A Rush of Wings

17 Born Sociopath « ^ »

BLOOD SLICKED E’s FINGERS. He gritted his teeth and dug his shiv in a little deeper. The tip scraped across something, stuck. He paused, waiting for the pain. Nuthin’. Reaching back with his other hand, he slid his fingers across the wound at the base of his skull. Gingerly touched the thing his shiv had nicked. Soft edges. No sensation.

Laughter poured from E’s throat, the sound low and strained and pissed.

So that’s how he found me in New York. How long had the fucker been tracking me? Interesting that he never mentioned the bugs.

E tugged. His fingers slipped and he lost his grip on the implant. Blood trickled inside the back of his collar, warm against his icy skin. Shifting the bloodied shiv to his other hand, E wiped his sweaty palm off on his jeans. Switched hands again. Tightened his grip and went back to work.

E gripped the implant’s edge. Pried with his shiv. Wormed with his fingers. Here he was, at one of the cheap motels he despised, straddling a wobbly kitchenette chair, digging a satellite chip out of his fucking flesh with one of his own fucking shivs.

Thanks, Tom-Tom.

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, E levered the tip of his shiv under the implant. Flipped it. A sudden sharp pain, poking fire all the way down his spine, then the bug popped free.

Cold and shaking despite the fire raging at the base of his skull, E lowered his hands to the table. The bloody shiv tunked onto its cheap, laminated surface. His other hand cupped the tiny, blood-smeared transmitter. He poked it with his index finger. Nuthin’.

E’s fist closed around the implant. He swiveled in the chair and looked at the file contents strewn across the stained bedspread, at the image on the cheap laptop monitor: Dante, thirteen or fourteen years old, tearing open his foster father’s throat with his fingertips, blood spraying his pale, gorgeous face. Mrs. Prejean was already dead, crumpled on the dining room floor, her head little more than bits of white bone, hanks of hair, and oozing brains.

Fuckin’ beautiful! Go, little bro, go!

Foster parents, E snorted. Yeah, right. If you consider pimps parental figures.

Of course, Bad Seed Mommy and Daddy knew all about the Prejeans, knew how they used the kids the state handed over to them. Knew how they’d piss themselves with delight when Dante was placed in their home.

The Prejeans had made a lot of moolah off Dante. Course, even with their ward properly restrained, a few of their clients had taken serious injuries. Something about a dick bitten off, or nearly, anyway.

E grinned. He stood, then walked into the john. Standing over the toilet, he opened his hand and dropped the implant into the bowl. Thin swirls of blood tinted the water red. He flushed.

Let Tom-Tom track him now.

Let Johanna Moore sweat.

Mommy, I’m coming home and I ain’t coming alone.

Walking back into the other room, E knelt beside the bed. He popped the CD out of the laptop. Folded the monitor down. He shuffled the documents, reports, and photos back into the manila folders.

One photo caught his eye and he pulled it free from the pile. A small boy, two or three years old, a tuft of sandy hair sticking up at the back of his head, grinned at the camera. Behind him, a man and woman slumped on a vine-patterned sofa, blood smearing the cushions. A dark hole gaped in the man’s—Daddy’s—temple, and in the woman’s—Momma’s—forehead. A gun was on the floor just beneath the man’s dangling hand.

E couldn’t remember if he’d seen his father ice his mom, then himself in the standard murder-suicide thing. If he had, it must not’ve bothered him much. He couldn’t remember the incident and he’d never been troubled by nightmares.

Well, not about his parents, anyway.

E tucked the photo back in with the papers and shoved them all into the folder. So, his parents had died when he was almost three, and Bad Seed had directed his life from that moment on. Dante’s mother had been taken by Bad Seed while pregnant, then slaughtered once she’d given birth.

E shook his head. Born a bloodsucker. Who woulda thought?

Back at the kitchen table, E mixed himself another gin and tonic. He took a long, cool swallow and washed the day’s flat taste out of his mouth.

Created sociopath. So Bad Seed named him.

Born sociopath. So Bad Seed named Dante.

But they were wrong. He tossed back the rest of his drink, the gin’s clean taste clearing his head. Very wrong. He set the glass down and walked into the bathroom. The fluorescent light buzzed. The mirror reflected his shaded gaze, his blood-streaked neck. He grinned. Switched off the light. Switched it back on. Grinned again.

Wetting a hand towel at the tap, E wiped at the blood on his neck. Dante wasn’t the only true blood. Bad Seed hadn’t created E from little grinning Elroy. E had already existed and had been busy nudging little grinning Elroy outta the picture.

E rinsed the towel in the sink. Bloody water swirled down the drain. He patted the towel against the implant site and sucked in a breath through his teeth. Damn if it didn’t sting like a motherfucker.

E’s little sister hadn’t died of SIDS. He’d suffocated her. Had pushed her blankie against her face until she’d quit squirming and gone still. He remembered that as one of his earliest memories. Odd he didn’t remember his folks, but, hey, that’s the way it goes. Maybe if he’d been the one to snuff ‘em, he’d’ve remembered.

Draping the bloodstained towel over the edge of the sink, E turned off the faucet. He’d have to buy some Band-Aids. He wondered if Dante’d need bandaging after he dug the implant out of him. Vampires were supposed to heal fast and shit, so maybe not.

Bad Seed had fucked up. They didn’t have just one born sociopath, they had two, true bloods—vampire and human—and they’d just lost all control of their little project.

E gathered up the file box and the black bag he’d borrowed from Tom-Tom’s closet, opening the motel room door with one cramped hand and a kick from his Nikes. He strode across the semideserted parking lot, gravel gritting beneath his sneakers. Balancing the box and bag on his uplifted thigh, E managed to unlock the Jeep and wrestle the door open. He shoved the box onto the backseat, then tossed the bag in beside it.

The black bag was full of all kinds of goodies to subdue a bloodsucker. Drugs—only drugs derived from natural shit or designed for bloodsucker systems worked on ‘em; handcuffs—oh, not your ordinary, for-humans kinda cuffs, oh no; and a strait-jacket, a special straitjacket.

At first, E had thought he’d pay Ronin a surprise visit during daylight hours and try some of the goodies out on his black bloodsucker ass. But then he’d gotten another idea.

A better idea.

He was gonna play possum. Go back to the rental. Put all the goodies away. Pretend he still didn’t know shit. Until the right moment…the moment Tom-Tom managed to bring Dante home or the moment Dante decided to crawl in through Ronin’s window to take care of business.

In either case, E would be ready.

E slid into the driver’s seat and keyed on the ignition. The Jeep started up right away, the pungent smell of gasoline and exhaust puffing white into the chilly air. He glanced at the newspaper lying beside him on the seat, and reread the headline.

CROSS-COUNTRY KILLER DEAD IN FLORIDA.

Really?

A scraping, steam-roller-over-rocks sound filled the Jeep’s interior. E forced his jaw open. The sound stopped. Pissed enough to grind his teeth. Either some idiot had dared to copy his work and had been fucking nailed in the act…

Or someone wanted to lure the Bureau away…lure Heather away from him. That someone would have to be Bad Seed momma, Johanna.

If he continued to cull, it’d be obvious he wasn’t dead, unless Bad Seed planned to make sure he never killed again.

Sweat popped up along E’s hairline. Did they think they were smarter than he was? Did they think they knew more about death than a true-blue sociopath, one born, not created?

E fetched his satchel of tricks from the Jeep’s floorboards and took inventory: a length of rope, coiled wire, pliers, latex gloves, duct tape, a small cutting torch. The only thing missing was his book of Navarro’s poetry. He’d pick that up when he dropped Ronin’s goodies off.

Tonight he’d assert his independence. Tonight he’d look for that special someone. Someone who’d appreciate both his skills and his poetry…

With a little coaxing.

SLEEP RELEASED JOHANNA AND her dreams dissipated like night mist caught in sunlight. Fat bumblebees buzzed, the sound vibrating in through her fingertips. She opened her eyes. No bumblebees. No sunlight. Just carpet under her cheek and a buzzing phone.

She pushed herself up to her knees. How long had she been Sleeping? Hours? Days? The pills threw her natural rhythms out of sync. With each use, it took longer and longer to regain the flow.

Scooping her cell phone up from the floor, she flipped it open. “Yes?”

“I checked all incoming flights for the last twenty-four hours,” Gifford said. “Craig Stearns arrived at Dulles at five-thirty this morning.”

“When did he leave?”

“Seven p.m. For New Orleans.”

Johanna raked her fingers through her hair. She’d underestimated Stearns or, more accurately, his attachment to Wallace. “Call your people in New Orleans,” she said. “Give them Stearns and Wallace. Extreme prejudice.”

“Understood.”

Johanna folded the cell phone shut. In truth, she’d made more than one mistake with Stearns. She should’ve killed him the day he discovered Bad Seed. But she’d thought his own black past and her knowledge of it would keep him silent.

She’d been right about that—his silence.

She’d simply forgotten Stearns was a man of action, not words.