I park a few houses down from Darryl's and climb out of the car, pocketing the keys. It's oddly quiet in the neighborhood for a weekday morning. No commuters on their way to work, no children waiting for school busses on the corner. I see the edge of a drape in a living room window rise and fall as I pass by on the sidewalk, but as long as I keep moving, I don't seem to be attracting any undue attention.
It's quiet in front of Darryl's place, too. I expect to see the Chevy Suburban from the cottage parked in front, but it's not here. Darryl's garage door remains open, though, and the VW inside. I'm pleased that we'll find him at home.
I glance at the gate. It's secured by a heavy chain and an industrial sized padlock. It doesn't take much effort to kick it free. And the noise produced when the gate crashes onto the driveway has the desired effect.
Darryl steps out of the front door.
He stares at me. His face reflects neither surprise nor anger, but rather mild curiosity. His shirt and jeans are spotted with blood that smells damp even from this distance. Ordinarily, that would be enough to trigger the hunger. But the cloying stink of garlic overpowers the scent of blood.
Until I see Frey, I know I will have to keep as far away from Darryl as I can.
He moves, finally, a small half-turn, as though preparing to go back inside. But instead, when he faces me again, he has a gun in his hand. He looks at it, then at me.
"I know this can't kill you," he says thoughtfully, as if speaking more to himself than to me. "But I imagine it hurts to get shot." He chambers a round and aims for my chest.
I dive for the ground as the bullet rips into the concrete. I roll away as the second shot slams into the ground inches from my head. I'm up and at him before he gets the third shot off.
It's a weak hit, the garlic stops me like an invisible force field. But it's enough to knock him off balance and into the living room. Unfortunately, it's not enough to dislodge the gun from his hand. I jump away from him, back into a corner, crouch to await his next move.
He gets up slowly, smiling. "I heard from Bradley a few minutes ago. He was surprised to see you. Said it was bad luck for me that I let you get away. Well, maybe I've got a second chance to make it right. I bet I can shoot you in a lot of painful places. You might just become cooperative enough to tell us where you took Trish and that friend of hers."
He raises the gun and takes aim. I tense, ready to leap out of range. Where the hell is Frey?
The shot reverberates like a cannon in the small room. But the bullet goes wide and high, raining a dust storm of ceiling plaster down on my head. Darryl starts to scream. The dust is thick enough to prevent me from seeing what's happening, but the sound of bones snapping makes it clear.
"Don't kill him," I tell Frey. "At least not yet."
The dust is settling a little, so I step around to the windows and throw back the drapes. I open the windows, too. There are two besides the one I dove through earlier. Sunlight and fresh air stream in. There's a ceiling fan dangling precariously overhead, Darryl's shot loosened the plaster around it. Can't flip that one on. But there's also a fan sitting on the floor in the next room. I bring it into the living room, plug it in, and let a flow of cool air clear away the last of the dust.
Frey, in his panther form, is snarling into Darryl's frightened face. He's knocked him on his back, and the sound I heard must have been the snapping of an arm that Darryl now cradles against his chest. The gun has skittered somewhere out of sight.
Darryl is whimpering and trying to scoot backwards away from Frey. But like a cat stalking a mouse, the panther moves with him, not making a sound, watching with quiet intensity, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
"I wouldn't make any sudden moves if I were you," I tell Darryl. "He'll bite your head right off."
As if to prove the point, Frey snaps his jaws.
Darryl yelps and cringes back.
I put a hand on Frey's head. "I'm going to take a look around. If he moves, kill him."
Frey nuzzles my palm and resumes his vigil.
I find what I'm looking for in one of the back bedrooms - three computers with all the necessary hard and software to turn out the stack of DVDs and VHS tapes that line the floor. Some are already packaged for mailing, others sit in their jackets. There are a dozen piles. Just about the number of videos they forced Trish to make.
I kick at the stuff on the floor, scattering and stomping until I've reduced as much as possible to shards of plastic and ribbons of tape.
But my rage is far from satisfied.
I return to the living room.
"Bite him," I tell Frey. "His leg."
Darryl starts to scream before Frey sinks fangs into the calf muscle of his right leg. I watch as Frey closes his jaw and shakes his head, worrying at the leg as a cat would a bird. I let it go on for a full minute, before I call him off.
Frey backs away, eyes bright, sniffing at the blood pooling under Darryl.
I squat down beside Frey, lay a gentle hand on his head, and turn my attention to Darryl. "You remember how this works, don't you, Darryl? I ask you a question, and you give me an answer. Only this time, it won't be me biting you if I don't like what I hear. It will be my little friend here."
Darryl's eyes are dull with fear. They're locked on the jungle cat, never shifting away, when he asks, "What do you want to know?"
"Were there other girls besides Trish?"
He shakes his head, and at the movement, Frey tenses and growls. Darryl freezes, his voice barely a whisper when he answers, "No. Just Trish."
"Who are the men with Trish in the video?"
Darryl closes his eyes. When he doesn't respond, I wave a hand. "The other leg."
His eyes pop open, "No. Please. I'll tell you."
I stop Frey with a nod.
Darryl wipes at his face with his good hand. "I met them at a bar. They're college students. They go with me sometimes to Beso de la Muerte. They were there the last time. You know, when I was with you."
I do remember. The two at the bar. "Names."
He spouts them off, and I sort them away, conjuring up their faces in my head. I know I'll recognize them when I see them again.
"Where do they live?"
"An apartment near SDSU. 6300 Montezuma Road."
"Good." I pat his leg, the good one. "So far, so good. Now, what happened with Barbara Franco? Who killed her?"
Darryl's voice becomes a whine. "It was a mistake. We only wanted to scare her into keeping quiet."
"We?"
"Me and the guys on the video. We picked her up on the way to school and took her out to the desert. But she wouldn't listen. She kept fighting. One of the guys took off his belt and started hitting her. Then he put it around her neck. It was over so fast. She just died."
"And then the sick fucks had their fun with her, didn't they?" It's my own voice but from a place I don't recognize. The fury is back.
Frey hears it, too, and muscles ripple under the dark fur as a low growl emanates from his chest. He bares his teeth and growls.
I want to let him finish it. But there is one more thing.
"The people who buy your videos. I want to know who they are."
"It's all on the computer. I can get it for you."
The answer comes too quickly.
"I'm not stupid, Darryl. What did you do, fix the computer so you could delete everything if you needed to?"
He lapses into silence.
I think about my conversation with Max. "I think I have the solution. I'll take the computers with me and turn them over to Chief Williams. His experts will get what we need."
Darryl's eyes narrow. "But if you do that, they'll get the videos, too. It's all there. Everything that we did with Trish. Do you want to take the chance that somebody might make a copy?"
No. I don't. The idea that the scum who bought those tapes would get away with it and move on to other victims turns my blood to ice. On the other hand, exposing Trish to more humiliation if she's made to go to court to testify against any of them is just as bad.
Darryl smiles at my distress, knowing the reason for it. The smug expression on his face is too much. It makes me angry enough to forget about the garlic infusing his blood. I don't know what kind of effect drinking from him will have, but in a flash of anger, I don't care. I bend over him, growling, and actually have the skin of his neck in my teeth when Frey lashes out with a paw. The blow sends me tumbling off Darryl. In a flash, I'm back.
Like animals fighting over a bone, Frey and I face off. I want to finish Darryl. Drain him. Make him die screaming. I want it so badly I'm willing to fight Frey for him. Every muscle in my body, every cell prepares to do battle. I'm on all fours, like the panther, and the sounds coming from my throat are as ferocious as the ones coming from his.
A spark of something human flashes in Frey's eyes. He is snarling, lips curled back to expose fangs as long and sharp as daggers, but he doesn't advance. He watches me, motionless. His breathing becomes soft susurration, the only sound in the room. Next to us, Darryl lays frozen in terror, his heartbeat so frenetic it echoes in my ear as if it were my own.
A voice I barely recognize erupts from my own mouth. "I want to end it."
Frey moves so fast, I have no time to react. He breaks Darryl's neck with one snap of powerful jaws.
And for Darryl, it's over.
