Shifters (13 page)

Authors: Edward Lee

BOOK: Shifters

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“Any prints?”

“All over the place, sir,” she said, grasping a CRP portable ultraviolet spotter. “Got a lot of funny fall too, long red pigmentation, along with some kinks. Ask the owners if any redheads or number ones have been on the boat. I’ll run the jizz, the prints, and the scale-counts fast as I can, and cross-reff them through the department intranet. And another funny thing, no toolmarks on the lock.”

Cordesman looked at her warped. He wasn’t buying the “partner” rap. Wire was skell, but he was smalltime. “And what about his head, Jill?” he inquired. “What happened to his head?”

“That’s the weirdest part, obviously. I’ve never seen a cranial insult anything like this. Don’t know what kind of thing could pry off the top of a man’s skull. The point is his brain’s gone.”

“His
what
is…
what?
”

“His brain’s gone,” Jill Brock matter-of-factly repeated.

“You mean blown out?”

“No sir. There’s no gunshot evidence. Somebody took his brain.”

Cordesman needed a drink. Yeah, a Fiddich, rocks. Make that two. He’d quit years ago but right now he wished he hadn’t. He stared openly at her, and at the revelation. “Jill, people don’t take brains. They take exams, they take vitamins, they take vacations. But they don’t
take brains.
”

Jill Brock shrugged. “Tell that to this guy, Captain. ’Cos somebody sure as hell took his.”

(ii)

Wire’s brain tasted exquisite.

(iii)

Stillness had settled on the Sound. Fog lay upon its waters like a fallen cloud, obscuring the shore. The sweet, stagnant smell of the bay lulled him, along with the droning, vibrating diesels. A raw mist chilled his face. It made him shiver under his foul-weather jacket, his nerves on edge, he felt coiled like a high-tension spring.

Something set his senses on high.

Not too much longer…

It was 9 p.m., 2100 to the military. Their course lay towards the Ballard Bridge and the Fisherman’s Terminal, just south of Golden Gardens. The lights of the homes on Sunset Hill shone as clearly as any beacon drawing the
Betruger
to Elliot Bay. As they neared the mark, he could see the light reflecting from Harbor Island with its smoking chimneys spewing and glowing smelters, and downtown Seattle with the huge Christmas star in place on the old Fredrick & Nelson’s, and finally, their destination, the festive string of lights that delineated the Terminal.

With the buoys a hundred feet on the
Betruger’s
stern, Jason brought the starboard engine to idle. A distant green light swung past his bow. The
Betruger
was in the bay. Looking up at the Ballard Bridge they took a left into the terminal. Twenty minutes later, he guided the vessel to the dock with the engines alone. The captain of a passing ferry gave a noncommittal wave as his passengers gawked at the immense and exorbitant yacht that was coursing along. The ship slowed to a dead stop in front of the marina’s north “t.” With the forward starboard engine thrusters, Jason closed the gap between the bow and the pier. Anna, about as talkative as she always was, tossed a hauser to the dock girl. Jason got a good look: short honey-colored hair and tan muscular legs made him wonder just how long it had been since—

Well, last night didn’t really count, did it?

Dreams didn’t count…

The
Betruger
fought against the aft thruster as it forced the stern near the dock. Anna was setting spring lines while Jason wondered about how to get into the dock girl’s pants. The way he felt now, he’d have more luck; Anna wasn’t biting. In fact, she’d weirded out for the whole trip, barely said a word. But the entire trip
was
weird, Jason had to admit. Sometimes you just felt things, and this had never felt right at all.

Lethe.

Fuckin’ weirdo,
Jason had no problem articulating.
His money’s green, sure, but what kind of guy hires you to take his one-point-five-mil yacht up the coast, says he’ll meet you at the marina, but doesn’t even leave a number so you can call when you pull into the dock?

A fuckin’ weirdo, that’s who.

Oh, well. Why worry? They were tied up now, they’d arrived at their destination, and there was no sign of Lethe on the pier.
I wonder how long we’ll have to wait for this screwball?

««—»»

He drained the last of his Beck’s in the galley. His watch read quarter of eleven.
Women,
he thought.
They take forever and a day.
But, hell, he’d given her enough time; he rapped twice on Anna’s cabin door. Nothing. He held his breath, but all he heard was the sound of his own pulse. “Anna?” he called. “We better get topside. Your gear ready? I’m sure Lethe’ll be here any minute—it’s getting late.”

Nothing.

“Anna?”

No running shower, no hair dryer, nothing.

He knocked again and gently opened the door. The cabin was dark, the bed made.
She ain’t here. She’s already topside, and I’m standing here talking to a friggin’ door!

A soft red light escaped from under the door to the master cabin. Jason could hear a soft rustling noise.
Why would she be in here?
he wondered, then he gently opened up the cabin door. “Anna, what are you doing in here? Looking for Focke Wolfs? Come on, getten zee lead out,” he tried to joke. But—

The joke ended when he looked ahead.

A single glimpse showed him the steel crate. Its lid, somehow, had been pushed off, and then another glimpse showed him what was inside.

The veneered, dark wood. The plush white pillowed interior. The lined lid cocked open—

Footstand, my ass! That’s a coffin!

But what his
next
glimpse showed him was infinitely worse.

Sprawled across the floor lay Anna. Her long blonde hair lay spread around her head, a macabre halo. Someone in a white suit crouched over her…

Anna’s limbs twitched as her glassy eyes stared past the ceiling.

“What in God’s name…” Jason muttered.

The head of the figure in white jerked up. A shock of salt and pepper hair hung across the sharp planes of his face. Black eyes bore into Jason’s own.

Lethe smiled, blood ringing his mouth.

Anna’s T-shirt was sopped with blood, pasting the material wetly to her breasts. More—fresher—blood eddied in feeble pulses from her gnawed-open throat. Even in the red light, she looked anemic.

Rage launched Jason forward. He charged Lethe, raising the first thing in hand’s reach, a small fire extinguisher. “You fucker! So help me God I’m gonna split your head!” he promised, then caught Lethe squarely in the temple with the extinguisher, behind a good, hard swing. The impact made a tuned
crack!
Lethe’s head snapped back violently.

Then he looked at Jason and laughed.

Jason rammed a right so hard his hand hurt. Lethe’s head snapped back again, and then he laughed again.

A blurred backhand sent Jason flying into the port bulkhead; air and spittle exploded out of his mouth.

Jason’s mind dimmed. A chuckling could be heard.

Christ. I gotta get outa—

The hands which next ringed his throat felt like an iron collar. Jason’s vision swam as the pain became acute. His arms flailed at Lethe’s head. Snapping sounds ground from Jason’s throat as, very quickly, his larynx was crushed. He could taste his own blood rising from his collapsed throat, and in a surprisingly neutral sensation, he understood that he was about to die.

The protruding bones of Jason’s neck emerged through his flesh, passing between Lethe’s fingers. The universe closed around the vampire’s face.

The next thing Jason saw was the ceiling. He could see Lethe talking but he couldn’t hear the words, and he could feel blood running into his ears.

Yeah, I’m dying,
he thought.
This is it, the Golden Hour. Shit…

Lethe came back into view. His arm was wrapped under Anna’s breasts, lifting her like a limp doll. His lips mouthed more soundless words.

It looked like he said
drink.

Then he dropped Anna on top of Jason.

The soft blonde hair fell across Jason’s face, her firm breasts pressed to his chest. He’d always imagined that she would feel like this, and what a thing to recall now, dying, with his throat crushed. A sensation, at any rate. Yes, a nice sensation to die to.

But then Anna’s lips closed on his throat.

NINE

Party

(i)

Lehrling stopped out front, the rather infamous building on Third Avenue. “You go on in, I’ll park the car and wait for you in the waiting room.”

Locke nodded. His head ached with each nod. “What do you think this is all about?”

“It’s nothing, man. Go on in.”

Locke got out of the Volante and closed the door. He walked up to the Public Safety Building stepping past the trio of winos who sat passing a 40-ouncer of Rainer Ale on the steps in the futile hope that they’d be picked up for vag by one of the passing patrolmen and wind up with three hots and a cot for a few days. Locke took the elevator to the 4th floor and wandered down the hall till he came to a small sign that read in white tactile letters: SEATTLE POLICE DEPT., HOMICIDE /ASSAULT UNIT—NORTH PRECINCT, with an arrow indicating a right turn down the hall.

Locke felt weird. Walking into a police station. Just upstairs was the City jail. It was something he’d never done before. Images from TV surfaced: cops striding back and forth from the booking room, stray banter, phones ringing, typewriters clacking. A bald sergeant with a mole like the end of a finger looked blankly up from the desk.

“I’m here to see a Captain Cordesman,” Locke said.

“Locke, the suicide?”

Locke didn’t like the way he’d worded it. “Yes, I witnessed a suicide last night.”

“Down the hall to the left,” the sergeant said, looking back down at some papers.

Locke was surprised they hadn’t searched him, or at least signed him in. He could be a nut for all they knew. He could have a gun or a bomb or something.

CAPTAIN J. CORDESMAN, a plaque read on a milky glass door. HOMICIDE. “Come on in,” a voice invited before Locke could even knock. No doubt the room’s occupant had seen his outline in the glass.

Locke entered a cramped office. A slim figure rose behind a dented desk heaped with reports. Coffee bubbled on a burner.

“I’m Cordesman,” the guy said. “Thanks for coming down. Have a seat.”

Locke sat, distracted. This guy was a cop? He was skinny and had hair to his shoulders, hadn’t shaved this morning, either. A crumpled tie adorned a crumpled dress shirt. “Want some coffee?”

It looked like pitch percolating on the burner. “No thanks,” Locke said.

“So you’re a poet, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Interesting.” Cordesman lit a Camel, cocked a brow. “You all right? You sick?”

“I’m hungover.”

The cop seemed to smile, as though remembering something. “How many did you throw back?”