Jeanne Stein: Crossroads

“If there was anyone else I could go to about this, I would. You are the only one who can help.”

“Jesus, Max. Could you be any more dramatic? You sound like a druggie jonesing for a fix. God. Is that what this is about? You want me to bite you? You get tired of screwing anonymous vamps? You remembering what a good thing you threw away?”

“No. Anna.” His words are short, clipped, his anger burning through even over the phone. “Everything isn’t about you . I need you because I think I’m dealing with a vampire. A vicious vampire. And I don’t know how to fight him. He’s kil ing innocent people. I thought you’d want to help. Culebra thought you’d want to help. Guess we were both wrong.”

He snaps his cel phone shut, ending the conversation before I can respond. He doesn’t look my way again, but heads up the boardwalk toward the parking lot. He shoulders are drawn up, his strides long, fast, stiff with fury.

Shit. A vampire? It takes me about a heartbeat to decide.

I’m probably going to regret this but I’m down the stairs, have grabbed up my purse and keys and reached the end of the boardwalk before he does.

Max isn’t startled when I appear in front of him like a genie sprung from a bottle. He knows what I can do. But he doesn’t look relieved or pleased, either. He stares down at me from his six-foot-three-inch vantage point and waits for me to speak first.

“What do you mean you’re dealing with a vampire?”

His shoulders hunch up even more. The lines of his face draw down, as if weighted. He looks tired. He looks stressed. The Max I knew — the one with lively blue eyes, a quick smile and sun-burnished Latino good looks — has been swal owed up by this sal ow-faced, sober, weary doppelganger.

“Are you sure you want to hear this? Or are you waiting for another opportunity to tel me what a screwup I’ve been?”

I close the distance between us and jab a finger into his chest. “Oh, I’m sure there wil be plenty of opportunities to do that. Right now, I want to know what you meant on the telephone.”

He looks around. “Let’s walk. I don’t want to risk being overheard.”

The boardwalk teems with people. Skateboarders, cyclists, Rol erbladers, joggers. If we walk here, we’l spend most of our time dodging incoming. I’m not going to invite him to the cottage, either. I don’t want him invading my personal space. I’ve had enough of that today.

“Let’s cross to the bay side.”

He doesn’t object. Neither of us speaks until we’ve crossed Mission and head for the sidewalk that runs along the harbor. Here the view spans the San Diego skyline on one side, row on row of condos and apartments on the other.

There’s a marina and a smal park. We head for the benches in the middle of the park. We choose the one that faces a playground. The water is at our backs and we have a clear view of the sidewalk. It’s much quieter here.

“So talk.”

Max looks toward the sidewalk, eyes restlessly scanning the faces of the people moving at a Sunday-afternoon, warm-summer’s-day pace. I look, too. But I know I’m not seeing the same things he is. He’s looking at them with cop eyes.

“I’ve been working a joint task force with the Mexican border patrol,” he says at last. “Drugs mostly. But in the last few weeks, we’ve been finding something else on our patrols. Bodies drainedf blood. Entire families kil ed and dumped in the desert. No clue as to who is doing it. At first we thought it was some local drug lord’s new and vicious way to intimidate.”

“But now?”

“The victims al had their throats slashed. But there’s never any blood at the scene. None. The tox screens we’ve run always come back negative for drugs. They’re not addicts or dealers. The victims have no connection to local law enforcement, either, always a favorite target of the cartel.

We’ve traced some of the victims to places in Latin America and as far south as Ecuador. A hel of a long way to transport bodies just to dump them. They’re from poor families. If they were carrying anything of value on them, it’s gone by the time we find them. Al that’s left are the clothes on their backs.”

Max pauses, draws a breath. He hasn’t looked at me since we sat down on the bench. He does now. “I think we’re dealing with a coyote. I think he takes money from these people to get them across the border. Then he kil s and dumps them within sight of the border. The bastard probably lets them know how close they are before he kil s them.”

It doesn’t take much of a leap to know where Max is heading with this. “You think this coyote is a vampire.”

“I do. The slash marks are clumsy. Because the bodies are found in Mexico, we haven’t been able to do anything but drug sampling. But I’d be wil ing to bet if we could do the autopsies here, we’d find something under those slashes.”

He would. When I worked as a Watcher, I used the technique myself. A vampire can erase puncture wounds from a live donor, but not a dead one. Slashing the throat is a way to hide the fact that a body has been sucked dry.

Confirming that Max is right about this and how I know that he’s right is not something I want to share. I already know what he thinks of me. “What do you want from me?”

“There’s a pattern to the kil ings. We find the bodies on our patrols on Tuesday mornings. Always in roughly the same location.”

“If you know this, you don’t need me. Set a trap.”

“We did. Last week. The guy slipped past us as if he was invisible. But not before leaving us another victim. A young girl. You have to realize, Anna, our emphasis is on stopping the drug trade. Not human trafficking. We don’t have the resources to conduct another undercover op. That’s why I’m here. To ask you to come with me tomorrow night. If I’m right, the only way we’re going to stop him is by fighting fire with fire.”

I snort. “You mean vampire with vampire.”

Max’s mouth tightens. “This isn’t a joking matter.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

His expression shifts, softens. “Sorry. I know I’m asking a lot. I don’t know what else to do. If we don’t stop him, he’l go on kil ing. He likes it. He’s found an easy food source. And he takes money from victims desperate to make a new life.”

He stops, draws a breath. “Culebra told me you’re some sort of uber-vamp now. Wel, I need an uber-vamp. I can’t think of another way to stop him.”

Uber-vamp. Yeah. That’s me, al right. Head of the thirteen vampire tribes. Only thing is, except for a few extra abilities, I don’t feel any different than I did before. The only thing that’s changed is that I have another uber-vamp, Chael, gunning for me.hat dnt>

I push the thought out of my head. I can probably help Max.

I’m stronger than other vamps. The question is, do I want to?

Stupid question. I choose my words careful y.

“I’l do it. But not for you. I’l do it because a vamp who acts like this is a rogue, a threat to al vampires. Sooner or later, what he’s doing wil come to the attention of vampire hunters.

Then none of us wil be safe.”

Max lets his relief show in a tiny gesture of gratitude. He holds out a hand.

I let my feelings show by standing up and taking a step out of reach. Max is stil an asshole in my book. “Where shal I meet you?”

He stands, too, lets his hands fal to his sides. “The border crossing at San Ysidro. Tomorrow night. Ten o’clock.”

I nod. Max stares at me a minute, waiting I suppose for the ice to melt. It doesn’t, and final y, Max walks away.

For the first time, I notice.

He’s not limping anymore.

At least one wound has healed.