didn’t speak, just stepped back for Marty Kenzie to scurry inside far enough to leave the two bags of supplies on a table a mere four steps from the door.
“Payment is there,” Evan told him, his voice low, guttural from the pain, as he groped in his pocket for his protective eyewear. The sound of skin rasping along cotton fabric echoed harshly against his eardrums. His fingers curled around the shades, dragged them from his pocket and slid them onto his face. With that barrier in place, he risked opening his eyes once more.
His hand shaking with trepidation, young Marty Kenzie picked up the envelope containing the money for the food, as well as payment for services rendered. That same uneasiness incited his heart to pound so hard in his thin chest that Evan worried for the boy’s well-being. When he had shoved the envelope into his pocket, Marty worked up the courage to turn around, to allow his anxious gaze to settle on his employer.
“Thank you, sir,” he murmured.
Evan said nothing to that.
Marty crossed the four steps back to the door as swiftly as he dared, careful to keep his gaze on that single, narrow route of escape. He was afraid of Evan…of who and what he was. But he kept coming back because Evan paid him more than anyone else had or would.
“Marty.”
The young man stalled in the doorway. His posture screamed of just how badly he wanted to keep going…to flee for his life. The terror that had been mounting since he’d stepped up onto the rustic porch made his limbs tremble.
“Yes, sir?” Marty offered quietly without turning around.
“Next time, only knock once.”
Marty nodded, then rushed away, careful not to step too heavily…cautiously avoiding the boards he knew from experience squeaked beneath his underweight frame. He flung himself into the old car he hoped to be able to replace once he finished his masters and started his career in architecture. He remembered in the nick of time not to slam the car door. Sweat had by now risen on his skin, forming a film that heightened the anxiety already radiating through him.
Evan closed and bolted the door, blocking out the world, before his courier could start the engine of his vehicle or turn on the headlights.
Impatient to satisfy the questions haunting his every thought, conscious as well as unconscious, he moved to the side table and fished through the bags, his hands rustling loudly against brown paper until he found what he wanted.
Evan took the Boston Reporter Marty Kenzie had found at one of the large chain bookstores in Richmond and relocated to the chair where he spent most of his unstructured time. Magazines and newspapers lay in organized stacks around his reading area. All delivered by Marty or his predecessor. Here, this deep in the mountains, there was no home delivery of newspapers or even any mail. No telephone. Wouldn’t have been any electricity had Evan not invested a small fortune in the local utilities company for installation of the service. The cost was of no consequence. He had little use for his money now.
He sat down and clicked on the reading lamp occupying a prominent position on the table near his chair. The lamp was adjustable and equipped with a special nonglare, low-wattage bulb. Its twin resided on a similar table next to his bed. There were no other lights in the house.
He unfolded the paper, anticipation making his hands tremble the way Marty’s had moments ago, as he read the headlines his dreams had already forecast.
Vampires In Boston. Third Victim Discovered. Police Baffled.
Evan read on, his jaw set against the anger brewing deep in his gut. When his eyes found her name in bold black print, fury roared through him, tripping that internal alarm that warned of the misery that would follow. But he didn’t care. She was in danger. He had sensed as much for weeks, had dreamed of her fate more than once.
Now he had proof that his concerns were not just nightmares brought on by dwelling in the past. The danger was real. It was happening now.
There was only one way to alter her fate.
Risk his own.
Chapter One
As luck would have it, the abysmal rain had finally stopped. Only about four or five hours too late to save the situation that was likely unsalvageable from the moment another young life had ended in Detective Rowen O’Connor’s jurisdiction.
The proverbial ethnic cocktail of dozens of nationalities, Boston’s South End sprawled adjacent to and south of Back Bay. Three- and four-story stooped red-brick row houses dotted the short streets running perpendicular to the main thoroughfares. What had once been tired lodging houses in a shabby backwater neighborhood separated by railroad tracks from the more desirable northern half of Boston had slowly been reclaimed and revitalized by cunning developers with visions of grandeur.
Progress, however well-intentioned and welcome, had not saved the life of Carlotta Simpson.
The crush of darkness and the urgency of time in combination with the elements had forced Boston PD to set up low-heat floodlights around the body, lighting the gruesome details for all to see. The young woman lay facedown in an awkward death sprawl. She wore the black slacks and tee that sported the logo of the Southie pub where she had waitressed five nights per week during the past eighteen months. The sixty bucks she’d earned in tips on last night’s shift were still in her purse, along with her driver’s license, a Filene’s Basement credit card and various other feminine accessories such as lip gloss, mints and a hairbrush.
Homicide Detective Rowen O’Connor stared up at the buildings on either side of the alley where the victim’s body lay and considered how sad it was that she’d been so very close to safety and yet so far away. Only yards from the place she’d called home for two years.
The buildings on this block had yet to be renovated in the latest rebirth efforts. Most were badly in need of too many repairs to list and gave off a sense of aging gloom that would only worsen as dawn approached.
Not exactly the breeding ground for young aspirations.
Rowen had already concluded what kind of dreams the victim had clung to when she closed her eyes at night and no longer saw the dilapidated walls surrounding her. No longer dwelled on the blisters her shoes had rubbed on her feet as she worked an extra shift at the pub, which, according to her employer, she did quite often.
The posters of the glamorous women she admired, all well-known supermodels, and stacks of fashion magazines had offered a big clue as to the secret fantasies Carlotta Simpson had sheltered behind soft brown eyes and long, brunette hair. The perfect white teeth now bared by the scowl of horror frozen on her face, the above-average height and slender size four body she had daydreamed would get her noticed and help her to break into that exciting field someday no longer mattered.
She was dead.
A next of kin hadn’t been located as yet. Her neighbors barely knew her. When not working, she attended undergraduate classes at Wellesley College and was rarely at home for much other than to sleep or change clothes. According to her employer, who seemed to know her better than anyone they’d interviewed thus far, the victim had been a good student…a nice girl in every sense of the word.
Nothing Rowen had learned offered the first clue as to why the woman might have been murdered. She had no known enemies and, from all reports, was not involved in any high-risk activities.
A
