I read the English translation. “It says that ten vampire deaths have been attributed to these vânätori de vampir. On a path that started in New York and ended in Denver.”
I upended another envelope and a bunch of color photographs clipped together fell into my hand. A sticky note on the top photo read that these were photos of the vânätori pursuing us. On the back of each picture was the name of the man depicted.
The first picture. Mihail Vasile. A thin face, hungry eyes peering from under strands of hair, as if he were a shrew trying to hide in his own skin.
The second picture. Teodor Vlasov. A round, bearded face, less a head than a hairy bowling ball perched upon a thick neck. I remembered him-he was the sniper who had killed Dr. Wong and was one of the two attackers who had dragged Bob out of the Buick.
Next. Petru Codreanu. A slightly lesser version of Vlasov, but with an equally fierce expression. Close-set eyes that seemed to flicker anxiously even in this frozen image.
Finally. Nicolae Dragan. An apt name for their leader. Eyes that burned at me from the paper. As I studied his image, his presence became so powerful that I expected an aura to radiate from the photo. In his beard and close-cropped, steely-gray scalp, he looked like a zealous mob boss, the kind who would incite a lynching and supply the rope. Dragan was the one who had come after me with a crucifix and an ax, and then more recently blasted Bob with a shotgun.
“Look familiar?” Carmen asked.
“Most definitely. All four of these scary bastards.” I slid the photos back in the envelope, relieved at shutting the psychic connection.
I turned to a folder marked “History of Colorado Attacks.” I read the first entry aloud. “Three vampires were allegedly killed by vânätori in 1883, two around Leadville, the third at Central City.”
“Wasn’t our guys,” Carmen said. “We’re dealing with mortals. Those hunters would have died long ago.”
I continued. “The next attack occurred in 1969.” My thoughts froze on the date. I opened the folder labeled “Attacks in the 20th Century.” “There were several vampire killings from 1910 through the mid-twenties. Then nothing until 1947.”
I could feel my aura sparkle in alarm. Reaching into my pocket, I retrieved the paper Wendy had given me. I compared her list of nymphomania outbreaks with this record of vampire murders. “Roswell, New Mexico, 1947-nymphomania and two vampires killed. Dayton, Ohio, 1952-nymphomania and two vampires killed.” I paused to control my quaking, excited voice. “Denver, 1969-nymphomania and three vampires killed. Now recently, another outbreak of nymphomania in Denver followed by the appearance of vânätori de vampir. In every case, the vampire-hunter attacks followed the discovery of nymphomania by mere weeks, sometimes days.”
We reached Highway 36. Carmen whipped the Audi around the corner. The tires squealed across the asphalt. I grabbed my shoulder harness. We cut in front of a semi. The driver blasted his air horn. Smiling, Carmen straightened the steering wheel and floored the gas pedal. The turbocharger kicked in and the Audi zoomed west toward Denver.
“You keep driving like that,” I said, looking back at the driver as he flipped us the bird, “and we won’t need any vampire hunters to finish us off.”
“Sorry,” Carmen replied dryly. “I like to drive the way I like to have sex. You know, turbo-banging.” She patted my knee. “You okay, grandpa?”
I clasped her wrist. “Don’t test me.”
Carmen grinned and tugged free. She raced the Audi around a minivan. “So the vampire attacks and the nymphomania are related?”
“Have to be. There’s too much coincidence. The question is, what happened in Roswell in 1947?”
“What’s the date?”
“Of the nymphomania?” I perused Wendy’s list. “July seventh, ninth, and sixteen.”
Carmen reacted with a startled “No shit?” She pulled up the hem of her jacket and fumbled with the belt of her leather jeans. “I can tell you exactly what happened on July third of that year. The debris of a flying-saucer was found on the MacBrazel Ranch, near Roswell.”
“How would you know that?” I asked, wondering why she struggled to undress.
As Carmen tilted her muscled abdomen toward me, she brushed her left hip against the bottom rim of the steering wheel. She displayed a Star Trek insignia tattooed below her navel. “As a Trekker, I’m up on all UFO lore.”
I examined the tattoo. “Interesting way of remembering something. I would’ve just tied a string around my finger.”
Carmen buckled her pants again. “Do any of those dates mean something to your investigation?”
I thought for a moment. “Rocky Flats started operations in 1952, the same year there was an outbreak of nymphomania in Ohio. I don’t see a connection. Then in 1969, there was a plutonium fire at Rocky Flats, the so-called Mother’s Day Fire.”
Carmen took Wendy’s list and flattened it across the spokes of the steering wheel. “That outbreak of nymphomania in Denver occurred shortly afterwards-in May, June, and July. When did the vampire-hunter attacks happen?”
I glanced into the folder. “August and September.”
Carmen folded Wendy’s list and handed it back to me. During a long moment of silence, she gradually tightened her fingers around the rim. Her knuckles turned white. She pressed harder on the gas pedal. “What is it about the nymphomania that draws the vampire hunters?”
I shrugged, embarrassed by my ignorance and inability to connect the facts. “I don’t know.”
Carmen passed a Corvette. “Let me check the dates. Maybe I can find something useful.”
“Call when you do. In the meantime, I can do more than wait around Denver with my thumb up my butt.” I tucked the folders back into the portfolio. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four hours for what?”
“I need twenty-four hours to complete my investigation. At the end of that time I’ll either be available for your direct action or I’ll be dead.”
Carmen eased off the gas. The speedometer needle arced down past a hundred miles an hour. “Dead? Killed by whom? Vampire hunters?”
I shook my head solemnly. “No, worse. The guards at Rocky Flats.”
CHAPTER 25
I TURNED OFF HIGHWAY 93 for the entrance to Rocky Flats. At this time in the afternoon there was a line of cars heading in the opposite direction, going home. I was the only one coming in.
Low, dense clouds from an oncoming storm threatened the Front Range. The forecast called for an evening blizzard. Already, intermittent flakes of snow floated from the sky.
I continued past the administrative trailer complex where I worked and parked in the lot adjacent to the plant manager’s office.
The Protected Area stood one hundred meters to the east. A Humvee with a machine gun mounted on the roof was parked outside the gate. Within the fence perimeter remained the white trailer, the same one Gilbert Odin suspected contained the cargo that had caused the nymphomania. Guards in sage-green parkas and armed with submachine guns walked the fence. A black semi-tractor truck backed up to the white trailer. Workers in heavy overalls and yellow safety helmets motioned to one another as they guided the truck into position. More Humvees and a row of white Suburbans were parked on the road leading from the Protected Area. It seemed that the trailer was going to move out tonight by convoy, regardless of the anticipated blizzard.
My plan was simple. I was going to get answers directly from Herbert Hoover Merriweather, the plant manager. If Merriweather wouldn’t share what he knew with Gilbert Odin, Merriweather would have no choice but to cooperate with me once I put him under vampire hypnosis. Then I’d wait for the gloom of night to stalk and subdue the guards, hypnotizing them one by one until I could penetrate the Protected Area, break into the trailer, and expose the secret behind the conspiracy. Hopefully I wouldn’t contaminate myself and the Denver metroplex in the process.