Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (13 page)

He pulled off the hat, hung it on a nail, and walked into the cottage. In the kitchen, he tested his glucose. Three hundred twenty-six—way too high. He ate cheese and cold cuts, then walked toward the refrigerator to fetch his insulin. As he passed by the window, he saw a luminous glow. He pushed back the lace curtain. Through the rain-smeared glass, lights blazed from the manse. The house had been dark since the Barretts left. Caro had locked up, set the alarm, and put the key in his mailbox, same as always. She never varied her routine. Keats had the feeling that she was careful and precise all the time. But this year, she’d been upset about something. Maybe she’d overlooked a detail.

He leaned over the sink and pushed up the window, expecting to hear the burglar alarm. Nothing but the rain tapping in the trees. Then a figure passed by a window. He pulled in a breath, and his throat burned, as if he’d swallowed drain cleaner.

Trespassers.

Keats dialed the Hahndorf emergency number, but he knew it would take the police twenty minutes to arrive—longer if the road washed out. He hurried into the den, opened his gun cabinet, and grabbed a double-barreled shotgun. As he dropped a handful of shells into his pocket, he forced himself to breathe. He’d protected Mr. Raphael’s estate for eleven years, and he planned to protect it for eleven more. Though his adversaries usually were rabbits, not thieves.

He decided not to drive, so he put on a black vinyl poncho and walked to the porch. He lifted his hat from the nail. The rain had slacked off, and fine white flecks were visible through the darkness, like bits of sawed bone. He strode up the hill, hanging back under the trees. Fog drifted past the house and moved toward a dark clump of evergreens.

These intruders were either dumb or desperate, he thought. He crouched next to the boxwood hedge and surveyed the courtyard. A black Toyota Camry sat in the driveway. In Vietnam, he’d been known as “Quiet Keats,” and he could still move soundlessly. He edged forward, his boots moving silently over the gravel.

An Avis decal was pasted on the windshield, next to an Adelaide International Airport sticker. The visitor wasn’t Mr. Raphael; he always arrived in a hired limo. Also, he would have notified Keats if he were coming. If Caro and Vivi had returned, they would have phoned, too. Maybe they’d tried; he’d been gone most of the day. He looked at the vehicle again. Had Vivi talked her mother into returning? But a Town Car always took the Barretts to and from the airport.

Better not to make assumptions, he thought. He eased around the side of the house. The back door stood ajar. He stepped into the kitchen and paused. Everything was tidy. No luggage in the hall. No umbrellas or galoshes. No grocery bags. The house was too quiet. If the Barretts were here, Vivi would be watching television and Caro would be cooking dinner.

Keats lifted his hat and set it on the counter. A scraping noise came from the study, as if a chair had been dragged over the floor. He made sure the gun’s safety was off, then crept down the hall. His mouth went dry, a sign that his blood sugar was rising. He spun into the room, holding the shotgun in both hands.

A woman with short blond hair stood beside the bookcase. His gaze flicked over her. Pale skin. Late twenties. Shorter than him. Maybe five-six and 125 pounds. She turned, her eyes expressionless, as if she’d been caught folding the laundry, not breaking and entering.

He drew a bead on her. “Stop where you are or I’ll put a hole through you.”

Her blue eyes narrowed for an instant, and then she raised her hands in the air. The cuffs on her black leather jacket pulled up, showing her wrists.

“Please don’t shoot.” She spoke with a mild Eastern European accent, but on top of it was something plainer, as if she’d been born in Russia or Ukraine but had been educated in the United States, or had spent time there. Her right cheek twitched as if an ant were crawling toward her eye.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Why?” Her gaze sharpened, brazen and alert, like a
dingo watching sheep. She seemed to be waiting for his answer. Well, she wasn’t getting one. Keeping his eyes on her, he moved one hand away from the gun, shut the door, locked it, and returned his hand to the gun.

The room was quiet, except for water dripping from his poncho. But he smelled her. She gave off the stink of old fruit, the kind where the flesh has turned soft and watery. A ketotic smell. Was she a vampire? Diabetic? On one of them fad diets?

“You’re trespassing,” he said.

“Wrong. I was invited.” Her full lips curved into a smile.

“Step against the wall. Keep your hands in the air.”

Her leather pants swished as she moved against the bookcase. Her hair was damp, curling around her ears. “Sir, please let me explain.”

Keats’s finger hovered over the trigger. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”

“I apologize for this misunderstanding.”

Right. A misunderstanding. Mr. Raphael had occasionally brought girlfriends to Innisfair, but this one wasn’t his type. Maybe he’d dumped her. She looked like the kind who wouldn’t go away without causing maximum damage.

“Twenty seconds,” he said.

“I’m Tatiana Kaskov. Raphael said he’d made all the arrangements for my arrival.”

Keats didn’t comment. This felt all wrong. Mr. Raphael would have phoned.

“How did you get inside?” Keats asked. “How did you turn off the alarm?”

“Raphael gave me a key.” Her eyes darted to the left.

She was a cool liar. He held the gun steady. “One more time. Why did you break in?”

“Is this how you treat all of Raphael’s guests?”

“I’ll call him right now.” Keats moved to the desk, shifting the gun to one hand. He lifted the receiver and punched in 1 and 8. He heard a cracking noise and looked up.

Tatiana had moved to the other side of the desk, and she held a tangled cord. It took him a second to realize that she’d pulled the plug out of the jack.

He frowned. “Get back against the—”

She sprang at him, a blur of pale limbs and black leather—how could she move so fast? The receiver hit the desk. He barely had time to lift the shotgun and squeeze the trigger. The blast stabbed through his ear canals, pricking like needles, followed by a clanging noise. The stink of gunpowder climbed into his nose.

Tatiana lay on the ground, screaming and clutching her left leg. Blood splattered the wall behind her. She began to rock. Crimson threads streamed through a hole in the leather, just above her knee.

Keats’s stomach muscles tensed. Damn, he’d shot a woman. But she’d rushed him. What kind of drug was she on? He broke open the barrel, smoke curling up. The empty casings clattered to the floor and rolled under the desk.

She got to her knees, grabbed at the curtain, and missed. Then she fell back down. Christ, she was tough. He reached in his pocket for more ammo, and Vivi’s postcard glided to the floor.

Tatiana vaulted to her feet and lunged across the room.
She pulled the gun out of his hands and threw it against the bookcase. Her cold, damp fingers circled Keats’s neck. She lifted him off the floor and grinned up at him, her lips moving like blood-fattened leeches.

“You’re fucked,” she said.

Keats’s chest tightened. His lungs felt like dried gourds, seeds rattling against his ribs. He’d shot her. How was she standing? How had she lifted him?

She’s a vampire, he thought.

He reached toward her, trying to grab her neck before he blacked out.

Her grip slackened, and he crashed to the floor. His mouth opened, and he sucked in air.

“Do you know that Raphael is a vampire.” Tatiana leaned closer.

Keats tried to keep his face expressionless.

She smiled. “Guess what, old man? So am I.”

Keats forced himself to look at her. “You’re trash.”

“No, I need blood.” She pinched his cheek. “Your blood. But we’ll party later. First, I will ask a few questions. Your answers will determine how you’ll die.”

So, that was how it would be.
Steady, old boy.
Fear wouldn’t make him a better soldier.

“When did Caro and Vivienne leave Australia?” Tatiana asked.

“Why are you interested in them?” he said. Only one theory was plausible. Tatiana had been spurned by Mr. Raphael and assumed that he’d taken up with Caro.

“I’m asking the questions,” Tatiana said. “When did they leave?”

He started to get up. She moved back to the desk, lifted
a bronze horse statue, and slammed it against Keats’s knee. A cracking noise held in the air. Pain exploded in his whole leg, as if some part of the statue had moved inside him, galloping through his bones. He pursed his lips, trying to hold back the scream, but it burst through his teeth.

Tatiana smiled and tilted her head, as if listening to music.

The bitch was enjoying it.

“That’s for shooting my fucking leg,” she said. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out a narrow, curved knife. “When did they leave?”

Why did she care? What did she want from the Barretts? Whatever it was, he wouldn’t give it to her. He licked his lips—they were so dry. But he was a soldier, and soldiers pushed on.

“A month ago.” He paused and caught his breath. “Two months. I can’t remember.”

“I hate a liar.” She raised the knife, and Keats saw a gold ring on her thumb. A man’s ring? Something she’d stolen?

Everything seemed to move slowly. She dragged the blade over his hand. A streak of coldness passed through his flesh. His thumb was dangling by stringy red cords, and then they broke loose and the stump hit the floor, blood jetting onto the carpet.

Strangely, he didn’t feel pain. Not yet. He knew soldiers who’d been tortured by the North Vietnamese regulars. Too much pain could turn into pleasure.

Tatiana picked up his detached thumb. She put the bloody end into her mouth and sucked, as if drawing meat
from a crab’s leg. She tossed the thumb over her shoulder. “Your blood is sweet. A delicacy. Can’t wait to drain you.”

“Rack off,” he said.

“Sure, I’ll leave. If you tell me what I want to know.”

He still did not feel any pain. “A soldier never talks.”

Tatiana tossed the knife to her other hand. “You’re a soldier without a war. Next question. Where did Caro go?”

“Are you one of those vampires who can’t read minds?”

Her eyes turned glossy and cold, like melted ice in the bottom of a cooler. “Do you know about Caro, old man? She’s a half-vampire, and her daughter is a freak?”

“They’re good people,” he said, staring her down. Nothing could shake Keats’s loyalty to Mr. Raphael or Caro. “And you’re crack-a-fruity,” he added.

Tatiana lowered the knife, and the cold metal scraped over his flesh, making quick, surgical cuts. Just enough for the blood to well up in the shallow creases.

“Next time it will be another finger,” she said. “I love the smell of your blood.”

Keats clenched his teeth. This was about pain. “Bring it on, you little cunt. Bite me. Shoot me. Cut off my legs. But we’re finished.”

“You’ll talk when I start killing the horses.”

Keats swallowed, and his throat made a dry click. She’d butchered Ozzie.

“One more time, old man. Where are Caro and Vivienne?”

“The space shuttle.” He glanced past her, where the postcard lay on the floor.

Tatiana followed his gaze. She set the knife on the desk, then lifted the postcard off the floor. Her eyes
switched back and forth, and then she looked down at Keats.

“Your eyes gave you away, soldier,” she said. “Shall I read Vivienne’s letter?”

Tatiana shoved the postcard into her pocket. “A Scottish castle? How droll.”

Tears ran down the sides of Keats’s face. Fear rose up inside him, not for himself, but for the Barretts and for Innisfair. He felt streaks of white-hot pain rush through his knee and hand.

“Which part of Scotland?” Tatiana turned back to the desk and lifted her knife.

“Stuff it.” He tried to ignore his cramping stomach, the sound of water rushing through his bowels. Sweat ran down the back of his neck.

Tatiana stepped on his wrist, pinning his arm against the floor. She pressed the tip of the blade into his forearm and dragged it over his flesh, moving in a figure-eight
pattern. Blood welled up, obliterating the design, and streaked down the sides of his arm.

“Which city shall I try first?” Tatiana said. “Glasgow? Inverness? Edinburgh? Aberdeen?”

“Go to hell, you fucking rabbit.”

“I’m actually doing a noble thing. Someone I work for is dying. He wants to feel the sun on his face before he leaves this world. Vivi’s blood will make this possible.” She looked up at the ceiling as she spoke, a half smile on her face, caught up in her own self-importance. Then, lowering her gaze, she removed the gold ring from her thumb and forced it onto his index finger.

He didn’t want her jewelry touching his flesh, and he tried to pull away.

“This ring will torture Caro, just as I’ve tortured you.” Tatiana leaned forward.

Keats felt the blade pass over his throat.

“Farewell, soldier,” she said. “See you in hell.”