Bad Moon Rising (Pine Deep 3)

The white-faced night hunters fled, first one and then the other, disliking the music and the sea of bottomless black eyes that watched from every tree branch and roof shingle.

Inside, Mike slept on through the night and into the late morning, unknowing, and drifting from haunted dreams of his mother into deeper levels of coma in which the chrysalis inside him struggled toward birth.

2

Vic Wingate got home late from his morning round of errands and found the mess that Ruger and Lois had left for him. Just the blood spatters downstairs were bad enough and he went into the kitchen and drank two beers for brunch before going upstairs to see how bad it was. The bloodstains began about halfway up the stairs. There were long artistic smears, flecks and splotches, dots arranged in arterial spray patterns, and here and there were handprints. One of the prints was Ruger’s, Vic knew, but the others were smaller. Lois’s.

Lois and Ruger were gone, but they’d left him a real mess to clean up. Vic smoked a cigarette while leaning against the bedroom door staring at the bed.

He changed into soiled work clothes from the hamper, wrapped plastic bags around his shoes, and fetched a yellow rubber rain slicker from the hall closet. He lined the hamper with a double layer of plastic trash bags and took it with him.

The first of the body parts was at the top of the stairs. Well, not so much a part, just a lump, really. It didn’t look like anything Vic recognized.

Vic bent down and picked up the meat and tossed it into the hamper. As he worked, he thought about Ruger, remembering the things Ruger’d said.

It’s a new world, pal, and it must be a real kick in the nuts—especially after all these years and all you’ve done—to realize that you’re on the wrong end of the food chain.

Ruger wouldn’t have been so bold, made such a statement, if he hadn’t gotten at least a provisional nod from the Man. That troubled Vic so much he wanted to cry. Not just the implied betrayal of the Man, or—if betrayal wasn’t the right word, then what was? Disfavor?

Vic moved down the hall, collecting pieces that he figured would eventually add up to two teenage girls. He’d seen a lot of carnage, had created a good deal of it himself, but this was over the top. What the hell had happened to Lois since the change? She hadn’t just come awake like the others. She was more like Ruger. Powerful…way past what the other vampires were like. Crazier, too, and ten times more savage.

Not for the first time he wondered if the Man had made a mistake in bringing Ruger on board as his general. As his left hand. Vic felt sure right from the beginning that it had been a bad move. He looked at the crimson junk in the hamper and fought the urge to shiver.

The Red Wave , he thought…and hoped that it wasn’t he who had made a mistake.

3

“This doesn’t make a lot of sense,” LaMastra said as he shuffled through the papers Weinstock kept handing them. “I see bloodwork, reports on saliva samples, forensic dentistry reports on bite marks…but so what? I mean, we already know that Boyd attacked those two officers. We know he bit them, et cetera, et cetera…so why the hoopla?”

“It’ll make sense,” Val assured him.

“It had better make sense soon,” Ferro said, slapping down one stack of papers and snatching the next set out of Weinstock’s hands. “My patience is wearing pretty damn thin. ”

“Bear with me,” Weinstock said. His voice was steadier than it had been, but his eyes were jumpy and looked feverish. He picked up another folder. “I have here the autopsy report on both men. Full workup. In it I recorded the exact cause of death for both men. ”

“Saul,” said Ferro, “if you remember, we saw the bodies. We know the cause of death. ”

“Do you? Okay, then what was it?”

LaMastra said, “They were attacked by person or persons unknown—though Boyd seems to be the only possible suspect—and aside from other physical trauma, they had their throats ripped out. I guess they just died from blood loss. ”

“Blood loss,” murmured Weinstock. “Yes, that about covers it. But what would you say if I told you that the majority of the damage done to the throat, the tearing of the flesh and tendons and such, were done postmortem. ”

Ferro shrugged. “It’s not unusual for a killer to perpetrate additional damage to a victim. Many sociopathic killers even dismember their victims. ”

“I know. Still, the damage to the throats of both victims was not done just to satisfy some kind of maniacal frenzy. ”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know why it was done. ”

“Okay. Why?”

“To hide the puncture wounds on the throat. ”

“Puncture wounds? You mean stab wounds?”

Weinstock gave them a twisted smile and flipped open the folder, turning it around so they could both see the glossy black-and-white photo. It was a very clear shot, a close-up on the throat of Nels Cowan, identified by a note paper-clipped to the edge. The detectives bent forward and stared. “I had to press the flesh back together, fitting the pieces carefully to reconstruct the throat. As you can see there are two ragged punctures just over the left carotid artery. ”