Jeanne Stein - The Becoming

Number two—I'm pretty sure Donaldson had nothing to do with either the fire or David's kidnapping. I can't be positive of that, of course. I can never be positive because Donaldson is dead. I just have to conclude that he was too scared to lie back at Beso de la Muerte .

Number three—Why is Donaldson dead? Another Revenger attack? Did they follow me or was Donaldson the target all along?

How can I find out?

Number four—I neither like nor trust Williams. He could easily have put that cop on my tail the other night after Avery's party. If he did, he wants me out of the way pretty badly. Our conversation this afternoon confirms that. He didn't succeed in getting me killed, so getting me out of town is the next best thing.

Which leads me to number five—I need to be wary of anything he suggests. However, getting David released is my first priority. I'll pretend to do whatever he says to protect David. Once he's released, though, all bets are off. I want to know why Williams thinks I present such a threat. And to whom?

Number six—What part does Avery play in all this?

That's the question, isn't it? Williams said Avery “had feelings for me.” Obviously, he didn't think that was a good thing. Is that why Williams wants me gone? Am I upsetting some kind of balance of power among the vamp bigwigs? If so, why didn't he just tell me?

I could easily have put his mind at ease on that score. I'm not a political animal nor do I aspire to become one.

The sun is high in the sky. I glance at my watch. Noon. I have no desire for food, but a little company would be nice and I need to get a phone book to arrange for a security detail. I don't want any more little pricks pawing through my stuff.

I head for that bistro down the block and get my usual table on the deck. Jorge smiles and welcomes me back. This time my order is even simpler than before. Just a beer. Erdinger dark.

And a phone book.

He brings a frosty mug, a bottle, and the telephone directory. I open the yellow pages, pick a company in the beach area and make the necessary arrangements. When I'm assured a guard would be dispatched within the hour, I return my cell phone to my purse and turn my attention to the beer.

I pour and sip and let my eyes wander over the crowd on the beach. There's a party going on to the left. A lot of tight bodies playing sand volleyball to the right. And in front, a couple sunning themselves on a blanket.

I watch them, trying to remember how it felt to spend an afternoon with nothing more important on my mind than when to reapply sun block.

I envy them.

And as if picking up on my thought, the guy hoists himself into a sitting position and reaches for the Coppertone. He says something to his partner, and she rolls onto her side and takes the tube. He turns and she begins smoothing the lotion over a well-muscled back. Then it's her turn, and as he goes to work on her, his face is in my line of sight.

I almost drop the mug. I catch it before it makes too much of a mess, but a frothy wave of beer does manage to spill onto the tabletop and down my pant legs.

I hardly notice because I'm staring at the cop who stopped me for “speeding” the other night. One of the Revengers.

And at the same moment I recognize him, he sees me, too.

His eyes widen, and his hand stops in mid-stroke. We remain that way for what seems a long time, though I'm sure it's only a heartbeat or two. It's as if we're each waiting for the other to make a move.

He blinks first. He mumbles something to his companion and reaches for a cell phone. She doesn't turn to look at me, though, so I'm guessing he doesn't mention the fact that he's just spotted a vampire. Instead she starts gathering their things together, frowning as though irritated that their day at the beach has been disturbed.

I'm not irritated, though. I leave Jorge a ten and duck back inside the bar, watching through the tinted glass as the couple make their way to the street. Then I make a dash for my own car. It's only a half a block down the road, and I move so fast I know they haven't seen me. In fact, the guy keeps looking back over his shoulder, completely unaware that I'm already in my car with the engine running, prepared to follow them. He's looking for a Jag, not an Explorer.

It's the break I've been waiting for.

The cop is driving a red Corvette. Makes it really easy to tail. He leaves the beach and heads to Pacific Coast Highway. He jumps on I-8 and then switches to 163 near Mission Valley. He keeps going north, and I'm right behind him, though he doesn't know it. I can see him checking the rearview mirror, but he's still looking for the Jag.

He turns off at Genesee, the Linda Vista area, and makes a couple of quick right turns. We're in a housing area now and I have to be more careful. He, on the other hand, seems to have relaxed his guard. He takes no evasive action, but pulls right up into the driveway of a modest two-story bungalow on a street with the sweet name, Finch Lane. He doesn't even pause to look up and down the street, but he and his companion take their time unloading beach stuff from the back. I can tell from her expression and body language, she's still not happy that their afternoon was interrupted. He makes conciliatory gestures as they disappear inside the house.

I park a few doors down and wait. I'm betting he'll be back out in fifteen minutes tops—the time it takes to shower and change.

What I'm hoping is that the telephone call he made on the beach was to his friends on the old Revenger squad. Probably made plans to meet them. I'm sure he thinks I ran when I recognized him.

Won't he be surprised!

He beats my time by a good five minutes. His hair is still wet and brushed straight back, as if he didn't want to take the time to dry it. He's dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, tucked, black leather boots on his feet. That's all. No gun that I can see, and even an ankle holster would show in jeans that tight. He jumps into the Corvette, fires it up and backs out of the driveway.

I make my move just before he leaves the neighborhood. At a stop sign, I let the Explorer roll into the Vette, a bumper kiss, but it gets his attention, as I knew it would. Corvette owners are touchy about their cars. Must have something to do with fiberglass.

In a flash, he's out of the car and scoping out the “damage.” He's practically foaming at the mouth, he's so angry. By the time he gets around to aiming some of that fury at me, I've retrieved my gun and cuffs from the glove compartment. He still hasn't bothered to find out who's sitting behind the wheel of the Explorer, but I see him reach into his pocket.

He starts toward me, flipping open a leather wallet to reveal his badge.

I'm out of the door before he gets to the bumper of my car. I'm holding the gun at my side. It's not until I'm right in his face that he realizes whose face is staring back at him.

His expression is almost comical. His mouth drops open, and his eyes widen.

I raise the gun slightly. “Get into my car, asshole, or I'll shoot you right here."

He looks around, gauging the possibilities.

"Don't even try it,” I say. “I'm faster than you, stronger than you, and, oh yeah, I have a gun. Limits your options, wouldn't you say?"

He draws a breath and blows it out. “What about my car?"

"It'll be just fine here. If not, I'm sure the neighborhood tow guys will take good care of it."

He winces, but doesn't argue. I reach for his wallet and shove it into my back pocket. Never know when a badge might come in handy. He crosses in front of the Explorer and opens the passenger side door. He climbs in and I thread the cuffs through the armrest and snap them around both wrists. If he tries to jump out, I can always drag him to death.