Hope and Vengeance (Saa Thalarr, book 1): Saa Thalarr, book 1 (3 page)

"I was planning to speak with Bill Gordon's wife," I said. "I don't suppose you've had contact with her?"

"I called her yesterday. She said to come by anytime," Anna replied. "We can go tomorrow after you look at the records I have. I'll call her and let her know it'll be late when we get there."

"I would appreciate that," I said. I studied her unobtrusively—she was avoiding my gaze. That puzzled me, as most women didn't mind looking in my direction. So much so, at times, that I was often forced to place compulsion. This one didn't look to be a problem.

I was surprised to find myself willing to work with her. Before tonight, I wouldn't have considered it. Still, things could sour quickly. If so, there was always compulsion—and I hadn't seen a single piece of evidence that gave me any idea she was the psychic she claimed to be, a bit of good guessing aside.

"I'm not a particularly good guesser," She turned to me once more. "I'm good with possibilities and absolutes." She stood, letting me know that somehow, I'd offended her. And possibilities and absolutes? I had no idea what that meant. She'd certainly picked those thoughts straight from my mind, however, and that sent a worried tingle through me. I would be forced to report this to Xavier and police my thoughts better.

"I'll walk you to your car," I offered. It was the polite (and gentlemanly) thing to do.

"It's not necessary," she informed me coldly and walked away. I caught up with her. She walked faster; I lengthened my stride. It made me wonder why I was bothering. I hadn't bothered with a woman—not for a very long while.

Her automobile was a small import—a hybrid. Plucking the keys from her fingers, I opened the door for her. Without a word, she slid into the driver's seat. Reaching in, I leaned over her and inserted the key before pulling the seat belt and buckling her in.

"Safety first, huh?" she looked at me as I pulled back.

"Always," I said, a slight smile tugging at my mouth. "Drive carefully," I added as I shut her door.

"Always," she echoed my words. I waited until she drove out of the parking lot before going to my rental and climbing in.

* * *

Hartshorne Oil was located two miles outside Corpus Christi's city limits. I parked on a deserted farm road half a mile from the refinery entrance, hid my keys beneath the mat and concentrated on turning to mist. It takes roughly five minutes for me to become mist, but that talent is rare and highly sought by the Council.

Xavier always said it was quite the blessing that I'd developed the ability after my turning. He'd found me late one evening, bleeding to death on a dark London street after I'd been attacked by six men. Those men had stolen my money purse, my boots and my human life.

Pulling my thoughts away from a very great tragedy in my life, I focused on my misting. Once it was completed, I flew in a direct line toward the refinery. Misting is employed for stealth only, as it takes much too long to make the change. Another vampire would have ample time to destroy a mister in the minutes it took to turn. There are only three known misters in the vampire community, and all three work for the Council.

Passing high over the refinery, I could see men on the ground, large storage tanks, pipes and equipment, lighted towers and buildings. Shifting toward a single-story building with many automobiles parked around it, I lowered my mist to slip cautiously behind two men walking through the entrance. Inside, I found a lobby of sorts as I floated behind the two, both of whom were speaking Spanish. They were discussing a trip to Mexico, to visit family.

A dimly lit corridor was their destination, where rows of time cards were mounted on a wall. A faint beep echoed as each swiped an employee card through a machine. If I'd had a mouth at the moment, I would have smiled. They were clocking in. There were records somewhere. This was a job for Joey.

Chapter 2
 

After returning to the safe house, I sent a message to Xavier, asking him to send Joey as quickly as possible. I ground my teeth when I reported on Anna Madden; perfect recall was one of my gifts after becoming vampire. I did—and didn't—appreciate its accuracy.

Joey Showalter was the Council's expert on computers and information technology. He'd been responsible for bringing the Council into the modern age. Prior to Joey's turning, Charles, Wlodek's assistant, had taken handwritten notes at Council meetings. Now, Charles had the latest in technology, access to records everywhere and took notes on a laptop. The Council supplied all Assassins and Enforcers with laptops. I'd taught myself how to use mine, but after meeting Joey, I was much better with it.

Joey was also openly gay, didn't mind that I wasn't and never lacked for companionship. The vampire community, being male almost exclusively, had a much healthier outlook regarding their gay compatriots.

As soon as I sent the message to Xavier, he instant-messaged me back.

What do you mean, she read your mind?
I could almost hear the demand in Xavier's nonverbal question.

I said it seemed that she read my mind
, I tapped out.
I can't say that for certain
.

Then I suggest you keep a watch on her, and be sure to let me know of other unusual behavior. Immediately
.

Of course, Xavier
. I never called him father. Yes, he was my sire, but he wasn't my father. I'd had a very good father, once; his memory remained unclouded in my mind. Xavier would never hear that word from me—not willingly, at least—and I think it angered him at times. I didn't care.

I will send Joey tomorrow. Will advise later on arrival time
.

Thank you
, I entered. Xavier never acknowledged my thanks. He merely ignored them as unnecessary.

With several hours remaining before sunrise, I chose to contact the only two vampires in the Corpus Christi area, asking them to meet with me at a local, twenty-four-hour coffee shop.

When I arrived, there were only two vehicles in the small parking lot of The Cracked Cup, located not far from the marina. A waitress and one customer were inside as I walked through the door. Choosing a corner booth away from the door, I nodded as the waitress held up the coffeepot.

Grabbing a cup from a shelf behind the counter, the waitress made her way to my table. I imagined that she'd held the same position for years uncounted, and judging by her gray hair and wrinkles, appeared to be in her mid-sixties.

"Can I get anything for you besides coffee?" she asked as she set the cup down and poured coffee efficiently.

"No, thank you," I replied.

"You're British."

"Yes, I am."

"I love British accents."

"So do I."

"I'm guessing you're not here for pleasure, then."

"You are correct."

"Enjoy your coffee. And your stay." She turned to move away.

"Two more will be joining me," I said.

"I'll bring more cups when they get here." She offered a smile, which I didn't return.

Ten minutes later, Jeff Garner and Kyle Williams walked through the door. I recognized them as vampires by scent. They came to sit opposite me while the waitress dutifully brought the coffeepot and two more cups. Kyle nodded and Jeff thanked the waitress politely. She walked away, barely offering me a glance.

"I'm Adam Chessman," I introduced myself after the waitress returned to the counter and resumed her conversation with the human patron.

"Jeff Garner," Jeff held out his hand. I took it out of necessity. Jeff was five-eight with a round face, brown hair, blue eyes and a deferential demeanor. Kyle Williams, slightly taller than Jeff and rail thin with black hair, was more reticent and didn't introduce himself. I'd given him my name over the phone when I called, and he hadn't failed to see my reaction to Jeff's gesture.

"What's this about?" Kyle asked instead, going straight to the purpose of our meeting.

"This." I'd brought the file of photographs with me—the ones depicting the bodies and their bite marks. "The local Pack suspects this is a vampire's work. Know anything about that?"

"Are these the ones on the news—those three who went fishing and didn't come back?" Jeff examined the top photograph carefully before replacing it in the folder.

"Yes."

"The punctures are too far apart." Jeff's blue eyes studied my face, silently asking if I hadn't recognized the same thing.

"I think so, too," I agreed. "Upon what do you base your opinion?"

"A medical one," he replied. "I have two medical degrees, and I've worked in the field for the past seventy years."

"So this is an expert opinion, then," I stared at Jeff, forcing him to lower his eyes. "Why doesn't the Council have this information on you?" I'd read his file. No data on medical training was in any part of it.

"Because the Council scares the bejeezus out of him, and all the other vampire physicians are forced to work for the Council." Kyle's words made me turn swiftly in his direction. He was right—there were only seventeen vampire physicians and they labored under the Council's thumb. Many of them were research biologists who also held medical degrees.

"If you cooperate with me while I'm here, I'll keep that information to myself," I offered.

"We'll cooperate," Jeff promised quickly, his voice and his eyes begging me to keep my word.

"We didn't have anything to do with those murders," Kyle said. "If that's what you're asking. We have alibis. Jeff was working his job at the hospital and I was in San Antonio. My hotel receipt." Kyle drew a slip of paper from a pocket and slid it across the table.

"A lover?" I queried, lifting the receipt and reading it.

"While I might consider that less than your business on a normal day, today, my answer is yes. He is also vampire, but I will only give his name if it becomes necessary."

"It won't be necessary." I'd gotten a good look at Kyle and Jeff's teeth. There wasn't any way their fangs were spaced far enough apart to inflict the wounds found on the bodies.

"Are we done?" Jeff's gaze was hopeful.

"You're done." I nodded.

"We, ah, won't leave town, as usual, and will be at your beck and call, should there be need." Kyle rose swiftly and followed Jeff from the café.

* * *

Madden Investigations was located on Mustang Island, two miles south of Port Aransas. I was surprised when the GPS on my rental took me to a condominium located on the barrier island—I expected something closer to town and farther from the beach. Miss Madden had the best of both worlds—her business doubled as her residence, and she had an unhindered view of the gulf.

Riding the elevator to the third floor where the condo was located, I pressed the doorbell and waited for her to answer. Her assistant, Rita, came to the door.

"Buenas noches, Mr. Chessman," Rita stood aside and invited me in.

"Rita, go home, your children are waiting," Anna stood inside the reception area as Rita led me inside the condo. Two desks occupied the space beyond, with plate-glass windows beside the second desk. A lovely view of the gulf lay outside those windows.

"Are you sure, Anna?" Rita asked. She was concerned about leaving her employer alone with me, I could tell. Rita was in her early thirties and quite pretty, with dark hair, a slightly round face and beautiful, full lips.

"Rita, we'll be fine," Anna assured her. Tonight, Anna was dressed in dark denim jeans and a blue silk blouse. Her hair was pulled back in a French braid, but a few tendrils had escaped and framed her face attractively. My fingers itched to brush it back. I wondered at my sudden desire to touch her, before quelling it.

"If you are sure," Rita said hesitantly.

"I'm sure."

"Call if you need something," Rita said, gathering her purse from a desk drawer.

"I will. Give your babies a hug from me."

"I will," Rita said. I watched Anna, who watched as Rita pulled her purse strap over a shoulder and walked toward the door. With my enhanced hearing, I could hear her footsteps echo long after she closed the condo door behind her.

"I worry about her," Anna murmured, walking toward her desk and lifting a thin stack of papers off it. "Here's the information on the disappearances," she said, handing the papers to me. "You're welcome to sit here and go over it, or you can come into the kitchen. I was about to mix a protein drink."

"A protein drink?" That puzzled me.

"According to a friend, I'm not getting enough protein," she said. "I'm vegetarian, so that can be a problem if I don't take time to eat properly."

"I'll come to the kitchen with you," I said. I was curious to see the rest of the condo, anyway.

I was led through a connecting door, which separated the business from the residence, and I found the second portion adequate. The kitchen was clean and quite neat, with very little cluttering the countertops. I watched in fascination as Anna dumped a scoop of pale powder into a blender before adding a handful of blueberries, half a banana and two cups of soymilk. The blender did its work quickly and I was thankful for that—it emitted a high-pitched whine, which I found annoying.

Anna went to the plate-glass window opposite the kitchen and stared through it at the gulf beyond while drinking her concoction. I went through the information she'd given me. The seventeen undocumented employees disappeared over a two-month period, the first occurring in late June, the most recent only five days earlier. Someone had listed the names on an original document, but I held a copy and those names had been carefully marked out.

"How am I supposed to help locate these, if I only have dates of disappearances?" I went to stand next to Anna.

"You're not here to investigate their disappearances," Anna said softly. "That's my job. Do you see those lights out there?" She tapped the window in front of us.

I did see them—lights from several offshore drilling rigs winked in the deeper waters of the gulf. I estimated they were perhaps two miles from shore. "Yes," I said. "Why?"

"Two of them are owned by Hartshorne Oil," Anna explained. "And I heard from someone that the crews on both platforms were fired today. All of them came ashore. None of them were happy. Replacement crews were sent out immediately."

"You think the replacements were undocumented?" I stared at Anna, who was still looking at the Gulf, her eyes locked on the two oil platforms.

"Or worse," she shrugged. I had no idea what she meant. "Come on, we should leave now if we're going to see Bill Gordon's wife tonight."

* * *

"Do you have Mrs. Gordon's address?" I asked as we climbed into my SUV.

"Yes. It's on Herring Lane—just go over the causeway toward Corpus and turn left behind the Fishing Shack. Her house is actually in the Flour Bluff area." The seat belt clicked as she buckled herself in. She'd done it quickly, before I had time to do it for her—and I'd been thinking about it. I had no way to explain it—this desire to keep her as safe as I could.

Instead, I started the engine and put the SUV in gear. Anna and I didn't talk on the drive toward Corpus Christi. She kept staring through the passenger-side window, although there wasn't much to see. On the west side of the two-lane highway was marshland covered in tall grasses, eventually ending in the ship channel.

The ship channel is a waterway separating the island from the mainland. Maintained by the Port of Corpus Christi, it services the naval ships from the local base and the commercial freighters coming into the free-trade zone. Not surprisingly, most of the trade is in petroleum products.

I didn't feel uncomfortable with Anna's silence; in fact, it helped tremendously that she wasn't a chatterbox. She wore no perfume and the scent of her body wash was muted and pleasant to my nose. I found myself glancing in her direction often, instead of keeping my eyes on the road. Eventually, I pulled my gaze away from her and concentrated on my driving.

"Is this where we turn?" I asked.

She brought her attention back to me. "Yes. Left—here," she directed. "Now, go down about four blocks, you'll see Herring Lane. Her house is third on the left."

"You've been here before?"

"Yes. I drove past yesterday, just to check things out."

I pulled into the driveway she indicated and shut off the engine.

The house was small; a white frame in desperate need of paint. The metal screen on the screen door was rusty and pulling away from its frame in the top corners. Anna knocked on the door, causing a dog in a neighbor's yard to bark.

It took Mrs. Gordon a few moments to answer the door. She wore a faded blue tank top and cutoff jeans, frayed around the bottoms. She was tall, thin and thirty-ish with a narrow face. Her hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red and smoke curled from the cigarette she held in one red-nailed hand as she opened the screen door with the other.

Anna introduced herself, then gave my name as a fellow investigator. Mrs. Gordon invited us inside, asking us to call her Kirby Lee. She had a southern accent and informed us that she and her husband were originally from Georgia, but Bill had moved them around often, looking for work. Prior to arriving in Corpus Christi, they'd lived in Oklahoma, where Bill had been employed as an oil rig hand.