Alex continued to smile. Of course I can, Daddy. It’s no problem. Consider it done. I am your precious. Lean on me.
“Good boy. I knew I could count on you. Just kee
p doing what you’re doing. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a while. I love you, little buddy.”
As I was talking to my son, though, a little of the feelings of the night before rolled over me like some cold, wet fog coming up from the Anacostia River. Coincidences, I remembered. The bad things that had happened around me for the past two years. A real bad run. The murder of Betsey Cavalierre. The Mastermind. The vampire killers.
I needed for it to let up some, needed to come up for air.
When I got to headquarters that morning, a message was waiting for me. There had been another vampire murder. But the game had just changed, taken another turn.
This one had taken place in Charleston, South Carolina.
The killers were on the East Coast again.
Part Three
MURDER IN THE SOUTH
Chapter 42
I FLEW to Charleston and arrived a little before ten in the morning. The local murder story was boldly splashed across the front pages of the Post and Courier and also USA Today.
I could feel uncertainty and fear in the bright, sterile, overly commercialized confines of the airport. Travelers I passed seemed nervous and wary. Several looked as if they hadn’t slept well the night before.
I’m sure that some of them felt that if the mysterious killers could strike in the heart of Charleston, they could do it in an airport waiting room or food court just as easily. No one was feeling safe anywhere.
I rented a car at the Charleston airport, and then I set off for a spot called Colonial Lake in town. A male and female jogger had been murdered there at around six the previous morning. The couple had been married for just four months. The similarities to the murders in Golden Gate Park were unmistakable.
I had never been to Charleston, though I’d read books set in the city. I soon discovered for myself that Charleston is physically gorgeous. Once upon a time, it had been a city of incredible wealth, most of which came from cotton, rice, and slaves, of course. Rice had been the biggest export, but slaves, who were brought into Charleston Port and sold throughout the South, were the import that proved the most profitable. Wealthy planters had traveled frequently between the plantations in the lowlands and their homes in Charleston, where the important balls, concerts, and masquerades were held. Relatives of Nana Mama’s had been brought into Charleston Port and sold there.
I found a parking spot on Beaufain Street, which was lined with Victorian-style houses and was lovely. I even spied a few English gardens. This wasn’t the kind of place where ghoulish murders ought to happen. It was too pretty, too idyllic. Was that what drew the killers here? Did they appreciate beauty—or hate it? What were they revealing to us with each new murder? What was their dark fantasy? Their horror story?
If Charleston was suspicious and fearful about the murders, then the streets around Colonial Lake seemed close to terror. People eyed one another warily and coldly. There was nothing even close to a welcoming smile, no Southern hospitality on display anywhere.
I had left a message for Kyle to meet me at the lake. It was surrounded by wide sidewalks and wrought-iron benches. Yesterday, it had probably appeared picture-perfect and completely safe. Today, bright yellow crime-scene tape was set up near the intersection of Beaufain and Rutledge. The Charleston police had surrounded the area and were watching everybody as if the killers might return.
I finally saw Kyle waiting under a spreading shade tree, and I walked toward him. The morning was warm, but there was a breeze off the ocean that smelled of salt and fish. Kyle had on his usual attire: gray suit, white shirt, and nondescript blue tie. He looked like the playwright and actor Sam Shepard, even more so today than usual. Kyle looked gaunt, tired, almost as haunted as I felt. The murders were getting to him too. Something was.
“It must have been like this yesterday morning, though it was earlier when they struck the couple,” I said as I came up to Kyle. “No one saw anything? No witnesses in an area like this? That’s what I read in the police briefs.”
Kyle sighed. “We actually have a witness who saw two men hurrying out of the park. Man in his mid-eighties. He said he thought he saw blood on the shirts of the men, and he felt he was mistaken. Then he found the bodies.”
I quickly surveyed the scene at Colonial Lake again. The sun was shining brightly, and I was forced to shade my eyes. Birds were twittering in several of the trees. The park was so open to scrutiny. “They were out in broad daylight. Some vampires,” I muttered.
Kyle eyed me. “You’re not starting to believe in vampires?”
“I believe that there are people who practice a vampire lifestyle,” I told him. “I know some of them believe they’re vampires. Even some of the role-players sport very sharp teeth. Fangs. They can be violent. I haven’t seen any shape-changers yet. Otherwise our witness might have seen a couple of furry bats winging it out of here instead of two men. That’s supposed to be funny, Kyle. What else did our witness say about the men he saw?”
“Not a lot. He thought they were young, Alex. Twenties or thirties, which covers a hell of a lot of territory. They were walking quickly but didn’t seem alarmed that he saw them. He’s eighty-six, Alex. He seems, shall we say, distracted by all the attention he’s getting.”
“Whoever the killers are, they’re certainly bold. Or stupid. I wonder if these are the same bastards we chased through California and Nevada.”
Kyle lit up a little. He had something to tell me. “My people in Quantico were up half the night. Again. Alex, they’ve come up with a dozen East Coast cities with unsolved murders that could be connected to the others.”
“What’s the time frame of the murders?” I asked.
“That’s the really interesting part. This may have been going on for a long time. Nobody seems to have put these cases together before we came along. The time frame is at least eleven years.”