Blue Blood Page 5

  A selfish desire to carry on without the person now buried six feet under the ground.

  But Pressley couldn't say that. As a pastor for all of his working life, he had grown accustomed to not saying what was on his mind.

  “We suffer great losses like this in life,” Pressley said. “We really don't know how to explain it to others let alone to ourselves. Sometimes it feels as if we're being choked to death by the shadows of all the people that have come before us, all of those that we have loved and lost. All we can do is think of that person and we wonder how we could have been nicer to her. How we could have seen the signs. But you can't. Depression isn't a disease that can be measured with some diagnostic test. It is under the surface and often has little to no warning signs. But it is important to remember Terri for the person she was and the life she lived. Everyone in this church was touched by Terri in some way. So, we have to cherish those memories. Those moments we spent with her. We can realize now that those were no big or small moments. They were all precious.”

  Veronica watched as Mark wheeled himself closer to the podium.

  “My sister wasn’t depressed!”

  Collectively, the people in the church shifted in their seats.

  “Son,” Pressley said.

  “Don’t ‘son’ me,” Mark sneered. “Jesus. You’re talking as if a rainbow is going to appear when we lower Terri into the ground. She’s dead. Goddammit, she’s dead.”

  “Mark,” the preacher whispered. “We can talk after-“

  Veronica stood up then sat back down. She didn’t know how to respond.

  “She wasn’t depressed,” Mark screamed out to the people in the church. “Until she met some of you. My sister had her issues. I won’t deny that. But she reached out. Reached out to many of you. And you all failed her.”

  Pressley stepped down from the podium and placed his hand on Mark’s shoulder.

  “Take it easy, Mark.”

  Mark looked up at the preacher with dagger in his eyes.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I understand you’re hurting.”

  “You don’t understand anything,” Mark said. “None of you do. Terri reached out. She made phone calls. She sent e-mails. Sure, you responded. You texted back. But you didn’t follow through. And I’m not just pointing fingers at you. I’m pointing them at myself. I’m to blame for what happened to her.”

  Mark looked as if he were trying to fight back tears.

  “Terri wasn’t depressed,” he continued. “When we were kids, she was always smiling. Always laughing. Always telling me I could be whatever I wanted. How many sisters do that?”

  Mark shook his head. His face now red with anger, he wheeled his chair down the pew, heading back toward the rear of the church.

  “Mark!” Veronica called out, sliding past the folks in her crowded aisle.

  Leaving the pew area, Mark seemed to gather speed. Veronica began running at a light speed just to catch up.

  “Mark?”

  He turned the corner and she saw him at the far end of the hall, looking up at a painting of Jesus.

  “Pretty brutal depiction, huh?” Mark asked, not taking his eyes off the photograph.

  “Gory,” Veronica said.

  “Some cranberry muffins,” Mark pointed to the tray of food on the table underneath the painting. “At least we got that right. Cranberry muffins were her favorite.”

  “That and white powdered donuts. God, her lips used to always have that damn white sugar on them.”

  Mark laughed then turned sober, taking one of the powdered donuts off the tray.

  “I didn't want to hear what else he had to say,” Mark said. “I can’t stand it. Sermons. Eulogies. Reminding us of how inferior we are to-I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I just don’t want to hear what he has to say.”

  “I understand.”

  “Preachers. All they do is talk. Talk about sacrifices. His sacrifice,” Mark pointed at the the portrait of Jesus above his head. “We all just nod our heads.”

  “I know.”

  “Guess I made a fool of myself, huh?”

  “No,” Veronica said. “Like the Bible says, ‘hell hath no fury like a brother who misses his sister.’”

  “I don’t think I ever read that passage.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Mark looked up at her, his brown eyes filled with sorrow. Pain had stilled his tongue, but he didn't have to say anything.

  His eyes said everything for him. She never noticed what a different shade of brown his eyes were.

  She knelt down and gave him a hug.

  She had to make the pain go away.

  So, she bit into his neck, listening to the wicked crunch of his artery as she bit down hard.

  Mark screamed. Screamed and screamed but Veronica would not let go.

  Until she jerked awake and saw the IV attached to her arm. The television above the bed had the sound turned down and the bed was not her own.

  She was in the hospital.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Veronica's eyes blinked in unison with the monitor above her head. With a trembling hand, she felt her mouth and teeth.

  No fangs there.

  Then she felt for the ragged gash on her palm. Feeling around, she found nothing.

  Did she heal overnight? How long had she been there?

  Her eyes adjusting in the dark, she saw a figure in the corner of her hospital room. A sleeping policeman.

  Guinness. He looked as if he had at least a day’s growth of beard on his face.

  A nurse stepped into her room. Heavy set, she had short blonde hair with bushy eyebrows that looked like little hairy caterpillars. She welcomed Veronica back to the world with a beaming smile.

  “You're awake,” she said, her voice sounded like a high-pitched squeak.

  “Yeah.”

  “I'm Nancy,” the nurse said. “You've been out for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “A few days,” the nurse said. “Headache?”

  Veronica nodded.

  “I'll be back. I have to get the doctor.”

  The conversation awakened Guinness who rubbed his face and tried to finger away a sleep rock from his eye without anyone noticing.

  “What are you doing here?” Veronica asked.

  “We need to talk,” Guinness said. “Your friend Terri is dead.”

  “So that part wasn't a nightmare.”

  “Hello?” a man in a lab coat appeared at the door. Clean shaven with dark brown skin, he looked no more than thirty while speaking with a heavy Hindi accent. “I'm Doctor Patel.”

  “Veronica,” she shook the doctor's hand. Bony like the rest of him, he had dilated pupils like an owl, watching the world from a high perch.

  Patel stepped in front of Guinness as if he weren’t there. The policeman only rolled his eyes and took a few steps back.

  “So how are we feeling?”

  “About as well as could be expected, I suppose.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “I-” Veronica shook her head. “It’s all hazy.”

  She wanted to tell him that she felt like a character of a mystery movie where she couldn't remember a damn thing.

  The doctor took out his pen light and flashed it in her eyes. As if on instinct, Veronica slapped the doctor’s pen away.

  “I don't like bright lights,” she said. “I have a headache.”

  The doctor froze in place for a few seconds before he had registered what just happened. Snapping out of it, he reached down and grabbed his pen.

  “Quite a temper you have there,” Guinness said.

  “Not now, Detective,” Patel reached over and placed both hands under Veronica's chin, checking her pulse.

  “I’m sorry,” Veronica said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what made me do that. It stings.”

  “No worries,” the doctor said, forcing a smile.

  “How long is this going to take?”
Guinness interrupted.

  “I didn’t know police were doctors now,” Patel said.

  “Did you throw Terri off that railing?” Guinness snapped.

  “No,” Veronica snarled. She couldn’t tell if the thought of her friend’s death or the anger at such an impertinent question made her eyes water.

  “Can you please give us a minute alone?” Patel snapped at the policeman.

  Guinness glared at the doctor before leaving the room. The doctor waited until the door was fully closed before turning back to Veronica with a glint of curiosity in his eye.

  “I have to say,” Patel said. “I have never seen anyone recover from wounds as fast as you did.” he looked back at his chart. “I mean, when you came in, I had never seen anyone lose so much blood. Even if we stabilized you, I thought we would have to do a transfusion.”

  “I'm good like that.”

  “So I really have no scientific explanation for your recovery,” Patel shrugged his shoulders. “People who have psoriasis can sometimes heal cuts faster than the smooth skinned bastards. But you. You, I have never seen anything like it.”

  “I do have a headache,” Veronica massaged her temple with one hand. “A headache to end all headaches.”

  “I'll get you some Tylenol,” Patel said, looking back down at the chart. “We did find some abnormality in your blood. I'm not sure what it is just yet, but I'd like to run some more tests.”

  “Is it serious?” she asked, glancing up sharply.

  Patel shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know, considering how fast your wound healed I would say your immune system is off the charts good. But there are certain anomalies, that again, we've never seen before.”

  “Has anyone come to visit me?”

  “I am not sure,” the doctor grunted. “The nurse would know better than me.”

  “How long until I get out of here.”

  “Just rest a bit,” Patel patted Veronica on the leg before heading out the door. “Do you want to talk to mister policeman?”

  “Not really.”

  “Sometimes they just make things worse.,” the doctor gave her a look that was meant to be conspiratorial. “Just between you and me don’t make any statements right now. Wait until your mind is straight.”

  Detective Guinness stormed through the empty church. He hated church as a boy but liked any building that had no people in it. The church during off hours would be a welcome sanctuary if only for Pastor Paul Pressley.

  Walking past the bulletin board, he saw the church secretary approach up ahead. A short and heavy-set woman in her early sixties, he never quite figured out her connection to Pressley, whether she was a congregant or a relative. She had a cell phone in the crook of her neck and laughed like a hysterical hyena. She looked up and her smile immediately faded upon seeing Guinness headed toward her.

  “He’s in the back garden,” she said. Her face and neck were crimson as if she had just undergone some type of heavy exertion. “And potluck this Sunday if you’re interested. Plenty of food.”

  “Thank you.”

  Reaching the rear exit of the church, Guinness saw Pastor Paul smoking a cigarette, staring up at the sky. The detective noticed that the sad-faced preacher looked right at home among the stone angels and dying bushes in the garden.

  Stepping out in the foyer, he could smell the jasmine in the air. The pastor had it good here. He had place to get comfortable and relax.

  A place to hide.

  “Been a long time since I had one of these,” Paul took another long inhale from the cigarette. “This taste so fucking good. I don't think I've had one since my Army days.”

  Guinness watched as the pastor took out the box of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one to him.

  “I never have,” Guinness said. “And never will.”

  “Never say never,” Paul yawned before taking another inhale. “Forty years of studying the Word and that's about the only wisdom I have. How about you? Do you have any wisdom for the day?”

  “If you don't want bad habits don't start one.”

  “Nice,” Paul took another inhale and threw the cigarette down, smashing it with the heel of his foot. “But I've renewed a lot of bad habits lately. I forgot how much fucking fun they were.”

  “Like swearing?”

  “Shee-iit,” the pastor laughed and waved for Guinness to follow him as he started to walk. After a few yards, they reached a bush that stood to the side of a life-size statue of Jesus.

  Reaching into the bush, the pastor pulled out a brown paper bag. Inside, he revealed a small bottle of Jack Daniels.

  He held it up to the statue as if to salute it then took a long sip.

  “Wooo!” the pastor offered the bottle to Guinness. The wind rose up and leaves rustled across the ground as if God himself expressed his disapproval.

  The detective just shook his head in disgust.

  “Teetotaler,” the pastor squealed before letting out a long, drawn out burp and punching his chest. “I used to be like you. I guess maybe that's why I get you.”

  “How so?”

  “You're the type of man that thinks he has to be clean in order to catch the dirty people.”

  Guinness didn't respond. He shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly.

  “The girl used to come her for services,” Paul said. “Reminded me of this girl I used to date in college. Used to walk around barefoot around her dorm room all the time. Her legs. Jesus. Those were the days man. Those were the days. The girls were ripe. Like pieces of fruit. Now you and me. We’re old prunes.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “So the question of the day is if she is clean?”

  “I can't tell,” Guinness said. “She doesn't have any of the signs.”

  “Doesn’t mean she’s not dirty.”

  “She’s young,” Guinness rubbed his chin. “She’s too young to relate to some middle-age cop like me. I’m too old to relate to this whole generation of snowflakes. I can’t get a read on her. Or anyone her age anymore. She has intelligent eyes. Smart. Smart enough to not give anything away but not enough to make me not think she’s hiding something.”

  “She lived next door?”

  “Yeah. This is one of the weirdest ones. I couldn’t find her straight away. She seemed like a good kid. They’re starting to expand their reach.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Easier to target the low hanging fruit.”

  “So, they were best friends?”

  “Yeah. As different as two people can be but again, neither fits the profile.”

  “Well, you can’t hang around the outhouse without getting a rash.”

  “We don't do anything until we know for sure.”

  “Her friend threw herself off a damn balcony,” the pastor crossed himself. “Never had that happen before.”

  “She could have done it, you know, to stop herself from hurting someone she cared about. These two looked close.”

  “How close?” the pastor leered at him. “Wouldn't mind seeing those two young lovelies rolling around, if you catch my drift. These young women nowadays. They have bodies made for comfort. I saw her picture in the paper. Bet she could suck a banana through a straw.”

  Guinness rolled his eyes, turned and walked away.

  “Did you at least notice if she had been bitten?” the pastor called out.

  “I couldn’t tell. Long hair over her face and all.”

  “You're one helluva detective.”

  “I might trail her,” Guinness turned back around. “But there's bigger fish to fry. There's more of them out there.”

  “They all lead to her,” the pastor said, putting the bottle back in the brown paper bag and hiding it in the bush. “You see? Look at that?” he pointed up at the Jesus statue while fingering the cross around his neck. “You see that? I had this whole thing custom made. Made sure the artist put more blood on the side of face and robe than usual. Shit, I bet no church on the planet has a bloodier Jes
us than this one.”

  Guinness looked up at the statue. The artist made Jesus look like a broken-down prizefighter. He had a swollen eye and lips. But one eye looked down at you as if to say, 'I'm watching'.

  “The old ladies didn't like it,” Paul laughed. “They wrote me anonymous letters talking about how it was horrible and a disgrace. 'Grotesque' one of them wrote. But the kids like it. They don't have all that baggage. They don't want to hide from the realities of the world just yet. In fact, they're curious about it. They realize that there are certain realities that have to be dealt with. Like some people I know.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “If you don’t know the shape of evil,” the preacher lit his cigarette. “You won’t be able to hunt it down.”

  “Oh, I’ll hunt her down.”

  “And if you can’t,” the preacher blew out a puff of smoke in Guinness’ direction. “Get Darien.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Filipino driver looked to be in his early fifties. He had black-rimmed glasses with a Fu-Manchu mustache. He smelled deeply of vinegar and cooking fat before he rolled down the window and noisily hocked up a loogee before spitting.

  To Veronica’s dismay, the man had not stopped talking the moment he picked transported her back from the hospital.

  “I work like a dog,” he said. “A dog! And what happens. Layoffs. They already laid off a bunch of us. See? That’s what happens if you don’t go to school. You become a dummy like me. I am working like a dog. Then some rich guy comes along and steals my wife. I am going to be out of a job with nowhere to go. A dog!”

  Veronica felt the sun blind her as they turned, they exited the freeway off-ramp. They pulled up in front of her apartment and she watched as the man looked up at her complex.

  “Is this it?” the man grabbed a piece of mango from a plastic container on the dash. Popping the fruit in his mouth, he continued to talk as the juice dripped down into his beard.

  “Yeah.”