The Undead Kama Sutra (11 page)

T
he Internet gave me
the map grid location of the crash site. I rented a Lexus SUV because of the onboard GPS, and followed the directions southwest on I-55, then north on Highway 30 to Oswego, where I took a county road.

I looked for a column of smoke in the afternoon sky. On TV, dense smoke had risen from behind a tree line, as ominous as a death shroud. Shouldn’t be hard to find.

But the sky was clear now. Helicopters marked the spot as they orbited like flies over a picnic. A sheriff’s white patrol car with lights flashing was parked beside a portable barricade straddling the road. The barricade read:
LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY
.

I rolled my window down and slowed for the deputy wearing a safety vest. I told him, “I live at the new devel
opment.” There were always new developments, anywhere you went.

He glanced into my car and waved me through.

A quarter mile from the crash site, an impromptu bivouac of news vans crowded the shoulder of the road. Masts with antennas telescoped from the van roofs. On the opposite shoulder, state troopers, federal marshals, and more deputies milled alongside a yellow barrier tape. The tape stretched for hundreds of feet on either side of a second road leading into the woods.

Journalists with microphones and video cameras waited in clusters. A black Suburban appeared in the second road. The lawmen parted for the SUV to pass and the newspeople crowded around it. The SUV turned left and headed west. The journalists relaxed with their equipment and slunk back in boredom.

I’d return later tonight. The police weren’t expecting anyone more bothersome than a persistent reporter, so I should have no problem sneaking through as a vampire.

I figured most of the local hotel and motel rooms would be taken by the news media or crash investigators. Besides, for hospitality I wanted the personal touch.

I drove north into Oswego. A brunette in black spandex jogged around the park of a residential neighborhood. She filled out her top nicely and, for proportion’s sake, had a fair amount of junk in the trunk. She stepped away from the park and went up an adjacent street. I removed my sunglasses and contacts. Her aura was calm. Nothing bothered her except
for the sexual frustration that appeared in her aura like small fractures in glass.

I replaced my contacts and slowed alongside her. I could use vampire hypnosis and get my way regardless. But I never liked that—I preferred to cast the bait and see if the woman responded. I used to rely on vampire hypnosis later in the liaison, mainly to keep secret the pale, translucent skin that I didn’t cover with makeup. But I had a tan now. Would I need hypnosis at all?

I halted against the curb and gave her a “rescue me” smile. “I’m kinda lost. Can you help with directions back to the highway?”

The woman stepped off the sidewalk and braced her forearms against the window opening on the front passenger side of the Lexus. Her perspiration had activated her perfume and the scent was a tempting appetizer. “Nice car,” she said.

The hook was set. I didn’t think it would be so easy.

Her left hand dangled into view. She wore an engagement ring. Considering her lingering sexual frustration, future hubby wasn’t taking care of business.

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Where you from?”

“Colorado.”

She twirled a lock of her hair around a finger. “What are you doing here?”

“Business.” I told her I was a talent scout for a marketing company. “I’m looking for a great pair of hands. We need them for jewelry and soap commercials.”

She spread her fingers. “I have nice hands.”

“You do,” I answered.

“How do you audition hands?”

Depends on your needs.
“It’s an involved process.”

“I’ll bet it is.” She drummed her fingernails against the door. “How about a lift to my house so I can clean up? Then maybe we can talk about auditioning my hands.”

My door locks popped open. She got in and scooted across the leather upholstery. Her scent became even more tempting. We exchanged names; hers was Belinda.

If you’re a vampire, getting into a woman’s pants is easy. There’s the hunt and the conquest but without an emotional connection, after a while it’s like eating in a restaurant by yourself. It might have been the fanciest meal in town but the experience wouldn’t beat sharing a plate in a greasy spoon with a friend.

I’ve learned that I can’t have a normal relationship with a woman. I’ve tried and the result was like flying in the
Hindenburg
. I had concealed my undead nature but the deceit built up like hydrogen gas before exploding and tearing us apart.

What I most had to hide with hypnosis was my translucent vampire skin. Now with a tan, I was free of that masquerade.

The mystery now was how well I could get to know Belinda and how well would she get to know me.

An hour later we were in her town house, frolicking naked in the big tub like a couple of otters. I couldn’t believe my freedom. No more tricking a woman to hide my vampire per
sona. I had dropped my skivvies and there I was. Everything a nice shade of pecan brown. We compared tans.

I held her hand and rubbed my thumb over her engagement ring. “What about your fiancé?”

“He’s postponed the wedding twice. He’s lucky I haven’t pawned the ring for a big-screen TV.”

Belinda took the ring off and set it on the rim of the tub. “My hand doesn’t need the ring for the audition, does it, Mr. Talent Scout?”

The way she said that meant I was busted about being a talent scout, but the way she pressed her bare breasts against my chest meant it didn’t matter. We adjourned from the tub to Belinda’s bedroom. She pulled an open carton of Trojans from under the bed.

I thought about trying some of the
Kama Sutra
poses, but my hostess wanted only the quick basics, and gentleman that I pretended to be, I couldn’t refuse her.

The sound of a toilet flushing awoke me. Had I fallen asleep? The night’s activities had done wonders for my mood, leaving me so relaxed that my body settled against the mattress like a bag of jelly.

The digits of the clock radio read two
A.M
. A border of light outlined the bathroom door. The rumpled sheet on Belinda’s side of the bed conformed to her shape. Her pillow carried a pleasant damp scent. Ice melted in an empty pitcher of margaritas on the night table.

I smacked my lips and tasted B-negative. Of course I had fanged Belinda. After all, she was
my
dinner.

As a vampire, I fang for nourishment, to deepen my hypnotic hold, as the first step in converting a victim into a vampire, or to kill.

We vampires secrete enzymes through our fangs. One enzyme induces deep amnesia, another accelerates healing to hide our puncture wounds, yet another gives an almost hallucinogenic pleasure; without it, the victim feels like fire is surging through their veins.

Belinda might have two faint yellow bruises where I’d fanged her. The enzymes in my saliva expunged the memory of my bloodsucking.

The bathroom light went dark, the door opened, and Belinda came out. She knotted the belt of a terry-cloth robe that couldn’t hide the voluptuousness of her full breasts and wide hips.

I smiled and fluffed her pillow. I was ready for more fun. The sex had been uncomplicated and easy. No interruption on my part to hypnotize her and erase the memory of my vampire nature. I didn’t even have to remove my contacts. Having a natural “human” tan was liberating.

Belinda ignored the invitation and sat her rump on the edge of the mattress. She poured the melted ice and what was left of the margaritas from the pitcher into one of the glasses. She opened the top drawer of the nightstand and took out a bottle of pills. Aspirin? After popping a couple of pills, she chased them with a drink from the margarita glass.

If she had a headache, I could recommend a better cure.

Belinda turned and looked at me like she didn’t recognize
who I was. Had I given her too much of the amnesia-causing enzymes? Better ease up on the vampire mojo this second time around.

“What was your name?” She took another swallow.

I couldn’t believe I’d been so careless with my fanging that she’d forgotten my name.

Belinda didn’t wait for me to answer. “You better go. I have to get my sleep. It’ll be easier for me in the morning if you’re gone.”

She was kicking me out? Just like that? My emotional compass spun in circles. What had I done wrong?

“No hard feelings,” she added. “I had a good time.”

A good time? She’d had enough, and out the door for me? She didn’t even remember my name. “What am I? An anonymous piece of ass?”

Belinda put the glass back on the nightstand. “What are you complaining about? You had fun.”

“Yeah but…” My brain went numb with confusion. This had nothing to do with my fanging her. I wanted Belinda to treat me as she would any other man, and she did. Take a number, wait your turn, now get the hell out.

No hard feelings? I was a vampire, the supreme sexual predator, and I felt…used, as disposable as last night’s condom.

I stewed in humiliation. Now what to do? The spider-bite treatment hid my vampire persona, which it did too well. Show her my fangs and talons? Belinda, you had sex with a vampire.

Big deal, apparently, because that didn’t change the fact that she was giving me the boot. This wasn’t about my being a vampire, it was about my pride. A very human pride that I thought I no longer felt.

If I showed her my true self, the bloodsucking monster of the night, what then? I couldn’t let her live with that knowledge, so I would have to either erase her memory—and we’re back to her judging me as worthy of only one bout on the mattress—or I’d have to kill her—which I wouldn’t do.

Naked and embarrassed, I slipped from under the covers and gathered my clothes. Belinda sat cross-legged on the bed, watched me get dressed, and yawned.

I saw why her fiancé was ambivalent about tying the knot with this fickle bitch. Getting out now was a good idea. I checked my pockets to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.

“The front door will lock behind you,” Belinda said in a tone that meant “scram.”

I
drove off, reliving the
evening, thinking how my clever macho talk, my smooth moves in the sack were all a setup for her punch line: Beat it.

My vampire savoir faire had little to do with getting laid. Hell, if Belinda had been horny enough, I could’ve been a buck-toothed hick driving a Yugo and she would’ve jumped my bones.

I couldn’t stop the chatter in my head, the constant search for a stinging comeback I should’ve made to placate my ego. But I had to get on with my investigation. I stopped in a convenience store, bought a tall cup of coffee, and added a good amount of blood from a plastic bottle that I had brought in checked baggage. Fortunately, the blood was A-negative, which tended to have a soothing effect on me, like valerian root.

My mood tempered, I drove through the darkness and returned to the crash site. The cluster of vehicles had thinned to four state police cars.

As soon as I parked, a trooper came out from the shadows and asked if he could help; in other words, what was I doing here?

When he got close, I zapped him. I fanged the trooper only enough to keep him under—barely tasting his blood—and locked him in the backseat of his cruiser.

I scanned the area and saw the red auras of woodland critters but no humans.

Two trailer-mounted generators hummed alongside the road. I followed a line of cables from the generators toward a glow in the woods beyond. Rows of plastic bins held jagged pieces of metal, most the size of my arm or smaller. I peered into the woods with my night vision and didn’t see anything of concern to me.

A circle of construction lights on towers illuminated an oblong black area gouged into the ground. The area was a couple of hundred feet long and about a hundred feet wide. Scorched brush surrounded the perimeter. Small flags dotted the site. Wreckage, either a tail fin or a wingtip, flattened a shrub to my right.

I stood in a patch of burned weeds and studied the impact hole. There was no crater; rather it was a jagged trough scooped into the earth.

I walked around the perimeter. The plane must have hit the ground at a steep angle, ricocheted, and exploded. Good luck trying to collect the remains of these dead.

So where were the remains? And that wreckage in the bins, where was that going?

What did this have in common with the Cessna Caravan the Araneum had mentioned? Other than both planes had smacked the earth, killing all souls on board, I didn’t see a connection.

I returned to the road and found another trooper patrolling the area. I zapped her and asked where the remains were stored.

She said they were in a hangar at a small private airport nearby. I made her give me directions. Then I shoved her in the backseat of the cruiser with the other trooper I’d fanged. I unbuttoned their shirts and loosened her bra. Would they admit to finding themselves in a situation that risked the wrath of human resources? I took the male trooper’s ID badge.

The airport was seven miles away. I got there at a quarter after four in the morning and parked in a deserted lot. I clipped the trooper’s badge to my shirt and got out of my car.

The early morning hour—oh-dark-thirty, we used to call it in the army—plus the smell of prairie grass and aviation fuel reminded me of assembling for helicopter assaults in the infantry.

A corporate jet climbed noisily from the main runway. Strobe lights flashed on its belly and tail. The jet looked too fancy for a pop-stand airfield like this. Was Goodman on the jet and had I just missed him?

The operations building was locked. This was a rinky-dink
enterprise: a few prefab hangars, a concrete runway, and a dozen small private airplanes and ag sprayers tethered to the parking apron.

I walked around the south side of the operations building. Construction lights illuminated an area in front of the largest hangar at the far end. I approached down the taxiway and circled around a fueling point.

A couple of big RVs, several black SUVs, and three panel trucks sat in a row beside the hangar. Traffic cones and police tape marked a perimeter around the area. Two red auras identified a couple of men, both bored, standing guard next to an unmarked Crown Victoria at the entrance into the perimeter.

I could break into the hangar from the back or the roof. But getting past these two guards shouldn’t be much trouble, so why bother?

The men gossiped and sipped coffee from paper cups.

I scoped the area. Nothing but the lights, the vehicles, and the two wide doors of the hangar shut together. Light from inside leaked through the edges of the doors. Nothing waited in the darkness beyond.

I angled my path so that I stepped into the long shadow cast by the two guards and the lights behind them.

The men noticed me and placed their cups on the roof of the Crown Vic. A sign leaning against a traffic cone said:

RESTRICTED AREA

NATIONAL TRANSPORTATION SAFETY BOARD

U.S.D.O.T
.

Badges glinted on the men’s belts. The rectangular silhouettes of pistol butts showed against their hips. The embroidery on their dark polo shirts read
FEDERAL MARSHAL
.

I kept my face in shadow. “Illinois State Police. I’m a liaison from the governor’s office.”

“Kinda early in the day, isn’t it?” the taller of the marshals asked.

“The governor calls and I jump. I don’t ask him the time.”

The marshal chuckled. “I hear that.” He pointed to the tape marking the boundary. “But I can’t help you, pal. This place belongs to the NTSB right now. If you need access, come back when the staff is here.”

I kept walking toward them. “What time will that be?”

The marshal shrugged. “Six maybe. Seven for sure.”

His partner beckoned me. “Let me see your ID. Nothing personal. We have to log in all visitors, whether they get in or not.”

“No problem.” I stopped four feet in front of them and let the light wash across my face.

Both marshals fixed their eyes on me. One muttered, “Sweet Jesus.” The other whispered, “Holy shit.”

Their auras flared like two hot coals in a Weber grill. Their eyes opened wide as half-dollars.

I let their auras settle before asking, “Does either of you know Dan Goodman?”

Big guy answered no. His partner couldn’t get a word out and I didn’t have time to prod his subconscious. I needed to look inside the hangar.

Fanging the marshals was the preferred technique to keep them under, but I tried something else. I banged their heads together like coconuts and let them drop.

I proceeded toward the hangar and examined the parked vehicles in case I overlooked someone. Around the corner to the south, there was a smaller door with a brightly lit window. I didn’t see any security cameras. I kept my distance from the window and looked inside. A female marshal sat at a desk ten feet from the door. She leafed through a copy of
Flying
magazine. A coffeemaker with a half-empty carafe rested on the desk.

I waited a couple of moments to see if someone else appeared. No one did. I stood to one side of the window and placed my hand against the door. The metal vibrated with the hum of electric motors—something like ventilation fans or compressors. Satisfied that she was alone, I opened the door and walked in.

The marshal brought her gaze from the magazine and up to me. She began to stand. “You need…”

She froze midway up. Her pupils dilated and her aura brightened into a crimson sizzle.

I shut and locked the door. I brushed my hand across the row of light switches. The hangar fell dark as a tomb. Perfect.

I stepped around the desk and cupped the marshal’s neck. She had a firm, athletic build. I brought my fangs close to her throat. Her shampoo had a tea tree scent, while her deodorant smelled of something exotic and tropical. I was sure the
marshal bought these products at a health food store, so I bet she paid attention to what she ate.

My fangs broke her skin. The warm blood pumped into my mouth. I took a swallow and savored the taste. Nothing artificial in her blood. A strictly organic diet for sure.

I worked my saliva to the wound. As the enzymes seeped into her flesh, the marshal gave a low moan and relaxed. I held her arm and eased her back into the chair. My fanging should keep her under for at least an hour.

I flipped through the papers and binders on the desk. Most were procedures or lists of people. I sorted through a stack of loose faxes, invoices, and receipts. One form was a flight manifest for a Gulfstream corporate jet. Among the six passengers was a D. Goodman.

The trail was hot again.

The Gulfstream had left just as I arrived—so he was aboard.

The destination of the Gulfstream? Kansas City, the origin of the doomed airliner.

An investigation team would look into evidence at the point of departure. But why was Goodman involved in the first place?

I asked the marshal if she knew Goodman and she answered no. I closed her eyes and left her content and unconscious.

Airplane wreckage lay scattered across the hangar floor. A metal easel held a schematic of the Beech turboprop that mapped how the pieces belonged together.

The noises of a fan and compressor came from a semi-trailer parked inside the hangar against the northern wall. The back of the trailer faced the hangar doors. A ramp led to the trailer doors, which were secured with a padlock.

Boxes of latex gloves, booties, and paper masks rested on a bench beside the bottom of the ramp. Two gurneys had been pushed against the bench. A sign taped to the left trailer door said:

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

CRASH INVESTIGATION EVIDENCE.

Another placard had the symbol for biological waste and was labeled
BIOHAZARD
.

I picked through an open toolbox and found a heavy pry bar that I used to force open the trailer door. I slipped the broken padlock into my pocket to hide the obvious evidence of my entry.

When I opened the door, a wave of refrigerated air carried the odor of decaying human flesh. On the inside of the door someone had taped color head shots labeled with names, a birth date, and some kind of reference number. There were nineteen smiling faces, which I presumed were the crash victims, now charred and torn to pieces and no longer smiling.

Body bags sat on the shelves along the inside of the trailer. Some bags held lumpy forms scarcely the size of a child. Others were almost flat. Smashing into the ground at several hundred miles an hour didn’t leave much to recover.

Humans have this perception of the inviolate forms of their physical bodies, until they encounter the laws of physics. Then their precious bags of flesh, tissue, and bone become messy, fragile projectiles that go splat.

I counted seventeen body bags. Masking tape on two empty shelves had been marked with the names Vanessa Tico and Janice Wyndersook. Where were their remains? According to the most recent news, all the bodies were accounted for. Were these two released to their family for burial? Considering the crash happened this morning, I doubted it.

I examined the pictures of the missing women. Vanessa Tico’s portrait looked like a glamour shot. She was an African-American with a middle-dark complexion, straight hair that seemed sprayed armor-stiff, and wide, bright eyes that begged you to share a laugh. Janice Wyndersook faced the camera in a fuzzy blowup of a snapshot. Her small eyes squinted at the viewer through narrow glasses. Tufts of blond hair jutted from her scalp in the current trendy style. Her rosy complexion made each round cheek look as inviting as a freshly picked apple. Vanessa was twenty-seven, Janice twenty-eight.

They weren’t much younger than Marissa Albert, the murdered chalice in Key West. I touched the pictures on the door. A hunch—I was a private detective, what else did I have—told me that Vanessa and Janice were still alive.

Then why the charade of their deaths in this crash?

I bet Goodman would know.