Dave Zeltserman - Blood Crimes Book One

Metcalf’s cell phone rang and it brought him out of his nostalgic reminiscing of the old days. According to the Caller ID it was Walter Smith, one of the residents of Serena’s hotel. Smith was in his late fifties and was a small bald man who since his infection resembled a lizard more than anything human. Serena had chosen Smith early on for his money, which she later used to buy the hotel, and Smith held a quiet grudge against her. He frequently filled Metcalf in on her activities. Metcalf answered the phone and asked what Smith wanted. Smith tittered on his end.

“Have you been watching CNN?” he asked.

“I’m not near a TV.”

“Oh.” Smith’s voice lowered. “You must know that Serena and her posse left this morning to Cleveland?…Hello, Metcalf, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. No, I didn’t know that. She promised me she was going to stay in New York.”

There was some more nervous laughter on Walter’s end. “She did, did she? That’s not even the half of it. If you were near a TV you would see what I’m talking about.” He paused for a moment, then went on, his voice more guarded. “There was an incident in Cleveland. Eight police officers slaughtered. According to witnesses, the killers drank their blood and took off in one of the police cars. One of the witnesses made a video recording. It’s not the best picture quality, but you can make out Serena in it.”

Metcalf sat quietly for a moment processing what Smith told him, then asked if there was anything else. Smith seemed surprised by Metcalf’s reaction.

“I thought you’d be spitting nails,” he said.

“It wouldn’t do any good. Again, was there anything else?”

“Nope, but I’d have to think that would be quite enough.”

Metcalf told him it was and disconnected the call. He tried calling Serena, but as he expected she didn’t pick up. Bronson was watching him, his lips pursed as he tried to figure out what had happened from Metcalf’s end of the conversation. The other vampire knew better than to ask Metcalf. One look at the darkness clouding Metcalf’s face told the other vampire that much. Metcalf shifted his gaze to meet Bronson’s eyes, and the other vampire looked away.

“I want you to take me to San Jose International Airport,” Metcalf said. “After that you’re going to drive back to the compound. You’re not going to be able to get into the lower level by yourself, so you and the Doctor here will stay in the house. It might take me a day or longer to get back, but if you do anything other than that I will hunt you down wherever you end up, and I’ll make you suffer worse than you could ever imagine. Do you understand that?”

Bronson forced a crooked smile. “Yeah, fuck, don’t worry. You should know me better than that. I’m going to do as I’m told, okay?”

“You know that I’ve had tracking chips implanted in all of your skulls. The same that’s done with show dogs.”

Bronson’s smile dimmed a bit. “Yeah, I know that.”

“Well?”

Bronson looked confused. “I’m going to drive you to the airport, then back to the compound. What else are you asking?”

“What the fuck do you think? Get your ass up there in the driver’s seat.”

“What? But it’s still a couple of hours before sunset.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you mean? I don’t have any protection against the sunlight. I’ll get sick as a dog doing that.”

“That’s probably true. The sun’s going to make you feel like your flesh is burning off your body. But you know what? You’ll get over it. If you stay back here any longer with me, the pain’s going to be a lot worse, and it will be forever.”

A shadow fell over Bronson’s eyes. He looked away from Metcalf, a sourness shrinking his mouth. “Chrissakes, Metcalf, there’s no need for that. Not after everything we’ve been through together. When you said you wanted to go to the airport, I thought you meant after it got dark out. I didn’t know you meant now. If I did, I’d just take you.”

Bronson continued to sulk as he left the back of the van and went up front. Metcalf stayed where he was. While Bronson drove, Metcalf called the airlines and arranged the first flight he could to Cleveland. After that he got Vanessa on the phone and told her what he needed her to do.

Jim had stashed the sword behind a dumpster and now stood across the street from the bar that he had robbed Raze at the night before. Mostly hidden in shadows, he watched for Raze or any of his gang members to show up but so far hadn’t seen anyone with skull tattoos displaying winged dragons and Chinese letters. It was hard for him to just stand still and wait like he was doing-his insides were knotted up to where it was like a fist squeezing his heart. He needed to do something, anything, to look for Carol. On the way to the bar he had picked up a carton of smokes and was sucking down one cig after the next, but they weren’t helping much with his nerves. He tossed a half-smoked cig to the ground and crushed it out with his heel. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it wasn’t, but he couldn’t stand there any longer. He walked across the street and entered the bar.

The place was a lot quieter than the night before and a lot emptier. It was several hours before a live band was scheduled, and maybe twenty people sat around the bar and at tables drinking while a sound system cranked out Mellencamp tracks that were older than most of the people there. A lone bartender was on the job. He was in his thirties, a big man with a pink face the color of bologna and a shaved scalp that would’ve been mostly bald if he’d allow his hair to grow out. He watched Jim approach, his stare disinterested. He crossed his arms along his chest to show off thick forearms and large fleshy hands. He looked like someone who’d have no problem busting skulls and tossing drunks head first out into the gutter if given the opportunity. Jim took a seat at the bar across from him. He leaned forward so he could talk without anyone else other than the bartender hearing him. The bartender stood impassively and flexed his large forearms.

“What’s your name?” Jim asked.

The bartender scratched his jaw, yawned. “What difference does it make?”

“Come one, I’m just trying to be friendly. I like to know who’s pouring me drinks. Nothing more than that, and if it helps any my name’s Jim.”

“Pete.”

Jim put a twenty dollar bill on the bar. “Okay, Pete, a Bud.”

The bartender started to pull a draft. Jim leaned closer to him.

“I’m looking for Raze,” he said.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pete said, his stare focused on the draft beer he was pouring.

“Sure you do. Raze was here last night dealing like he always does. The two of us ended up doing some business and we need to do some more, so I’m looking for him.”

Pete gave Jim a quick look, then moved his stare back to the draft. He finished pouring the beer and placed the glass in front of Jim.

“That’s three dollars,” he said. “Drink it and get out of here, ’cause I don’t know anyone named Raze and I don’t appreciate the insinuation.”

He reached for the twenty on the bar. Jim covered Pete’s hand with his own. A bare trace of a smile showed on the bartender’s lips as he looked up.

“That was a mistake,” he said.

He reached for something under the bar-an axe handle, a lead pipe, maybe a baseball bat, but before he could do much with it, Jim squeezed his hand to the point where bones started to break. Tears flooded Pete’s eyes and his knees buckled enough to drop him several inches.

“Ow ow ow,” he cried. “For Chrissakes, let go!”

Jim could sense other faces turning toward him.