Jeanne Stein - Blood Drive

He talks as if to himself. My gut twists with rage. I have to get out of here.

Darryl continues, lost in the swampland of his own thoughts. “My dad started this business. Years ago when we lived in Boston. Of course, then there was more risk involved. You actually had to get out there and find the talent. That was my dad’s downfall. In fact, it was how I came to know Bradley and Donovan. They arrested my dad. Couldn’t do anything for him, but when Bradley saw the money we were making… Well, let’s just say he underwent an attitude adjustment.”

He gets up from the ottoman and moves to a chair opposite me. “It was Bradley’s suggestion I move west. He made sure I wasn’t indicted with my father, for a price, of course, and a cut of any future business. I had some money the Feds didn’t find, so I bought this place and a few apartment houses in areas I thought might prove fertile hunting ground. I was right. Carolyn Delaney moved in with her daughter. She had lousy taste in men, and she had expensive habits. She was always behind in the rent, always short of money. And she had a kid. In short, she was perfect. We’d fuck once in awhile for credit. But Trish was the real reason I hung around.”

As he talks, I take mental stock of my condition. Now that he’s moved to the other side of the room, my head seems to be clearing. He must have ingested a shit load of garlic. It’s impregnated his system and exudes through his pores with such intensity, his touch renders me immobile. The garlic cloves on the wreaths in front of me are not peeled, however, which blunts their potency. At least a little.

I shift, raising my head and drawing my legs up, testing my range of movement. He sees it and wags a finger.

“Don’t try to get up. You won’t make it.” He reaches behind the chair and pulls out a three-foot length of some dark wood that’s been chiseled to a point at one end. “I don’t want to rush this, but I will if I have to.”

I nod. My best chance is to keep him talking long enough to gather strength. I can’t fight him, but if I can make it outside, I can get away.

“How does Frey figure into all this?” I ask, letting my head fall back onto the couch.

He nods approvingly and places the stake at his feet. “Frey had a hard-on for my father. It started in Boston when Dad enlisted one of his students to star in a specialty video. Much like the one we envision for Trish. But the girl got a streak of conscience afterwards and attempted to kill herself.”

He waves a hand. “Such a waste. Anyway, one of her friends went to Frey and he set the Feds on us. But he was too clever. He couldn’t explain how he knew so much, and he wouldn’t reveal the girl’s name. He came under suspicion himself. There wasn’t enough evidence to charge him with anything, but he had to leave the state just the same. School districts are funny about things like that.”

He barks a short, brittle laugh. “Can you believe it? He showed up here. We’d just gotten this thing started with Trish and he shows up here. Good thing Bradley was keeping track. He made sure he and Donovan were assigned the case to investigate Frey.”

The tips of my fingers and toes are tingling. There’s an eerie feeling of energy being restored. Cell by cell, my system is repairing itself, releasing the poison through my pores.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

Darryl is watching me with keen eyes. Best to keep him talking.

“What happened with Barbara Franco? Why did you kill Trish’s friend?”

There’s a pause while uncertainty casts a shadow over his face. But his need to brag wins out over caution. It’s what I’m counting on.

He shakes his head, frowning. “I know what you’re asking. Did we kill her for a snuff film? That’s the kind of thing that gives our business a bad name. In the first place, snuff films are urban legend. They don’t exist. They don’t have to. Technology makes it unnecessary to take that kind of risk. Special effects nowadays-”

He’s ramping up for a lecture. Jesus. “I don’t care about special effects. What happened to Barbara?”

The irritation in my voice sends a second flash of doubt skittering across Darryl’s face. He reaches for the stake and starts to get up. “You wouldn’t be trying to fool me with all these questions, would you?” he asks.

It’s now or never. I heave myself up and leap as far away from Darryl as I can. He comes after me, lunging across the room. I can’t make the door. The only other way out is the window, shrouded in heavy drapery. I run at it full speed and clutching the drape, plunge headfirst through the glass.

I strike the ground and roll. Glass fragments shower around me, but the curtain protects my face and head. The fresh air hits me with the clarifying force of a douse of cold water. I let the curtain fall and run.

Darryl is howling at the window. I glance back once to see him trying to follow me, blood seeping from wounds on his arms and legs as he snags himself on broken glass. Too bad it’s not his neck.

Then I’m off, racing the wind.

I keep running, away from Darryl and his carefully prepared, poisoned lair. Once I get across the freeway bridge, I stop. I don’t have my purse; it’s in Bradley’s car. Which means I don’t have my cell phone to call for a ride or to alert Williams to what’s transpired. The only thing I can do is continue to police headquarters on foot.

The run is actually restorative. I pump my arms to the rhythm of my stride, and by the time I’ve reached my destination, I feel as if I’ve worked all the toxin out of my system. I feel strong and alert and very, very angry.

And as luck would have it, what should I see parked in front of police headquarters but the Fairlane. I peer inside, but as I suspect, Bradley has either ditched my purse somewhere or put it in the trunk. Since I have an overwhelming urge to do violence, I decide to check the trunk. I grip the ridge with both hands and peel back the metal until the trunk is doubled back on itself. I want to rip the thing right off, but somebody might be watching.

My purse is inside, tossed into a corner, to be planted somewhere incriminating, no doubt, when the time is right. I snatch it up, wondering whether to alert Williams that I’m on my way up, or to just appear and watch Bradley squirm.

You can’t go up, Anna.

I whirl around. Casper?

You have to get to Ryan. Bradley suspects he’s at the cottage. He’s on his way there now.

Casper’s voice is different somehow. There’s an urgency I’ve never heard before. I have no way to get there.

From the corner across the street, a car engine sparks to life. I turn again, toward the sound.

Anna, remember what I told you before. You are at a crossroads. The path you choose now determines what you are to become.

For a fleeting moment, excitement overshadows my concerns. I’m going to meet Casper. I must be.

I wait for the car to pull away from the curb.

It doesn’t.

Impatience flares. Damn it, Casper. Come on.

There’s no answer, and no movement from the car. Furious now, I cross the street and jerk the car door open.

The engine is running, the keys dangling from the ignition. The driver’s seat is vacant.

Shit. You can’t keep doing this.

But I know I’ll get no answer. And no satisfaction. I slam into the front seat and peel away from the curb with a screech of tires. I hope this is his car. And that I burn every bit of rubber off the damned tires.

The car is a little Miata, responsive, fast. I dodge morning commuter traffic and head for Mission Beach. When I get to the cottage, I use the alley in back to scope things out. There is a car parked in front of my garage. I pull behind it, blocking the escape route. I don’t recognize the car, a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. I wonder who this car belongs to, but I don’t waste much time pondering the question.