Hexed

desert hell David and Tracey are headed for.
    I plop into a chair, congratulating myself on my good luck. All I have to do is mind the office for an hour or two and then I’ll take the afternoon off. I shake open the newspaper. Read the article about the one that got away. Smith was picked up two hours after we lost him, in a bar, recognized by someone who saw his picture on the news. No mention of our run-in with him or of any indignant citizen complaining that three “muggers” had assaulted him in a parking lot.
    The chase replays in my head. I rub at my ribs—reflex really, now there’s not even a mark left to show that I got whacked by that car door. Wonder what the guy in the car was doing there at 2 A.M.? The mall stores had been closed for hours, no bars or restaurants in the area. He took a chance insinuating himself in a situation he knew nothing about. There’s no way he could have missed the fact that there were three of us.
    And he had a gun.
    Curiouser and curiouser.
    And what about that creepy sound I heard? Or thought I heard. It could have been the wind. Or . . . what?
    I’ve been a vampire for a little over a year and I’ve come across so many strange things I’ve lost count. I’m no longer surprised or startled by anything that I see or hear. I can’t explain most things, I don’t try anymore. But the guy in the parking lot was no supernatural being. I could get some answers from him. At least I can find out why he was hanging around in a deserted parking lot and why he had a gun.
    I go back inside, open the safe, examine the .22. The serial number is easily distinguishable. A call to a friend at SDPD and he agrees to check the gun registry and get back to me.
    Nothing to do now but wait.
     
    THE CALL COMES in a long hour and a half later. I jot the information down on a notepad, thank my buddy, and ring off with the promise that I owe him one. Then I sit back in my chair and look at the name.
    Alex Hampton.
    I power up my laptop and do a directory search—of both legal and illegal sites. In the bounty-hunting business you cultivate certain talents. Knowing how to get information is one of them. In less than ten minutes, I have an address and phone number. Should I call first? No. Alex surprised me last night. It’s my turn to return the favor. I eject each bullet out of the cylinder on his .22 and drop them into a desk drawer. The gun itself I stick in my jacket.
    Hampton’s address is on Hilltop Drive in Chula Vista, a manicured street of upper-middle-class houses. Hampton has one of the nicer ones. He lives on the west side of the street with a view in back that stretches along the coastline. There are children’s toys in front, a trike, a two-wheeler with training wheels. He has at least two young kids.
    I ring the bell. The door opens a crack, the length allowed by the chain at the top. One round, blue eye peeks out. A cacophony of sound from a Saturday morning cartoon show spills out, too. I kneel down so I’m eye level.
    “Hey. Is your daddy home?”
    The door slams shut. I hear the thud of little feet and the yell of “Daddy” as the kid runs to find his father.
    When the door opens next, I’m greeted by a disheveled, pajama-clad man who rubs the sleep from his eyes as he asks, “Yes?”
    This guy is about forty, overweight, balding.
    Not the man I met last night.
    “Sorry. I must have the wrong address. I’m looking for Alex Hampton.”
    “You found him, lady. What do you want?”
    I have two choices now. Retreat or barge ahead. I pull the gun from my jacket. If he acts frightened and slams the door in my face, I know I have the wrong guy and I’d better get the hell out of here.
    He doesn’t.
    He steps outside, closing the door behind him. “Where did you find it?”
    He’s reaching to take it, but I pull it back. “Where did you lose it?”
    He tilts his head, studying me. “Are you from the police?”
    “No.”
    He looks back at the door, as if to assure himself it’s still closed, but lowers his voice anyway. “I lent it to somebody. He called early this morning and said he lost it.”
    “Who did you lend it to?”
    “I can’t tell you.”
    “Did he tell you how he lost it?”
    A shake of the head.
    “Look, I’m not a cop,” I say. “But I am an officer of the court.” Sort of, anyway. “If you don’t tell me who had the gun last, any crime committed with it will be laid on your doorstep.”
    I have no idea whether or not a crime has been