Creatus (Creatus Series) (10 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Derrick scanned the trees, feeling eyes watching them. That was the answer. One of the creatus he’d banished for one reason or another was out for revenge. He’d never exiled anyone for a crime of this magnitude, but he’d sent many of their kind away for other indiscretions. Creatus, as humans, had their sins. The only difference was they didn’t put up with them. If you couldn’t live and work as a family, you were sent on your way. It’d been three years since he’d asked anyone to leave, and the family had run smoothly since. In fact, other than holidays, they rarely even had to gather.

“Get back at you for what?” Kristina asked, a crease between her eyes revealing her concern ran deeper than she’d let on.

Derrick curled her hand in his, really wanting to get her inside the vehicle where it was warm, but he could understand that the fresh air probably felt good in her condition. “We live in a sort of utopian society. My family was one of the first families to settle in Harvard. In fact, other groups had tried to mimic our lifestyle. I’ll take you to Fruitlands Museum someday. It’s popular because in the early 1840s, a faction attempted a society based on transcendentalist principles, which failed miserably. Although they failed for multiple reasons, their foremost mistake was the lack of food. They’d planted, but the harvest wasn’t plentiful, and since they were vegans in the truest since, even excluding milk and egg products, there was nothing to sustain them through the harsh New England winter. They’d refused to use animal labor and even restricted wool, since it came from sheep. They wore only linen clothes and canvas shoes. How they kept warm is beyond me. Imagine trying to work the fields?” Kristina shook her head. “Anyway, the experiment ended only seven months after it began.

“Our lifestyle now is different
from when my family settled in the 1700s. We can live where we want, do what we want. But we still stick together. Mostly we work together, have our own schools throughout the world, and when there’s an issue, we pull together. Though we live by the law of the land, we also have our own government. And in our region of the world, which is all of New England, I’m what you might call the president, and Michael is the vice-president. If someone breaks the law—which aren’t much different from America’s laws—they’re on their own. So, unfortunately, I have enemies, I’m sure. But I’ve never had a rogue creatus.”

She scrunched up her nose. A habit Derrick found endearing for some reason. “And you think this rogue will try to murder me?”

He squeezed her hand, rubbing small circles on her soft skin. It was to comfort her, but also, he was checking that her temperature and heart rate had returned to normal. “I don’t know, but if you’ll bear with me while I find out whomever it is, I would be especially appreciative.”

She leaned against him, evidently feeling a little better. “That’s understandable.”

“I have to ask, Kristina,” he started, retaining a chuckle. “How is it a homicidal creatus doesn’t worry you, but the detective does?”

She peered up at him with those sparkling green and gold eyes. “Because I know you’ll protect me from a murderer. But I don’t know how I’ll protect you from the government. If what I said or did causes that detective to seek out your family…”

He pulled her closer, cutting off her words, a contented groan escaping his throat at her statement. Kristina loved and cared about him, regardless of what some of his kind were capable of. Then again, even humans perpetrated heinous crimes. Even he, unlike his brother, couldn’t condemn an entire species because of a few. “Thank you, my love. But you don’t have to worry about me. I, along with all of my kind, have managed to stay hidden for four thousand years. One detective isn’t going to bring us down.” He stood and held his hand out to his bride to be. “Let’s get you into some dry clothes.”

Kristina rose from the bench and leaned against him, allowing him to wrap his arm around her. He made his way to his Navigator, h
elping her up to the passenger seat. After locking her inside, he walked to the water’s edge and picked up the canoe.

A pebble hitting the water’s surface on the other side of the lake caught his attention, and he turned to the sound. He surveyed the surrounding trees for any sign of a threat, wondering if he should investigate while Kristina was locked inside the vehicle. Deciding against it, he walked toward the truck again. He hoisted the canoe on top of the SUV, strapping it down on both ends.

A branch cracked from the opposite direction, and he realized what had happened. He hadn’t imagined the pebble, just the origination of the toss. Nor had he imagined the eyes he felt on him. He turned to the sound. No creatus who knew him would attack while he was on guard, as they knew they couldn’t win. So he decided to let them know he was aware. Whispering low enough that Kristina couldn’t hear, he made his intention clear, “I know you’re there. And let me make myself perfectly clear. You touch her, and I’ll rip
you
apart limb by limb.”

“
I’m coming for her, Derrick. I’m coming for Kristina.
”

A shiver swept through Derrick, but he shook it off. The words were faint and garbled, so he couldn’t decipher if it was a man or a woman, but the threat was
unmistakable. The rogue had made
his
intentions clear as well. They were at war.

Chapter Fifteen

Murphy O’Brian parked a block away from Kristina Heskin’s apartment for the third day in a row. The Grand Am he’d impounded was parked in the same spot it had been the day after it disappeared from the impound lot, along with all the documentation.

When he’d arrived to search the vehicle the next day, the operating manager of the facility not only didn’t have any clue the vehicle was gone, but also had no signs that there had been a break-in. When he searched the files, everything on Kristina was missing, as if he’d never submitted it as evidence.

It was past nine and he had to get to the station. A missing jumper was a low priority on the city’s list—especially when there were no frantic calls from family, insisting the police locate her—so he had to investigate on his off time. So far, nothing had changed in the last three days, and he’d been on her street every mor
ning, during lunch break, and on his way home from work.

Once back at the station, Murphy fished through the expanding file folder he’d made
eight years ago that he brought from home. He had a separate file for every year he’d been a cop, but he’d also made files for specific cases he’d worked. His wife had complained that even the IRS didn’t require documentation over five years. Courts had subpoenaed him to testify on crimes even older than that, though, and he liked having his handwritten reports. Now his home office had hundreds of the brown-recycled expanda files, but he’d brought this one he’d made eight years ago because of a common thread among many reports. He pulled the manila folder out with her name on it and the one with the vigilante cases.

Something had been bothering him ever since he’d read off Kristina Heskin’s name as the owner. An encounter he’d had with the girl when she was eight bubbled to the surface as if cued. For some reason, his brain tried to connect her situation with a vigilante
case that had started eight years ago, but then had abruptly stopped three years ago. In every situation, the victim had claimed that in one minute they were being attacked, and the next, the attacker had disappeared. One woman had caught a glimpse under the light of a streetlamp. She’d said that a man dressed in black had pulled the man off the ground from above her. Even though she laughed while uttering the words, she remarked that it was as if Batman had pulled him off the ground.

The other victims hadn’t a clue what happened to their attacker because the alley had been so dark. But each one of them insisted that their assailant had mysteriously vanished. Some even cited that it must have been their guardian angel.

Most cops had gone to just inputting their reports into the computer on their patrol car’s dash, but he liked to have a hard copy. And at times as these, he didn’t have to cut through bureaucratic red tape to get copies.

Murphy
reclined in his chair, kicked his feet up on the desk, and sipped black sludge from a Styrofoam cup. He scanned his report, glazing over a lot of the description of the poor kid’s dead mother. O’Brian dropped his feet to the floor as he found the passage that had tripped his memory: “My Dark Angel saved me.” He’d put the little girl’s comments in quotes as they were the only words she’d uttered.

Rifling through the other vigilante scenes, he found two similar entries. “It was as if an Angel had pulled him off me.” He found the report from the lady who’d made the Batman comment. “It was like Batman; he’d even been dressed all in black.”

He’d entered all of these comments into the database, but nothing had come back other than in his area, and none of his superiors had been interested in chasing down a vigilante. As long as his captain didn’t have any dead bodies to deal with, he didn’t seem to care about a man ridding the streets of a few thugs.

Murphy
set the files aside and fished through his briefcase for the disc the boater had given him on the “jumper” case. The man had been filming for a blog piece he was working when he saw Kristina’s body drop. He’d followed her descent to the water, but then another figure had dropped right behind her. As he was starting the boat to rescue them, the other jumper had broken the surface and was on the shoreline in seconds. The boater had shaken his head and then reiterated, “Less than seconds” to Murphy when he’d recounted the scene.

O’Brian popped the disc into his laptop and watched the scene unfold
in regular speed. At least based on the first body’s rate of descent, it looked as though it was in regular speed. Unless the boater had screwed with the recording, he was correct; the second jumper had had Kristina’s body on the riverbank almost faster than Murphy could blink.

“I’ll take care of this, sir.” A man leaned over Murphy’s desk and ejected the CD drive, removed the disc, and then quickly shoved it into his attaché case.

Dumbfounded, Murphy bounced to his feet. “Excuse me. Who the hell are you?”

The man, who was about six-four, had a commanding appearance. Everything about the man, right down to his sunglasses, was dark with the exception of his short spiky hair, which was
blond. A spook if he ever saw one. Murphy slumped in his chair as the man exited his office without comment, and he was certain there wouldn’t be an explanation even if he caught up with the man.

Murphy picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d scribbled on his desk calendar three days ago. After
several rings, the photographer picked up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Bruce. Murphy O’Brian. We spoke the other day and you gave me a copy of a disc you’d recorded of the Tobin Bridge. I was wondering if I could get another copy.”

“Sure, if I had one,” he replied with an irritated edge. “I had months of work on that disc and a man showed up this morning and asked if he could get a copy as well, said he worked with you. No problem, I told him. But as soon as I pulled the disc out to make a copy, he snatched it out of my hand, said thanks, and walked out of my office. I would have chased him down, but he looked scary. I was just getting ready to call you and ask when I could get back my original.”

“Military looking guy with blond spiky hair?” Murphy asked.

“That’s the dude.”

“He’s not my partner. I’m sorry, Bruce. I’m afraid you won’t be getting your copy back.” Murphy hung up the phone and reached for
the files. He sighed as he searched all around his desk. The man had taken them too, it seemed.

Scratching his head in confusion, Murphy picked up his cell phone, deciding to make one final attempt at speaking with Kristina. The phone rang
a few times, and he was sure as the last six times, it’d go to voicemail, but it didn’t. He heard the click of a connection and waited for a response.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice filled the line, and for some reason he exhaled in relief. From minute one, he’d only wanted to make sure she was okay.

“Hi, Kristina. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.” Murphy used only her first name, hoping she’d assume he knew her.

“Who’s calling please?”

Oh well, he should have known better. “Are you Kristina?” he asked this time.

“Yes.”

Warmth filled his insides; she was okay. He didn’t know why; he’d just wanted her to be okay. “Kristina, my name is Murphy O’Brian. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met when you were eight, and I just so happened to witness your acrobatic maneuver off the bridge a few days ago. You’re not in any trouble. I just want to speak with you, if that’s okay.”

“Hang on.” She muffled the phone and he could only hear low mumblings, nothing discernible.

At this point, he just wanted to make sure she wasn’t in some sort of trouble. Maybe the man hadn’t been a spook, but had illegal reasons for wanting the video. The bulge under his jacket proved he had a concealed weapon, so he was still leaning toward spook, as most civilians wouldn’t get past the front door of the police station.

“Where would you like to meet, Mr. O’Brian?” Kristina asked.

“Your apartment is fine, if that’s okay with you?”

“Sure, I mean, you’re a cop and all, right?”

Murphy smiled. He could picture the cute little blonde with a ponytail. “Yes, ma’am. Detective, actually.”

“I have to meet my friend at the high school around three, but I’ll be home by five if that’s okay?”

“I’ll see you then.” As he hung up the phone, the real image of that day filled his vision. The eight-year-old girl covered in her mother’s blood. He’d never escape the nightmares of all he’d seen in his thirty years as a cop. He was looking forward to retirement.