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where I figured the driver had to be. Then another. Then the final shot in my clip. The big black truck was almost on top of me. I thought that I could feel heat from the engine. My face and neck were in a sweat. I had the irrational thought that a vampire can only be killed by a stake, fire, or by destroying its domain. I didn't believe in vampires. I believed in evil, though. I had seen it enough times to believe. The two brothers were twisted murderers. That's all they were. I jumped sideways just before the pickup would have run me down. I rushed down the hillside behind the truck. I was hoping it would flip - and then it did! I felt like shouting. The truck bounced heavily on its side, then on its roof - then continued to roll over several times. Finally it stopped, resting on its passenger side, teetering slightly. Black smoke coiled up from the engine. No one got out at first. Then the younger brother climbed out of one door. His face was streaked with blood and soot. He didn't speak, just glared at us, and then he roared like an animal. It seemed as if he had gone insane. 'Don't make us shoot you!'I shouted at him. He didn't seem to hear. He was in a blind rage. Michael Alexander wore long, sharp canine fangs, and they were bloody. His own blood? His eyes were red.'You shot William! You killed my brother!' he shrieked at us.'You murdered him. He was better than all of you!' Then he charged - and I couldn't bring myself to shoot. Michael Alexander was insane; he wasn't responsible anymore. He kept growling, frothing at the mouth. His eyes were wild, rolling in their sockets. Every muscle on his body was tightly flexed. I couldn't kill this tortured man-child. I braced myself to tackle him. I hoped I could bring him down. Then Kyle fired - once. The shot struck him where his nose had been just an instant before. A dark, bloody hole appeared at the center of his face. There was no surprise or shock, just sudden obliteration. Then he crumpled to the ground. There was no doubt he was dead. I had been wrong about Kyle - he could shoot. He was an expert, -------------- 247 --------------
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full of surprises. I needed to think about that, but not right now. Suddenly, I heard another voice. It was coming from inside the pickup. Someone was trapped. William? Was the brother alive? I approached the overturned vehicle slowly, gun in hand. The engine was still smoking. I was afraid the truck might blow. I climbed onto the teetering wreck and managed to pull open a bent, badly damaged door. I saw William - shot to death, his face a sorry, bloody mask. Then I found myself staring into the angriest, most arrogant eyes. I recognized them immediately. It was almost impossible to shock me anymore, but this was another jolt.'So you're the one,'I said. 'You killed them, and you will be killed,'a voice threatened.'You'll die. You will die. Cross!' I was looking at Peter Westin, the vampire expert I'd met weeks before in Santa Barbara. He was cut-up, injured and bleeding. But he was in total control, even with my gun aimed at his face. He was cool and superior, so confident. I remembered sitting across from him at the Davidson Library up in Santa Barbara. He had told me he was a real vampire. I guess I believed him now. I finally found the right words.'You're the Sire.'
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Alex Cross 7 - Violets Are Blue
Chapter Ninety-Two
I tried a couple of sessions with the creepy and surreal Peter Westin that night in the jail at Santa Cruz. Kyle was attempting to get him transferred to the East Coast but I doubted he would be successful. California wanted him. Westin wore a long-sleeved black velvet shirt and black leather pants. He was as pale as paper. Thin blue veins were visible under the translucent skin of his temples. His lips were full and the pigment appeared redder than most people's. The Sire almost didn't seem human, and I was pretty sure that was the effect he wanted to convey. It was emotionally disturbing and draining to be in the same room with him. Jamilla and I had talked about it briefly, and we both felt the same thing. Westin had none of the usual qualities that we associated with humans: conscience, sociability, deep emotion, sympathy, and empathy. His entire persona was that of the Sire. He was a killer, a ghoul, a real life bloodsucker. T'm not going to try and scare you with interrogation room threats,' I said, low-key. Westin appeared not to be listening. Bored? Indifferent? Smart as hell? Actually, as the Sire, he was an extraordinary person to encounter: haughty, superior, intense, physically striking. He had the most piercing eyes. He'd put on an act for me in Santa Barbara - the harmless scholar recommending books about vampires. He cocked his head and stared intently into my eyes. He was looking for something; I couldn't tell what. I held his gaze and that seemed to irritate him. Tuck off,'he hissed.
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'What is it?' I finally asked. 'What's on your mind, Peter? Is it that I'm not worthy to question you now?' He smiled - and there was even a hint of warmth in it. He could be charming, I knew. I'd found that out in the library in Santa Barbara. 'If I talked to you, ;/1 told you everything that I feel and believe, you wouldn't understand,'he said.'You would be even more lost and confused than you are now.' Try me,' I said. He smiled again, but said nothing. 'I know that you miss William and Michael. You don't show it, but you loved them,'! said.'I know that much about you. I know you feel things deeply.' Peter Westin nodded, almost imperceptibly. The gesture was regal. He did miss William and Michael. I was right about that. He was sad that they were dead. He finally spoke again. 'Yes, Detective Cross, I feel more deeply than you can begin to imagine. You have no idea. You have no clue how someone like me thinks.' Then he was quiet again. The Sire had nothing more to say. We mere mortals just wouldn't understand. I left him like that. It was over.
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PART FIVE
VIOLETS ARE BLUE
Alex Cross 7 - Violets Are Blue
Chapter Ninety-Three
I was feeling partially relieved, better anyway. The murder case seemed to be solved at least. Peter Westin was in jail. We'd done everything we could about his cult. The pressure had been eliminated. We'd stopped the bleeding. Jamilla had left the previous night; we promised to keep in touch and I knew we would. I was headed out to the airport that morning to catch a flight to San Francisco, and then another to DC. I was going home and that felt good. The details were still coming in, but I feared we would never know everything about the strange, murderous cult that had sprung up in California. It was usually that way in Homicide. You never knew as much as you wanted to. That's the basic truth about being a detective, and you never see it on TV or in the movies. I guess the endings wouldn't be as satisfying if they were closer to reality. Peter Westin had met Daniel and Charles when they had played in Los Angeles. Westin already had his own followers in Santa Cruz and Santa Barbara, but he feigned allegiance until he felt he was strong enough to be the Sire. Then he dispatched William and Michael Alexander to do his dirty work. Supposedly there were followers in nearly a hundred cities, especially now that the Internet had brought us all so close together. Something was still bothering me. I couldn't figure out exactly what it was, but it troubled me all the way to San Francisco. It was eating me from the inside out. Fear and dread. But about what? There was a forty-five-minute layover, and I got off the plane. A -------------- 253 --------------
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jumble of bad thoughts played through my brain. I felt wired, itchy. The original San Francisco vampire murders were still on my mind. And the fucking Mastermind. Jamilla was here in San Francisco. But that was a whole other subject. What was bothering me? Then I thought I knew what it was. Maybe I'd known all along. I called Jam at her office in the Hall of Justice. I was informed that she had the day off. I called her apartment, but there was no answer. Maybe she was out on one of the five-mile runs she bragged about. Or maybe she had a date with Tim Bradley from The Examiner, as if that was any of my business. But maybe not. Where was she? Had something happened to her, or was I just being paranoid beyond belief? I was definitely working too hard. I didn't need this. I really didn't need this. I couldn't take the chance. I hurried to the American Airlines counter and canceled my flight out of San Francisco. I called Nana and told her I had to stay in California for a few hours. I would be in later tonight. 'Someone out here might be in trouble,' I said. 'Yes, and that someone is you,' Nana said. 'Goodbye, Alex.' She hung up on me again. She was right to want me home; but I was right in not wanting anybody else to be hurt. I rented a car from Budget, and I was beginning to feel that I was completely losing it. Charles Manson's words came to mind: Total paranoia is just total awareness. I had always thought that Manson was wrong about everything, but maybe he wasn't; maybe he was dead-on right about paranoia. I had a powerful gut feeling that Jamilla Hughes was in danger right now. I couldn't shake it off. Couldn't ignore it, even if I wanted to. The vibrations in my head were too strong, overwhelming. It was one of my famous feelings, and I had to go with it. I thought about my former partner. Patsy Hampton - and her murder.