“I’m not found. It’s time for the world to forget about me. Move on to the next tragedy.”
“But I don’t understand.”
Jason smiled; there was something wrong with two of his teeth. Small, pointed, in the lush curve of his mouth.
Nora said, “Oh.”
“The woman who made me—she left me. She didn’t like the sudden attention. She came to Sint Pieter to feed. She liked me so she left me . . . like she is. Not just dead. But you put my picture everywhere, you talked about me nonstop, I had to hide in the hills, far away. Live on rats, stray cats, rabbits. It doesn’t quite do, Nora. I’ve nearly starved to death because of you. I want to go where there are beautiful young things pulsing with life. Las Vegas. London. New York. Which means you have to let me go.”
Nora’s mouth worked. This was an even better story. This would change human history. Agree to whatever he wanted but get a photo, get his voice on tape. Her own camera was on the desk. Her gaze flicked to it. “Sure. Okay. Whatever you want. I’ll stop. I’ll never talk about you again.”
Jason said, “Let’s have everyone talk about you for a change.”
“TONIGHT, on The Molly Belisle Show—the one-month anniversary of the death of Nora Dare.” Molly gave her best steely-gazed look to the camera. “Nora Dare plunged to her death from her hotel suite in Sint Pieter while pursuing answers in a missing-person case. Now she is the story. Was it suicide, driven by an insane need to keep covering a story? Was she murdered by an islander who blamed her for the drop in tourism? Where are the police in their investigation—and are they dragging their feet to find the killer of a brave journalist? Stay tuned!” The music boomed; the opening credits showed Molly standing before her logo with a confident head tilt.
In Las Vegas, the hunter that was once Jason Kirk clicked off the television with a smile and headed down to the casino. He’d managed to stow onto a boat from Willemstadt to Panama, drink a bit from the crew without drawing attention, and hunt his way quietly up to America. His picture wasn’t on the news anymore, and now he had dark hair. Life—or afterlife, to be exact—was good. People never looked at him too closely, unless he was looking hard at them, and then they forgot. Or they died.
In Marysville, Sint Pieter, Annie Van Dorn watched her television and fought a little shudder. That Dare woman had been crazy. She rubbed at the little raw patch on her throat that had taken forever to heal. She was tired but not as exhausted as she used to be, and she no longer saw beckoning backyard shadows that both frightened and thrilled her.
In Los Angeles, Hope Kirk got up from the couch and thumbed off the television. She opened a beer—Jason’s favorite brand—and went to his room, sat on his bed, drank half her beer. She stared at the frat party photos and the track awards and the science fair ribbons, the remnants of her lost boy’s life. She felt drained of tears. She finished the beer and went to her own bed. Gary was already asleep. She curled close to her husband and wondered if she would dream of Jason tonight. Her night-mares, where he pleaded for her help to escape a trap, had vanished the night Nora Dare died. Hope didn’t dream of Jason anymore, and she could not decide if that was comfort or curse.
Seeing Is Believing
L. A. BANKS
L. A. Banks, recipient of the 2008 Essence Storyteller of the Year Award, has written more than thirty-five novels and twelve novellas in multiple genres under various pseudonyms. She mysteriously shape-shifts between the genres of romance, women’s fiction, crime/suspense thrillers, and of course, paranormal lore. She is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania Wharton undergraduate program with a master’s in fine arts from Temple University, and she is a full-time writer living and working in Philadelphia. Visit her website at www.vampirehuntress.com.
One
PORT ARTHUR, TX . . . CURRENT DAY
“I think you all need a break . . . maybe a vacation?” Sheriff Moore said, nervously fingering the brim of his hat. He dangled it between his legs as he sat forward on the small sofa, suffering the unbearable summer heat in the tiny trailer. “That’s what your momma woulda wanted, sugah. I knew her that well as her friend.”
The pretty young woman before him didn’t answer, just sat Indian style on the floral-patterned armchair wearing flip-flops, a tank top, and shorts, with her head in her hands, massaging her temples with her eyes tightly shut. The sight of her distress wore on him. Emma Atwater’s child shouldn’t have to be living like this. Her long braids created a curtain over her lovely face, but he didn’t have to actually see her expression to know that she’d probably taken offense. It was in the way she’d become eerily still for a few seconds, her shoulders tightening, before she’d blown out a long sigh.
A large fan in the window provided the only sound for a few awkward moments and seemed to invite in mosquitoes through the torn screen as it circulated humid, thick air in the cramped space. Ice cubes melted in his exhausted glass of lemonade and then chimed as they slid against one another. Texas heat was a bitch in August, and it was painfully obvious that if she couldn’t afford the electric bill going up from running the air conditioner, then a vacation was out of the question.
Sheriff Moore glanced around and then bit his bottom lip with an apology in his eyes. He was getting too old for all of this; his nerves couldn’t take it. But things being what they were, retiring at age seventy wasn’t an option. Everybody had bills to pay . . . Still, this girl didn’t even seem to have a chance. Other young girls would be on summer break from college, going to the beaches. Emma’s baby girl hadn’t ever done anything like that, not that he could remember.
Exasperated, he dragged his fingers through his gray hair, hating how what was left of it felt like it was plastered to his head with sweat. “I know times are rough for everybody,” he added, self-correcting his previous suggestion. “I just was thinking that if you and your brother got away for a little while, maybe changed your environment, you’d . . . uh . . . feel better, then we could talk.”
“Ralph is working, can’t take off, even if I could afford to go away.”
“But maybe your brother, he could help you . . . Even though he moved away from here, I know he loves you . . . and could be there to make sure you were all right, wherever you decide to go.”
Jessica looked up and just stared at the man for a moment, too weary to be pissed off. Constant patrolling had clearly been the culprit that weathered his skin to a ruddy light brown hue. His elderly blue eyes were clouded with worry and heat. The poor man looked like he was about to keel over. Sweat stained his uniform, especially under his arms and where his beer belly pressed against the tight buttons of his shirt.
He was right, everybody had bills to pay—so he didn’t need to feel sorry for her. Shame was, he was just as trapped in his life as she was in hers. Besides, not that it was any of the sheriff’s business, Ralph had changed his name to Raphael when their mother died and had moved to Houston—albeit, why her brother thought the woman hadn’t known things was beyond Jessica. It didn’t matter anyway. Although the sheriff was right, her brother loved her and she loved him dearly . . . Raph just found it hard to live his life around somebody that could see so much. Ordinary people wouldn’t understand.
“I really don’t think you should go away all by yourself, if you do get even a day away,” Sheriff Moore said in a tender voice.
“So, now I’m crazy?” Jessica lifted her chin and adjusted her yellow tank top that was sticking to her torso. “Okay.” She hadn’t meant to sound annoyed, but she was. The man wasn’t listening to a word she’d said.