Moon Child (Vampire for Hire #4) (21 page)

One of the soldiers pointed, and immediately
the driver was forgotten. In haste, the soldiers mounted their
horses, and turned toward the distant voices. They disappeared a
moment later, kicking up a billowing cloud of dust as they cut
through the desert and far away from us.

Jewel was staring at me. She had heard the
voices, too, of course. My voice and her own voice.

“What the devil is going on?” she asked.

“I’ll explain later,” I said, reaching down
for her hand. She took mine and I hauled her to her feet. Perhaps a
little too roughly. She stumbled forward and into me. I held her
briefly, my hand at the small of her back. I gave her a lopsided
grin. “Come,” I said. “Your driver needs our help.”

I retrieved my wooden lockbox—which had
survived the tumble unscathed, as I knew it would—and we made our
way back up the sandy slope and to the road.

Without shade, the sun was merciless.
Heatwaves rose up from the hard-packed road, and I had long ago
broken out in a pouring sweat, which soaked through my tunic. I
glanced over at Jewel. There might have been a slight gleam of
sweat on her upper lip.

In the far distance, I could mark the
soldier’s path from the rising dust plumes. They were much too far
away to see us. And besides, every now and then, I could hear Faddy
leading them further and further away. Allah bless Faddy.

As we approached the coach, I could hear the
driver’s faint moans, which seemed to agitate the two powerful,
Arabian horses. I picked up my pace and was soon by the driver’s
side. I set aside my chest and examined the man’s wounds. Not good.
My best guess was that he would die within a day. But he would not
die alone in this heat.

As I examined him, his dazed eyes searched my
face. He opened his mouth to speak and blood spilled out.
“How...how did you know?” he asked.

“Don’t talk now, old man. You’re going to
need your strength.”

“I should have—”

I winked at him. “Shush, and yes you should
have.”

I tore off a long stretch of his dust-covered
robe and did my best to dress his wound. Blood quickly soaked
through the bandage, but it would have to do.

“You seem to have all the answers,” Jewel
said to me, as she knelt down to examine the wounded man. As she
did so, she laid her hand tenderly on his tear-streaked cheek, and
he responded with a weak smile. “You will be fine, Jabeer,” she
said to him.

He actually laughed, and as he did, more
blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. “You are a fine
liar, my lady.”

She looked at me sharply, her almond-shaped
eyes dark and challenging, and about as beautiful as anything I had
ever seen. That thought, of course, pulled at my heartstrings, and
I immediately felt guilty. “So what do we do now, Mr. Answer Man?”
she asked.

I did not need Faddy to tell me the main road
to Samarkand was unsafe. Her ex-husband, whoever he was, was surely
a powerful man with many available resources. As we stood there in
the hot sun, as the horses whinnied and pawed at the ground, and as
a man lay dying at my feet, I knew what we had to do, and I didn’t
like it.

“We need to get off the main road. The
soldiers will be back, especially once they realize they have been
duped.”

“Duped? What the devil are you talking about?
Wait, let me guess. You’ll explain later.”

I winked. “Now you’re catching on,” I
said.

I unhitched the horses and spent some time
securing what little valuables we had; or, rather, securing what
little valuables we absolutely needed. Jewel protested over the
exclusion of most of her wardrobe and accessories, but I ignored
her protests, which seemed to infuriate her. Jabeer himself was
absolutely adamant that his own small satchel be included, which
included an elaborate bedroll. I was about to ignore him, too, but
he became so insistent that I grudgingly acquiesced and found a
spot for his belongings.

Once I had the horses ready for travel, Jewel
and I carefully heaved the wounded man onto a horse. Once on, I
leaped up behind him and held him in place. If the added wight
bothered the great Arabian horse, he did not show it. Jewel
followed suit on her own mount, and I led the way back down the
steep sandy slope.

“Where are we going?” Jewel called out to
me.

“There’s another way,” I said, “one that will
lead us to Samarkand.”

Jabeer actually turned his head and looked
back at me, fear in his dark eyes. “No,” he whispered.

He, of course, would have known of the road,
which, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t much of a road at all.
It was an ancient trail that led through the heart of what some
claim were enchanted mountains. Enchanted, or cursed, depending on
who you spoke with. Still, most people were in agreement of one
thing: Only the most foolish ventured upon it. And those who did
were seldom seen alive again. That is, of course, if you believed
in such fantastical tales.

I didn’t. Besides, I had a few tricks up my
own sleeve.

I patted Jabeer lightly on his stooped
shoulder. “Don’t look so nervous, old man.”

“Please, this isn’t wise.”

“I would have to agree, master,” said Faddy
in my ear.

“Is there another way?” I sub-vocalized.

The djinn paused before answering. “As of
now, no.”

“Rest now, my friend. I may need you
later.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, master.”

“And quit calling me master.”

“Yes, master.”

At the bottom of the slope, I turned my mount
to the east, toward a great chain of shimmering mountains, and as
as we cut across the sun-baked earth, two vultures slowly circled
above.

I did my best to ignore them.

A Spinoza Novella

by

J.R. Rain

(read on to sample the first three
chapters)

Chapter One

I was sitting in my vinyl swivel chair.

The chair had no armrests. It had come with
the office, along with the broken particle board desk, missing one
corner and warped as hell. Someday I would find myself a swivel
chair with armrests. And a desk that didn’t rock every time I
leaned an elbow on it.

Someday.

To my left, sitting on a stainless steel
counter next to a stainless steel sink, the compact coffee maker
made surprisingly human-like gurgling noises, although I couldn’t
remember the last time I heard a human gurgle. On my desk was a
greasy white Winchell’s bag, bulging nicely with its contents.

The day was young and full of hope. That is,
for anyone other than me. For me, it was just another day filled
with regret, pain, and eternal guilt.

The donuts helped with some of that.

And when the coffee was done, I stood up and
went over to the coffee maker and filled a metal thermos, then
returned to my armless vinyl swivel chair. I sipped the brew and
watched the steam march up to the ceiling, voicing my pleasure with
a resounding, “Ahh.”

The wind slapped rain against the window,
beating a pleasant staccato. I swiveled in my chair, maximizing its
full potential, and watched the rain drool down the massive pane,
beyond which a low vault of swollen purple clouds meant
business.

Memories of my son playing with plastic boats
in the gutters came rushing back to me, and I let the tears flow
freely, unable to stop them, not wanting to stop them.

Minutes later, I came back to the present and
reached over to the donut bag. I had just selected a pink sprinkle
when the phone rang.

I glanced at my watch: 7:22 a.m. Early for a
client.

I lifted the receiver and held it against my
ear and waited. I took a bite of the donut, as sprinkles cascaded
down my short front like pink rain.

In the earpiece, there was some white noise,
then a shuffling sound, followed by a long scraping. I took another
bite of the donut, then cradled the phone between my ear and
shoulder like a pro and took a sip from the thermos. There was now
some shallow breathing. Very faint. Then it came faster. Now we
were getting somewhere.

The rain paused briefly. Outside, the storm
clouds were the color of brain matter. I next dug into the bag and
produced a hefty buttermilk that made me feel good just looking at
it. The rain returned, doubling its efforts, pounding the
windowpane. Somewhere on the distant horizon, sheet lightning
flashed. Thunder galloped overhead.

“A sad tale’s best for winter,” I said into
the phone.

“What?”

A young man’s voice. Maybe fifteen or
sixteen. Old enough to find me in the Yellow Pages, but not old
enough to find the courage to speak.

“Shakespeare,” I said. “When in doubt, quote
Shakespeare. Chicks dig it.”

“Really?”

“Probably not, but you never know.”

Actually that was a trick of mine to help me
overcome my own shyness, which had plagued me all my life. Quoting
other people was far easier than making stuff up as you go.

The young man continued saying nothing, but I
could hear him breathing. The breathing, I noticed, was coming
faster and faster.

Don’t hyperventilate on me, broheim.

I’m a patient man. In my business, you have
to be patient. I also knew that it’s not easy for people to come to
other people for help. Especially young people.

While I waited, I ate. The buttermilk was
greasy, but that didn’t stop me. I sat forward in my chair and
listened into the phone and listened to the rain, and wondered who
this young man was, but instinctively knowing that I should wait.
That he should make the first move.

“Are you Spinoza?” he finally asked. There
was a slight squeak to his voice. Fourteen, maybe?

“As ever there was.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means yes.”

“Oh.”

More silence. Rain slanted diagonally across
my window. Who has seen the wind, I thought, neither you nor I.

“Do you find people?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“How much do you, um, charge to find
someone?”

I set the donut aside and leaned forward on
my elbows.

“Two tacos,” I said.

“Two what?”

“Two tacos and maybe a burrito.”

He actually laughed. The sound was muffled,
as if he were talking in a closet, or under covers. I figured maybe
both. More likely a bathroom, though.

“My mom was killed,” he said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“She was killed two years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because no boy should be without his
mother.”

There was a pause and I heard a choking sound
on the other end. He muffled the phone so that I couldn’t hear him
cry but he didn’t do a very good job of it and I heard the deep
sobs and the pain and the immense heartache. As he wept I thought
of my boy, but I did not cry. I would not cry with the young man on
the phone. Alone, yes. But not now.

I waited for him to get hold of himself and
when he finally did, I asked him if there was anything I could do
to help him. He sniffled some more, and told me his tale.

And what a tale it was.

Chapter Two

I was at Astro’s Burgers in Silver Lake. I
had just sat down and ordered an orange juice when Detective
Hammer, my cop friend, stepped into the restaurant. He spotted me
and came over.

“You’re late,” I said as Hammer sat.

“I’m a homicide detective with the Los
Angeles Police Department. You’re lucky I even give you the time of
day.”

“Private eyes are people, too,” I said.

“Yeah, but they ain’t real cops.” He waved
the waitress over and put in his order. A milkshake, fries and
double cheeseburger.

“Should I call 911 now?” I asked.

“You better hope I don’t keel over;
otherwise, you would be minus your only cop friend in Los
Angeles.”

“I can always make another cop friend.”

Hammer snorted. “Not you, pal. You can barely
look a waitress in the eye.”

“I’m shy. You know that.”

“I thought only teen girls were shy.”

“Think again.”

Our drinks came, although I was using the
word “drink” loosely in his case. The milkshake might as well have
been ice cream. In fact, Hammer quickly ditched the straw and used
his spoon.

He said, between slurps, “So how did you hear
about the Evelyn case?”

“Her son hired me to find her.”

Hammer choked on his milk shake. I could have
been wrong, but I think some of it even came out of his nostrils.
He covered his face and coughed some more and I handed him a
napkin.

“He does realize his mother is dead,
right?”

“Yes,” I said. “He also understands that her
body is missing.”

“He hired you to find a corpse?”

“Somebody has to.”

Hammer continued shoveling in his shake. Some
of it got into his cop mustache, where it was quickly absorbed. I
wondered what else had been absorbed into his mustache.

“Yeah,” said Hammer. “I suppose someone’s got
to.” He shook his head. “My first grave robbing case. I mean, have
you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Not since Frankenstein.”

Hammer shook his head. “What the hell would
anyone do with it?” He turned green and actually set aside his
shake. “On second thought, I don’t want to know.”

“Who worked the initial homicide?”

“Yours truly.”

“Full circle,” I said.

“Yeah. First we catch the killer—the husband,
always the husband—and now I have to run down the fucking body.
What are the chances?”

“Slim to none,” I said. “Where’s the husband
now?”

“In San Quentin. Death Row.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.