"Richard didn't let Jean-Claude snack on him," I said.
"No," he said.
"No. That's all you have to say."
"What do you want me to say, Anita?"
I thought about that for a second. "I want you to be outraged. Angry."
"Why?"
I shook my head. "Go to bed, Jason. You're making me tired."
He went into the bedroom without another word. I didn't peek to see if he changed into a wolf and curled up on the carpet, or if he crawled into bed beside the corpse. None of my business, or at least nothing I wanted to see.
Chapter 20
I put the Browning under the pillow with the safety on. At home with the gun in the special holster I'd added to the headboard of the bed, the safety would have been off. But I'd look pretty silly if I accidentally shot myself during the night--day--trying to protect myself from werewolves.
The Firestar I put under the couch cushion, safety on. Normally it would have been in my luggage, but I was feeling just a little insecure.
The knives were in the luggage. Things weren't quite dangerous enough to wear the wrist sheaths to bed. Besides, they weren't very comfortable, not to sleep in, anyway.
I had just settled down for a long day's sleep when I realized I hadn't called Special Agent Bradford. Damn. I threw the blanket back and padded to the telephone in nothing but a t-shirt and undies. Yes, the Browning came with me. Doesn't do you a damn bit of good to have a weapon if it isn't with you.
I dialed the number and got no answer. Fancy that. Didn't everyone work twenty-four hours a day? I had his beeper number. Could the news about Xavier wait? Would even having the name help them? Agent Bradford had made it very clear that I was persona non grata. First, Freemont had blackballed me; second, the Quinlans were threatening to sue everybody unless I was kept away from the case. I'd done such a bang-up job protecting their family, they didn't want a repeat. They seemed to think I'd get their son killed. Fancy that.
I had Bradford's beeper number. He'd given strict orders that if I found out anything I was to tell him, and only him. Made me not want to tell him a bloody thing. But who was I to say the FBI didn't have a vampire file somewhere? Maybe the name would mean something to them. Maybe it would help them find Jeff. Besides, Jean-Claude hadn't told me not to give Xavier's name to the cops. I used the beeper number. I left my phone number. Now I could either go back to bed, and let his return call wake me, or I could sit in the chair for a few minutes and wait. I waited.
The phone rang in under five minutes. I like a man who returns his pages promptly. I said "Hello," in case it wasn't him. It was.
"Special Agent Bradford. This number was on my beeper." His voice was rough with sleep.
"This is Anita Blake."
A moment of silence, then, "Do you know what time it is?"
"I haven't been to bed yet, so yeah, I know what time it is."
Another silence. "What do you want, Ms. Blake?"
I took a deep breath and let it out slow. Getting mad would not be helpful. "I have a possible name for the vampire that's been slaughtering kids."
"What's the name?"
"Xavier."
"Last name?"
"Vampires don't have last names, as a general rule."
"Thank you for the name, Ms. Blake. How did you get it?"
I thought about that for a few seconds. I couldn't think of a really good answer. "It sort of fell into my lap."
"Why don't I believe that, Ms. Blake? I thought I'd made myself clear this evening. You are not to involve yourself in this case, in any way."
"Look, I didn't have to call, but I want Jeff Quinlan back alive. I thought the FBI might be able to use the name of the vampire who took him."
"I want to know how you got the name," he said.
"An informant."
"I'd like to talk to this informant," he said.
"No," I said.
"Are you withholding information from a federal investigation, Ms. Blake?"
"No, Agent Bradford, I am going out of my way to share information."
He was quiet again. "Alright, Ms. Blake, you're right. Thank you for the name. We'll run it in the computers."
"This vampire has a history of harming preadolescent boys. He's a pedophile."
"Good lord, a vampire pedophile." He finally sounded genuinely interested in what I was saying. "And he has the Quinlan boy."
"Yeah," I said.
"I would really like to talk to this source of yours," he said.
"He's a little shy around the police."
"I could insist, Ms. Blake. We've got reports that a private jet flew in last night, and a coffin got unloaded. It's registered to a J. C. Corporation. They seem to own a lot of vampire-related, St. Louis-based businesses. Do you know anything about that, Ms. Blake?"
Lying to the FBI seemed like a bad idea, but I wasn't sure what they'd do with the truth. The Feds were investigating vampire crime, and suddenly a new vamp shows up in town. The least they would do was question him. The worst... well, there was the vampire in Mississippi that had been accidentally transferred to a cell with a window. The sun rose, and... French fried vampire. An ACLU lawyer had sued the cops' asses, and won, but that didn't bring the vamp back. Admittedly the dead vamp was one of the newly dead. Jean-Claude would have escaped fairly easily, but just escaping from the law by using vampire powers would get a warrant for his arrest. Sort of like what was happening to Magnus.
Besides, a vampire had killed a cop last night. The police might not be terribly careful with any vampire right now. The police are only human, after all.
"You still there, Blake?"
"I'm here."
"You didn't answer my question."
"Where was the coffin delivered?" I asked.
"It wasn't. It just disappeared."
"So what do you want from me?"
"There was some luggage that went with it. The luggage was picked up a little while ago by two young men. The description of one of them sounds a lot like Larry Kirkland."
"Is that so?"
"That's so."
We both sat on our ends of the phone waiting for someone to say something. "I could send some agents down to your hotel room."
"There are no coffins in my hotel room, Agent Bradford."
"You sure of that, Blake?"
"My hand to God."
"Do you know who runs this J. C. Corporation?"
"No." It was the truth. Until Bradford told me about it, I'd never heard of the J. C. Corporation. It would only have been an educated guess if I'd said Jean-Claude owned it. Okay, I was fooling myself, but so what?
"Do you know where the coffin was delivered?" he asked.
"Nope."
"Would you tell me if you knew?"
"If it would help find Jeff Quinlan, you bet."
"Alright, Blake, but no more helping. Stay the f**k out of this case. When we find the vampires we'll call you in, and you can do your job. You're a vampire hunter, not a cop. Try to remember that."
"Fine," I said.
"Good. Now I'm going back to sleep. I suggest you do the same. We'll find the vampires today, Blake. And let's just say I don't believe everything Freemont said. We'll call you in for the kill."
"Thanks."
"Good night, Blake."
"Good night, Bradford."
We hung up. I sat there for a minute, just letting it all sink in. If they found Jean-Claude in my room, what would they do? I'd seen the cops pop a comatose vampire in a body bag, transport it to the station house, and wait for nightfall to question it. I'd thought it was a bad idea because the vamp would wake up pissed. It did. I ended up killing it. I've always felt bad about that particular kill. It was an out-of-state job. The local cops invited me in to advise them. Once we found the vamp, they stopped listening to my advice. Reminded me of now. That vampire had also just been brought in for questioning.
I was suddenly tired. It was like the entire night just hit me in one grinding wave. Sleep dragged at me. I had to go to sleep. I couldn't help Jeff Quinlan, or anybody else, until I'd had a few hours of sleep. Besides, maybe the Feds would find him. Stranger things had happened.
I left a wake-up call with the desk for noon, and cuddled under the blanket. The Browning was lumpy under the pillow. At least I couldn't feel the Firestar under the couch cushion. I half wished I'd packed Sigmund, my stuffed toy penguin, but somehow having Jean-Claude or Jason find me sleeping with a stuffed toy bothered me almost as much as them trying to eat me. What price machismo?