his gaze to Dr. Traymore. “I presume Detective Abrams has spoken with you already?”
“Oh, yes. He questioned me thoroughly. I’m to come down to your station later today to make an official statement. I’ll tell you everything, Detective Slade, no need to be concerned about that. But I’d like to ask you a question now, if I may.”
“What is it?”
“Who did this?” Traymore made a vague gesture with his hand toward the yard. “Or should I say ‘what’?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you, now would I?”
“I think you have clues,” the old man insisted. He took a pipe from his overcoat pocket and busied himself filling the bowl. “I think you know exactly what you are dealing with here. This is not the work of a psychopath, a ‘Looney Tunes’ as your colleague so eloquently put it. Something far more dangerous is at work here. An animal who hunts the night. A predator who is voraciously hungry. A creature who is diabolically evil. You and I both know there will be more killings before this is over, Detective Slade.”
A gust of wind swept through the trees overhead and blew down Slade’s collar. A chill crawled through him as he stared at the old man’s careworn face. The hazel eyes returned his regard without wavering. Dr. Traymore seemed to be looking through the dark lenses of Slade’s glasses, straight through his eyes into his soul. Slade suppressed a shudder. “Who are you?” he asked coldly. “What do you want?”
“I’m many things,” the old man evaded. “A scholar. An archaeologist. A man who has traveled the world searching for answers. I think you can give me those answers, Detective Slade.”
“I’m just a cop,” Slade said, “and if anyone’s going to be asking questions around here, it’s me.”
“You’re more than a cop, as we both know.”
“And you’re wasting my time. I’ve got an investigation to conduct, so if you’ll excuse me…” Slade brushed past Dr. Traymore and started across the yard.
“Does the word nosferatu mean anything to you, Detective Slade?”
Slade stopped. The whole world seemed to stop. He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest as he turned slowly to face Dr. Traymore. Fog curled around the old man’s head like a misty blue halo.
He smiled. “I thought that would get your attention.” He walked through the light drizzle toward Slade. “You see, I’ve known of the existence of these creatures for a long time.”
“You’ve been reading too many Stephen King novels,” Slade said. “Or Erin Ramsey novels,” he added with irony.
The old man chuckled as he shoved one hand into the pocket of his heavy overcoat. “I assure you, the books I’ve been reading are not modern-day fiction. They are hundreds of years old, written in German and Russian, as well as Latin and ancient Greek. I’ve even seen hieroglyphs in the Valley of the Kings that depict the rising of the undead to feast on human blood. For years I’ve studied the mysteries of the un-dead. I’ve learned their habits. I know what they must have in order to survive. I know their needs and their strengths and their weaknesses. I even know what it takes to kill them.”
“Go home,” Slade ordered, frustrated that yet a new problem had presented itself to him. It was another worry that would have to be taken care of. “Obviously you need your rest.”
Traymore shook his head. “You don’t fool me, Detective. I know you’re worried. We both are, because if I’m right and certain precautions aren’t taken, Megan Ramsey could come back. And if that happens, her sister will be in a great deal of danger.”
Almost reluctantly, Slade’s gaze lifted to the window of Megan Ramsey’s apartment. Framed by the light, Erin stood there, her eyes—those deep, blue eyes—reflecting, not shock any longer, but fear, as if she somehow knew. As if she was standing there, watching and waiting for what was to come.
A finger of dread slid down Slade’s spine. When would it all end? he thought. How many more people would have to die before the evil could be stopped?
* * *
Erin stood looking out the window, gazing down at the exact spot where Megan’s body had lain. She saw Detective Slade talking to the old gentleman who had called the police for her earlier, and as she stood looking down at them, Slade’s head lifted and he seemed to be gazing directly at her.
Erin gripped the cross hanging from her neck, automatically seeking protection as she felt fear stirring within her. For the first time since she’d found Megan’s body, it hit her just how alone she was now. Deeply alone. Terrifyingly alone. There was no one she could turn to for help.
Dr. Traymore walked away, and for what seemed like an eternity, Erin stood staring down at Detective Slade, their gazes locked in a silent communication that seemed fostered by the darkness. Then suddenly, almost angrily, he turned and melted into the darkness.
Shaken, Erin turned from the window and began to pace the apartment. She should have felt better, knowing Detective Slade was out there in the darkness, but somehow she didn’t. Somehow his presence disturbed her more than she cared to admit. What was it about him that drew her, in spite of her grief? What was it about him that intrigued her, in spite of her distrust?
What was it about him that made her want what she had always feared the most?
Erin clung to her cross as her pacing accelerated. It was late, nearly dawn, and she knew she should try to get some sleep as the coming days and nights would be trying enough. But in spite of her exhausted state, sleep was the last thing she wanted.
After all these years it was hard enough just being back here in this apartment. More difficult still to think about going into her sister’s bedroom, lying in her sister’s bed, falling asleep perhaps to dream her sister’s dreams.
Dreams that were also Erin’s. Nightmares that had belonged to both her and Megan since they’d been abandoned all those years ago.
Erin crossed the room to examine one of the pictures on the mantel—the one Detective Slade had been holding earlier. She tried to imagine what he’d seen when he’d looked at the faces of the two little girls. Innocence? A lovely thought, but Erin saw beyond the ribbons and lace, the white gloves and straw hats. She saw sad smiles and haunted eyes. Terrified hearts and agonized souls.
Kneeling behind the two little girls was their mother, a beautiful young woman who had had cold blue eyes and an even colder heart. Desiree, she’d called herself. It wasn’t until years later that Erin had learned her mother’s real name was Doris. Doris Ramsey, a sometime actress, who had discarded her name as easily as she’d discarded her children.
If Erin closed her eyes, if she concentrated hard enough, she could still conjure up her mother’s made-up face, could almost smell her cloying perfume as she bent to place cool lips against her daughters’ cheeks. Erin could hear the whispery voice that still raised chill bumps along her spine, even in memory.
“Erin, I’m counting on you to take care of your sister. Don’t open the door to any strangers. And whatever you do, don’t let anyone inside, no matter what they say. It could be one of the monsters, tricking you. Remember that.”
Night after night, after Desiree had gone out, the two little girls had sat all alone in the apartment, watching the shadows on the walls, listening to the wind outside and waiting for the monsters to come and get them.
Erin had been four years older than Megan, and Megan had depended on her to chase away the nightmares, to stare down the unseen terrors, to scream at the demons to go away.
Now it was too late. Too late for Erin to chase away Megan’s monsters. The only thing she could ever do for her sister now was to find the one who had killed her. Somehow that thought comforted Erin, gave her a purpose that made her feel stronger. She gazed around the apartment, the place where the nightmares had started. After all these years, maybe this was the place to finally