Charlaine Harris - An Apple for the Creature

“Listen to him,” Jackson said, his voice that gentle voice he used, connecting with her, helping her focus.

“I’m going to be blunt,” Nash said. “We’ve had a prime suspect in this case for some time.”

“Not me,” she said, reaching again for the piece of paper. Nash kept a firm hold of it.

“The suspect had access to your DNA and planted it at each of the three crime scenes your class has discussed,” Nash told her. “Hair follicles. To make you look like the guilty party.”

Stunned, she looked at Jackson. “The swabs—”

“We’ve been taking swabs so we could ensure that you are not a vampire, and we arranged this school so we could keep you under observation if and when he killed again,” Nash said plainly. “If he hadn’t struck within the two weeks, we would have extended the duration of your training.

“You’re not a vampire,” he added.

Dumbfounded, she could only sit and listen. A terrible feeling was spreading throughout her body—Claire was smart and she could piece things together, which was why she was so good at what she did. But she couldn’t fathom that she was drawing the correct conclusions.

“The perp was careful. He wore gloves and booties, and he wiped down the scenes. But he obviously did not consider that when he bites his victim, he leaves behind a vampiric marker we can catch with Luminol. And he didn’t do a perfect cleanup job. He’s not a professional criminal, just a killer. But we had to be sure of you.”

She looked from him to Jackson, handsome, kind Jackson, whose cheeks were blazing, and who looked ashamed.

“Be sure of me,” she said.

“Because you know the vampire in question,” Nash said.

“No,” she said, feeling dizzy.

“We think the reason he’s been killing these women is because they resemble his mother. We have cause to believe that the vampire in the tomb is his father, and that he killed his father after his father killed his mother because she was unfaithful to him. In the seventeenth century.”

“He,” she said, swallowing hard, not wanting to think about who had easy access to her hair follicles.

“The perp—the son of the vampire in the crypt—began his attacks approximately two and a half years ago—after he became convinced that you were being unfaithful to him.” He looked at Jackson.

“I discussed our relationship with Agent Nash,” Jackson said to her. “We’re partners. Nothing unprofessional has passed between us.” He leaned toward her. “I went along with all of this to clear you, Claire. And to make you safe.”

My husband is a vampire. My husband is the vampire. My husband is a serial killer.

She didn’t know how long she sat there. She became aware that Nash was holding out a shot glass of whiskey to her. She took it and tossed it back.

“The ten other agents in your class know all this,” Nash said. “DeWitt is the agent in charge of the task force.”

“This was a sting operation,” she said shakily, “in case I was the guilty party.”

“We got a search warrant for your condo,” Nash continued. “We found a diary your husband’s been keeping. It’s written in Romanian, which, as you know, is not a problem for the Bureau. The entire document has been translated. If what it says is true, Peter Anderson has had several dozen aliases, and he’s hundreds of years old.”

“I need a moment,” she said, feeling ill. “I need a bathroom.”

Jackson moved to help her up. She waved him away and pulled herself to her feet. Then she swayed out of the room and made it down the corridor to the bathroom. On her knees, she threw up. Then she tumbled against the cold metal of the stall and began to hyperventilate.

“Claire,” Jackson said, opening the door and hoisting her up. He wrapped his arms around her. “They’ve gone to get him.”

“Oh God, oh God,” she murmured against his chest.

“They recruited me a month ago,” he told her. “All they told me was that they thought your husband was involved in a crime, and that he was planting DNA evidence to make you look guilty. But they didn’t tell me it was murder, and they sure as hell didn’t tell me anything about goddamn vampires . If they had, I would have staked that son of a bitch first chance I got.”

She hitched a breath, and he leaned his cheek against the crown of her hair. He did not kiss her. “As soon as we arrived here at FSU, and I found out what exactly was going down, I pitched holy hell. Nash and DeWitt came down on me hard. You were under surveillance before we got here, and it’s been going on here, too. Hell, I’ve been standing outside your window at night myself, to protect you.”

“You faked me out,” she said accusingly, pulling out of his arms.

“I’m a hell of an FBI agent,” he affirmed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “But I’m an even better . . . friend.”

“Did he kill someone tonight?” she asked. Her voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else. It sounded like someone who was about to completely lose it.

“An undercover cop has been posing as a coed at MIT,” he said. “She fits the resemblance pattern of his victims, and he moved in fast. She was supposed to go over there tonight. I’m guessing he made his move, and that’s why the team went out.”

Anger surged through her, burning away some of the trauma. “So, what, was he building up to murdering me?”

“Escalation is consistent with what we know about serial killers,” he said.

“Is it consistent with what we know about vampires?” she countered.

He held her. “I don’t know, Claire. Life was simpler when it was just basters.”

“I want to be there,” she said. She swallowed down all her emotions except for grim determination. “For the takedown. I have to be there.”

They got him.

They didn’t kill him.

They dragged him out of her condo in the pouring rain. He was hissing like a rattlesnake, his fangs protruding, hands cuffed, manacles and chains around his ankles, but otherwise he looked like Peter. Handsome, not evil, not a supernatural creature. MIT, red wine, and reading, and with a little cheating on the side.

“Murderer,” Claire said, keeping to the shadows beneath an eave as they fitted a hockey mask over his face and forced him into a van. The growing neighborhood crowd was being held back, prevented from seeing anything. Acting as a curtain, the rain aided and abetted. She was sick, and livid, and a tiny bit ashamed. It was because of her feelings for Jackson that he had been triggered. Triggered this time, Jackson had reminded her. They’d translated his entire diary. She was only one of many wives, and he had wound up murdering most of them.

“I’m sorry I had to lie to you,” Jackson said.

Half an hour later, when they brought Peter into an interview room at the Boston field office, Claire insisted on standing behind the one-way mirror as Jackson and Nash interrogated him. DeWitt was with the team. Jackson had asked to be there, and Nash and DeWitt had thought it was a good idea. See if they could shake up the enraged, jealous, psychotic husband.

Peter was no longer wearing his hockey mask. Claire was alarmed. She didn’t know why they’d removed it. Jackson had taken off his wet FBI raid jacket. Raindrops clung to his silvery blond hair.

Claire stood beside Lisa Shiflett, the undercover cop who had posed as Peter’s winsome Thanksgiving feast. Shiflett was trying very hard to appear unfazed, but it was clear her near-miss of dying at the hands of a vampire had unnerved her.

“Crosses don’t work on them,” she said quietly to Claire. “At least, they didn’t work on him.”