couldn't profile them. Neither could the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit. Kyle Craig had admitted as much to me. That was one reason why he was out here himself. Kyle was stumped, too. There was no precedent for this string of murders. Jamilla appeared at my desk around quarter to eight. She had been working down the hall. She has a very pretty face, but tonight she just looked tired. There is a simple fact of life about police work. Adrenaline starts flowing during bad cases. It makes everybody's feelings more intense. Attractions grow and can cause unanticipated problems. I had been there before, and maybe so had Jamilla. She acted like it. Perhaps that was why we were a little tentative around one another. She leaned over my desk and I could smell a light cologne. T have to go back to San Francisco, Alex. I'm heading out to the airport now. I left beaucoup notes for you and Kyle on some of the files I was able VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

to get through. I'll tell you what, though, it doesn't seem, to me, that all the murders were committed by the same killers. That's my contribution for today.' 'Why do you say that?' I asked. Actually, I'd had the same feeling. Nothing to substantiate it, though. Just a gut reaction to the evidence we had gathered so far. Jamilla rubbed the bridge of her nose, then she wrinkled it some. Her mannerisms were funny, and made me smile.'The patterns keep changing. Especially if you look at the most recent murders versus the ones from a year or two ago. In the earlier murders the killers were methodical, very careful. The last couple of murders are slapdash, Alex. More violent, too.' 'I don't disagree. I'll look at all the files carefully. So will Kyle and his folks at Quantico. Anything else bothering you?' I asked. She thought about it. 'A strange crime was reported this morning. Might be something. Funeral home in Woodland Hills. Somebody broke in, ravaged one of the bodies. Could be a copycat. I left the file for you. Anyway, I have to run if I want to catch the next shuttle ... You'll keep in touch?' 'Of course I will. Absolutely. You're not getting off the hook this easily.' She waved once, and then she was gone down the hallway. I hated to see her leave. Jam.

 

 

63 Chapter Twenty-Five

 

Ten minutes after Jamilla left to catch her plane back to San Francisco, Kyle appeared at my desk. He looked like a rumpled, tweedy, forty-something professor who had just emerged from his library carrel after days of researching a scholarly piece for the criminal justice journals. 'You crack the code?' I asked him. 'If you did, can I get a flight out of here tonight? I'm catching hell at home for being here.' 'I didn't crack a goddamn thing,' he complained. Then he yawned. 'My head feels a little cracked. Like there's a slow leak or something.' He rubbed his knuckles back and forth against his skull. 'You believe in new age vampires yet?'I asked.'Role-players?' He gave me one of his crooked little half-smiles. 'Oh, I always believed in vampires. Ever since I was a boy in Virginia and then North Carolina. Vampires, ghosts, zombies, other diabolical creatures of the night. Southerners believe in such things. It's our Gothic heritage, I suppose. Actually, ghosts are more our specialty. I definitely believe in ghosts. I wish this was only a ghost story.' 'Maybe it is. I saw a ghost the other night. Her name was Mary Alice Richardson. These bastards hung and murdered her during one of their pleasure rests.' Around nine, Kyle and I finally left the station house in Brentwood to get some grub and maybe a few beers. I was pleased to have some time with him. Bad thoughts were buzzing in my head: disconnected feelings, suspicions, and general paranoia about the case. And, of

 

---------------- 64 -------------- VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

course, there was always the Mastermind to worry about. He might call, or send a fax, or email. We stopped at a small bar called The Knoll on the way back to the hotel. It looked like a quiet place to have a drink and talk. Kyle and I often did this when we were on the road together. 'So how are you doing, Alex?' Kyle asked after he'd taken a sip of Anchor Steam. 'You all right? Holding up so far? I know you don't like being away from Nana and the kids. I'm sorry about that. Can't be helped. This is a big case.' I was too tired to argue with him. 'In the words of Tiger Woods, "I didn't have my A game today." I'm a little stumped, Kyle. This is all new and all bad.' He nodded and said, 'I don't mean today. Overall. In general. On balance. How the hell are you doing? You seem tense to me. We've all been noticing it, Alex. You don't volunteer much at St Anthony's anymore. Little things like that.' I looked at him, studied his intense, brown eyes. He was a friend, but Kyle was also a calculating man. He wanted something. What was he after? What thoughts were going through his mind? 'On balance, I'm totally fucked. No, I'm okay. I'm happy with the way the kids are doing. Little Alex is the best antidote for anything. Damon and Jannie are doing fine. I still miss Christine, I miss her a lot. I'm troubled about how much time I spend investigating the sickest, most fucked-up crimes that anyone can conjure up. Other than that, I'm just fine.' Kyle said,'You're in demand because you're good at this. That's just the way it is. Your instincts, your emotional IQ/ something sets you apart from the other cops.' 'Maybe I'd rather not be so good anymore. Maybe I'm not. The murder cases have affected every aspect of my life. I'm afraid they're changing who I am. Tell me about Betsey Cavalierre. Anything on the case? There must be something.' Kyle shook his head. His eyes showed concern. 'There's absolutely nothing on her murder, Alex. Nothing on the Mastermind either. That prick still calling you any time of day or night?' 'Yeah. He never mentions Betsey or her murder anymore.'

 

-------------- 65 -------------- JA/V1ES PATTERSON

 

'We could set up another trace on your phones. I'll do that for you.' 'It won't do any good.' Kyle continued to look deep into my eyes. I sensed he was concerned, but it was hard to tell with him. 'You think he might be watching you? Following you?' I shook my head. 'Sometimes I get that feeling, yeah. Let me ask you something, since I have you here. Why do you keep pulling me into these messed-up cases, Kyle? We worked Casanova down in Durham, the Dunne and Goldberg kidnapping, the bank robberies. Now this piece of shit.' Kyle didn't hesitate to spell it out.'You're the best I know, Alex.Your instincts are almost always on target. You give these investigations the best shot they could get. Sometimes you solve them, sometimes not, but you're always close. Why don't you come join us at the Bureau? I'm serious, and yes, this ;s an offer.' There it was, Kyle's agenda for the meeting. He wanted me at Quantico with him. I roared with laughter, and then he did too.'To tell you the truth, I don't feel close on this one, Kyle. I feel lost,' I finally admitted. 'It's still early in the game,' he said. 'The offer stands, win or lose out here. I want you to come to Quantico. I want you working close to me. There's nothing that would make me happier.'

 

 

66 Chapter Twenty-Six

 

This was a good break. Better than they could have expected or hoped for. William and Michael followed the two hotshot police dicks from the station house in Brentwood. They stayed a reasonable distance back in their van. The brothers didn't particularly care if they lost them. They knew which hotel they were staying at. They knew how to find them. They even knew their names. Kyle Craig, FBI. A DIE from Quantico. A'big case'man. One of the Bureau's best. Alex Cross, Washington PD. Forensic psychologist to the stars. There was a saying that William wanted to whisper in their ears: If you hunt for the vampire, the vampire will hunt for you. That was the truth, but it also sounded too much like a rule. William fucking hated rules. Rules made you predictable, less of an individual. Rules made you less free, less authentic, less yourself. And in the end, rules could get you caught. William touched down lightly, tentatively, on the van's brake pedal. Maybe they shouldn't hunt the two cops down, then kill them like dogs, he was thinking. Maybe they had better things to do while they were in LA. There was a special place here where he and Michael often went. It was called the Church of the Vampire, and it was for those who were'searching for the Dragon within'. It actually was a church: vast, high-ceilinged rooms rilled with funky old Victorian furniture, elaborate golden candelabras, human skulls and other bones, tapestries

 

-------------- 67 -------------- JAMES PATTERSON

 

that portrayed stories of famous old blood seekers. The usual dreaded role-players came to the Church, but so did real vampires. Like William and Michael. Exciting, very exotic, sado-erotic things happened inside the Church of the Vampire. Excruciating pain was transformed into ecstasy. William remembered his last visit, and it sent electricity shooting through his body. He had found a blond boy of seventeen. An angel, a prince. The boy was dressed all in black that night; he even had black eye contacts, absolutely gorgeous from every angle. To show William that he was a real vampire, the darling boy had punctured his own carotid artery and then drunk his own blood. Then he had asked William to drink, to be one with him. When he and Michael had hung the boy to drain him completely, it was out of love and adoration of the angel's perfect body. They were merely fulfilling their nature - to be sado-erotic. William came out of his delicious reverie as the two cops entered a bar called The Knoll. It was just off Sunset Boulevard. Very mundane, a nothing spot. Perfect for the two of them. "They're going drinking together,' William said to Michael. 'Cop camaraderie.' Michael snickered and rolled his eyes. "They're just two old men. They're harmless. Toothless,' he said, and laughed at his joke. William watched Alex Cross and Kyle Craig disappear inside.'No,' he finally spoke again. 'Let's be careful with them. One of them is extremely dangerous. I can feel his energy.'

 

 

68 Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

I finally had a lead, courtesy of Jamilla's contact at the San Francisco Examiner. The chase was on, or so I hoped. The next morning I drove up Route 1 to Santa Barbara, which is located approximately sixty miles north of LA. It was sobering and a little depressing to watch the sky actually grow bluer as I traveled away from Los Angeles and the copper-gray cover of smog thickly spread over the city. I was to meet a man named Peter Westin at the Davidson Library in the University of California, Santa Barbara. The library was supposed to contain the most extensive collection of books on vampires and vampire mythology in the United States. Westin was the expert who had been recommended by Jamilla's contact. She warned me that Westin was thoroughly eccentric, but a definitive source on vampires, past and present. He met me in a small private sitting room just off the library's main reading room. Peter Westin looked to be in his early forties and was dressed completely in deep purple and black. Even his fingernails were painted a shade of mauve. According to Jamilla, he owned a clothing and jewelry shop in a small mall on State Street in Santa Barbara, El Raseo. He had long black hair streaked with silver, and he was dark and dangerous looking. Tm Detective Alex Cross,'! said as I shook hands with Westin. His grip was strong, lacquered fingernails or no. 'I am Westin, descended fromVlad Tepes. I bid you welcome. The

 

-------------- 69 -------------- JAAAES PATTERSON

 

night air is chill and you must need to eat and rest,' he said in overly dramatic tones. I found myself smiling at the prepared speech/Sounds like something the count might have said in one of the old Dracula movies.' Westin nodded, and when he smiled I saw that his teeth were perfectly formed. No fangs. 'In several of them, actually. It's the official invitation of the Transylvania Society of Dracula in Bucharest.' I immediately asked, 'Are there American chapters?' 'American and Canadian. There's even a chapter in South Africa, and in Tokyo. There are several hundred thousand men and women with an avid interest in vampires. Surprise you. Detective? You thought we were a more modest cult?' 'It might have a week ago, but not now,' I said. 'Nothing surprises me much anymore. Thanks for talking to me.' Westin and I took seats at a large oak library table. He had selected a dozen or more volumes on vampires for me to read, or at least leaf through. 'I especially recommend Carol Page's Bloodlust: Conversations with Real Vampires. Ms Page is the real deal. She gets it,' he told me, and handed over Bloodlust. 'She has met vampires, and records their activities accurately and fairly. She started her investigation as a skeptic, much like yourself I expect.' 'You're right, I'm very skeptical,' I admitted. I told Peter Westin about the most recent murder in Los Angeles, and then he let me ask whatever questions I wished about the vampire world. He answered patiently, and I soon learned that a vampire subculture exists in virtually every major city as well as some smaller ones, such as Santa Cruz, California; Austin, Texas; Savannah, Georgia; Batavia, New York; Des Moines, Iowa. 'A real vampire,'he told me,'is a person born with an extraordinary gift. He, or she, has the capacity to absorb, channel, transform, and manipulate pranic energy - the life force. Serious vampires are usually very spiritual.' 'How does drinking human blood fit in?' I asked Peter Westin. Then I quickly added,'If it does.'

 

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Westin answered quietly/It is said tha t blood is the highest known source of pranic energy. If I drink your blood, then I take your strength.' 'My blood?'I asked. 'Yes, I would think you'd do nicely.' I recalled the nocturnal raid on the funeral parlor north of LA. 'What about the blood of corpses? Those dead for a day or two?' 'If a vampire, or a poseur, was desperate, I suppose blood from a corpse would suffice. Let me tell you about real vampires. Detective. Most of them are needy, attention seeking and manipulative. They are frequently attractive - primarily because of their immorality, their forbidden desires, rebelliousness, power, eroticism, their sense of their own immortality.' 'You keep emphasizing the word real. What distinction are you trying to make?' 'Most young people involved with the underground vampire lifestyle are merely role-players. They are experimenting, looking for a group that meets their needs of the moment. There's even a popular mass-market game - Vampire: The Masquerade. Teenagers especially are attracted to the vampire lifestyle. Vampires have an incredible alternative way of looking at the world. Besides, vampires party late into the night. Until the first light.' His lips curled into a smile. Westin was definitely willing to talk to me, and I wondered why. I also wondered how seriously he took the vampire lifestyle. His clothing shop in town sold to young people looking for alternative trappings. Was he a poseur himself? Or was Peter Westin a real vampire? "The mythology of the vampire goes back thousands of years. Actually, it's present in China, Africa, South and Central America. And central Europe, of course. For a lot of people here in America it's an aesthetic fetish. It's sexual, theatrical, and very romantic. It also transcends gender, which is an attractive idea these days.' I felt it was time to stop his spiel and focus on the murders. 'What about the murders - the actual violence taking place in California and Nevada?'

 

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A mask of pain came over his face. 'I've heard Jeffrey Dahmer called a vampire/cannibal. Also, Nicolas Claux, whom you may not be familiar with. Claux was a Parisian mortician who confessed to murders in the mid-nineties. Once he was captured he took great pleasure in describing eating the flesh of corpses on his mortician's slab. He became known all over Europe as the Vampire of Paris.' 'You've heard of Rod Ferrell in Florida?' I asked. 'Of course. He's a dark hero for some. Very big on the Internet. He and his small cult bludgeoned to death the parents of another member. They then carved numerous occult symbols into the dead bodies. I know all about Rod Ferrell. He was supposedly obsessed with opening the Gates of Hell. Thought he had to kill large numbers of people, and consume their souls, to be powerful enough to open up Hell. Who knows, maybe he succeeded,'Westin said. He stared at me for a long moment. 'Let me tell you something, Detective Cross. This is the absolute truth. I believe it's important for you to understand. It is no more common for a vampire to be a psychopath or a killer than it is for any random person on the street.' I shrugged. 'I guess I'd have to check your research statistics on that one. In the meantime, one or more vampires, real ones, or maybe just role-players, have murdered at least a dozen people,' I said. Westin looked a little sad. 'Yes, Detective, I know. That's why I consented to talk with you.' 'Are you a vampire?' I asked him one final question. Peter Westin paused before he finally answered. 'Yes. I am.' The words cut through me. The man was completely serious.

 

 

72 Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

That night in Santa Barbara, I was just a little more afraid of the dark than I had ever been. I sat in my hotel room and read a touching novel called Waiting by Ha Jin. I was waiting as well. I called home twice that night. I wasn't sure if I was lonely, or still feeling guilty about missing Damon's concert. Or maybe Peter Westin had frightened me with his vampire stories and books, and the haunted look in his dark eyes. At any rate, I was taking vampires more seriously now that I had met him. Westin was a strange, eerie, unforgettable man. I had the feeling that I would meet, or at least talk to him again. My inner fears didn't go away that night, and not even with the first light of morning shining brightly over the Santa Ynez Mountains. Something strange and quite awful was happening. It involved twisted individuals, or maybe an underground cult. It probably had something to do with the vampire subculture. But maybe it didn't, and that was even more disturbing to think about. It would mean we were in a totally gray area with the investigation. By seven-thirty in the morning, my rented sedan was easing into soupy gray fog, and then the morning traffic clog. I was singing a little Muddy Waters blues, which nicely matched my mood. I left Santa Barbara and headed toward Fresno. I had another 'expert' to meet. I drove for a couple of hours. I got on 166 at Santa Maria and continued east through the Sierra Madres until I reached Route 99.1

 

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took it north. I was seeing California for the first time and liking most of what I saw. The topography was different to back East, and so were the colors. I fell into a comfortable driving rhythm. I listened to a Jill Scott CD. For long stretches of the road trip I thought about the way my life had been going over the past couple of years. I knew that some of my friends were starting to worry about me, even my best friend, John Sampson, and I wouldn't exactly classify him as a worrier. Sampson had told me more than once that I was putting myself in harm's way. He even suggested that maybe it was time for a career change. I knew I could go with the FBI, but that didn't seem like much of a sea change. I could also go back into psychiatry full time - either see patients, or possibly teach, maybe at Johns Hopkins, where I'd gotten my degree and still had pretty good connections. Then there was Nana Mama's favorite tune: I needed to find someone and settle down again; I needed somebody to love. It wasn't as if I hadn't tried. My wife, Maria, had been killed in a drive-by shooting in DC that had never been solved. That had happened when Damon and Jannie were little, and I guess I'd never really gotten over it. Maybe I never would. Even now, if I let myself, I could get torn up thinking about Maria and what had happened to her, to us, and how goddamn senseless it had been. What a terrible waste of a human life. It had left Damon and Jannie without their mother. I had tried hard to find someone, but maybe I just wasn't meant to be lucky twice in my lifetime. There had been Jezzie Flanagan, but that couldn't have turned out worse. And then Christine Johnson, little Alex's mother. She was a teacher and now lived out here on the West Coast. She was doing well, loved Seattle, and had 'found someone'. I still had terribly mixed feelings about Christine. She'd been hurt because of me. My fault, not hers. She had made it clear she couldn't live with a homicide detective. And then, not too long ago, I had started to become involved with an FBI agent named Betsey Cavalierre. Now Betsey was dead. Her murder case remained unsolved. I was afraid to even have drinks with Jamilla

 

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VIOLETS ARE BLUE

 

Hughes. The past was starting to haunt me. 'Some detective/I muttered as I spotted the overhead sign: Fresno. I had come here to see a man about some teeth. Fangs, actually.

 

 

75 Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

The tattoo/fang and claws parlor was located on the fringe of a lower middle-class commercial district in downtown Fresno. It was a ramshackle storefront, with an old dentist's chair prominently displayed in the window. In the chair was a girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen or fifteen. She sat with her skinny, pimpled neck bowed toward her lap, wincing with each needle puncture. On a tall stool beside her sat a young guy with a bright blue and yellow bandanna wrapped tightly around his head. He was applying the tattoo. He reached for a bottle of ink. The array of tattoo inks beside him reminded me of the spin art booth at a school fair. I watched from the street for the next few minutes. I couldn't help thinking about the role of physical pain in making tattoos, but also in the murders so far. I knew the basic tattoo process and watched as the resident artist adjusted a gooseneck lamp toward the nape of the girl's neck. He used two foot-operated tattoo machines: one for outlining, the other for shading and coloring. The round shader between the machines held fourteen different needles. The more needles, the more colorful the flash. A middle-aged man with a crew cut was passing by on the street, and paused just long enough to mutter, 'That's nuts, and so are you for watching.' Everybody's a critic these days. I finally went inside and saw the result of the tattoo master's art: a small Celtic symbol, green and gold. I asked him where I could get fangs and claws. He moved his

 

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head, his chin actually, to indicate a hallway to his left. Never said a word. I walked past display cases: tongue and navel studs, including glow-in-the-dark studs; massive knuckle rings; sunglasses, pipes, beaded thingees; a poster for two popular claws - Ogre and Faust. You're getting warmer, I thought as I entered the hallway, and then met the fang master face to face. He was expecting me, and he started talking as soon as I entered his small shop. 'You've finally arrived, pilgrim. You know, when you go to the most interesting, and most dangerous, vampire clubs, the ones in LA, New York, New Orleans, Houston, you see fangs everywhere. It's the scene, and what a scene, my man. Goth, Edwardian, Victorian, bondage apparel, anything goes. I was one of the first to custom- make fangs out here. Started in Laguna Beach, worked my way north. And now, here I am, the Fresno Kid.' As he spoke, I became aware of his teeth, elongated molars. Those teeth looked as if they could inflict severe damage. His name was John Barreiro, and he was short, painfully thin, and dressed mostly in black, much like Peter Westin. He was probably the most sinister-looking person I had ever met. 'You know why I'm here - the Golden Gate Park murders,'I said to the fangmaker. He nodded and grinned wickedly. 'I know why you're here, pilgrim. Peter Westin sent you. Peter's very persuasive, isn't he? Follow me.' He took me into a small over-crowded room in the rear of the store. The walls were dark blue, the lighting crimson. Barreiro had a lot of nervous energy, he moved around constantly as he spoke.'There is a fabulous Fang Club in Los Angeles. They like to say it's the only place where you can meet vampires and live to tell about it. On weekend nights you might see four, five hundred people there. Maybe fifty of the fuckers are real vampires. Almost everyone wears fangs, even the vampire wannabes.' Are your teeth real?' I asked him. 'Let me give you a little nip and we'll see,'the fangmaker said and laughed. 'The answer to your question is yes. I had my incisors

 

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capped, then filed to a sharp edge. I bite. I drink blood. I am the real deal bad dude. Detective.' I nodded, didn't doubt it for a second. He looked and acted the part. 'If I might take a simple cast of your canines, I could make a pair of fangs just for you. That will really separate you from your detective peers. Make you peerless.' I smiled at his wit, but I let him talk. 'I make several hundred sets of fangs every year. Uppers and lowers. Sometimes double fangs. Occasionally, I make a pair in gold and silver. I think you'd look great with silver canines.' 'You've read about the other killings around California?' I asked. 'I've heard about them, yes. Of course. From friends and acquaintances like Peter Westin. Some vampires are excited by what's happened. They think it signals a new time; perhaps a new Sire is coming.' I stopped him. A sudden chill ran through me. Something he'd just said. 'Is there a leader of the vampires?' Barreiro's dark eyes narrowed to slits. 'No. Of course there isn't. But if there was, I wouldn't talk to you about it.' 'Then there is a Sire,' I said. He glared at me and began to move about again. I asked, 'Could you make tigers' teeth - for a man to wear?' 'I could,' he said. 'I have.' Suddenly he lunged up at me with surprising speed. He grabbed my hair with one hand, my ear with the other. I'm six three and a lot heavier than him. I wasn't ready for this. The small man was swift, and he was very strong. His open mouth moved toward my throat, but then he stopped. 'Don't ever under-estimate us. Detective Cross,' John Barreiro hissed, then let me go.'Now, are you sure that you don't want those fangs? No charge. Maybe for your own protection.'

 

 

78 Chapter Thirty

 

William drove the dusty white van through the Mojave Desert at close to a hundred miles an hour. The Marshall Mathers LP was playing at maximum volume. William was really pushing it along Route 15, heading toward Vegas, the next stop on their tour. The van was an ingenious idea. It was a damn bloodmobile with all the requisite Red Cross stickers. He and Michael were actually certified to take blood from anyone who volunteered to give it. 'It's up ahead a couple of miles/William told his brother, who was sitting with one bare leg out the open window. 'What's up ahead? Prey, I hope. I'm bored out of my skull. I need to feed. I'm thirsty. I don't see anything up there.' Michael whined like the spoiled rotten teenager that he was. 'Don't pull any Slim Shady shit on me. I don't see a thing up ahead.' 'You will soon,' William said mysteriously. "This should snap you out of your funk. I promise it will.' Minutes later, the van pulled into a commercial parachute center known as a drop zone. Michael sat up, whooped loudly and beat on the dashboard with the palms of his hands. He was such a boy. 'I feel the need for speed,' Michael yelled, doing his best imitation of the young Tom Cruise. The two brothers had been parachuting since they got out of prison. It was one of the best legal highs around, and it took their mind off killing. They hopped out of the van and headed inside a flat-roofed concrete building that had definitely seen better decades. William paid twenty dollars directly to the pilot for a ride in a Twin

 

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Otter plane. There were two of them sitting near the tiny runway at the airstrip, but there was only one pilot and no one else at the parachute center. The pilot was a dark-haired girl not much older than William. Early twenties at most. She had a tight sexy body but a mean little weasel's face with badly pocked cheeks. He could tell that she liked his and Michael's looks, but hey, who wouldn't? 'No boards, so you're not sky surfing. What are you boys into?'the pilot asked in a strong southwestern accent. 'Name's Callie, by the way.' 'We're into just about everything!' Michael volunteered and laughed. 'I mean that too, Callie. I'm serious. We're into just about everything that's worth getting into.' 'I don't doubt it,' Callie said, and held Michael's eye for a few seconds.'Well, let's do it then,'she said, and they climbed up into the Otter. Less than ninety seconds later, the small plane was pounding down the hardscrabble runway. The brothers were laughing and hollering at the top of their voices. 'You guys really seem pumped up, I'll give you that. You're free fallers, right? You're both certifiable,'Callie shouted over the airplane noise. She had a throaty rasp that William found, frankly, a little irritating. He wanted to rip a gaping hole in her neck, but he resisted the urge. 'Among other things, yes. Take her up to sixteen thousand/William shouted back to her. 'Whoa! Thirteen thousand's plenty. You know, temperature at thirteen thousand feet's under forty degrees. You lose 'bout three degrees every thousand feet. Hypoxia sets in at sixteen. Too much for you thin-skinned boys.' 'We'll tell you when it's too much for us. We've done this kind of thing before,' said Michael, a little angry now, his teeth bared, but maybe she took it for a seductive little smile. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened. William slid the pilot another twenty dollars. 'Sixteen thousand,' he said. 'Trust me. We've been there before.'

 

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'Okay, you'll be the ones with frostbitten fingers and ears/ Callie told them.'I warned you/ 'We're hot-bodied boys. Don't worry about us. You an experienced pilot?' Callie grinned.'Well, we'll just have to see, won't we. Let's just say that I'm probably not losing my cherry up here.' William watched the gauges to make sure she took them high enough. At sixteen thousand feet, the Otter leveled off smoothly. Not too much wind up there today and a view to die for. The plane was practically flying itself. "This is not a real good idea, guys,' the pilot warned again. 'It's cold as a motherfucker out there.' 'It's a great idea! And so is this He took her on the spot, biting deeply into Callie's exposed throat. He held her neck firmly with his teeth and strong jaw and began to drink, to feed at sixteen thousand feet. It was the height of sado-eroticism. Callie screamed and kicked, struggled fiercely, but she couldn't get him off. Bright red blood splattered around the cockpit. He was so powerful. She tried desperately to get out of her cramped pilot's seat and dislocated her hip. Her knees cracked against the instrument panel several times, and then they stopped suddenly. Her brown eyes glazed over and became still as stones. She gave in. Both of them drank her blood greedily. They fed quickly and efficiently, but couldn't come close to draining the prey inside the cockpit. William then opened the plane's door. He was struck with a blast of freezing cold air.'C'moni'he yelled. The two brothers jumped out of the plane - free falling. It wasn't an appropriate name for what they were experiencing. The sensation wasn't like falling, it was more like flying your body. When the two of them went horizontal, they were soaring at about sixty miles an hour. But when they went vertical, they zoomed up to over a hundred, closer to a hundred and twenty, William figured. The thrill was incredible, absolutely amazing to experience. Their bodies trilled like tuning forks. Callie's fresh blood was still pumping through their systems. The rush was otherworldly.

 

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At those speeds, the slightest leg movement to the left jolted the body to the right. They got vertical quickly, and stayed that way. Almost all the way down. They hadn't pulled the cords on their chutes yet. That was the best thrill of all: the possibility of sudden, unexpected death. The wind pushed and pulled incredibly against their bodies. The only sound they heard was the wind. This was ecstasy. They still hadn't opened their chutes. How long could they wait? How long? The only thing missing, the only thing that kept this from being close to perfect, William was thinking, was the absence of pain. Pain made any experience better. Pain was the secret to pleasure which so few understood. He and Michael did though. Finally, they pulled the cords, and they couldn't have waited a second more. The chutes opened, yanked hard at their bodies. The ground was flying up at them. They landed and rolled, just in time to see the Twin Otter crash and burn, maybe a mile away in the desert. 'No evidence,'William said smugly, his eyes glazed with pleasure and excitement. "That was such fun.'

 

 

82 Chapter Thirty-One

 

The Crimson Tide. That's what William called their murderous tour. He and Michael were on a roll now and nothing could stop them until the mission was over. Nothing - not rain, nor sleet, nor the FBI. The Red Cross van drifted slowly along Fremont Street, the original Strip in LasVegas. It blended into the garish neoned scene. Made them feel invisible. And like so many young males, William and Michael felt invulnerable. They would never be caught, never be stopped. The killers took everything in - the ridiculous spouting fountains in front of nearly every casino and hotel, a wedding chapel with "Love Me Tender'crooning tinnily from a loudspeaker, brightly painted tour buses, like the one ahead of the van, from the United Union of Roofers and Waterproofers. 'This is a true vampire's city,' William proclaimed. T can feel the energy. Even these pathetic worms on the street must feel alive when they're here. It's fabulous - so theatrical, glittery, overly dramatic. Don't you just love it?' Michael clapped his large hands. 'I'm in heaven. We can be choosy here.' 'That's our plan,' said William, 'to be very choosy.' At midnight they drove out to the new Strip, Las Vegas Boulevard. They stopped at the Mirage, where the Daniel and Charles Magic Show was advertised on a large, neon billboard that rose high over the busy street. 'Is this such a good idea?' Michael asked as they approached the

 

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