Violets Are Blue Read online

  The older one spoke again. “Don’t scream or I’ll snap your neck, Inspector.” He said it so matter-of-factly. Snap your neck.

  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, Jannie, and I went to the Corcoran Gallery of Art that afternoon. The little creeps fiercely resisted the museum at first, but once they were inside the Palace of Gold and Light they were completely entranced. Then they didn’t want to leave. Typical of them.

  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 dozen vampire-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 yo
u do, I’m going to call the FBI. They believe in vampire murders. When was the last time you saw Inspector Hughes?”

  He hesitated. “Who knows? Let me see, must be close to twenty-four hours.”

  I hung up on Conover. I didn’t like him at all.

  Then I sat and thought about everything that had happened since I’d first met Jamilla Hughes. The case made my head spin. Everything about it was over the edge, completely new territory. Having the Mastermind around made it even worse.

  I phoned Kyle Craig and then American Airlines. I called Tim Bradley back and told him I was on my way to California.

  Santa Cruz.

  The vampire capital.

  Jamilla was in trouble out there. I could feel it in my blood.

  Chapter 84

  ON THE long flight out to California, I realized that I hadn’t been tormented by the Mastermind in two days. That was unusual, and I wondered if he was traveling too. Que pasa, Mastermind? Maybe he was on the plane to San Francisco with me? I remembered a tired old joke about paranoia. A man tells his psychiatrist that everybody hates him. The psychiatrist says he’s being ridiculous—everybody hasn’t met him yet.

  It got worse. At one point, I actually took a walk down the aisle and checked out the other passengers. No one looked even vaguely familiar. No Mastermind on board. No one seemed to be wearing fangs, either. I was losing it.

  I arrived at San Francisco International Airport and was met by agents from the FBI. They told me that Kyle was on his way here from New Orleans. Lately, Kyle had been pressuring me more than ever about making the switch to the FBI. The change certainly made financial sense. Agents earned a lot more than detectives. The hours were usually better too. Maybe I would talk to Nana and the kids after this was over. Hopefully soon, but why should I think that?

  I left the airport with three agents in a dark blue off-road vehicle. I sat in back with the senior agent from San Francisco. His name was Robert Hatfield, and he told me some of what they had so far. “We found where some of the so-called vampires are staying. It’s a ranch in the foothills north of Santa Cruz, not too far from the ocean. At this juncture, we don’t know if Inspector Hughes is being held there. She hasn’t been spotted.”

  “What’s out there in the hills?” I asked Hatfield. He was young looking, could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. He looked fit. A short brush cut. Appearances obviously meant a lot to him.

  “Not a hell of a lot. It’s rural. A couple of fairly large ranches. Rocks, desert birds of prey, a few mountain cats.”

  “Not tigers?” I asked.

  “Funny you should mention tigers. The ranch out there used to be a preserve for wild animals. Bears, wolves, tigers, even an elephant or two. The owners trained animals, mostly for use in feature films and commercials. They were basically hippies left over from the sixties. The ranch was actually licensed by the Department of the Interior. It did business with Tippi Hedren, Siegfried and Roy.”

  “The animals aren’t still on the property?”

  “Not for the past four or five years. The original owners disappeared. No one’s been interested in buying the land. It’s about fifty-five acres. Not good for much. You’ll see.”

  “What about the animals that had been there? You know what happened to them?”

  “Some were bought by other preserves that supply specialty animals to movies. Brigitte Bardot supposedly took some. So did the San Diego Zoo.”

  I sat back in my seat and thought everything through while we rode. I didn’t want to get my hopes up again. I wondered if the past owners of the ranch might have left a tiger behind. I spun a wild scenario out a little in my head. Actually, it was kind of interesting. Vampires in Africa and Asia supposedly changed shape into tigers rather than bats. The tiger imagery was certainly scarier than bats, and so were the ravaged bodies I had seen. Also, Santa Cruz had a reputation to uphold: the vampire capital.

  We passed a farmhouse along the highway and then a small winery. Not much else to see, though. Agent Hatfield told me that in summer the hills got very brown and gold, much like the African veldt.

  I had been trying not to think about Jamilla and the danger she might be in. Why did she have to come up here alone? What drove her? The same things that drove me? If she was dead, I would never forgive myself.

  The car finally pulled off the main road. I didn’t see a house or other building in any direction that I looked. Just barren hills. A hawk floated easily in liquid blue skies. The scene was quiet and serene and quite beautiful.

  We turned down an unpaved road and went for about a mile over bumpy, very rocky terrain. We passed over the grille of a cattle guard. A broken split-rail fence ran alongside the road for about a hundred yards, stopped, then started again.

  Suddenly, we came upon six vehicles parked on either side of the trail. All were unmarked, mostly Jeeps.

  Standing right there was Kyle Craig. Kyle had his hands on his hips, and he was smiling as if he had the most amazing secret to tell me.

  I suspected that he did.

  Chapter 85

  “I THINK this is exactly what we’ve been working for,” Kyle said as I walked up to him. We shook hands, an old ritual that reflected Kyle’s formality. He looked calmer and more in control than he had during the past week. “Let me show you something,” he said. “Come.”

  I followed Kyle down along the split-rail fence until we came to a broken-down gate. He showed me a faded image. The body and head of a tiger had been branded into the gate. It was subtle, but this was it, it had to be. We had arrived at the tiger’s lair.

  “The group inside seems to be led by the Sire, the new and improved one, I assume. We haven’t been able to establish an identity for the leader. Alex, the past Sire was the magician Daniel Erickson. Two members of the group just returned from a trip. They were in New Orleans. Pieces are finally starting to fit.”

  I looked at Kyle, shook my head. “How did you find all of this out? When did you get here, Kyle?” How much have you been keeping from me? And why?

  “Santa Cruz police contacted us, and I came right out. They grabbed one of the ‘undead’ when the little prick left the ranch. He’s a local high school dropout, wasn’t as committed as some of the others. He told us what he knew.”

  “Is the Sire in there now?”

  “Supposedly. This kid had never actually seen the Sire. He’s not part of the inner circle. The two members who traveled to New Orleans are in there, though. He heard they were the ones who killed Daniel and Charles. He said the two of them are total psychos.”

  “Well, I believe that.” I looked down through the limbs of pine and cypress trees at the ranch. “What about Jamilla Hughes?”

  His eyes shifted. “We found her car in town, Alex. But no sign of her. The kid we questioned didn’t know about her either. He claimed there was a commotion at the ranch late last night. He was bunked in with some of the younger ghouls. They thought that someone had broken the perimeter, thought it might be the police. But then it got quiet again—according to the boy. There’s no evidence that she’s there.”

  “Can I talk to him, Kyle?”

  Kyle looked away; he didn’t seem to want to answer me. “The Santa Cruz police took him away. I guess you could go into town to see him. I talked to him, Alex. The androgynous little twerp was scared of me. Imagine that.”

  Kyle was acting strange, but I reminded myself that he understood the deranged criminal mind better than any other FBI agent or police officer I had worked with. The agents who worked under him were convinced that he would run the Bureau one day. I wondered if Kyle could ever take himself out of the field, though.

  “I know you’re worried about Inspector Hughes. I guess we could go in there right now, but I think we should wait. I want to go at them after midnight, Alex. Or possibly near sunup. We’re not even sure she’s down there.”

  Kyle paused. His eyes shifted toward the distant ranch house. “I want to find out if they hunt as a gr
oup. There are questions we need answered. What motivates these freaks? What makes them tick? I want to make sure we get the Sire this time.”

  Chapter 86

  IT WAS a long, cool, very tense night in the foothills outside Santa Cruz. I couldn’t wait for it to be over, or maybe I couldn’t wait for it to start. We learned something interesting right away. The woman lawyer who had been murdered in Mill Valley had been involved in a lawsuit trying to get control of this property. It was probably why she and her husband had been hung.

  I watched the ranch through binoculars from the surrounding trees and rock formations. I watched until my eyes ached. No one had left as of eleven. I didn’t see anyone standing lookout either. The people inside were either crazy or supremely confident. Or maybe they were innocent. Maybe this was another wrong turn for us.

  I was trying not to worry too much about Jamilla, but it wasn’t working. I couldn’t bear to think that she might already be dead. Was that what Kyle thought? Was it what he knew and was keeping from me?

  At midnight, two males walked outside leading a tiger. I watched them through the night-sight glasses. I was almost certain I had seen them in New Orleans. They’d been at the fetish ball, hadn’t they? They loped off into the flat, open fields behind the house.

  One of the men got down on all fours, then rolled around in the tall grass with the cat. They were playing, weren’t they? Jesus Christ. How incredibly weird. I remembered that the tiger had been called off its prey in Golden Gate Park.

  About twenty minutes later, the men brought the cat to a pen behind the main compound. They hugged the six-hundred-pound tiger as if it were a large dog. The lights in the main building and the nearby bunkhouse burned brightly until past two. Loud rock and roll played. Then the lights were dimmed.