I was surprised, mostly by Kyle's response, but also by Jamilla's quick anger. I was uneasy when she came up to me after the meeting.
"He got me so mad. Grrrr," she said, and shook her head and made a face. "I have a bad temper sometimes, but he was wrong. There's something fucked up about that man. I have a bad feeling about him. Why would he have it in for me? Because I'm working with you? So what do we do today, Dr. Cross? I'm not leaving because he's a goddamn idiot."
"He was wrong. I'm sorry about what happened, Jamilla. Let's talk about what we do next."
"Don't be condescending," she said.
"I'm not. Why don't you get off the soapbox, though."
She still wasn't over her bad scene with Kyle. "He doesn't like women," she said. "Trust me on that. He also practices the three C's that some men are so fond of: compete, criticize, control."
"So tell me what you reallythink about Kyle. And men in general."
Jamilla finally managed a smile. "I think, and I'm being pretty objective and measured about this, that he's a total control freak and a complete asshole. Your so-called friend. As for men, it varies with the individual."
Chapter 67
The real vampires had arrived and they believed they were invincible. William and Michael knew that the exotic city of New Orleans belonged to them from the instant they crossed the bridge. They were a couple of young princes with their long blond ponytails, black shirts and trousers, shining leather boots. Their mission ended here if all went well, and it would.
William drove the Red Cross van through the French Quarter — they were on the lookout for prey. The van went slowly back and forth on Burgundy, Dauphine, Bourbon, Royal, Chartres, all of the more famous streets. The sounds of Readysexgoblared from the tape deck. "Supernatural Blonde," then "Radio Tokyo."
The brothers finally got out and strolled along Riverwalk. They turned into the Riverwalk Marketplace, and it made William physically ilclass="underline" Banana Republic, Eddie Bauer, the Limited, Sharper Image, the Gap — mediocrity, tripe, utter stupidity everywhere he looked. "What do you want to do?" William turned to Michael. "Look at all this commercial crap in the middle of this beautiful city."
"Let's take somebody out here in their putrid shopping mall. Maybe we should feed in a changing room at the Banana Republic. I love that idea."
"No!" William said. He grabbed hold of Michael's arm. "We've been working too hard for this. I think we need a distraction."
They couldn't take any more prey. Not now. Not so close to where Daniel and Charles had their domain. A distraction was definitely needed. So William drove out of New Orleans along the Bonnet Carre Spillway. He continued on Interstate 10 into the real Louisiana.
William found what he wanted about an hour outside New Orleans. The rock climb wasn't much, but at least the face was steep. You had to concentrate; if you didn't, you fell, and you were dead.
The brothers chose to free solo, the most extreme version of the sport. Also the most dangerous by far. In free solo, the climbers used no ropes or any other kind of backup protection.
"We are a couple of hardmen!" Michael laughed and shouted once they were halfway up the two-hundred-foot climb. Hardmen were the toughest climbers of all. They were the best, and it fit the brothers' self-image.
"Yes, we are!" William shouted back to his brother. "There are oldclimbers and there are boldclimbers."
"But there are no old, boldclimbers!" Michael roared with laughter.
The climb turned out to be more challenging than it had looked. It required lots of different skills. They had to do vertical crack climbing, then suddenly they were face climbing, pressing tight against the rock, using very small handholds.
"We're in the climbing groove now!" Michael screamed at the top of his lungs. He had forgotten about hunting for prey, forgotten his hunger. There was nothing but the climb now. Nothing but staying alive, survival of the fittest.
Suddenly, they had to commit — they were at a point in the climb where, once they made the next couple of moves, they couldn't go back the way they had come. There was nothing to do but go straight up. Or quit right now.
"What do you think, little brother? You make a plan for us. You decide. What does your instinct tell you?"
Michael laughed so hard he had to grip the rock face with both hands. He looked down — and what he saw was certain death if he fell. "Don't even think about quitting. We won't fall, brother. Not ever. We're never going to die!"
They climbed to the top, and from there they could see New Orleans. It was their city now.
"We're immortal! We'll never die!" the brothers shouted into the wind.
Chapter 68
I stared out at the great, sweeping live oaks. Then I noticed the plump magnolias and sloppy, fanning banana trees of the Garden District. There was nothing else for me to do. The surveillance continued. Jamilla was starting to repeat herself. We both were, and that became a running gag between us. Sections of the day's Times-Picayunewere all over the backseat of the car. We had read it cover to cover.
"There's no physical evidence tying Daniel or Charles to a single murder. Not in any of the cities, Alex. Everything we have on them is circumstantial or theoretical, hypothetical bullshit. Does that make any sense to you? It doesn't to me." She was probably talking just to talk, but she was making sense. "It just doesn't add up. They can't be that good. No one is."
We were parked four blocks north of the house on LaSalle. The domain. We could get there in seconds if anything developed, but so far nothing had. That was the problem. Daniel and Charles rarely left their two-hundred-year-old mansion, and when they did, it was only to go shopping or to a fancy restaurant downtown. Not surprisingly, they had good taste.
I tried to answer Jamilla's question. "It makes some sense to me that we can't link them to the early murders. You know as well as I do — once a murder case gets old, it's almost impossible to find witnesses or compelling evidence. I don't understand why we haven't found anything on the recent murders, though."
"That's what I'm thinking too. We have witnesses in Las Vegas and in Charleston, but no one recognizes photos of Daniel or Charles. Why not? What are we missing?"
"Maybe they don't commit the actual murders themselves," I said. "Maybe they used to, but not anymore."
"Don't they want to feast on the kills? Drink the blood? What other purpose do the murders serve? Are they symbolic? Is this part of some arcane mythology? Are they creating a new mythology? Jesus, Alex, what the hell are these two monsters doing?"
I didn't have answers to her questions or my own. No one did, unfortunately. So we sat in the car, tried to keep cool in the heat, and waited for Daniel and Charles to make their next move.
If they were so careful and so good, then why did we know about them, why were we here?
Chapter 69
William found this laughable. God, it was good! Priceless. He was watching the police as they in turn watched the house of horrors owned by Daniel and Charles. It was too much. The young prince walked down LaSalle, puffing on a cigarette, haughty, confident, unafraid of anyone, superior in every way he could imagine. Michael was sleeping, so he had decided to take a stroll.
This was rich. Maybe he would see one of the local celebrities who lived in the Garden District. Like the fabulous Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, or some asshole from MTV's Real Worldhouse in the Big Easy.