Bond of Darkness (19 page)

Hell, she'd been having a great holiday before this happened. A long holiday weekend at Posada's condo with a couple of other Rangers, just lazing by the Gulf and calling it fishing. Then the phone rang late on Sunday night, bringing the Galveston police chief asking for help processing a crime scene. Of course, they'd agreed. They'd have done so, even if they'd known what they were getting into.

Two young coeds, dead for less than an hour, flimsy as crushed newspaper on the crimson-smeared pavement. Their cotton skirts were now gaudy road signs to their shredded thighs.

Jesus. Steve gritted her teeth. If it wasn't so damn hot, she could have blamed her shakes on the weather. Had any of the other killers' MOs involved draining women's femoral arteries?

Even so, this bloody alley had looked just a little too familiar after reading all those other case files. To say nothing of how few investigative techniques had shown any promise.

Although the girls' murderer—murderers?—hadn't sexually assaulted them, he'd taken the time to break every bone in each of their hands. Their mouths were contorted into gaping chasms of pain, their heads thrown back in agony, and their eyes staring in horror.

She'd seen that expression once before. She hadn't needed the witnesses' interviews to know nobody had heard these two scream, just like the girl in San Leandro. Unless they'd never made a sound…

Sirens whined in the distance, heading toward them. The irritating reporter slammed off to talk to eyewitnesses in an Internet cafe.

Posada separated himself from a trio of high-ranking cops, readily identifiable by the acolytes buzzing in and out with low-voiced questions. He strolled over to Steve, careful to stay outside the yellow-taped perimeter, the evidence kit dangling from his fingers as barren as hers. "How are you doing?"

"Fine." She flicked a glance at him, willing to make idle chitchat. "Natives getting a bit restless?"

"Yup." His voice was as soft as hers. "Doesn't help that their crack K-9 ID'd the saloon's bouncer as the likely killer."

"Natural thing to do. He'd been the first guy on the scene, after the couple found the bodies." Hell, the dog was good enough to pick the trail up from an incredibly contaminated crime scene, then isolate its maker amid the huge crowds around here. It was more than almost anybody else's tracker had managed.

"Giving him the chance to pick up lots of blood, which he'd tried to wash off and didn't want to admit."

She could almost see her lieutenant roll his eyes. "Unfortunately, he also has the single best alibi in town, given the number of people in the saloon and passersby on the street who can ID him."

"Oh yeah, didn't take much time to establish
that
at all."

No, it hadn't been a good night for Galveston's finest so far. But maybe that would change.

A siren howled on a thinner note than that put out by a squad car. A small white pickup bounced toward the alley, its flasher whirling. Hopefully this would turn out to be the cavalry.

"Sure about this?" Posada murmured, even softer. "Police dog is a police dog. Are you sure you want to stay out on that limb by asking for another one?"

"Yes, because trailing or hard surface tracking is harder. It takes a specialist." And if a vamp committed this crime, there wouldn't be any other evidence. Landscaping—grass or bushes and trees—to catch and trap bits of scent amid their myriad pockets and crevices would have made matters much easier. Instead, they'd have to rely on the pitifully few molecules still floating in the air or unlucky enough to be smacked firmly against the slick pavement or walls. But maybe this year's bumper crop of weeds would help.

"I've never seen a bloodhound work a crime scene better than a shepherd," Posada mused.

Damn, she really needed his support. Better give him more of the truth, no matter how nasty.

"Hays County had some success using similar tactics." By acting fast with a damn good team.

"
Hays
County? Had an attack like
this
?" His voice started to rise before he yanked it back under control.

"And others," she mouthed, shielding her features from everyone else. Yes, Hays was between Austin and San Antonio, dammit. Hours from here and only one of the many counties which had seen young women die.

"Oh, fuck." It was the first time she'd ever heard him use the
F
-word.

"Not really provable, though," she added. "Until maybe now."

Posada grimaced.

The high-pitched wail snapped to a halt, its accompanying light slashing the bricks as if it were trying to cut a portal. The truck's seal proclaimed Texas Department of Criminal Justice and a single big dog crate occupied the back.

The driver was turning gray at the temples but still trim around the waist. The creases in his uniform were knife-edged, despite the late hour and heavy humidity. A minute after he stopped, he had the truck's tailgate down and the crate open. A big bloodhound emerged, gleaming red and gold under the few lights, with deep wrinkled jowls highlighting the long wet tongue, a runner's legs, and wagging tail.

The Galveston K-9 handler shot them a withering look and drummed his fingers against his leg. His big shepherd sat up a little straighter, furry tail stirring on the bricks.

Zimmerman, the chief investigator, pried himself away from the police chief and headed for the pickup. Steve and Posada joined him, moving in perfect unison, but stopped a few paces back.

"Evening, folks," the newcomer said. "I'm Sabathia and this here's Daisy, our best trailing dog. How can we help you?"

"Detective Ryan Zimmerman. Thanks for getting here so soon," Zimmerman replied, his burly shoulders straining his polo shirt. "We hope you can pick up the killer's trail for us."

"Glad to do our best, Zimmerman." Daisy had her head up, sniffing the night air curiously. "Do you have a sample for us to work from?"

"Yes, we found these a few feet away from the victims." Zimmerman's mouth curled before flattening into neutrality. They'd located it after their own dog had started hunting that bouncer and just before Steve had suggested bringing in a trailing dog.

She kept a straight face.
Careful, mart; don't expect to triumph this easily over the bad guys. Nobody else has
.

Sabathia held the small bag so Daisy, now wearing a harness for easier head movement, could get a good whiff of its contents. She snuffled at it, concentrating deeply, almost like a sommelier tasting a new wine in a fancy restaurant. Finally she pulled away, long ears dangling, and he quickly loosened her leash, letting her test the air in all directions. She circled, head high, nose wrinkling with every sniff, moving farther away from him with every step.

Suddenly her entire body came alert, until even her toes and tail existed solely to drive her forward. She moved quickly down the alley and through the parking lot behind the hotel, gathering police in her wake like an empress.

"Ah-woooo!" she bayed and lunged up on her hind feet, firmly planting both front paws on a cop's chest. A single swipe of her long wet tongue claimed him as hers.

"Drop your wallet in the street again, Smith?" Long experience rang through the Galveston K-9 handler's voice.

The man who'd been trying to protect his face abruptly slapped his hand over his hip pocket—and flushed angrily.

Steve sighed. How many times had she seen a cop swear nobody had gone inside the perimeter, only to have a dog prove them wrong?

Zimmerman cursed angrily. "Now we've got nothing."

"We've still got two corpses, who should have some of their killers' scent on them," Steve gently corrected him.

"The bodies probably reek to high heaven of everybody who've been near them or touched them in any way," he objected with lost hope's violent anger.

"But we have Daisy, who's a trailing dog. If anybody can find him—or them—she can," Roberts said flatly. "Even with all the hard surfaces around here."

A muscle throbbed in his jaw but he met the chief investigator's gaze steadily.

Strong man to tout another man's dog's superiority.

Zimmerman hesitated and finally shrugged. "What the hell do we have to lose? Let her try." He flipped up the yellow tape so Daisy could approach the two pitiful mounds under their white shrouds.

Steve watched silently, her stomach wrenching tighter and tighter, Posada and Roberts beside her.

If a human had killed them, there should still be enough scent on the corpses to give Daisy a good start. Otherwise—if a vampiro had done it—she'd have to take it from the air around them. And God help them all, in that case.

"What are the odds?" Posada quietly asked Roberts.

"Nighttime, with warm moist air—that helps. But it was damn hot today, asphalt traps heat—not good. Plus, all the tourists in the historic district seem to have tramped through here." He shook his head. "If I was a betting man, maybe one in five, just to pick up a scent, and only because she's a hound."

Zimmerman had delicately laid a sterile gauze pad on each victim, then placed each one in a clean evidence bag. Now he offered them to Daisy.

The dog's tail hung low, barely twitching, while she sniffed around the two bags. Suddenly she whined, deep in her throat, and pushed her muzzle into her handler's hand, edging away from the crime scene.

"What the hell? Good dog, Daisy, good dog." Sabathia stroked her head. "You can do it, Daisy. You've found worse crooks before. Come on, Daisy, come on."

Daisy leaned against her human's leg, shaking.

A cold vortex began to spin in Steve's stomach. Judging by Daisy's reaction, the killer hadn't been an ordinary human. But somebody like Ethan? Her veins filled with an icy slurry.

Daisy whined again but allowed herself to be eased down the alley away from the corpses. She worked toward the street, her tail rising with every step. Her head slowly came up, her nose wrinkling as she sniffed the air in all directions, swiveling back and forth.

Steve's pulse skittered.

Daisy reached the boardwalk and edged out onto the pavement, accompanied by her master. The once-thick crowd had thinned out, pushed back by insistent cops. A single reporter snapped a picture, the TV journalists having long since departed for their stations.

The great tracker circled at the end of her leash, twenty feet from her master, her red and gold coat blazing under the streetlights like Texas's star come to life. Her nose wrinkled, every fold working to hold and process the faintest bit of aroma. She sniffed a few cars and whined deep in her throat—but didn't linger.

Every cop was silent, even Roberts's big German shepherd.

She edged down the avenue away from the hotel—and stilled. "Ah-whoooo!" she bayed at the moon.

An instant later, she was trotting west down the street with Sabathia at her side. Away from Pelican Island but toward what? The cruise ship terminal, the causeway and the harbor, or the airport?

The other cops scrambled to follow, Steve and Posada walking, but some driving. Roberts trailed them slowly in his car, his shepherd watching every move from the passenger seat.

Once they knew the direction the bad guys had taken, Sabathia put Daisy back into the pickup. They formed a slow procession, following her like an empress whichever way her nose pointed.

Daisy grew more confident of the scent after they passed the big cruise ship terminal, somehow always able to retrieve the scent from a passing breeze.

Daisy turned away from the causeway, confirming their target hadn't driven the miles to the island.

Steve was damn sure he hadn't walked either. Nobody with a lick of sense would subject themselves to travel more than a dozen miles, by foot, through this kind of brutal humidity with only the hope of an occasional breeze from the Gulf through the shrouding buildings. The alternatives weren't pleasant.

She clenched her fists and fought not to think about the implications of a bloodthirsty murderer, striking as readily as the one she'd been studying. No woman in Texas would be safe. And, dear God, this little team was hardly prepared to catch a vampiro. She knew she didn't have enough weapons. Even if she did, could she pull the trigger on Ethan?

No. It might be sick, but she'd rather die believing Ethan was a good guy than live, knowing he was a bad guy.

And if he hadn't done it, who had? Nobody in Texas had enough firepower to take down somebody like Ethan on their own. They'd need an ally—even Ethan himself, in order to have a chance.

Now they were heading straight for the airport but it was well past midnight. No way had this bastard taken a commercial flight.

"What do you think—charter flight or helicopter?" Posada asked Steve under his breath. "I can't believe he's still on the island."

"How about sending Daisy to the charter terminal, since she's got the best scent discrimination? But have the two local canines check out the helipads, since they work on most recent scent."

"Which will give us a fast answer. Sweet. I'll talk to Zimmerman."

She nodded, well aware he was saving his questions.

Minutes later, Roberts released his Shepherd with a single guttural command after letting the dog sniff the same gauze square that had triggered Daisy's search. The big dog nosed the pavement and then leapt forward toward the helipad, ears laid back and teeth ready, desperate to redeem himself—and his human—with a successful search.

Steve and Posada raced after them, her heart pounding. Did she want to be wrong and have the bastard still be around?

They burst into the open, onto the circle of intricately marked concrete. A battered Jeep, top down, was parked only a few feet away—the getaway vehicle. It must have just enough ventilation to have allowed Daisy to pick up the killer's scent along the trail from the murder scene.

The police dog was lying next to it, rumbling happily deep in his throat, while Roberts examined something between the dog's great furry paws. Gold flashed briefly in the flashlight's beam.

"What is it?" Steve asked, trying to see.

"A girl's earring. We've got its mate back in town with its dead mistress." He rubbed his dog's ears and pulled a big rubber ball out of his pocket. "Good boy, you found where the bad guys went poof!"