Charlaine Harris - Many Bloody Returns

“I don’t know,” he wheezed.

“Are you telling me you don’t know one of your victims is buried in the Spivey family plot?”

“I know she’s there, but I don’t know her name. I don’t know any of their names.”

“You lying sack of shit,” Stella said, squeezing harder. “You kept her clothes, didn’t you? I bet you jacked off in them. There must have been something.”

“Nothing. I swear. Only a little money.”

“Tell me!”

The man’s face was starting to change colors.

“I don’t think he knows,” Mark said.

She didn’t let up.

“Stella, he doesn’t know. Trust me—no man is going to let you keep doing that if he has any way to stop you.”

For a long moment she still didn’t react; then, with a last squeeze, she let go. The man rolled into a ball and whimpered.

“Are you all right?” Mark asked.

“Of course. You know drugs can’t affect me.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Mark admitted. “You’re a very good actress.”

“What about you? That bastard stabbed you,” Stella said, and Mark finally noticed that his arm was bleeding freely. “Does it hurt?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

Stella stepped over the killer, touched the blood with one finger, and brought the finger up to her mouth. Then she gave Mark a kiss that almost made him forget the pain.

“You’re welcome,” he said breathlessly. “What do we do now?”

“First we take care of your arm,” she said, and leaned over to start lapping at his wound. Not only did it stop the bleeding, but it felt damned good, too.

With that done, Stella dragged the killer from the floor, grabbed his chin to make him look her in the eyes, and bespelled him so thoroughly he’d have laid still for her to finish squeezing his balls off, if she’d asked him to. Then she told him exactly what he was going to remember about this night. How he’d drugged the girl at the truck stop and brought her to his nest, meaning to rape and kill her the way he had the others. But the girl had fought back, gotten in a lucky blow, and left him unconscious on the floor. Meanwhile Mark did a bit of stage decoration, leaving threads from Stella’s clothes on the bed and dropping the princess necklace on the floor. Then they picked up the tire iron and made their way out through the still-agitated flock in the barn.

Their next stop was the pay phone outside the truck stop, where Stella called the police to tell them who had attacked her and where. When they asked who she was, she hung up.

Mark already had the car running, and they lost no time in taking off, driving away just as the first police car arrived, siren blaring.

Despite the lingering pain in his arm, Mark was feeling pretty pleased with himself. “What do you know? We solved the case.”

“No, we didn’t. We still don’t know who Jane Doe is.”

“But we did catch a serial killer. Nancy Drew never did that, I bet. Not only will he not kill anymore, but now they’ll find his other victims. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Of course it does. I’ve been thinking of all those mothers who must have been wondering what happened to their daughters. It’s made my coming home worthwhile. I just wish we could have found out who Jane is. Her mother needs to know, too.”

They were quiet for a few miles.

Then Mark said, “Stella, about coming home. Why now?”

“I told you. For my birthday.”

“You’ve never come back for your birthday before, and eighty-two isn’t a particularly meaningful birthday.”

“No, but it’s been a meaningful year. Because of you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re the first vampire I’ve sired. Or damned. My first child.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, but you are the closest thing I’ve got to a child. You’re my bloodline. Is it any wonder that I’ve been thinking about my human bloodline?”

“And about your mother?” he guessed.

She nodded. “Granted that my feelings toward you aren’t precisely maternal—”

“Thank God for that!”

“But it has made me think about being a mother and how I’d feel if anything happened to you. How Mama must have felt when I died. God, Mark, I was a terrible daughter!”

“Why would you say that?”

“I told you—when Vilmos gave me the Choice, I never looked back. Ever. I lived the high life in Europe for decades, and by the time I even thought to check on Mama, she’d been dead for years. I forgot she existed. And I guess she forgot me, too.”

There was no way Mark could answer her, no way he could comfort her, so he didn’t even try.

Only when they were in bed did he say, “If I’m your child, does this mean I’ve got to give you a Mother’s Day present?”

Her smile was his reward. “Damned straight! I want breakfast in bed, flowers, and a bottle of perfume, too.”

“It’s a deal.”

The results of the night’s adventures were all over the news the next morning, and Mark spent most of the day watching the story unfold, as the newscasters put it. He was still watching when Stella woke for the night.

“Did it work?” she asked him.

In answer, he pointed to the TV screen, where the local news was discussing the case, complete with film of Officer Norcomb with the killer cook in cuffs. “They’ve found two bodies already. This guy has been working at the truck stop for several years, so there’s no telling how many more there are.”

“Has he said anything about Jane?”

“Only that he killed her but got interrupted by hunters before he could bury her, and she was found before he had another opportunity. Nothing about who she was.”

“Oh.”

“We did good, Stella. You did good.”

“I know.”

“Besides, with all the extra publicity, maybe somebody will come forward with new information. You know Norcomb isn’t going to give up now. And if he does, you can bespell him into changing his mind.”

“True enough. Are you hungry?”

“I am. Hey! I didn’t eat any food today—I didn’t even think of it.”

“My little boy is growing up.”

He gave her a determinedly Oedipal kiss and said, “There’s an NC State game this evening. Should be a good place to get a bite. I’ll hit the shower. Want to join me?”

“No, thanks. I want to get dinner before midnight this time.”

“Spoilsport.”

When Mark was done, he saw Stella was watching TV but not the news. Instead she was watching the security tape of Jane.

“Stella…”

“I’m not brooding. There’s just something about Jane that’s not right. Or rather about Norcomb’s explanation of what she was doing in Allenville.”

“How so?”

“He figured she was tied into drug dealing, but all we really know is that a girl who looked like a runaway came to Wal-Mart and bought new clothes. If she wasn’t disguising herself, why the makeover?”

Mark thought about it. “Could she have been doing the same thing you are?”

She cocked her head at him. “Meaning what?”

“You were sort of a runaway but eventually you wanted to come home. Right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Hear me out. When you came back to Allenville, suddenly you had an accent again. You kind of reverted to who you used to be. Maybe Jane was reverting, too. She’d been this Goth creature of the night, but now that she was coming home, she wanted to become a normal girl again. So she stopped at Wal-Mart, dressed like her old self, and threw the Goth identity away. She wanted to go home.”

Stella looked at him, eyes wide. “You’re a genius!”

Mark tried to look modest and pointed out, “Of course, that doesn’t really help us figure out who she was.”

“It might. Jane only bought one set of clothes, and she put them on right away. That means she expected to get home that night or the next day at the latest—otherwise the new clothes would have gotten dirty. She may not have been from Allenville, but she was local. This could narrow Norcomb’s search enough to find her!”