Blood Drive

One of the good things about becoming vampire is that your physical abilities are remarkably enhanced. Things like speed and strength. Everything with the dog happens so quickly, the two astounded teenagers who witness it literally don't believe their eyes. Ryan's mouth hangs open and Trish has a dazed, confused look that would be comical if the circumstances weren't beginning to tick me off.

"Yo, Ryan," I snap again. The dog is starting to recover, squirming and growling as he tries to shake off my hands. "I mean it. Call off your dog or he's going to get hurt."

The kid finally responds. His mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he gets the words out. "Cujo. Down."

Cujo?

I feel the dog relax and ease my hands away. In a flash, the same dog who was hell bent on ripping my throat out is lapping at my face like it's a burger pop.

With a shudder, I jump to my feet, scrubbing at my face with the back of my hand. There's nothing I hate more than dog slobber.

Cujo scrambles up, too, and wriggles his way to Ryan's side, his whole body vibrating to the beat of a wildly wagging tail.

Ryan reaches down and cradles the dog's head. "Good boy."

By now, I've recovered enough to be angry again. Trish has moved to Ryan's side and the two take turns patting the dog and telling it what a good boy it's been. Ryan is the same height as Trish with the same coloring. But his clothes are clean and pressed and he's obviously bathed in the last few days.

Whatever their relationship, he's not been camping out here with her.

I suck in a breath. "Okay, you two. Enough. What's going on? Trish, what are you doing here? How do you know me?"

Trish throws me one of those looks that makes me remember all over again why I left teaching. The disdain only a teenager can exude. "I heard my mother talking about you," she says. "You're the girlfriend of some bigwig at her hospital."

Her hospital? I start getting the sick feeling I've missed something important with Carolyn. I wave a hand at Trish to continue.

"He's resigned now, I guess, but Mom said you had a place on the beach that you didn't live in anymore. I looked up your address on line. When I came out, I saw that you were remodeling and the place was empty. I decided to stay here. I haven't hurt anything. You can see for yourself."

Her tone morphs from bold defiance to quiet desperation. But her words make my gut twist with anxiety. Carolyn hasn't told Trish what our relationship really is. And she works at Avery's hospital? I give myself a mental thump on the head. I never thought to ask Carolyn where she works. There are a lot of hospitals in San Diego. What are the odds she'd work at Avery's? More important now, though, is why would she be discussing me and with whom?

Ryan holds out the bag he's been clutching in his hand. "Can we talk about this while Trish eats?" he asks. "I can only bring food once a day and she hasn't eaten since yesterday."

Trish's drawn face softens when she looks at Ryan. I can hear her stomach rumble, so I nod. "Sure. Go ahead."

The two kids sit cross-legged on the floor of the garage and rip into the bag. He's brought bologna sandwiches and chips and the biggest bottle of some dark soda I've ever seen. Typical teen fare. Not a piece of fruit or carton of milk in the mix.

I sit down beside them and watch them eat. Cujo sneaks his way to my side and lies down with his head on my lap.

And I hate dogs. Go figure.

For a minute, Ryan and Trish are just two teenagers devouring their junk food with the gusto of youth. I let her finish one sandwich and start on the second before I interrupt.

"Trish?"

She looks up at me and I see the shadow in her eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

She stops chewing, the sandwich suspended in a hand that begins to shake.

Ryan eyes flash. "She's not going back to that house," he says. "If you make her, we'll just run away again. This time we'll leave the state. We'll go to Mexico. You'll never find us."

His tone is fervent and desperate, a kid trying to explain the demon threatening his best friend to an adult he suspects doesn't believe in them.

But I'm not most adults.

"Did someone hurt you, Trish?" I ask softly.

Ryan reaches out a gentle hand and touches her shoulder. "Tell her," he says. "Or I will."

Trish's hand descends slowly, the sandwich falling from her limp fingers while tears spill onto her cheeks.

"We don't know her," she mumbles to Ryan.

He nods toward me. "Yeah, but look at Cujo. He likes her, so she can't be all bad."

I put a hand on Cujo's head, trying to emphasize the dog's obvious good judgment, but he looks up at me and rolls his tongue like he's ready to plant another big doggy kiss on my face. I gently but firmly push his head back down before he can.

Ryan's eyes lock onto mine. "And if she was going to take you back, you'd be gone by now, right?"

The question is directed at me. I nod. "But I can't really help you until I know what happened."

Trish's eyes go flat, passionless. "My mother," she says simply. "My mother happened to me."

She stops, recomposing herself. I don't try to rush her or ask another question. My own insides are churning. I suspect I'm not going to want to hear what she has to say. And I'm just as terribly convinced that my first instincts about Carolyn Delaney will prove to have been accurate. I didn't like or trust the woman from the moment she walked into my parent's home.

Trish picks up a paper napkin from the small pile on the floor and wipes her eyes. "My mother wasn't always - " Her voice falters, breaks. She scrubs at her eyes again and lifts her chin. "She used to be a pretty good mom. We'd do things together. Go to movies. Shopping. We didn't have much money, but that didn't matter."

There's nothing more pathetic than a child defending her parent - or more unnatural. It should be the other way around. Always. Ryan places an arm around Trish's shoulders. The simple act seems to give her strength. She sits up a little straighter.

"Anyway, I guess the trouble really started when my dad left a couple of years ago. He just walked out on us. Mom says she doesn't know why he left. She woke up one morning and he was gone. No note. Nothing. He just left us."

My shoulders jump. "Your dad?"

Misery, as intense as the pain in her voice, slumps her shoulders. "I used to think it was something I'd done. That it must have been." She looks at Ryan and his smile of reassurance lifts the weight a little. "Ryan says it wasn't of course. That sometimes adults do stupid things that have nothing to do with their families. He almost makes me believe it."

She looks so sad, I want to put my arms around her and tell her that there's another family she could belong to. A good one that would never abandon her. But that would involve telling her that her mother has been lying to her for thirteen years.

If she has been.

One thing is for certain, though, Carolyn has been lying to someone.

"I'm sorry about your dad," I say, stumbling over the word "dad."

"But you haven't told me why you ran away. Was it because of what happened to your friend?"

Trish's brows draw together. "My friend?"

In the same instant, Ryan draws a sharp breath and shakes his head at me. "I haven't had a chance to tell her about that." His tone makes it clear that he doesn't think I should either.

But it's too late. Trish looks from his face to mine. "What are you talking about?"

Ryan stiffens, the look he throws me dark with anger. "Trish has enough to worry about. She doesn't need to hear about that other thing."

Trish is staring at Ryan now with burning, reproachful eyes. "What other thing, Ryan?"

He looks away, refusing to meet her gaze or answer.

So I do. "I'm sorry, Trish. I thought you knew. It's Barbara."

"Barbara?" She repeats the name with the same puzzled inflection. "What about Barbara?"

I don't know how to make this easy. One thing I'm sure of, Trish either doesn't know that her friend is dead or she's an Oscar-worthy actress. I take hold of one of her hands. "Barbara is dead, Trish. The police found her body this morning. I'm sorry."

"Oh my God," Trish's anguished cry echoes in the empty garage. She snatches her hand out of mine and rounds on Ryan. "You knew about Barbara. And you didn't say anything?"

Ryan doesn't meet her eyes. He busies himself with his dog, calling him over, breaking off a bit of the sandwich in his hand and holding it out to him. He watches Cujo with fierce intensity until he can bring himself to look at Trish again. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I couldn't tell you."

Trish's face crumbles. Fat tears wet her cheeks and her shoulders shake with sobs, but she doesn't make a sound. It's only when she draws a deep, shuddering breath that the wail erupts. She buries her face in her hands. "Oh my god, oh my god. I'm next. I'm next. I'm next."

She keeps repeating the litany, ignoring me when I gather her to my chest, stroke her hair, and croon soft promises that I'll keep her safe. She doesn't struggle against me or try to break away. She holds herself rigid, arms wrapped tightly around her own waist.

I look over her head at Ryan. He's trembling as he stares at us. Neither kid has asked how Barbara was killed. It's as if they were expecting it. "You'd better tell me what's going on, Ryan."

He looks close to tears, too, but he doesn't break down. "It's the guys from the website," he says, voice flat.

"Website?"

He nods, staring at his friend. "They want the computer back."

"Computer?" I sound like a parrot.

Ryan climbs to his feet and heads for the back of the garage, Cujo at his heels. For the first time, I notice clothes and a blanket in the corner. He shuffles through the stuff, and when he turns back around, he has a laptop in his hand. Wordlessly, he brings it back to us, kneels down and powers it up. His fingers fly over the keyboard until the expression on his face tells me he's found what he's looking for. It's a mixture of revulsion and fury that sends the color flooding into his cheeks. I know because he's turned the computer around to face me and I'm experiencing the very same things.

It's Carolyn, standing behind her daughter, a leather thong in her hand. The thong is attached to the collar around Trish's neck. Trish is spread-eagled on the bed, her face partially obscured by a scarf, but recognizable nevertheless. She's naked. And there's a man's hand between her legs.

The rage that rises up in me is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Swift. Uncontrollable. I lash out, sweeping the computer from Ryan's hand and sending it crashing against the wall. I can't stop shaking; my whole body vibrates with hot fury. I see the fear in Ryan's eyes as he watches me, feel Trish flinch away and move next to him. They both cower, shivering, out of reach. Cujo, too, whimpers and backs away. My wrath is scaring them but I don't know if I can rein it in.

But I also know I must. I'll tuck it away, secure it in a dark part of my mind, so I can recall it later.

When I face Carolyn.