Hope and Vengeance (Saa Thalarr, book 1): Saa Thalarr, book 1 (2 page)

By dawn, I had new faucets purchased for the kitchen and bathroom, new tile laid on the kitchen floor, new mattresses on the beds, new and freshly washed sheets on both and a coat of white appliance paint applied to an abysmally ugly stove and refrigerator. Resolving to get other things done as time and home improvement shop hours allowed, I went to bed and fell into a rejuvenating sleep.

* * *

"I have Thursday night open," the local Packmaster agreed to meet and allow me to examine the two bodies he had in storage. I was pleased to learn they'd been refrigerated—Roger Prewitt owned Prewitt's Seafood, in addition to a fleet of shrimp boats, which brought in local fish and shellfish. An old, walk-in refrigerator in one of his seafood shops was currently not in use, so he'd had the bodies stored there until the Council sent someone to investigate. We agreed on a time two hours past sundown, which gave me plenty of time to rise, shower and drive to Rockport, a small town north of Corpus Christi.

It was late August in south Texas, which meant it was hot and dry inland, hot and humid near the gulf. I detested those conditions already as I located the phone number for Anna K. Madden, also listed as Madden Investigations in the local directory. Her ad proclaimed her
The Investigator with an Edge
, as I punched the number into my cell. Hoping she'd still be available, I waited as the phone rang three times before receiving a response.

"Madden Investigations, Rita speaking," a melodic voice with a slight Spanish accent answered. "How may I help you?" Rita added.

"May I speak with Anna Kay Madden please?" I asked as pleasantly as I could.

"Hold please." Less than a minute later, another voice came on the line.

"This is Anna Madden. How may I help you?" she asked, her voice nearly breathless.

I held back from pointing out that she was the psychic one; shouldn't she know what my difficulty was? I didn't. "My name is Adam Chessman," I told her instead. "I am investigating the disappearances of three men, at the request of Samuel Greene's family. I understand you're also working the case. I'd like to meet with you over dinner and exchange notes, if that's possible."

"Where and when?" Her voice was now a bit more businesslike.

"Tomorrow evening—is nine-thirty too late?"

"No. Would you like to meet at Jorge's Restaurant? It's on Ocean Drive in Corpus Christi. I'll make reservations. I know the owner, so getting there at that time won't be a problem."

"That sounds fine," I agreed.

"Good. I'll see you there." She hung up. I ended the call, stared at my phone for a moment and then stuffed it in my pocket. If I hurried, I could make it to a local home improvement warehouse before they closed at ten.

By the time dawn came, there was new wood flooring down in the bedrooms and small sitting area, a new bathtub, vanity and sink in the bathroom, the new faucets were installed and boxes of ceramic tiles were piled in a kitchen corner, waiting to be installed on the bathroom walls surrounding the tub. Materials to replace the kitchen countertops were in the garage upstairs; I intended to get to that very soon.

* * *

Jorge's Restaurant was spelled out in green neon over a rustic wood façade. Located on the waters of Corpus Christi Bay, Jorge's appeared to be a popular restaurant for locals and tourists. I passed a crowd of vacationers leaving as I arrived, most of them dressed in shorts and print shirts.

Perhaps I was a bit snobbish, but I'd never worn shorts. Or print shirts, for that matter. Designer suits filled my closets, alongside custom-made shirts and Italian shoes. I'd never bought a pair of jeans or a pullover shirt in my life. Russell called me stiff and unrelenting at times. I ignored him and he laughed.

"I'm meeting someone," I informed the hostess. The girl wasn't old enough to serve alcohol in the restaurant, I noticed. That didn't keep her from attempting to fawn over me. If she knew what little interest I had in her, perhaps she might have saved herself the trouble.

"Female humans are for sex, not love," Xavier told me many times. "Take your pleasure with their blood and place compulsion to forget you and the act committed. It's the best way."

At first I thought him foolish, but after years passed and women died, I began to believe. No woman had been successfully turned vampire during my lifetime, and when I ventured to ask Xavier about it, he informed me that no female had survived the attempt in seven hundred years.

The last time I'd fantasized about taking a woman and making her mine—for as long as she lived, that is, was in Chicago during the 1920s. I'd seen her from a distance but failed to catch up to her. Her image lingered in my mind, still, and no other woman had compared to her since.

"Your name?" the girl asked, checking notes on a list and pulling me back to the present.

"Adam Chessman." 

"Oh, you're the one meeting Anna," she gushed. "She came in not long ago. I think she's in the ladies' room. If you'll come with me, I'll show you to a table and tell her you're here."

The girl swung long, dyed-black hair suggestively as she led me to a table set against a wide, plate-glass window. Corpus Christi Bay gleamed in the moonlight beyond the restaurant, and reflections of street lamps glittered on its surface. If it weren't for the heat and humidity, the location might hold much appeal.

"It gets better during the winter months, but there's a lot of fog at times." A woman sat opposite me and accepted a glass of water from our waiter. "Thanks, James," she nodded at the young man. I forced myself not to stare—had she just snatched the words from my mind?

"I'm Anna Madden. Lyndsay told me you were here. Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Chessman," she apologized. Hazel eyes studied me as I remained silent. Pale brown hair swept her shoulders and she was pretty, no doubt about that. She was dressed in a silk print blouse neatly tucked into oatmeal-colored linen trousers. Little makeup adorned her face, but she didn't need it—her skin was clear and nearly flawless.

"How long have you been investigating these disappearances?" I asked bluntly. I have no idea why I was so rude. The only excuse I had was that she'd taken me off guard.

"Mr. Chessman, as long as we're being blunt," she searched my face briefly, "I have to admit I don't feel up to eating. I feel queasy. That's why I was in the ladies' room earlier."

"You don't feel well?"

"No, I'm sorry to say, and the idea of eating only makes things worse. Would you like to take a walk instead? There's a footpath running beside the water's edge, or we can sit on one of the benches scattered along the way."

"I don't feel like eating, either," I acknowledged. We vampires could consume human fare, but we had to eliminate it later—we had no way to digest it. Eating was a way to make humans believe we were the same as they. I preferred not to make the pretense, if I were honest.

"Good." She tossed a twenty on the table and stood. "I'll let them know on the way out," she sighed. I followed her to the hostess' stand, where she informed Lyndsay that we weren't staying. We walked through the door and into a humid, Corpus Christi night.

We followed the footpath in silence for several minutes; it led us very near the water and as we walked, I noticed that Anna Madden was much shorter than my six-four height. At least a foot shorter than I, she was also slender in build and I wondered at her chosen profession.

"Mr. Chessman," she began, "I know you came to investigate those three disappearances that the local media have covered. What you don't know," she looked up at me, "is that there are seventeen others missing as well."

Schooling my face, I led her to a nearby, slatted wood bench and gestured for her to sit. She sat on one end; I took the other, leaving empty space between us. "I have only been given information on three missing men," I pointed out while trying to control surging anger. My sources were usually reliable, so I was skeptical of Anna's claim and that made me want to growl at her.

"The three you know about are legal citizens," Anna looked over the waters of the bay, refusing to meet my gaze. I turned to the bay as well, where I could see a jellyfish hovering below the water's surface, its pale luminescence barely visible except to one of my kind. Waves lapped regularly at the shoreline, lending a soft rhythm to the night.

Anna's words, however, forced my breath to halt for a moment, while my anger disappeared. What she'd said was a terrifying possibility, and worry now replaced my anger. If this was the work of vampires, we could have serial killers on our hands. That's never a good thing.

"You're saying that seventeen others—perhaps in the U.S. illegally, are also missing?" I asked.

"That's right. And all of them have connections to Hartshorne Oil."

"One of the refineries located outside the city?" I'd done my homework on the jet when I'd made the journey to south Texas—Hartshorne Oil and several other petroleum companies comprised the larger business concerns in the area.

"Yes."

"How do you know about these people? I have no information on them," I admitted reluctantly.

"Do you think their families are going to rush forward and report a missing person if that person isn't here with proper documentation? I believe the Hartshorne refinery in Corpus Christi has been experiencing cash flow problems, so undocumented workers would be cheaper to hire and easier to pay under the table."

That troubled me. "You're suggesting that this problem is more widespread than the authorities believe?"

"Yes."

"Who would mind if they disappeared?" I asked, testing her. I knew illegal immigrants and undocumented workers were a touchy subject with many states and among American politicians.

"Adam, they're human beings, and if they're being murdered—or worse, then I have a problem with that."

"Ah. Who brought this to your attention?"

"My assistant, Rita. One of her cousins is missing, along with the others. I get information through her."

"Is she also here illegally?"

"No. Rita was born here. Manuelo wasn't."

"Did he work for Hartshorne Oil?"

"Yes. Until the night he disappeared. Manuelo called his neighbor from Hartshorne because he worried he'd left his front door unlocked. That was at two in the morning. He never came home after his shift. If my guess is correct, Hartshorne is hiding his records and the records of many others. Rita convinced two families to speak with me—she told them I would not bring the authorities to their door. Both missing men worked for Hartshorne, and I was told the other fourteen did as well." Anna now stared at her hands. "Those men have families. If not here, back in Mexico. The ones responsible for this must be stopped." She turned to search my eyes. I felt as if she were testing me, now.

 "Is anyone else searching for these men?" I asked.

"Rita's brother, Rick. Also born here, in case you're concerned. But he can only search after work—he has a job at a local transmission shop."

"So, no bodies have been found—for any of these missing men?" I watched as she dropped her gaze to her hands again.

"No bodies. Not yet."

"You think they're still alive?"

"I can't answer that."

Usually, I have a good sense of truth and lie. Her statement made me think she was answering truthfully—but with an evasive truth. "What do you suggest we do about it, then?" I asked softly.

"Look for all of them," she shrugged. "Somebody is preying on these people, because they know it will be difficult to prove anything. They're getting away with it, too, since nobody will come forward and report these disappearances. The kink in their plans came when the three you were sent to investigate disappeared."

I knew, as well as she, that the three men I'd been given information on worked for the same refinery and disappeared on the same night. Everything was connected to Hartshorne Oil; I just didn't know when the seventeen undocumented workers disappeared.

"Do you have dates of disappearances?" I asked.

"Yes. Rick got the information and gave it to Rita. It's at my office."

"Might I come and take a look?"

"Of course. Do you want to come tonight?"

"Tomorrow will do. I have other things requiring my attention tonight." I planned to make an unscheduled visit to Hartshorne Oil. "Is eight-thirty too late?"

"No. That's fine," she nodded without looking at me.

"This ship channel—where the three disappeared—has that been thoroughly searched for the third body?"

"Yes. Several times. Nothing has been found—not even the boat. The last search was done with dogs along the shoreline. They found nothing."

"Are we sure they went fishing?" Something about that didn't ring true—in the police reports and from a witness' account.

"Bill Gordon's boat is missing. That's what I do know," Anna said.

Bill Gordon was one of the two bodies locked in the local Packmaster's freezer. The other was Sam Greene, the werewolf. The third missing man, Ray Wilson, hadn't turned up anywhere. Bill Gordon's wife reported her husband missing the day after his night fishing expedition.

Ray Wilson's family had already called in, however, when he failed to return home. Sam Greene's wife alerted her Packmaster—she was also werewolf, and Roger Prewitt, Packmaster for the Corpus Christi Pack, had sent wolves out searching immediately. They'd found two bodies sinking into knee-deep mud in a swamp. They'd gone out a second and third time, searching for Ray Wilson, but they couldn't find a scent to track.