Chapter 1 (partial)

Copyright PD Martin 2009

Saturday night

A narrow trail snakes in front of me, lit only by the full moon. If I can make it to the road…or hide…

Low-hanging branches scrape across my face, breaking through my raised arms and drawing blood. But I can’t stop. I have to keep running. Can he smell the blood? Sense it?

I stumble and fall to the ground. For a moment all I can hear is the deafening thud of my heart. And that’s when I notice it. Silence. No more footsteps hurtling down the path behind me. I pick myself up and keep running, not convinced I’ve really lost them.

Finally I stop, resting my hands on my thighs to try to slow my breathing. I look around at the houses perched on the hilltops to the right. They’re too far away to hear or see me.

The crack of a branch on the far side of the trail frightens me. I back away, searching the area. My eyes, even though fully adjusted to the night, strain to decipher my surroundings. Is someone behind that tree? I keep moving backwards, but then another branch snaps behind me. I run.

Soon I hear the footsteps again. I push myself harder, run harder. I glance back, hoping they’re further away than they sound. But they’re closer. Suddenly I come to an abrupt stop, slamming into something. I fall backwards and look up. His face is in shadows, but I can see glistening white teeth as he smiles.

Fangs dig deep into my neck, accompanied by searing pain.

I wake up with a start, rubbing my neck. The very last part of the dream flashes back to me…what the…? But then I realize I’ve fallen asleep on the couch with a re-run of Buffy the Vampire Slayer playing in the background. Obviously the vampire imagery spilled into my subconscious as I was dropping off.

I drag myself over to the TV and turn it off, before moving my head from side to side to stretch my neck. Someone in Buffy may have got fangs in the neck, but all I’ve got is a crick in mine. Serves me right for falling asleep in front of the box. Flicking off the lights, I make my way into the bathroom for the usual nightly ritual – cleanse and moisturize my face and brush my teeth. I complete it all on remote, watching the process in the mirror like a third-party observer. And a half-asleep one at that.

Before going to bed I decide to do a final sweep of my apartment. I’m always very security conscious, but my job and my past make me extra careful and I often find the only way I can sleep is to search my apartment before I turn in for the night. I grab my gun and start at the front door, looking through the peephole. The coast is clear outside. From my front door I can see most of the open-plan space of my living room and kitchen. White walls and downlights are made warmer by rich hardwood floors and two French doors that lead to a large balcony – one of my favourite features during hot summer nights. Like half of the complex’s balconies, mine overlooks the swimming pool and well-landscaped gardens.

The open-plan space doesn’t have any potential hiding spots, so I move straight to the large hall closet. Once that’s checked I head for the bathroom, even though I was in there less than a minute ago. I pull the shower curtain back with my left hand, aiming my gun low into the small bath tub. It’s empty, and I move quickly to the next door – my bedroom, and the only room in the house with carpet…I love the feel of the squishy warmth under my bare feet. Dark wood furniture with a Japanese feel offsets the cream carpet, again creating warmth in what could be a stark room. I check behind my three-panel Japanese screen, before moving to the built-in wardrobe. Opening one door at a time, I scan the clothes and also squat down to make sure only my shoes, facing away from me, occupy the closet. Like the rest of the place, it’s all clear. As my final check I flick on the outside light and make sure no one’s on the balcony.

Looking down at the Buddha that sits in the corner of the room, I say: ‘All clear.’ But I’m talking to myself, not the deity. Maybe I need a pet.

Sunday, 11am

On my way home from Bikram yoga – something I’ve discovered since moving to LA – my BlackBerry buzzes with an incoming call. There are only a handful of people who could be calling me on a Sunday, and when I see the number is withheld I jump to the logical conclusion — work. Then again, FBI agents are on call 24/7.

‘Agent Sophie Anderson.’

‘Anderson, it’s Rosen.’ George Rosen is the head of the LA office’s Criminal Division and lots of my cases come in via his department.

‘What’s up?’


My job often revolves around murder, but I’m still surprised to be getting a call on a Sunday. While all special agents are always on call, as a profiler most of my work is initiated in the office Monday to Friday.

‘Go on,’ I say.

‘Do you know Temescal Gateway Park?’

‘Uh huh.’ Temescal Gateway Park is about twenty minutes from where I live and work – Westwood, LA. I’ve even done a few of the park’s walks.

‘A body was found there an hour ago. Right on the border of Topanga State Park.’

‘And we’ve got a call already?’ Police rarely call in the FBI so quickly in a homicide case, unless there’s something strange about the death or the area is rural with no local expertise in murder cases – and nothing twenty minutes in any direction of LA is rural. There must be some other reason why the Bureau’s being pulled in early. Could be jurisdiction if they suspect the killer’s been active in different states or, given they’re calling a profiler, it’s also possible there’s something unusual about the murder or the scene.

Rosen’s tone softens. ‘You’re going to love this one, Anderson.’

‘Really?’ I lean back into the car seat and am met with the sticky sensation of sweat-drenched hair being squelched into the back of my neck. When you do yoga poses in nearly forty degrees Celsius for an hour and a half, your body takes a while to cool down.

‘It’s gold.’ Rosen pauses again and I get the feeling he’s enjoying keeping me in suspense.

I play along. ‘Come on. Spill it.’

‘Where to start…Female vic, reported missing this morning, and there are two puncture marks on her neck.’

Puncture marks? I immediately think of last night’s dream, but say: ‘Like a snakebite?’

‘Maybe. But there’s another line of inquiry too. Rumour has it there’s a group of self-proclaimed vampires that uses Temescal Park for rituals from time to time. The group’s called After Dark and apparently its leader is a charismatic man, which fits the cult pattern. If we are dealing with a cult and it’s suddenly turned violent…’

‘Gotcha.’ I take a deep breath. Cults, or New Religious Movements (NRMs) if we’re being politically correct, aren’t my usual area of expertise but I have studied the psychology behind NRM behaviour and some of the more spectacular examples of cults gone terribly — criminally — wrong in America’s past. But is vampirism a religion? Maybe for some people.

Copyright PD Martin 2009