Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (39 page)

His girlfriend was a minor celebrity: Addison Yarborough was Zeke the Freak’s daughter. Zeke was a burned out American rock star. Sex and drugs had left him addlepated, yet he’d managed to father nine children, all by gorgeous women. When I was a young girl, I’d gone to a concert in London. The Freak attracted a large Goth
fan base, mainly because his funeral dirge music was laced with images of blood, fangs, and death. His performances were theatrical—open caskets, black capes, white Kabuki makeup, and vats of dry ice.

“Wasn’t Addison’s mother a gorgeous Chanel model?” I asked.

Raphael nodded. “She was the Freak’s third wife.”

“If Dr. Parnell is trying to keep a low profile, he’s chosen the wrong girlfriend,” I said. “She prefers to be addressed as ‘Herself.’ With a capital H. She was in a movie a few years ago, and on the press junket, she complained to an
E!
reporter that acting was too hard, not that she was against hardness, but she didn’t want it to be career-related.” I lifted my finger and added, “A direct quote from Herself.”

Raphael laughed.

I’d seen Addison’s photos in gossip magazines. She was emaciated and popeyed. Her black waist-length hair had chunky white stripes, as if a penguin had been her stylist.

“How did Dr. Parnell and Addison hook up?” I asked.

“Maybe he was one of the Freak’s groupies.” Raphael shrugged. “Or maybe Addison is a vampire groupie.”

Raphael and I walked across the brightly lit medina, then cut through the souks, our beefy Moorish guards following at a discreet distance. We passed by spice shops where burlap bags were lined up in a row, displaying vibrant mounds of paprika, cayenne, turmeric, ginger, saffron, cinnamon.

Straight ahead, a crowd had gathered in a tiled pavilion, watching a feral cat. The animal was gray and bony, and it stood absolutely still, as if it had been pasted onto the cobblestones. Then I saw why—it was stalking a baby
pigeon, which perched on the ledge of a low, multicolored wall. The baby had apparently fledged prematurely, and now the frantic mother swooped above it.

The cat moved an inch and froze, except for the tip of its tail, which jutted upward like a crooked finger. Then it sprang toward the wall, skidded onto the ledge, and collided with the fledgling. Feathers churned in the air as the cat and bird slipped off the ledge and fell over the side. There was a thump.

“Don’t look,
mia cara
,” Raphael said.

But I couldn’t turn away. The fledgling soared up, fluttering in a zigzag above the ledge. The cat hurled itself into the air, a streak of gray fur, and bit into the bird’s neck. With a triumphant flick of the tail, the feline raced along the ledge and jumped down into an alley behind the souks, the mother pigeon straggling behind.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the cat as Raphael and me turned down a twisty alley. Dr. Parnell lived four minutes away from Djemaa el-Fna Square in a seventeenth-century
riad
. As we stepped closer, the thick, rose-pink walls gave off the smells of age and decay.

Raphael banged on the door. It creaked open, and a man in a red fez appeared, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. A scar ran down the left side of his face, sliced through his eyebrow and curved down his cheek. Raphael spoke to him in Arabic, then crushed money into his hand.

The man showed us into the
riad
. Inside, the décor was pink and black—the walls, furniture, and artwork. I heard laughter from a dim part of the courtyard: a masculine boom and a girlish giggle. We stepped around a rose-tiled fountain and a banana tree that was strung with
white lights. Smoke drifted through the air, stinking of marijuana. A bar stood at the other end of the courtyard, and gnats circled a bowl of limes. A half-empty gin bottle stood next to a smudged glass.

Dr. Nick Parnell sat at a table, holding a naked brunette woman on his lap. Teacups were scattered on the table, which was spattered with blood. When Parnell saw Raphael and me bearing down on him, he sprang to his feet, his genitals outlined beneath his tight pants.

The woman slid to the floor and her brown eyes widened. She sat there a moment flipping back her dark hair; dozens of bruises were stamped on her neck. Was this Parnell’s new girlfriend? What had happened to Addison Yarborough?

“Can I help you?” Parnell asked. He was a tall, hard-muscled man, trapped forever in his late twenties. He possessed the terrible beauty of a predator, reminding me of the cat I’d seen earlier. His bleached-blond hair fell to his shoulders, and his roots looked as if they’d been rubbed with a charcoal stick. His hazel eyes narrowed as he peered at the guard. Parnell shouted something in Arabic. The guard dropped back into an arched doorway.

Parnell turned back to Raphael and me. “Okay, you’ve got two seconds to explain who the hell you are.”

I put one hand on my waist, whether to comfort or steady myself, I couldn’t say. “I’m Jude Barrett’s widow.”

Parnell’s gaze swept over me. “Who?”

As I explained about the Gabon expedition, his eyes hardened. He snapped his fingers. The brunette got to her feet and ran across the courtyard, her bare feet slapping on the tile. She darted through the archway, where
Addison Yarborough now stood, gripping a martini glass. She’d inherited her father’s teardrop nose, along with her mother’s famous legs. The black-and-white striped hair streamed past her shoulders.

She saw me gawping and stepped back into the shadows.

I glanced at Parnell. His downward-turned mouth indicated that he hated unannounced guests.

“How did you find me, pretty lady?” he asked.

Raphael took my hand. “
I
did.”

“Why?” Parnell asked.

“We have questions about Dr. Barrett’s last days on the Gabon expedition,” Raphael said.

One corner of Parnell’s mouth kicked up into a sardonic smile. “Are you two an item?”

I didn’t answer, and he gave me a penetrating stare, as if he were trying to scour my mind for details. I focused on Jude’s face—the wind stirring his brown ponytail, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges, dark stubble running down his jaw.

“What do you want to know?” Parnell asked.

“Tell me about the mercenaries,” I said.

Parnell sat down in a metal chair and put one hand on top of his head. “Whew, that was a long time ago, dudes.” He looked up at the banana tree. “Let’s see, I’m trying to think. We were camped near a
bai
. I was in my tent when the gunfire started. I got out and ran into the bush.”

“Did you see Jude Barrett?” I asked.

“Nope. I didn’t see him or anyone, sorry. If I had, I wouldn’t have tried to help them. I’m not the heroic type. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He spoke with a brash eloquence, making me wonder what kind of life he’d had before he’d become a vampire. Maybe he’d owned a Mercedes convertible and driven it with the top down across the Golden Gate Bridge, his hand on a woman’s knee, a Coldplay song blasting from the radio.

“What else do you remember?” I asked.

“The mercs spoke Bambara.”

“They were from Mali?” I repressed a shudder. Gaddafi had found his murderers in the Mali military.

Parnell shrugged. “They wore Malian army uniforms.”

“Who hired them?” Raphael asked.

“I didn’t ask.” Parnell’s lips crumpled into a bitter smile. “I meant to, but they were too busy cutting off heads and setting fires.”

“How do you know?” Raphael said. “I thought you ran away.”

“I saw enough.”

I began trembling, and Raphael put his arm around me.

“You guys make a cute couple.” Parnell smiled, looking from me to Raphael. I heard distant sound from the square, the hum of a motorbike and jangling music.

Parnell lifted a teacup and winked at Raphael. “You should try this—gin, mint tea, and blood. A heady mix. In fact, you should feed mint to the pretty lady. Her blood will taste sweet.”

“Was my husband wearing his wedding ring?” I asked.

Parnell shrugged. “Like that would have made a difference.”

“About what?” I asked.

“Are you sure you want to know, pretty lady? Can you handle the truth?”

I nodded.

“That’s what all women say—they can handle it. But they can’t.” He looked into his teacup. “Tatiana had the hots for Jude.”

I just stared.

“You know how it is.” He lifted one shoulder. “Vampires in a rain forest. Things heat up. Everyone fucked Tatiana. Even me.”

“She was your lover?” I asked.

“You know, that word baffles me. What does ‘lovers’ mean, exactly? Tatiana had a need and I had a need, and we took care of it. Not very loving.”

Raphael stared at him a long time. “Why were you in Gabon?”

“The money. Why else?” Parnell laughed. “The Al-Dîn Corp was looking for the Lolutu tribe. Day-walking vampires. Supposedly the original immortals. Extinct, of course. They lived in Birougou’s caves. Hunted in daylight. Kidnapped women from other pygmy tribes and used them in blood rituals. The Bakas say the Lolutu could assume animal form. Crocodiles, fish, bats.”

“How did you get out of the bush?” Raphael asked.

“Walked.” He turned to me. “Listen, I hate to be rude, but Addison and I have plans. Addy? Can you escort the lovebirds to the door?”

Parnell gave me a swift, sudden look. My scalp tingled, and I felt pressure behind my eyes. He was trying to read my mind. I willed my thoughts to go clear. But what had he seen?

Addison stepped through the archway, her striped hair draped over one shoulder. She wore a short black dress
that showed off her legs. She gave Raphael a side-eye glance. He put his hand on my waist.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” she said. She led us through a long, narrow room where the man in the fez sat on a pink sofa with the naked woman, passing a bong. I tried not to look, but I was thinking,
Drugs and prostitutes in an Islamic country?
I didn’t know why I was surprised, but I was.

As Raphael and I stepped out of the rose-tinged
riad
, Addison called, “Where are you staying?”

“Not far,” Raphael said.

“Far is a place? Maybe I’ll visit.” She gave him a smoldering glance, then slammed the door.

RIAD LE PAVILION

MARRAKECH, MOROCCO

The next evening at dusk, Addison Yarborough showed up at our
riad
. She stepped past the Berber manservant and scanned the courtyard.

“Wow, I love your
riad
,” she said. “It’s much more chic than ours.”

“Come in,” I said, even though she was already standing in the hall. She hadn’t worn a djellaba, and the hem of her sleeveless pink dress hit just above her knees. A white scarf was tied around her neck, and it streamed down her shoulders and blended into the striped hair. A fuchsia hibiscus was pinned behind her left ear, and her large eyes were lined with kohl, putting me in mind of Vivi.

“So.” Addison smiled. “Can we talk? It’s important.”

I led her to the rooftop terrace, past a splash pool, toward a wooden sectional sofa. The sky had turned purple except for a low-lying red haze that slashed over the Atlas Mountains. Lights were coming on in Djemaa el-Fna, and I heard street music.

Addison sat down in the middle of the sofa and put a straw Kate Spade bag on the white cushion. She opened it, and I saw dozens of pill bottles and little bags that looked suspiciously like cocaine. She took out a blue pill and swallowed it, then cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, toward the stairway. I knew she was looking for Raphael.

“It was hot today, wasn’t it?” she said, closing her purse.

“Yes,” I said. “But it’s cooling off.” The temperature had reached 102 degrees at noon, but now the heat was starting to dissipate. A tepid breeze carried the smells of couscous and fresh oranges.

She played with a thick silver bracelet, moving it up and down her wrist, over a knob of bone. She glanced at the door again. “Where is Raphael? Or is it still too bright for him?”

I didn’t answer, because I’d heard a question within a question. I couldn’t read her thoughts, but I sensed that she was curious about my relationship with Raphael.

She pulled off her silver bracelet and moved it to her other wrist. “How long will you and Raphael be in Marrakech?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Have you been to the souks?” She flicked her gaze back at the door.

“Several times.”

“I hope you got good prices.” She turned back, and her eyes met mine. Her pupils were the size of black pepper pods, circled by enormous blue irises. “Negotiating requires an attitude,” she added. “Grit plus caveat emptor.”

While she chatted about the seamy side of Morocco, I watched the sky darken. Stars winked over the mountains. The Berber manservant brought mint tea in a silver pot and two blue glasses. He set down a platter of melon slices and cheese, the items wrapped in palm leaves.

Addison gave me a pleading look. “I really need to see Raphael.”

I signaled the Berber man. “Please ask Monsieur Della Rocca to join us,” I said in French.

“Yes,
madame
.” He lowered his head and moved toward the door.