Succulent Prey (32 page)

crime scene."

The captain and Detective Montgomery

cleared everyone else out of the room

except for the CSI crew. They

immediately went to work

photographing, bagging, and tagging

everything they found that looked even

remotely like it might lead them to the kil er. There was more than enough

physical evidence to tel them who the

kil er was and even to practical y

guarantee a conviction-his DNA and

fingerprints were al over the place. But there was nothing here to suggest where he might have gone.

"What about the telephone?"

"This one?" the captain asked, lifting the receiver from a cradle that was tacky

with blood.

"No. The one in the apartment he was renting. Let's get the phone records and find out who he was cal ing."

"That's no problem. There's a police liaison at the phone company who does

traces for us."

They were both more than a little

relieved to leave the murder scene.

"Where's that manager?" the captain asked one of the officers standing

nearby.

He pointed to a short, paunchy, balding Mexican with guilty, fidgety eyes. The

man stepped forward, looking from side

to side as if frantical y trying to plan his escape. He had the look of an ex-con

with the crude tattoos to match.

"Which one did Miles stay in?"

"Right next door ... uh, sir."

"Wel , then open it up! We need to check it for evidence."

They paused in the doorway of the

apartment, taking note of the handcuffs attached to the bed and the wide

bloodstain that saturated the mattress

and sheets. This is where Alicia had

been held, where Joe had performed his

radical mastectomy on her. The big burly police captain froze and turned to look at the young black detective with stunned, exhausted eyes.

"What the fuck are we up against here?"

"A man. Just a man."

The captain picked up the phone and

dialed the operator. Minutes later they had their information. He set the phone back in the cradle and let out a sigh of relief.

"Wel , it looks like Joseph Miles is your problem again. The last number he

dialed was back in the Bay Area.

Hayward, California. A Mr. Lionel Ray

Miles. He's going home to Daddy."

Lionel Ray Miles stood on his porch,

cradling the Mossburg pistol-grip

shotgun in his arms and peering out into the darkness. He knew he'd heard

something out there. Maybe one of the

neighbor kids was playing a trick on him, but he was sure he'd heard the sound of glass breaking. And it had sounded like it was coming from his garage. He crept around to the front of the garage and

saw that two of the windows had been

smashed and there was a huge dent in

the aluminum, as if something big and

heavy had crashed into it. He heard

shuffling noises coming from inside.

Lionel Ray jacked a round into the

chamber and crept around to the side

service door. He didn't make a sound.

He was not about to give whoever had

dared break into his property any

warning. Lionel didn't want to scare them away. He wanted blood. He imagined

himself creeping up on some teenaged

crackhead or speed freak and opening

up on them with the shotgun. One less

junkie, sneak thief, shoplifter, burglar, purse snatcher for the overburdened

court system to worry about.

The service door on the side of the

garage had been smashed in too. It

looked like someone had used a

sledgehammer on it. That door had cost

Lionel Ray two hundred dol ars at the

home-and-garden store. Not to mention

the time it had taken him to instal it and paint it. That alone was enough to justify him blowing away the intruder.

There was a shadow in roughly the

outline of a human body standing right

beside Lionel Ray's prized '69 Lincoln

Continental. The Lincoln was Lionel

Ray's dream car. Not a Cadil ac or a

Mercedes, but a Lincoln with its sleek

lines and suicide doors had always

symbolized success to him. He'd

purchased it on eBay with money from

his 401K. Had it driven al the way from Texas. And that speed-freak intruder

was using it as a shield.

The Lincoln had al its original chrome bought straight from the factory and

shined to a high gloss. Brand-new black leather upholstery. White-wal ed tires. Lionel Ray had spent countless hours

restoring the car to mint condition. It was his pride and joy and there was no way

he was going to risk a shot in the dark that just might spray the old girl with buckshot and ruin the new eighthundred-dol ar paintjob he'd just put on it. If need be he'd just walk over there and throttle the bastard with his bare hands. Lionel Ray Miles was tal with thick

muscles from years of hard labor rather than months in the gym. He had no fear

of the intruder attacking him before he could squeeze off a shot.

But the guy was big. A lot bigger than

he'd expected. Too big to be a junkie or a crackhead, though that stil didn't rule out a teenaged jock or a frat boy pul ing some kind of prank.

If this sonuvabitch tries to charge me

he'l wind up getting his neck broken just before I blow his damned head off his

shoulders, Lionel thought. I just want a better look at him so I can aim properly. Lionel Ray reached over and pul ed the

chain on the little keyless light that

dangled from the ceiling overhead. The

sudden burst of radiance dazzled him

and he quickly raised the shotgun in the direction the figure had been standing, afraid that the intruder might try to attack him in the seconds it took his eyes to

adjust to the light. The guy wasn't

moving, however.

As Lionel squinted through the harsh

glare of the naked 100-watt lightbulb, he began to recognize some of the

intruder's features. The man was even

bigger than he'd appeared in the dark,

bigger than Lionel himself. He had short, neatly cut black hair parted down the

middle. Crystal-clear blue eyes. A strong chiseled jaw. High cheekbones and a

smile fil ed with rows and rows of

perfectly straight white teeth-teeth that had al been filed to sharp points. His body was armored with thick muscle

rippling beneath the yel ow polo shirt he wore.

"Joey? Is that you, boy? What the hel are you doin' breakin' into my garage?

Why ain't your ass in school?"

"I came to ask you a question." Lionel Ray lowered the shotgun and

stared at his son with that angry,

disappointed, and somewhat bemused

expression he used to get just before he would slap Joe around when he was a

kid.

"Boy, it is way too late for games. What is this, some col ege prank or

something? Some fuckin' frat boys dare

you to break into your dad's garage,

smash up my door and dent the damned

garage door? I hope they've got money

to pay for al of this or else it's coming right out of your hide!" Lionel Ray growled.

"How soon after they found me bleeding to death in the park did you realize that one of your chickens had come home to

roost? How long did it take you to

recognize Damon Trent as one of your

victims? I guess he was one of the

unfortunate bastards who managed to

survive, wasn't he? How many were

there? How many kids have you kil ed?" Tears streamed down Joe's face. His

father just looked annoyed and slightly amused.

"Wel , you final y figured it out, huh? I tried to tel you before, but I didn't think you could handle it. It looks like I was right. Look at you, standing there crying like some old woman. I can't believe

we're the same blood. But we are, aren't we? You've got my blood coursing

through those veins, don't you? My

curse.

"How many were there?"

"There were dozens! I don't know."

"What did you do to them? Tel me

everything."

Lionel Ray cocked an eyebrow at his

son. "Are you sure you want to know, boy?"

"Tel me! I want to know what I am."

"I would pick them up at parks just like that Trent kid picked you up. Sometimes I'd offer them a ride home or tel them that their mommy had sent me to bring

them home. Sometimes I'd just snatch

them. After a while it became easier to just snatch them off the street. Less

exposure that way. Then I'd take them

home. Yeah, right to this house. Down in the basement. I'd cut on them for a while. I didn't do sex with them. I wasn't into al that. I'd just cut on them. I liked to hear them scream."

"Did you drink their blood?"

"What? No! You mean like that fat freak who did you? I wasn't some pervert. I just liked to hear them scream."

"Did you kil them?"

"Some of them. Most of them, I guess. But I let a few of them go too. Mostly the real y young ones I let go. I knew they wouldn't be able to tel the police enough to send them after me. Most of them

were too scared to say anything when I

was done anyway. And if I was real y

worried about them talking I'd just cut their tongues out or put out their eyes or both. I should have cut Trent's eyes out."

"But why, Dad? Why did you do it?"

"For the same reason you tore apart that librarian at your school. Yeah, you didn't think I knew about that, did you? The

minute those cops showed up at my

door asking questions about you I knew

you were the one who did it. Like father, like son. I did it because it feels good, boy! Doesn't it, Son? Doesn't it feel

good to prey on those weak, pitiful little things? It feels like your body was

designed for it, doesn't it? Like you're fulfil ing your purpose in life. Kil ing off the weak. Cul ing the herd. They ain't good for nothin' no way except screamin' and dyin'. You happy now, boy? You got al

your questions answered?"

"Al except one," Joe replied, staring down at the shotgun stil leaning against his daddy's leg. He was calculating his chances of crossing the garage floor

and disarming his dad before he could

raise that shotgun and squeeze off a

round. Maybe he wouldn't even shoot?

Joe thought. After al , I am his son. But he doubted that. He knew his dad wel

enough to know that the man valued his

own happiness and preservation above

any familial love or responsibility. He would shoot Joe dead if he thought his

life was in danger.

Joe began inching closer to his father. The closer he was when he attacked the

old man, the better his chances would be of avoiding a steaming hole in his chest.

"So ask then. What else do you want to know about your old dad?"

Joe was now only a few feet away.

"I want to know if there's a cure for what we are. I want to know how to end this." Lionel Ray began to laugh. "A cure? You can't change what you are, boy! There

ain't no cure!"

"I think there is." Joe leapt forward, springing for his father's throat. Lionel Ray tried to raise the shotgun to shoot his only son. He was too late. The blast went over Joe's left shoulder. Joe noted without emotion that his dad had been

aiming for his head.

A few shot pel ets lodged in Joe's

shoulder, bicep, and chest, slowing him a bit but not stopping him. He tackled the elder Miles. His entire body slammed

into the old man with the mass and

velocity of a stampeding horse. They

col apsed onto the hard concrete floor

with a wet smack as the back of Lionel

Ray's head cracked against the cement.

Joe bared his fangs and clamped them

down onto his father's throat. There was something terribly satisfying about

hearing the man's screams.

Forty-five

Detective Montgomery had cal ed ahead

to his partner to meet the Hayward

police at the home of Lionel Miles. He

then cal ed the Hayward police chief and gave him a rundown on the situation.

"If he's heading home I doubt it's to reminisce over old times. He's got a

major bloodlust going and if we don't get there fast you're going to have a body to clean up-and believe me, Joseph is

quite a messy eater."

The detective set his phone in the

charger and waited for the chief to cal him back with what would hopeful y be

some good news for once-like, that

they'd captured Joseph Miles. He stared out his windshield, barely aware of the traffic, barely even seeing the road,

thinking only about the big, maneating

col ege kid as he raced down the

highway back toward California. He'd

been on the road for over an hour when

he final y got the cal .

"We missed him. He must have gotten there just a few hours before us."

"So what happened? Did he kil his father?"

"He did more than kil him. Much more." The previously robust voice of the

Hayward police chief faded to a faint

whisper. Montgomery recognized the

symptom. The man was going into

shock. Whatever he'd found at the home

of Lionel Miles must have been more

horrible than the detective had been able to prepare him for. Montgomery

stomped down on the accelerator as the

chief fil ed him in on al the ghastly

details. Six and a half hours later, he pul ed up outside the home of the late

Lionel Ray Miles.

If Montgomery hadn't prepared the

police chief for what he might find at the home of Lionel Ray Miles, he had

prepared himself even less.

"Jesus Christ!"

Lionel Ray lay on the hood of his prized 1969 Lincoln Continental with his chest torn open and his heart ripped out. The gaping chest cavity had been fil ed with garlic and a rosary lay atop the piles of fresh cloves. A wooden stake, driven