Thirst No. 1 Page 7

  There followed an account of Riley’s preliminary investigation into me. Apparently he had a contact at TRW that gave him access to information not usually available to a common investigator. I suspect Mr. Slim knew of this contact and hired Riley for that reason. Almost immediately Riley discovered that I was rich, and that apparently I had no family. The more he found out, the more eager he was to pursue the investigation, and the less information he wrote back to Mr. Slim. At one point Riley made what to him was a major decision, to use a contact on the New York Stock Exchange. By going to the man he was using up a valuable favor. But I suppose he thought I was worth it.

  Sept. 21st

  Miss Perne has gone to extremes to hide her financial holdings, and not just from the IRS. She has numerous accounts at various brokerage houses set up under different corporations, some off shore. Yet they appear to be coordinated by a single law firm in New York City—Benson and Sons. I tried to contact the firm directly, speaking as a rich investor, but they rebuffed my inquiries, making me suspect they handle Perne’s account and no other. If that is true it is another example of this woman’s wealth, for Benson and Sons has investments in the range of half a billion dollars. Yet I have seen her—this girl—and she is as young as Mr. Slim says and very attractive. But her age confuses me, and I wonder if she has a mother somewhere who has the same name. Because many of her business dealings go back two decades, and they can all be traced to the name Alisa Perne. I am tempted to talk to her directly, despite Mr. Slim’s warning.

  Mr. Slim is not happy with me, and the feeling is mutual. He has the impression I have been withholding information from him and he’s correct. But he has done the same with me. He still refuses to tell me the reason for his interest in this young lady, although I can imagine several scenarios. But his initial comment about her dangerous nature keeps coming back to me. Who is Alisa Perne? One of the richest people in the world obviously. But where did she get her wealth? By violent means? From her nonexistent family? I must, before I give up this case, ask her these questions myself.

  I have been thinking that Mr. Slim has been paying me well, but that Alisa Perne may want to pay me more. I see already, though, that it would be unwise to let Mr. Slim know I have gone behind his back. There is a certain ruthless tone to his faxes. I don’t think I ever want to meet the man. Yet I find myself looking forward to talking to Alisa.

  Late September and he is on a first-name basis with me. But he did not contact me till November. What did he do during that time? I read farther and learned that he investigated my international dealings. He discovered I have property in Europe and Asia, and passports from France and India. This last fact was a revelation for him, as well it should have been. Because it appeared, accurately, that I had held the passports for more than thirty years. No wonder, I think, he asked me my age so quickly.

  Finally, though, he found a violent act connected to my past. Five years earlier, in Los Angeles. The brutal slaying of a Mr. Samuel Barber. The man had been my gardener. I killed him, of course, because he had a bad habit of peering into my windows. He had seen things I didn’t want talked about.

  Oct. 25th

  According to the police report, this man worked for her for three years. Then one morning he was found floating facedown in the ocean not far from the Santa Monica pier. His throat had been ripped out. The coroner—I spoke to him myself—was never able to determine the type of weapon. The last person to see him alive was Miss Perne.

  I don’t think she killed him. I like to think she didn’t—the more I have studied her, the more I have come to admire her cunning and stealth. But perhaps this man learned things about her she didn’t want known, and she had him killed. Certainly, she has the resources to hire whomever she pleases. When I meet with her I must ask her about her gardener. It will be another thing I can use as a bargaining chip.

  And I have decided I will see her soon. I have broken off all contact with Mr. Slim. In my last e-mail I told him that I was not able to verify any of my earlier claims about Miss Perne’s personal wealth. I have since changed my e-mail address, so I do not know if Mr. Slim has tried to contact me again. I imagine he is not happy with me, but I am not going to lose any sleep over it.

  How much should I ask from Miss Perne? A million sounds like a nice round number. I have no doubt she’ll pay it to keep me quiet. What I could do with that much money. But in truth, I don’t think I’ll touch it. I’ll just give it to Ray when he’s old enough.

  I will arm myself when I meet with her, just in case. But I am not worried.

  That was his last entry. I am happy I have deleted the file in the computer. If the police had such information on me, they wouldn’t leave me alone. It might not be a bad idea to burn down the entire office building, I muse. It wouldn’t be hard to arrange. Yet such an act might draw Mr. Slim’s attention to peaceful Mayfair. To young and pretty Alisa Perne.

  Yet Mr. Riley was a fool to think Mr. Slim stopped watching him just because he changed his e-mail address. I am quite sure Slim observed him all the closer, and now that the detective has disappeared, Slim and company might even be in the neighborhood. Slim clearly has a lot of money at his disposal, and therefore a lot of power.

  Yet I am confident in my own power, and I resent this unseen person shadowing me. I hold the Swiss e-mail address in my memory, and I contemplate what I would say to this fellow should I meet him face to face. I know that my message would be short because I do not think I would let him live long.

  But I do not forget that Slim knows how dangerous I am.

  That does not necessarily mean he knows I am a vampire, but it is worrisome.

  I turn to my computer and press the On button.

  Dear Mr. Slim,

  This is Alisa Perne. I understand you have hired a certain Mr. Michael Riley to investigate me. I know you haven’t heard from him in a while—I don’t know what could have happened to him—so I thought I would contact you directly. I am prepared to meet with you, Mr. Slim, in person, and discuss whatever is on your mind.

  Yours Truly,

  Alisa

  I send the message. Then I wait.

  I do not have to wait long. Ten minutes later a brief, and to the point, e-mail appears in my inbox.

  Dear Alisa,

  Where would you like to meet and when? I am available tonight.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Slim

  Yes, I think, as I read the message, Slim and company are probably close by, the Swiss address notwithstanding. I figure the message went to Europe and was then sent back here—nearby. I type in my return message.

  Dear Mr. Slim,

  Meet me at the end of Water Cove Pier in one hour. Come alone. Agreed?

  Again, ten minutes later.

  Dear Alisa,

  Agreed.

  SIX

  The pier is a half hour from my house, in the town of Water Cove, twenty miles south of Mayfair. I arm myself before I leave the house: a snub-nosed forty-five in the pocket of my black leather coat; another smaller pistol in my right boot; a razor-sharp knife strapped inside my left boot. I am handy with a knife; I can hit a moving target a hundred yards away with a flick of my wrist. I do not believe Slim will come alone, knowing how dangerous I am. Yet he will have to bring a small army to contend with me.

  I leave immediately. I want to arrive before Slim does. And I do. The pier is deserted as I cruise by in my black Ferrari. I park two blocks down from the pier and climb out. My hearing is alert. I can hear the bolt of a rifle being pulled back from over a mile away. Slim would have to come at least that close to try to assassinate me outright, and that is a possibility I consider. But all is calm, all is quiet. I walk briskly toward the end of the pier. I have chosen the meeting place for two reasons. Slim will only be able to approach me from one direction. Also, if he does arrive with overwhelming odds, then I should be able to escape by diving into the water. I can swim out a mile along the bottom of the ocean before having to surface. My
confidence is high. And why shouldn’t it be? In five thousand years I have never met my match.

  Almost to the hour of our agreement to meet, a long white limousine pulls up to the entrance to the pier. A man and a woman climb out of the back. The man wears a black leather coat, a dark tie, a white shirt, smart black trousers. He is approximately forty-five and has the look of a hardened Navy SEAL or CIA agent: the short crew cut, the bulging muscles, the quick shifting eyes. I see that his eyes are green even from two hundred yards away. His face is tan, deeply lined from the sun. There is at least one gun in his coat, possibly two.

  The woman is ten years younger, an attractive brunette. She is dressed entirely in black. Her coat is bulky, as are her hidden guns. She has at least one fully automatic weapon on her. Her skin is creamy white, the line of her mouth set and hard. Her legs are long, her muscles toned. She may be an expert in karate or some such discipline. Her mind is easy to read. She has a nasty job to do and she is going to do it right. Her promised reward is great.

  Yet it is clear the man is the leader. His smile is straight and thin lipped, more chilling than the girl’s frown. This is Slim, I know.

  Four blocks down the street I can hear another limousine parked, its engine idling. I cannot see the second car—it is hidden behind a building—but I am able to match the sound of the engines. The cars could hold maybe ten people each, I estimate. In all the odds might be twenty to one against me.

  The man and the woman walk toward me without speaking. I consider escaping over the side of the pier. But I hesitate because I am a predator first and foremost; I hate to run. Also, my curiosity is high. Who are these characters and what do they want with me? Yet if they reach for their weapons, I will jump. I will be gone in the flick of an eye. It is clear to me that neither of these approaching creatures is anything but mortal.

  The woman stops walking thirty yards from me. The man approaches to within ten yards but comes no closer. They do not reach for their weapons but they keep their hands ready. Down the street I hear three people get out of the second limousine. They spread out in three different directions. They carry weapons: I hear the metal brush their clothes. They take up positions—I am finally able to see them out of the corner of my eye—one behind a car; another next to a tree; the last crouched behind a sign. Simultaneously three people inside the limousine at the pier level high-powered rifles at me.

  My hesitation has cost me already.

  I stand in the sights of six sets of cross hairs.

  My fear is still manageable. I figure I can take a bullet or two and still escape over the side. As long as they don’t get me directly in the head or heart. Still, I do not want to run. I want to talk to Slim. He is the first to speak.

  “You must be Alisa.”

  I nod. “Slim?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “You agreed to come alone.”

  “I wanted to come alone. But my associates didn’t think it would be wise.”

  “Your associates are all about. Why so many soldiers for one girl?”

  “Your reputation precedes you, Alisa.”

  “What reputation is that?”

  He shrugs. “That you are a resourceful young woman.”

  Interesting, I think. He is almost embarrassed by the precautions that have been taken to abduct me. He has been told to take them—ordered. He doesn’t know that I am a vampire, and if he doesn’t know, then probably no one with him knows since he is clearly in command of the operation. That gives me a huge advantage. But the person above him knows. I must meet this person, I decide.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “Just that you come with us for a little ride.”

  “To where?”

  “To a place not far from here,” he says.

  That is a lie. We will drive a long distance if I get in his limousine. “Who sent you?”

  “You will meet him if you come with me.”

  Him. “What is his name?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that at this time.”

  “What if I don’t want to come?” I ask.

  Slim sighs. “That would not be good. In fact, it would be very bad.”

  They will shoot me if I resist, without question. It is good to know.

  “Did you know Detective Michael Riley?” I ask.

  “Yes. I worked with him. I assume you met him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is he?”

  I smile, my eyes cold. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sure you don’t.” He gestures with his hand. “Please come with us. A police car might be along at any moment. I’m sure neither of us wants to complicate matters.”

  “If I do come with you, do I have your word I will not be harmed?” I ask.

  He keeps his face straight. “You have my word, Alisa.”

  Another lie. This man is a killer. I can smell the blood on him. I shift slightly on my feet. The rifles aimed at me all have telescopic sights. They move as I move. I estimate at least one of the shooters will hit me before I can get over the pier rail. I don’t like being shot, although I have a few times. I have no choice but to go along, I decide, for the moment.

  “Very well, Mr. Slim,” I say. “I will come with you.”

  We walk toward the limousine, Slim on my right, the woman on my left. As we are almost at the entrance to the pier, the limousine down the street suddenly appears. Without picking up the men it deposited, it drives until it is parked behind the first limousine. Four men jump out. Their clothes are all similar—black sweatsuits. They point automatic weapons at me. My fear escalates. Their precautions are extraordinary. If they decide to open fire now, I will die. I think of Krishna, I don’t know why. But he did tell me I would have his grace if I listened to him. And in my own way I have not disobeyed him. Slim turns in my direction.

  “Alisa,” he says. “I would like it if you would slowly reach in your coat and remove your gun and toss it on the ground.”

  I do as he asks.

  “Thank you,” Slim says. “Do you have any other weapons on you?”

  “You will have to search me to find out.”

  “I prefer not to search you. I’m asking you if you have any other weapons, and that you surrender them now.”

  These are dangerous people, highly trained. I have to go on the offensive, I think, quickly. I stare at Slim, my eyes boring into him. He tries to glance away but is unable to. I speak softly, knowing he hears my words as if they were whispered between his ears.

  “You do not have to be afraid of me, Mr. Slim,” I say. “It does not matter what you have been told. Your fear is unnecessary. I am nothing more than I appear.”

  I am planting a suggestion deep in his psyche, pushing buttons he already feels. But the woman takes a sudden step forward. She speaks. “Don’t listen to her. Remember.”

  Slim shakes his head as if trying to clear it. He gestures to the woman. “Search her,” he orders.

  I stand perfectly still while the woman works her way down into my boots and discovers my remaining pistol and knife. I consider grabbing her and holding her as a hostage. But a study of the eyes of the men assembled tells me that they will kill her to get to me, and lose no sleep over the act. The woman disarms me and jumps back from me as if afraid she will catch something from me. All of them, without exception, are confused about why I have to be treated with such caution. Yet all of them are determined to follow orders. Slim removes two pairs of handcuffs from inside his coat. They are gold colored, and don’t smell like steel—probably some special alloy. They are three times thicker than normal cuffs. Slim tosses them toward me and they land at my feet.

  “Alisa,” he says patiently. “I would like you to put one pair of these around your wrists, the other pair around your ankles.”

  “Why?” Now I want to stall for time. Maybe a police officer will come by. Of course, these people would just kill the officer.

  “We have a long drive ahead of us,
and we want you safely tucked away before we allow you in our car,” Slim says.

  “You said we didn’t have far to go?”

  “Put on the cuffs.”

  “All right.” I put them on, marveling once more at their preparation.

  “Press them together so that they lock,” Slim suggests.

  I do so. They click. “Happy?” I ask. “Can we go?”

  Slim removes a black eye mask from his pocket, similar to the kind people wear to bed. He steps toward me. “I want you to put this on,” he says.

  I hold out my cuffed hands. “You’ll have to put it on me.

  He takes another step toward me. “Your hands are free enough to put it on.”

  I catch his eye again; it may be my last chance. “You do not have to be so afraid of me, Slim. Your fear is ridiculous.”

  He hurries toward me and covers my eyes. I hear his voice.

  “You’re right, Alisa,” he says.

  He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the limousine.

  We drive south on the Coast Highway. All is dark, but I still have my sense of direction. All my senses with the exception of my eyes are very alert. Slim sits on my right, the woman on my left. Four burly men sit across from us; two up front. I count the breaths. The second limousine follows a hundred yards behind. They picked up their three marksmen before we hit the road.

  There are no incidental smells in the limousine. The car is new. There is no food in the limousine, but there is drink in the bar: sodas, juice, water. There is a faint smell of gunpowder in the air. One or more of the guns in the vehicle has recently been fired. Everybody has his gun out, in his hands or resting in his lap. Only the woman keeps hers aimed at me. She is the most afraid of me.