Jeanne Stein - Blood Drive

Frey shakes his head. “I never met Darryl in Boston. If I had, I damn sure would have recognized him the other day. His last name is different from his father’s, too. Probably changed it when he moved here.”

I wait a moment. “Things become uncomfortable for you in Boston? Darryl mentioned something about your coming under suspicion there because you seemed to know too much.”

He sniffs. “That was Bradley’s doing, I’m sure. But yes, a rumor went around that I had made a deal to extricate myself by turning on Darryl’s father. The truth was, I learned about him the same way I learned about Trish. One of his victims was a student at my school. She attempted suicide. Her best friend came to me and told me why. I did some investigating, contacted the Feds and they got him.”

The same story I heard from Darryl. I glance at Frey. His expression is harsh. “But you left Boston.”

“Our school board was very conservative. I didn’t have much of a future there once the rumors started flying. It didn’t matter that they were unsubstantiated. But the one concession they made was to let me resign with the promise of a good recommendation. It’s how I got my job here.”

He lapses into silence, but after a moment, he adds softly. “You know this is not going to be the end of it for Trish. Her videos are already out there.”

I know it. I just don’t want to hear myself say that I know it. I shrug. “I just hope Darryl kept good records. I’ll track every scumbag customer if it takes the rest of my life.”

The absurdity of that remark makes Frey laugh. And I know why.

Sometimes I forget what I am.

We’re approaching Darryl’s street. Frey starts to undress, pulling his shirt over his head, skimming out of his slacks. He sees me watching and grins.

“It’s easier on my wardrobe to do this now. And I’ll need something to change into later, right?”

Last night I didn’t really pay attention to Frey’s body, I was too busy wondering if I was about to become dinner. Today, it’s different. I take a quick, involuntary appraisal. Frey’s chest and shoulders are broad, powerful looking, his arms and thighs well muscled and firm.

“Damn, Frey. I’m impressed.”

He slips Gucci loafers off his feet and flips them into the back seat. The only thing he has on now is a pair of very brief briefs. When he looks at me, an intense physical awareness prickles my skin.

I arch an eyebrow and wait.

“This is as far as I go on a first date,” he says.

I blow out a puff of air and wait for my heartbeat to return to normal and the heat to dissipate from my skin.

What the hell am I thinking?

I pull over at the corner of Darryl’s block, dragging my thoughts back from the abyss, and tell Frey which house is his. “I’ll go in through the front, get him to come outside so you can sneak in the back.”

If he caught my momentary lapse into sexual fantasyland, he doesn’t show it. He simply nods and looks around. “I won’t make the change until I get into his yard. It’s pretty quiet around here. I shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“You can get over these fences?”

“Like a cat.”

He steps out of the car and disappears faster than I would have anticipated. In a moment, I hear the frantic barking of a dog a few door down. Then a yelp of pain and silence. I don’t want to know what made it stop.

I park a few houses down from Darryl’s and climb out of the car, pocketing the keys. It’s oddly quiet in the neighborhood for a weekday morning. No commuters on their way to work, no children waiting for school busses on the corner. I see the edge of a drape in a living room window rise and fall as I pass by on the sidewalk, but as long as I keep moving, I don’t seem to be attracting any undue attention.

It’s quiet in front of Darryl’s place, too. I expect to see the Chevy Suburban from the cottage parked in front, but it’s not here. Darryl’s garage door remains open, though, and the VW inside. I’m pleased that we’ll find him at home.

I glance at the gate. It’s secured by a heavy chain and an industrial sized padlock. It doesn’t take much effort to kick it free. And the noise produced when the gate crashes onto the driveway has the desired effect.

Darryl steps out of the front door.

He stares at me. His face reflects neither surprise nor anger, but rather mild curiosity. His shirt and jeans are spotted with blood that smells damp even from this distance. Ordinarily, that would be enough to trigger the hunger. But the cloying stink of garlic overpowers the scent of blood.

Until I see Frey, I know I will have to keep as far away from Darryl as I can.

He moves, finally, a small half-turn, as though preparing to go back inside. But instead, when he faces me again, he has a gun in his hand. He looks at it, then at me.

“I know this can’t kill you,” he says thoughtfully, as if speaking more to himself than to me. “But I imagine it hurts to get shot.” He chambers a round and aims for my chest.

I dive for the ground as the bullet rips into the concrete. I roll away as the second shot slams into the ground inches from my head. I’m up and at him before he gets the third shot off.

It’s a weak hit, the garlic stops me like an invisible force field. But it’s enough to knock him off balance and into the living room. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to dislodge the gun from his hand. I jump away from him, back into a corner, crouch to await his next move.

He gets up slowly, smiling. “I heard from Bradley a few minutes ago. He was surprised to see you. Said it was bad luck for me that I let you get away. Well, maybe I’ve got a second chance to make it right. I bet I can shoot you in a lot of painful places. You might just become cooperative enough to tell us where you took Trish and that friend of hers.”

He raises the gun and takes aim. I tense, ready to leap out of range. Where the hell is Frey?

The shot reverberates like a cannon in the small room. But the bullet goes wide and high, raining a dust storm of ceiling plaster down on my head. Darryl starts to scream. The dust is thick enough to prevent me from seeing what’s happening, but the sound of bones snapping makes it clear.

“Don’t kill him,” I tell Frey. “At least not yet.”

The dust is settling a little, so I step around to the windows and throw back the drapes. I open the windows, too. There are two besides the one I dove through earlier. Sunlight and fresh air stream in. There’s a ceiling fan dangling precariously overhead, Darryl’s shot loosened the plaster around it. Can’t flip that one on. But there’s also a fan sitting on the floor in the next room. I bring it into the living room, plug it in, and let a flow of cool air clear away the last of the dust.

Frey, in his panther form, is snarling into Darryl’s frightened face. He’s knocked him on his back, and the sound I heard must have been the snapping of an arm that Darryl now cradles against his chest. The gun has skittered somewhere out of sight.

Darryl is whimpering and trying to scoot backwards away from Frey. But like a cat stalking a mouse, the panther moves with him, not making a sound, watching with quiet intensity, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“I wouldn’t make any sudden moves if I were you,” I tell Darryl. “He’ll bite your head right off.”

As if to prove the point, Frey snaps his jaws.

Darryl yelps and cringes back.

I put a hand on Frey’s head. “I’m going to take a look around. If he moves, kill him.”

Frey nuzzles my palm and resumes his vigil.

I find what I’m looking for in one of the back bedrooms-three computers with all the necessary hard and software to turn out the stack of DVDs and VHS tapes that line the floor. Some are already packaged for mailing, others sit in their jackets. There are a dozen piles. Just about the number of videos they forced Trish to make.