Dave Carver (Book 1): Thicker Than Blood (8 page)

“What kind of dream?” I asked.

“Fire,” Dallas said. “A wall of fire. There’s a silhouette in the fire—a man or a woman, I can never remember when I wake up—and they’re walking towards me. Before they reach me, the fire vanishes, and this is all that’s left.” He tapped the open sketchbook.

Dallas had drawn something in the book. He wasn’t likely to win any artistic awards, but I got the idea. Two red bands, wrapping around each other like intertwined snakes. With an orange marker, he’d added strange characters to the bands. They looked like a cross between Chinese characters and Sumerian pictographs.

“After this,” Dallas whispered, “I could see the city burning.”

Dallas promised to call us if he heard or saw anything. I took the drawing with me. I didn’t know what it meant, but if it involved the city on fire, it’d be a good thing to look into.

When we were back in the car, Earl asked if I’d ever seen anything like that.

“This exact thing? No, but it fits with the descriptions I’ve heard of actual prophecies. All cryptic and stuff. Do you trust this guy?”

Earl nodded. “Yes, sir. He’s a bit of an ass, but he’s good at what he does.”

“I don’t get why he wouldn’t tell you about this right away,” Krissy said. “Couldn’t it be, like, really bad.”

Earl sighed. “Dallas doesn’t like to get involved with the Table too much. He prefers to sit on the side. He’s like a shark that likes to pretend its a minnow.”

“Speaking of big fish,” Krissy said, “what did he mean with all that stuff about you starting the war?”

I sighed. “That’s a long story. My mentor and I got captured by vampires in Guyana. May came and got us. She had to take a huge team of knights and allies in. A team, by the way, that Earl here was part of. Why didn’t you tell me, man?”

Earl shrugged. “I didn’t do it for the thanks, sir.”

“Still. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

What could have been an embarrassingly saccharine moment of male bonding was interrupted by a series of rhythmic beeps from Earl’s pocket. He took out his cell phone, flipped it open, and listened. His dark face grew paler. “Uh-huh. We’ll be right there.” He closed the phone and looked at me. “That was Madison. Kim’s been attacked. She’s dead.”

Chapter 10

The area outside the office was calmer than I would have expected, based on countless two-A.M.-viewings of
Law and Order
—an active crime scene wasn’t as frenetic and busy as TV makes it seem. Cop cars and an ambulance were parked on the street in front of the office, their lights whirling. A couple of lab techs stood in the parking lot, taking photos of a dark stain on the blacktop. Two men in EMT uniforms stood near the stoop, smoking cigarettes and watching the scene unfold. There was nothing for them to do here, I guessed. There was no point in trying medical assistance.

Earl cruised past the yellow tape that surrounded the parking lot and the office.
Caution,
the police tape seemed to say,
a woman’s life is oozing out onto the pavement. Better keep away.

Before the car was fully parked, I was out of the door and jogging towards the office. I shoved my way through a small crowd of neighbors and onlookers, and up to the police line. I ducked under the tape and jogged across the parking lot towards the ambulance, looking at the gurney that was set up. The gurney was weighted down with a canvas body bag.

I unzipped the bag and opened it.

I’ve seen my share of death. Most of the dead bodies I’ve encountered have been killed in some gruesome, horrible way. Torn-out throats, exposed viscera, the hollow mess left behind by a bullet, I’d seen them all. More than a few I’d made myself. Death was nearly always grotesque and violent.

Kim Larsen’s body was almost an exception. Her eyes were closed serenely. She hadn’t been gone long: most of the color was still in her face. She looked almost peaceful.

Almost.

A bright red line had been drawn across her throat, splitting her open from ear to ear. The front of her blouse was soaked with scarlet, rapidly drying blood.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I wasn’t religious—I didn’t believe that Kim would need my prayers to ferry her to the afterlife—but she deserved a moment of silence. The quiet hum of activity all around me was distracting, but I was able to put it out of my mind. I let the death wash over me. I smelled the metallic, overpowering tang of blood. I looked at the puckered edge of the knife wound. I committed every detail to memory. Kim Larsen was the first of my soldiers to fall. I needed to remember this moment.

“I’m sorry, Kim,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Because it was my fault. I’d given the order that had led to her death. Me. I’d done it. I’d given an order, and this strong, brave, kind woman was dead.

She was a casualty of war. She’d been killed by a vampire.

Strike that. It was still early afternoon, so the sunlight was still too strong for any but the most powerful vampires to have done the deed. But I had no doubt that a vampire had given the order. Some thrall or junkie or groupie had carried out the hit, but they were little more than weapons. A vampire was responsible.

A strong hand closed on my shoulder.

My training kicked in. I grabbed my assailant by the wrist and elbow and twisted. There was a grunt of pain, but I didn’t look to see who I’d snagged. It took a lot of muscle—this guy was heavy—but I flipped him over my shoulder and sent him sprawling to the pavement.

Suddenly I became aware that every eye in the parking lot was fixed on me. I froze. There were an awful lot of guns drawn all of a sudden, and I’d long since learned that gunmen are like a wild predator—if you stand still you’ve got a better chance of surviving.

“S’alright,” a tired, pained voice said from my feet. “He didn’t mean no harm. Just surprised him a little. Isn’t that right?”

I remained completely still, didn’t even look down. “Um. Yeah. Sorry.”

The man climbed to his feet, dusting himself off. He was built like a barrel, with an enormous stomach and huge shoulders. His suit jacket was a few sizes too small, and his wrists were exposed. There was a bright yellow mustard stain on his tie. His holstered gun was clearly visible on his belt, alongside an NYPD detective’s shield.

“No harm done.” He looked at the audience of angry, tense cops. “Get back to work, huh?” The various cops and EMTs and coroner’s employees resumed their duties.  The big detective looked back at me. “So what are you sorry ‘bout?”

I frowned. “For judo flipping you like that.”

He laughed and it sounded like bombs going off. “Not that. When I walked up you were talking to her.” I knew he was talking about Kim’s body. “Said you were sorry. What was that about?”

I shrugged. “I was just saying I’m sorry for what happened to her.”

“Right. Right.” He was staring at me now, his eyes studying my face like he was searching a treasure map. “We ever meet before? You look real familiar.”

“Doubt it,” I said. “I’ve been out of the country for a long time.”

He shook his head and held out his hand. “Ed Fuerte. Detective.”

“Dave Carver.” I shook his hand.

“You said you were her boss, Mr. Carver?”

“Well, her new boss. I just started today.”

“Bad first day on the job.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “What happened to her?”

“Not sure yet. Somebody slit her throat, but so far nobody’s seen anything.” Fuerte looked at me hard. “You know anything?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

I wasn’t surprised that no one in the neighborhood had seen anything—vampire hired help could be very stealthy when they wanted to be.

“You think you could come back to the station and answer some questions? Basic background stuff. Very easy, but it could be helpful.”

“I’m kinda busy here,” I said. “This isn’t a great time.”

“Sure. Sure. The thing is,” Fuerte said with a faint smile, “we could really use the help. You wanna help us, right?”

I really didn’t have time for this. Dave Carver, monster hunter, could afford to ignore local law enforcement’s requests for help. But Dave Carver, chief pest control officer, had nothing to hide and no life-or-death decisions to make. Refusing to help could draw Fuerte’s suspicions and the last thing I needed right now was a lot of extra scrutiny from the NYPD.

I sighed to make it clear I didn’t like the idea. “Yeah, okay.”

Fuerte smiled again and slapped me on the shoulder. “Shouldn’t take too much of your time.” He signaled to a uniformed officer, who led me into the back of a squad car. As the cop drove away from the office I happened to catch a glimpse of Ed Fuerte. He was staring at me with the eyes of an experienced hunter who’s just caught a whiff of his quarry.

I have no idea how he did it, because the uni never spoke to Fuerte after we left the office, but somehow the detective instructed the younger officer to take me to an interrogation room and leave me there.

The wall behind me was glass, a one-way mirror. If someone was standing behind it, they’d be able to see me, but I couldn’t see them. You’d think such a large reflective surface would make a room seem bigger, but you’d be wrong. The rest of the walls seemed to close in, pressing in like a narrow tunnel. My heart sped up and my palms started to sweat.

I guess I have issues with small spaces.

I wasn’t scared, exactly—it takes more than a little room with one glass wall to scare me—but I was concerned. Apparently Fuerte had taken my whispered apology over Kim’s body as some sort of confession and was treating me accordingly. I had a solid alibi, though, and there shouldn’t be any evidence against me. All this little adventure could really cost me was time. But time was what I didn’t have. The game clock was winding down. I had no idea how long it had until it ran out of ticks, but I had a lot of yards to go before then. Something told me that all of this was the prelude to some major vampire operation, and there was nothing I could do to stop it from inside the NYPD’s 108th Precinct.

Although,
I thought darkly,
maybe you don’t deserve to get out of this cell. Less than a day on the job and you’re already getting your people killed. Do you really think you’re the one that should be in charge of stopping the vampires?

I shoved that line of thinking away, but it kept coming back, like a deranged horror franchise. In less than five hours I’d gotten a veteran knight’s throat slit. Most new bosses took that long to figure out where the office staff kept the copy paper. Not me, though. I just had to dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. I had known that being a captain would be tougher than a rank-and-file knight or even a lieutenant, but I guess I wasn’t prepared for the level of guilt that came with it. I didn’t even really know these people yet, and it hurt so much to have lost one of them. Imagine what it’d feel like when I really got to care for these people.

The door opened, then, crashing my pity party. Fuerte was carrying a big cardboard box in his beefy arms. His suit jacket was gone, revealing the holstered pistol. He set the box down on the table in front of me. It sounded light.

I folded my hands in front of me like a good little altar boy.

“Meant to ask you,” Fuerte said casually, as if I wasn’t currently locked up in a police station, “where’d you learn to fight like that? Been a long time since somebody put me down that easy.”

“London,” I said.

He nodded vacantly like he hadn’t heard what I said. “Sorry ‘bout the wait. Had to get this outta storage.” He flicked a thumb at the box.

“Look, Detective,” I said, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I didn’t kill Kim, and I don’t have time for this. I have very important things to do today.”

“Important things, huh. What, there a cockroach outbreak at the mayor’s house?”

“Something like that.”

Fuerte snorted. “Nah. We got time. You know, it’s interesting. Usually we get guys in here and they say they didn’t kill anybody. Not you, though. You said you didn’t kill Miss Larsen. Very specific.”

“So?”

“Ever hear of a guy called Lucius Hawthorne?”

Oh, hell.
Yeah, I’d heard of him.

“Can’t say I have.”

“Really? He was pretty famous for a while. Big time real estate developer. People called him Trump Junior.”

I shook my head. “I’ve been out of the country for a while. Just never heard the name.”

“Six years back, this Hawthorne guy got his throat cut with a gold knife. Solid gold, you believe that?”

Yeah, I believed it. I was there.

“Damnedest thing,” Fuerte continued. “Doorman never saw anybody unusual enter the building.”

“Maybe it was one of the tenants,” I said.

“Maybe. They all had airtight alibis, though. No, the weird thing was, the doorman didn’t see anybody strange entering the building, but he did see somebody weird leaving. He got a good look at the kid. Good enough to talk to an artist.”

I closed my eyes, just for a moment. This was it. I was going to prison.

Fuerte opened the box and took out a manilla folder. He selected a piece of paper, put it facedown on the table, and slid it across to me.

I flipped it over. It was a drawing of a young man. He had shoulder-length dark hair and a patchy, young man’s beard. His eyes intense. His jaw was strong. His nose was crooked, like it had been broken one too many times and not allowed to heal properly.

In other words: It was me.