Violets are Blue

The second one spoke then. He was right in her face. She saw the long canine fangs. "If you hunt for the vampire, the vampire will hunt for you," he said.

Chapter 82

She was gagged, then roughly thrown onto the rear seat of a pickup truck. The truck started up and took off with a jolt.

Jamilla tried to concentrate on everything about the trip. She counted off the seconds, kept track of the minutes. There was stop-and-go city driving, then faster, smoother riding, possibly on Route 1.

Then a very bumpy road, possibly unpaved. She figured the trip took approximately forty minutes.

She was carried inside a building, some kind of ranch house or farm structure. People were laughing. At her? They wore fangs. Jesus. She was put down on a cot in a small room, and her gag was removed.

"You've come looking for the Sire," the one who called himself William whispered, his face up close to hers. "You've made a terrible mistake, Inspector. This one will get you killed."

He smiled horribly, and she felt as if she were being both ridiculed and, at the same time, seduced. The one called William touched her cheek with his long, slender fingers. He lightly caressed her throat, stared into her eyes.

She was repulsed, wanted to run away, but couldn't do anything. There were a dozen or so vampires here — watching her like she was meat on a spit.

"I don't know anything about a Sire," she said. "What's a Sire? Help me out here."

The brothers looked at each other, shared a knowing smirk. A few of the others laughed out loud.

"The Sire is the one who leads," said William. He was so calm, so very sure of himself.

"Who does the Sire lead?" she asked.

"Why, anyone who will follow," William answered. He laughed again, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely at her expense. "Vampires, Inspector. Others like Michael and myself. Many others, in many, many cities. You can't imagine the extent of it. The Sire stands firm with simple directions for what to think, how to act, things like that. The Sire is not accountable to any authorities. The Sire is a superior being. Are you starting to understand? Would you like to meet the Sire?"

"Is the Sire here now?" she asked. "Where are we?"

William continued to stare down at her. He was definitely seductive. Disgusting. Then he leaned in closer. "You're the detective. Is the Sire here? Where are you? You tell me."

Jamilla felt as if she might retch. She needed her space.

"Why are we here?" she asked. She wanted to keep them talking, keep them occupied for as long as she could.

William shrugged. "Oh, we've always been here. This used to be a commune — California-dreaming hippies, mind-altering drugs, Joni Mitchell music. Our parents were hippies. We were isolated from other ways to live and think, so we depended on each other. My brother and I are unbelievably close. But we're nothing, really. We're here to serve the Sire."

"Was the Sire always at the commune?" she asked.

William shook his head and gave her a serious look. "There were always vampires here. They stayed apart, left the others alone. You had to join them, not the other way around."

"How many are there?"

William looked at Michael, shrugged his broad shoulders, and they both laughed. "Legions! We're everywhere."

Suddenly, William roared and went for her throat. Jamilla couldn't help it — she screamed.

He stopped inches away from her, still growling like an animal. Then William purred gently. His long tongue licked her cheek, her lips, her eyelids. She couldn't believe what was happening.

"We're going to hang you and drink every last drop. The most amazing thing — you're going to enjoy it when you die. It's ecstasy, Jamilla."

Chapter 83

I had returned to Washington, and I was taking a much-needed day off. Why not? I hadn't seen enough of the kids lately, and it was Saturday, after all.

Damon, Ja

When we eventually got home at around four, Nana told me I was to call Tim Bradley at the San Francisco Examiner. Give me a break. This case wouldn't stop. Now I was supposed to call Jamilla's buddy?

"It's important that you call. That's the message," Nana said. She was baking two cherry pies. Reminding me how good it was to be home.

It was one o'clock in California. I called Tim Bradley at his office. He picked up right away. "Bradley."

"It's Detective Alex Cross."

"Hi. I hoped you'd call. I'm a friend of Jamilla Hughes."

I knew that much already. I interrupted. "Is she okay?"

"Why do you ask that, Detective? She went to Santa Cruz yesterday. Did you know about that?"

"She mentioned she might go. Did somebody go with her?" I asked. "I suggested she bring company."

His answer was curt and defensive. "No. Like Jamilla always says, she's a big girl. And she carries a big gun."

I frowned and shook my head. "So what's going on? Has something happened? Is something the matter?"

"No, not necessarily. She's usually careful, precise. I just haven't heard from her, and she promised to call. Last night. Now it's been another four hours since I called you. I'm a little concerned. It's probably nothing. But I thought you would know best… about this particular case."

"Does she do things like this often?" I asked.

"Investigate a case on her day off? Yes. That's Jam. But she would definitely call me if she promised to."

I didn't want to upset him any more than he was, but I was worried now. I thought of my last two partners. Both had died, and neither of the murders had been solved. The Mastermind claimed to have killed Betsey Cavalierre. And also Detective Maureen Cooke in New Orleans. So what about Inspector Jamilla Hughes?

"I'm going to call the local police in Santa Cruz. She gave me a name and a number. I think it was Conover. I have it written down in my notes. I'm going to call him right now."

"All right. Thank you, Detective. Will you let me know?" Tim the reporter asked. "I'd appreciate it."

I said that I would, then tried to reach Lieutenant Conover at police headquarters in Santa Cruz. He wasn't working, but I made a fuss and dropped Kyle Craig's name. The sergeant reluctantly gave me Conover's home number.

Someone picked up at the number, and I heard loud music that I vaguely recognized as U2. "We're having a party at the pool. C'mon over. Or call back on Monday," said a male voice. "Bye-bye for now."

The line went dead.

I redialed and said, "Lieutenant Conover, please. It's an emergency. This is Detective Alex Cross. It's about Inspector Jamilla Hughes of the San Francisco PD."

"Aww, shit," I heard, then — "This is Conover. Who is this again?"

I explained who I was and my involvement in the case in as few words as possible. I had the feeling that Conover was drunk, or close to it. It was his day off, but Jesus — it wasn't even two in the afternoon his time.

"She went up in the hills, looking for new wave vampires," he said, and laughed derisively. "There are no vampires in Santa Cruz, Detective. Trust me on that. I'm sure she's just fine. She probably headed back to San Francisco."

"There have been at least two dozenvampire-style murders so far." I tried to sober Conover up, at least to get through to him. "They hang their victims and then drain the blood."

"I told you what I know, Detective," he said. "I guess I could call out some patrol cars," he added.

"You do that. And while you do, I'm going to call the FBI. Theybelieve in vampire murders. When was the last time you saw Inspector Hughes?"