Dark Hunger (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) (29 page)

“I’ll tell you later,” he said.

“He’s been dead for days,” she added.

“I know.”

“So where are we going, exactly?”

“Idaho Springs.”

“What’s in Idaho Springs?”

“Jena Vellone, if my gut is right.”

THEN HE TOLD HER ABOUT THE PHONE CALL he received a couple of days ago.

The display said Private Number and Teffinger didn’t recognize the man’s voice.

“There’s a guy who got killed who’s all over the news,” the man said. “He’s the guy who got a stake pounded in his heart, like he was a vampire or something. The one they found down by the railroad tracks—”

“Forrest Jones,” Teffinger said.

“That’s the guy,” the man said. “Anyway, I don’t know if this means anything or not, but I live up in Idaho Springs and I have a cabin advertised for rent. This guy who ended up dead called me up about it, wanting to see it. We went up there to see it but he didn’t like it for some reason and never did rent it.”

“Okay.”

“Like I said, I don’t know if it means anything or not, but I just thought I’d call because I ended up talking to someone who got killed,” the man said. “Nothing like that ever happened to me before.”

“I understand,” Teffinger said.

Suddenly his other line rang.

“Hold on,” he said, and then switched lines.

It turned out to be a wrong number.

He punched back to the first line but the man wasn’t there. Then Teffinger realized why—he hit the wrong button and cut him off.

“I DIDN’T THINK ANYTHING OF IT AT THE TIME,” Teffinger said. “But now that I know that Forrest Jones is the one who took Jena, it makes sense. He must have been in Idaho Springs looking for a cabin to keep her in. He didn’t end up renting the one of the guy who called me, probably because it was too close to another one. But if my gut’s right, he didn’t stop at that point. He called someone else and eventually rented a place. That’s where Jena is right now.”

Sydney shifted in her seat.

And got excited.

“If that’s true, she’s been abandoned for a long time.”

“I know,” Teffinger said. “That’s why we can’t mess around with search warrants.”

Idaho Springs was an old mining town 35 miles west of Denver, in the thick of the Rocky Mountains. The interstate cut through it. Sydney worked the phone on the way and got the name of a realtor by the name of Theodore Brown. She called and explained the situation. He was more than willing to help.

They met him at the base of the first exit off I-70 into town.

He turned out to be an energetic, academic-looking man in his early thirties with brown glasses. As soon as they all shook hands and introduced themselves, Brown got down to business.

“There are twenty-two cabins listed for rent in the surrounding area,” he said. “I’ve already called fifteen of them and spoke to the owners. All of them are still vacant, except for one. I wasn’t able to get through to the other seven owners.”

Teffinger scratched his head.

“Okay,” he said. “Our man tried to rent something the first time. No doubt because he thought that just breaking into some place and squatting would be too dangerous. He needed a controlled environment. So I’m thinking that he stayed with his plan and actually rented something. So what I want to do is concentrate on the seven places where you couldn’t get a hold of the owner.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t see an alternative but to physically drive out to each one,” he said. “Do you know the roads around here?”

“Like the back of my hand,” Brown said.

“Let’s start with the closest one.”

Teffinger drove like a maniac through a thick thunderstorm but neither of his passengers complained. When they got to the first cabin, the windows were dark. They hopped out of the 4Runner and approached, leaving the headlights on the structure. The front door was locked. Teffinger looked around, found a stick the size of a baseball bat, and bashed in the front window. He muscled in and then opened the door.

The place had no public electricity.

They didn’t have time to find the generator and start it.

So they searched as good as they could, using the little light that reflected into the structure from the 4Runner through the rain.

They called.

Loud and repeatedly.

No one answer.

“She’s not here,” Teffinger said. “Let’s go!”

THEY FISHTAILED down pitch-black muddy mountain roads until they got to the next place.

Teffinger grabbed the stick from the backseat and smashed the front window without even checking the doorknob.

They entered.

The place was empty.

They repeated that scenario four more times.

No Jena.

“Damn it,” Teffinger said. “We’re down to one.”

He stepped on the gas but drove with trepidation. If they didn’t find her at this last place, he didn’t know what to do.

When they arrived, the place was dark.

Teffinger smashed the window.

They entered.

And searched.

Jena Vellone wasn’t there.

They searched again.

Every inch.

She definitely wasn’t there.

They got back in the vehicle.

No one spoke.

Teffinger exhaled and turned the SUV around.

“HEY, WAIT,” SYDNEY SAID.

Teffinger put his foot on the brake.

“What?”

“There’s a storage shed or something back there, behind the house.”

They checked it.

And found Jena Vellone inside.

Curled up in a fetal position.

Unconscious.

Chained by an ankle.

Teffinger shook her but got no response.

“Jena!”

No response.

No movement.

“See if she has a pulse,” Sydney said.

Teffinger checked.

She did.

Faint.

But there.

“See if your cell gets a signal up here,” he said. “We need a flight-for-life; and something to cut this chain off.”

Sydney ran to the 4Runner.

“No signal,” she said.

“Go down to town and call,” he said. “I’m going to stay with her.”

THE 4RUNNER FIRED UP and the back tires threw mud. Within moments the sound of the engine disappeared. Teffinger took off his clothes, down to his boxers, and covered Jena. Then he wrapped his arms and legs around her and gave her his warmth.

He had never felt such a desolate place.

And couldn’t imagine what it had been like to feel only that and nothing else, day after day and night after night.

He shivered.

Thunder cracked.

And never felt better in his life.

Chapter 105

Day Eight—April 19

Tuesday Night

______________

THREE HOURS LATER, THE SAME STORM continued to fall out of the same sky. Teffinger watched it from his garage, sitting behind the wheel of the ’67 Vette, drinking a cold Bud Light. London sat in the passenger seat, downing white wine faster than she should. Jena Vellone was at Lutheran Medical Center, dehydrated and malnourished, but expected to obtain a full recovery with no long-term side effects. A throng of media was camped in the hospital lobby, waiting for prognosis updates and the opportunity to actually talk to the woman.

Jena’s sister, Geneva, was with her in the room.

Thanks to Katie Baxter and the team, who found her hogtied on the top floor of an abandoned warehouse.

Teffinger’s cell phone was off and sitting on the kitchen table.

He watched the storm and chewed on London’s story, which he fully believed.

ACCORDING TO LONDON, SHE HAD NO IDEA of Parker’s involvement in anything until this evening. That’s when two things happened. Tim Pepper called Rave and said that he’d seen Parker early on in a New Orleans club. Then the Montreal genealogist, Suzanne Wheeler, called Rave and said that Parker had set Rave up as bait to draw in the slayers.

Rave and London confronted Parker.

And Parker admitted, for the first time, a lot of things.

He admitted that he had in fact first seen Rave in New Orleans. He liked her, asked around about her, and found that she lived in Denver. He resolved to look her up if he ever got to Colorado.

He admitted that he and Forrest Jones had been killing women and drinking their blood—strong woman blood—in a effort to increase and activate their dormant immortality genes.

Kennedy Pinehurst.

Barbara Rocker.

Destiny Moon.

And many more.

The scenario was always the same. Parker chose the woman. He only picked women with “strong” blood, meaning women of stature, recognition, fame or money. He often used billboards to help him pick. Then, Forrest Jones did all the work, meaning the abduction, obtaining the vials of blood, and eventually killing them.

Parker and Forrest both drank the blood.

They were both chasing immortality in the worst way.

None of the other vampires, including London, had any knowledge of their activities.

EXCEPT FOR CAMERON LEIGH. Parker admitted that he found out that Cameron Leigh had grown suspicious and had started an investigation. She had obtained information on Kennedy Pinehurst and Destiny Moon. Those were the files found tucked in her vampire books.

Parker was afraid that she would go to the police.

So he decided to kill her.

That’s why he told the Montreal woman, Suzanne Wheeler, to leave Cameron Leigh’s file out.

Then he killed her, exactly as planned.

He pounded a stake through her heart to make it look like the slayers did it. That way London and the other vampires would never suspect him.

PARKER ADMITTED that he knew that Jake VanDeventer, Tripp and Matthew Abbott were after him and Forrest Jones. So he used Rave as bait.

To lure them in so he could kill them.

He made everyone on the vampire side of the equation—including London and Rave—believe that they were slayers, out to get all the vampires, when in fact they only wanted him and Forrest.

Parker’s plan worked well, relatively speaking.

Rave ended up shooting Matthew Abbott in the face.

Rave ended up sticking a knife through Tripp’s eye and into his brain.

Unfortunately for Parker, he lost Forrest Jones in the process, when Rave shot him in the face by accident on Rooney Road.

Over time, Rave became more than bait.

Parker fell in love with her.

That’s why he admitted everything, in the end, so she would understand and, hopefully, stay with him.

He was wrong.

She wouldn’t.

She told him that in no uncertain terms.

And Parker left.

TEFFINGER FINISHED WHAT WAS LEFT in the beer can, then fetched another from the fridge, and brought London a fresh glass of wine. Jena Vellone was safe. Geneva Vellone was safe. The murders of Cameron Leigh, Kennedy Pinehurst and Destiny Moon were solved. It was now clear that Teffinger had been improperly accused as being implicated by the media in the disappearances of Jena Vellone and Geneva Vellone. Alley would move back with Jena if she wanted him; otherwise, Alley could stay here. Teffinger felt like a human being for the first time in a long time.

Lightning ripped across the sky.

Beautiful.

“The storm’s getting worse,” London said. A pause, then, “Have you made up your mind yet, about us?”

Teffinger nodded.

“The things you did, I can understand,” he said. “I can appreciate why you helped bury the skinhead—actually, make that Matthew Abbott—in the desert. And helped get Tripp into Parker’s car, to be dumped. Legally, of course, those things could be big trouble, if anyone ever found out. But I’m not telling. The only important thing to me is that you told me what you knew as soon as you knew it. That led to us saving Jena and Geneva. That trumps everything.”

London exhaled.

And clinked her glass against his.

“What about Rave?” she asked.

“She did a lot of stuff,” he said. “She shot Matthew Abbott, but justifiably believed he was there to kill her, so that’s self- defense. She shot Forrest Jones in the face, but again, that was by accident. She was trying to save him. Then she stabbed Tripp in the eye, but only because she was justifiably trying to save Parker from a violent attack in her own home. If I was in her shoes, I would have done exactly the same thing—not to mention that I promised you that I wouldn’t use what you told me against either you or her. The poor thing’s been through enough. As far as I’m concerned, I hope she turns out to be the biggest singer the world’s ever seen.”

London leaned over and kissed him.

“I’m done with all the vampire stuff,” she said.

Teffinger chuckled.

“So you’re giving up on being immortal?”

“I just want to be mortal, with you,” she said.

Teffinger kissed her.

“Fine by me,” he said.

THE END

Copyright (c) R.J. Jagger

All rights reserved

R.J. Jagger is the author of over 20 thrillers and is also a long-standing member of the International Thriller Writers. He has two series, one featuring Denver homicide detective Nick Teffinger, set in modern times; and a noir series featuring private investigator Bryson Wilde, set in 1952. His books can be read in any order. For complete information on the author and his ebooks, hardcovers, paperbacks and audio books, as well as upcoming titles, news and events, please visit him at:

Rjjagger.blogspot.com

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