Blood Drive Page 4

  She draws a deep breath and passes a hand over her face. “Yes. Chief Williams, my secretary will take your detectives to the counseling office. Would you like to say something to the faculty? Or to the students when we meet later this morning?”

  We’ve all risen from our chairs. Williams considers the question for a moment. “I’d like to speak to the students, if it’s all right. Maybe one of her friends can shed some light on Barbara’s last day.”

  Mom glances at her watch. “The student assembly is at nine. We’ve called a minimum day, so students will only be on campus until noon. That way if they wish to speak to a detective or counselor, they can do so this afternoon.”

  She shows the policemen out of her office and closes the door before turning back to me. “I should have told him about Trish and Frey.”

  I know the reason for her anxiety. I also know why she didn’t say anything. A decision I agree with. “You didn’t say anything because you don’t want to involve Trish until we know for sure what happened. You’re protecting her. It’s all right, Mom.”

  “But what if she’s in danger? God, Anna. If anything happens to her and I could have prevented it-”

  I put an arm around her shoulders. “Carolyn is her mother and she asked us not to say anything. The police are on the case now. They’re trained to investigate this type of crime. If Frey is involved, they’ll find that out, too. In the meantime, let me see what I can do. I’ve got David running a background check on Frey, and I plan to follow him when he leaves campus today. Remember, Trish is a troubled teenager. Her running away may have nothing to do with Barbara.”

  There’s a discreet knock on the door. Mom’s secretary is back, and she points at her watch. Mom acknowledges the gesture and tugs at the hem of her suit coat.

  “Are you coming to the meeting?” she asks.

  I nod. “I’ll stand in back. Before we go, though, can you get me that file on Frey?”

  Mom shuffles some papers on her desk and retrieves a thick manila folder. “I pulled the file this morning.” Then, like an afterthought, she reaches into a bookcase behind her desk and pulls out the most recent of a string of yearbooks that fills the bottom shelf. She opens to the faculty section and points. “Here’s a picture of Daniel Frey.” She glances up to meet the gaze of her secretary, standing expectantly by the door. “I’d better go.”

  Her tension is palpable. I try to make my smile encouraging. She squeezes my arm in an acknowledgment of the effort and leaves me alone to study the photograph open on the desk.

  It’s a studio photograph, a head shot of a man in his late forties with short salt and pepper hair and a smile made perfect by generous lips and straight, white teeth. There is inherent strength in the face and a certain studied sensuality. Daniel Frey projects humor, sensitivity, intelligence and sexuality. A combination that would be irresistible to teenage girls.

  Hell, a combination irresistible to females of any age or species. The vibe I’m getting is strong enough to make me run my fingers over the page.

  I snap the book shut and replace it on the shelf. I’ll look at the file later. It’s time to see if this guy is as good in person.

  The faculty meeting is being held in the theater on campus. Mom is up on the stage, her smooth, pale hair shimmering under the lights. She’s composed, professional and concerned as she fills the staff in on what has happened to two of their students. One a murder victim, and one a possible runaway.

  Once again, I’m taken with how beautiful she is and how proud I am to be her daughter. Three months ago I resented my parents and their inability to accept what I chose to do with my life. Now, because I know our time is limited, my feelings have changed.

  I shake away the melancholy and let my gaze sweep the room. Daniel Frey is easy to spot. He’s in the middle of the auditorium, surrounded by female faculty members. His expression is serious, engaged, as he listens to my mother. Suddenly he turns in his seat and his eyes go straight to mine.

  Hello, Anna. I’ve looked forward to meeting you.

  Daniel Frey is in my head.

  I never felt it coming. One moment I’m thinking about my mother and the next, Daniel Frey is in my head. The shock knocks me off guard and raises the hair on the back of my neck. I’m exposed and vulnerable. Any kind of weakness, whether it’s surprise or fear, is a dangerous thing. Something you learn very quickly as a vampire.

  I shut down my thoughts, but I’m sure not quickly enough to prevent Frey from knowing what I feel. He has turned away from me, looking back toward the front, his own thoughts as impenetrable as a cave on a moonless night.

  A second jolt hits me as I realize that only once before have I been locked that completely out of another’s thoughts. We vampires can conceal our thoughts from one another if we choose. But this is different. Daniel Frey is not human. Nor is he a vampire.

  He’s like Culebra.

  And I don’t know what that is.

  Chapter Seven

  When the meeting is over, and the auditorium empties, I remain in the back. Frey stands to allow his fellow teachers to file past him and out the door. He remains standing. He’s dressed in an outfit that looks both designer and expensive-summer-weight wool pinstripe slacks, raspberry-colored sweater with a striped shirt underneath, black leather coat that hits at mid-thigh. He didn’t buy that outfit on a teacher’s salary.

  My mother, the last to leave the stage, joins me. Frey follows her. He has not projected a single thought nor has he made an attempt to read mine.

  Mom looks at Frey. “Good morning, Daniel.” Then she turns to me. “I’m going back to the office. Are you coming, Anna?”

  Frey holds my attention, not with his thoughts, but with his smile. It’s inquisitive, guarded.

  I shake my head at Mom. “No, you go on. I have a few questions for Mr. Frey. Youare one of Trish Delaney’s teachers, aren’t you?”

  Frey’s expression changes, his smile now resonating concern. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-edged and smooth as a rose petal. “I’m glad you’re here to help your mother. I’ll tell you everything I know about Trish, though I’m afraid it isn’t much. Do you want to walk with me to my classroom?”

  I nod and Mom leaves us with a surreptitious glance. When Frey’s back is turned, she mouths, “Be careful.”

  I mouth back, “I will.”

  That’s not necessary, you know.

  Frey’s voice. This time it doesn’t come as such a shock, though it reminds me that I need to be more careful in projecting my thoughts.

  If that’s possible with a creature like Frey.

  I follow him down a sidewalk that leads from the theater to his classrooms. He has a corner room, by the student parking lot. He opens the door and allows me to precede him inside.

  The English classrooms I remember from my high school teaching days were painted institutional gray and decorated with portraits of literary figures scattered among bulletin boards bursting with the colorful trivia of high school life. Frey’s classroom is painted pale yellow and there are no bulletin boards, no portraits. Nothing on the walls at all except a small framed sign. A human would have to go close to read it. Since I didn’t have to pretend to be human, I read it from the doorway.

  “Life may not be the party we hoped for… but while we’re here we may as well dance.”

  I shoot Frey a look with raised eyebrows.Interestingphilosophy. Who came up with it?

  He shrugs.Don’t know. Somebody sent it to me in an email. I liked the way it sounded.

  We move to the front, wending our way through student desks lined up eight to a row and stretching from Frey’s podium in front of the blackboard to the back. I count forty-eight.

  Unusually large class size, isn’t it?

  He shrugs.Kids seem to want to take my class. And there’s a perpetual teacher shortage. Good teachers leave to pursue other things.

  He says the last with a pointed look back at me. Has he picked up the fact that I used to be a teacher fr
om my mother or out of my head?

  Frey opens a door beside the blackboard and motions me into a tiny office. It’s not much bigger than a broom closet and outfitted with a desk, chair, and bookcase. He offers me the chair and slips out of his jacket, tossing it onto the bookcase before perching on a corner of the desk. He can’t close the door because his feet are in the way.

  For some reason, it’s a comfort that he can’t close that door.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says.

  “Maybe if you told me what you are, I wouldn’t be.”

  He tilts his head and looks at me, surprise widening his eyes.Youreally don’t know? How long have you been a vampire?

  Not the first time I’ve been asked that question in that same tone. I didn’t like it much the first time either. I blow out a puff of air.Obviouslynot long enough. Are you going to answer my question? What the hell are you?

  He stands up and when he extends a hand toward me, I jump up too. Sudden fear elicits a reflexive growl of warning that comes from deep inside me and curls my hands into fists. It stops him. He holds the hand palm up in a gesture of conciliation. Slowly, he points to the desk and I realize he was reaching for something on it, not aiming a blow at me.

  I’m both relieved and embarrassed.Go ahead.

  He picks up a small round stone, red as blood, and holds it in his palm. He closes his eyes, mumbling something in a language I don’t understand. At first, I’m so busy watching his face that I almost miss it. Then I see. His hand. Nails lengthen into claws, the palm becomes a leathery pad, and fur the color of midnight surrounds the-paw.

  I press myself against the wall, unable to take my eyes off what looks for all the world like a panther’s paw.What are you?

  Daniel Frey moves, drawing my attention back to his face. He opens his eyes, places the stone back on the desk and waits. In a moment the transformation is complete. He flexes the finger on his very human hand before answering.

  I’m a shapeshifter.

  Shapeshifter? How much of your shape can you shift? Just the hands?

  He laughs.Of course not. I didn’t think it prudent to give you a full demonstration when I have students due in a few minutes. A panther on campus would be hard to explain. I’m surprised you didn’t know right away.

  So many questions form in my head that I don’t know what to ask first.Canyou change into anything else? Once you’ve changed, how do you hold that stone to change back? Don’t you need the moon to change?

  He picks up the last question first.The moon? You’re thinking of a were. An entirely different species altogether. And no, I can’t change into anything else. I don’t really need the stone either. It merely speeds up the process.

  I know I shouldn’t be surprised at this. Shapeshifters. Werewolves. Vampires. What other creatures are there that I’ve yet to discover?

  Frey answers, though the question is rhetorical.

  Let’s see. I can name several right off the top of my head. Ghosts, for instance. Angels. Demons. Dragons.

  Dragons?

  Not many left. But there are a few. In remote jungles, mostly. And lost islands.

  I sink back down in the chair. Why do I feel as if we should be having this conversation on a moving staircase at Hogwarts not here in a California classroom?

  Frey is smiling at me.Now that’sfiction. The school, that is, not the existence of witches and warlocks. They exist-

  I hold up a hand to stop the flow. I’m quickly reaching information overload.Let’s get back to you. How many shapeshifters do you know? Around here, I mean. Do you travel in prides?

  He resumes his perch on the corner of the desk.No. We’re pretty much solitary creatures. It’s hard enough for one big cat to prowl the city undetected. It would be impossible for a pride. Besides, we’re not all cats.

  Oh?

  There are all kinds of shapeshifters. Some change into dogs. Birds. Snakes.

  That’s when it clicks, like tumblers in a rusty old lock that yield when you’re given the right combination.

  Culebra. Rattlesnake.

  It’s so clear.

  Culebra?Frey snatches the name out of the air.Who’s that?

  I shake my head. I’ll think about Culebra later. I need to get back to the reason I’m here. I don’t waste time forming the words, just let Frey pick an edited version of the story out of my head.

  His face betrays nothing as he “hears” about Barbara and Trish and why Carolyn suspects he is involved with her daughter’s disappearance. I’m not specific, especially about Carolyn’s accusations. I frame it in terms of rumor and innuendo. His mind is not closed to me and what he projects is hurt and puzzlement and a growing anger.

  Exchanging drugs for sex? Why would she think that? Why would anyone think that?

  My mother tells me those rumors have been around for awhile, just never been substantiated. In my experience, a story like that usually has some basis in fact.

  Frey draws himself up, fury hardening the lines around his eyes and mouth.I help students. I don’t feed them drugs and I certainly don’t sleep with them. I can’t believe your mother thinks that I might. Finding women to have sex with has never been a problem for me. And I do prefer women to girls.

  I didn’t say my mother believes it. I’m just saying she’s heard it.I raise my eyebrows.AndI’ve seen some of today’s high school “girls.” They’re pretty mature for their age.

  Nonetheless, I wouldn’t do that. There have never been “sleepovers” or “weekend seminars.” God. Why would she say that?

  I shrug.Who knows? I pause briefly before asking,And what about Barbara Franco? Did she come to see you?

  No. And if she had, I would have told her what I just told you.

  He answers directly and without any prevarication that I can detect. However, my experience with shapeshifters has been limited. I don’t really know what they are capable of.

  We can lie. Just like humans. Just like vampires. You have had some experience with that, I understand.

  I hate this. I want you to stop getting into my head uninvited. I can prevent it with vampires. Is there a way to stop you?

  Why should I answer that?

  A show of good faith. You expect me to believe you, and this would go a long way toward establishing credibility.

  He leans toward me, his eyes cold.That would require a great leap of faith on my part. I don’t know you. I don’t trust you any more than you trust me. I think you should go. I have students coming.

  Do you know where Trish is?

  The question seems to catch him off guard. Something flickers in the depths of his eyes, ripples the calm, dark waters of his thoughts. But he recovers quickly and the hesitation is like the flutter of a hummingbird’s wing-so fast you think it might be an illusion.

  Would you believe me if I said I don’t? I hope she is safe. Now, I want you to go. Students are arriving. They will need my full attention.

  I glance past him to the open classroom door. I don’t see anyone.

  He taps the side of his nose.I don’t have to “see” to know they are coming.

  And as if on cue, a car door slams in the parking lot. Then another and another. It’s thirty minutes until class time. I guess Daniel Frey can smell a human’s approach as easily as a panther in the jungle can smell a tethered goat.

  Chapter Eight

  Not exactly the interview I had hoped for. I take a seat at one of the lunch tables in front of the theater and watch as silent, sober-faced teens file into Frey’s classroom. He meets them at the door, ignoring my presence, though he feels it. His thoughts flicker out once or twice as if testing my reaction to the scene.

  I don’t have one. Yet. All I have are more questions.

  As many boys as girls form a crowd that soon spills out of the classroom and into the grassy quad right below my bench. For some reason, I figured his appeal would be strictly to girls. But the students gathering are a mix of jocks and nerds, model-pretty cheerleader
s and mousy bookworms. They’re all drawn to Frey, and through him, to each other. He’s like a modern Pied Piper. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or bad.

  As nine o’clock approaches, he shepherds the kids toward the auditorium where my mother and Chief Williams will address them. I follow as far as the office. I don’t see the point in hearing another recitation of what I already know. I’ll come back to question Frey again after I see Carolyn.

  I duck into Mom’s office to call David. He answers on the first ring.

  “Any luck with the names I gave you this morning?” I ask.

  I hear a rustle of paper. “Who should I start with first?”

  “How about Daniel Frey?”

  “An interesting character, that one,” David replies. “He’s forty-two years old, born in Boston, educated at Harvard. Came west about ten years ago after teaching at an inner-city school in Boston. Unblemished record. The decision to come to San Diego seems to have coincided with the death of an uncle in an automobile accident. He inherited a little money, bought a condo in Mission Valley, and has lived here ever since.”

  I give an impatient huff. “What’s so interesting about that?”

  “I contacted the records office at Harvard. There’s a Daniel Frey listed as having attended all right. But they show him graduating in one of the school’s first classes. That would be in the late, what? 1800s? Which makes him closer to two hundred than forty-two. What kind of shape is the old geezer in?”

  I detect the humor in David’s voice, but somehow I can’t bring myself to laugh. Neither can I explain to David that Frey may in fact be two hundred years old. I have no idea of the life expectancy of a shapeshifter. “So,” I say instead, “must be a mistake.”

  “Don’t school districts check that kind of thing?”

  “They should. My hunch, though, is that he got his job here based on an exemplary record in Boston. Who knows how thoroughly the Boston school district checked his credentials when he applied there? Anything else? Any mysterious disappearances around the time he left?”

  David’s voice echoes with disappointment. “Nothing. And Frey doesn’t have as much as a parking ticket on his record. Fact is, he has never applied for a driver’s license. How the hell does he get around in Southern California without a driver’s license?”