Blood Borne: Recombinant Part 3

I spent the next morning calling a few sources, trying to get information for my story about the prisoner population decline. I felt hopeful when I got in touch with a former prison guard who agreed to meet with me the day after the following afternoon with a piece of evidence.

"I saw the men get on that bus for the transfer, but my buddy at the work farm they were going to said they never showed up."

"And you said you have a copy of the transfer order with the list of inmates?"

"Yeah."

We set up the time and place for our meeting. Later, in early afternoon, I called Tom, my contact in the coroner's department. He confirmed that last night's murder victim had been mostly similar to the other victims.

"There was blood loss," he said, "but not like the others."

"You mean he wasn't drained like the others."

"Yeah. It's like the job was half done."

That fit with my theory that the murderer had been interrupted. But by whom? I chewed on the end of my pen as I looked out the window of my sixth-floor walk-up apartment. "Do the cops think the guy is some kind of psycho?"

"You can't use this, Rachel. You can't use my name."

My pulse increased when I heard the hitch in his voice. He knew something. "You know I'll keep this confidential, Tom. I'm not about to jeopardize what we have. The other news outlets are calling these 'Vampire Murders' and suggesting it's a cult, but I know this is just a single psycho."

He was quiet for a moment. "You're right. They've determined it's the work of one person, probably a man. And the marks on their chests...they look like they're occult symbols."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. I'll let you know if I hear anything else. But listen, Rachel. Be careful. This guy is dangerous."

I hung up and looked at the map of New York City pinned to my wall, push pins marking the locations where the bodies had been found. If the markings were really occult symbols, the locations of the bodies could have a deeper meaning. I should have asked Tom if he could sneak me photos of the symbols.

A knock on the door made me jump, jarring me out of my thoughts. I walked over and peeked out the peephole, relieved to see Derrick.

But when I opened the door, I tried to hide my shock. His hair stood on end and his coat and pants were stained. Dark circles underscored his eyes. He had a large duffel bag slung over his back. Even in his state of dishevelment, the sight of him pulled at the loose strings of my heart. I'd made a terrible mistake two years ago. Could I shelve my pride enough to admit it to him?

I was silent long enough to prompt Derrick to ask, "Can I come in?"

I blinked and stumbled backward, still amazed he was there. "Yeah, of course. Sorry. You look like s.h.i.+t."

A sly grin lit up his face as he walked past me. "Still call it like you see it, huh?"

I clutched my shaking hands, telling myself to get it together. He was here, so that was a start.

I lead him to the kitchen area of my loft apartment. "I'm an old dog, D. Too late to learn new tricks."

He snorted. "Thirty-one is hardly old, Rachel."

"Ha! You're just saying that because you're two years older."

His grin spread.

I pulled two bottles of water out of the fridge and handed him one. "What are you doing in the States?" It seemed like a safe place to start, although I had a million and one questions begging for attention.

He took a long drag and lowered the bottle. His gaze drifted to the map on my wall and he moved closer, studying the pins. "This doesn't seem like your kind of story."

I knew what he meant. On the surface, it seemed undeniable that this was a serial murderer story. Even though I didn't get to pick and choose all my a.s.signments, I rarely took stories about crime. What I liked to do most was ferret out the truth about abuses of power. But I couldn't deny something about this story had sunk its hooks deep. I followed and stood next to him, watching his face. "You know what's going on here?"

His brow wrinkled as he looked down at me. "You're like a dog with a bone, but you need to let this one go."

"But you're not letting it go."

He groaned.

"Let me cook you dinner," I said, formulating a plan to get him to spill what he knew. "You haven't lived until you've had my spaghetti."

A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his lips. "I've had your spaghetti. Closer to the grave seems more likely."

I laughed. "I've got a new recipe. It involves liberal amounts of red wine."

He turned his back on the map and wandered over to my sofa. "In the sauce or in a gla.s.s?"

"Both."

"Count me in." He looked around and his smile fell. "So if you're inviting me to dinner, you must have forgiven me for what happened."

I rested my hands on the back of an overstuffed chair and looked down at the worn seat. "That night still haunts me."

"Rachel."

"I'm so sorry." I glanced at him. "You have no idea how much I've missed you. You were my best friend. I haven't been the same since you left."

Sighing, he crossed the room in a couple of steps and pulled me into a hug. "You didn't do anything wrong. I had terrible timing, so much so I'm shocked to be standing here in your apartment."

"Just because I'm not in love with you doesn't mean I don't care about you, Derrick."

He dropped his hold on me and stepped back. "It was too d.a.m.n hard." He shook his head. "I said some stupid things I wish I could take back."

"So did I," I interrupted. "There's plenty of blame to go around."

He gave me a half-hearted smile. "You were right, though. Instead of being there for you as a friend-which is what you needed-I was too busy gloating over the fact I'd been right about Sean turning into a first-cla.s.s a.s.shole."

I grinned. "You didn't gloat, but there may have been an I-told-you-so in there." Then I turned more serious. "But I told you all this in the dozens of voice mails, texts, and emails I sent you. Why didn't you ever call me back? Did you change your number?"

"My number is the same." He pointed to the map. "This is why." He moved closer to it, studying the pins. "This is a dangerous story and there's no sense in both of us being in danger."

"Why don't you tell me what you know about all this-" I pointed toward the map "-and I'll decide for myself if it's too dangerous for me."

A lazy smile lit up his face, giving him a boyish look. "Good try. I need a shower. Do you mind if I take one here?"

I decided to let him change the topic for now. Besides, he was right. "Of course, but you look like you could use a nap to go along with it."

He shook his head. "I've got a meeting tonight at nine."

I glanced at the clock on my stove, then turned back to look at him. "It's barely two. Take a shower, then a nap. I'll wake you at seven and we can eat before you go."

He looked torn.

"Come on, Derrick. Stop being stubborn. If this case is as dangerous as you say, you need to be rested so you'll be on your toes."

He grinned. "Okay, but make sure I'm up by six."

"You'll find clean towels in the bathroom, and feel free to crash on my bed."

"Thanks."

He started down the hall and I called after him, "I've missed you, Derrick."

"Me, too." His voice was gruff as he headed to the bathroom. I watched him, wondering what had brought him to New York City, wondering what he was hiding. It looked like we were both working on stories that weren't our usual gig.

I finished a puff piece for the online site I did freelance work for. Derrick emerged from my makes.h.i.+ft bedroom, a small area separated by two folding screens, rubbing his eyes as he sat on a barstool at my counter. He looked worse than he had before his nap.

"How long has it been since you got more than four hours sleep?" I asked, pouring each of us a gla.s.s of wine.

"Too long."

I handed him his drink. "How long have you been in New York?"

"Two weeks."

That was exactly when the murders started. Even if he'd heard about the first one immediately after it happened, it would have taken him a couple of days to fly over from the Middle East, presuming that's where he had been. Which made me question whether he'd followed the murderer himself. Not the crime.

"Where are you staying?" I asked.

"Rach. It's too dangerous. I shouldn't even be here now."

I'd seen his bag. His non-answer confirmed what I suspected. "You're staying here tonight."

He shook his head. "I have that meeting."

"Then go and come back." I tasted the sauce, then handed the spoon to him.

He licked it and whistled. "When did you learn to cook?"

"When I got back to the States. A few months ago I got tired of takeout."

"Why'd you come back?"

That was a complicated question. One we didn't have time to delve into, so I kept it short. "No one learned anything over there. The sins of the fathers kept repeating themselves-on all sides. It became too depressing, so...I came back."

I fixed two plates and set one in front of him.

We sat at the island counter and made small talk while he downed his first gla.s.s of wine. I poured him another and decided it was time to put on some pressure.

"You know who's committing these murders."

He took a bite of his garlic bread, then sat back in his chair. "This is my story, Rachel. Stay out."

I leaned forward. "I have sources that can help. We can work together."

"Why does this intrigue you?" he asked.

"I can guess why it intrigues you," I said. "You're all about cover-ups and conspiracies, and Sean's involved, so this must have something to do with the U.S. government."

"He's involved now, huh? I suspected." He set his fork on his plate. "I've suspected for some time, but it's good to have confirmation."

"Why? What's he doing now?"

"National security."

"Terrorists?" I asked.

His mouth twisted. "In a way." He studied my face, then sighed. "Bioterrorism."

"s.h.i.+t." I pushed my plate way, suddenly losing my appet.i.te. "Creating it or stopping it?"

"You know the fact you had to ask is d.a.m.ning in and of itself."

I didn't deny it.

He picked up his wine. "I'm close to breaking this. I know it. The guy I'm meeting tonight has answers. He could be my Deep Throat."

"And this started in the Middle East?"

He just stared at me and took a sip of wine.

"Sean thinks you've lost it."

He forced a smile. "It's easier to dismiss me that way." He stood. "I need to head into the city. Can I leave my bag here?"

My head was still reeling. Bioterrorism scared the h.e.l.l out of me. A few weeks before Sean had cheated on me Derrick had told me that he'd heard whispers of it. Experiments in an Iraqi prisoner camp. But when I'd asked him about it a week later, he'd given me a tight smile and told me it had turned out to be nothing. Something in his eyes had told me he was lying. Now I was certain of it. "Derrick, let me help."

He moved around the table and placed his hands on my shoulders. "You'll help me more by staying here and watching my bag. All of my research is on my laptop. You can't let Sean get it."

I nodded. "I won't. I promise."

He headed for the door.

Did he really think I'd give up that easily? "Derrick."

He tuned to look at me.