Violets Are Blue

I enjoyed the fantasy.
    Little Alex is very alert at nine months, and he likes to watch passing people, cars, the clouds streaming above his little head. He loves rides in the stroller, and I like pushing him, talking or singing kiddie ditties as we go about our business.
    “See the wind blowing the tree leaves?” I said, and he looked up as if he understood every word.
    It’s impossible to tell how much he understands, but he seems responsive to what I say. Damon and Jannie were the same way, though Jannie was constantly babbling as an infant. She still loves to talk, and to get in the last word, and the next to the last, just like her grandmother, and also, now that I remember, her mother, Maria.
    “I need your help, buddy.” I stooped down and talked to little Alex again.
    He looked up at me, smiled beautifully.
Sure, Daddy, you can count on me
.
    “It’s your job to hold me together for a little while. You give me something precious to focus on. Can you do that?”
    Alex continued to smile.
Of course I can, Daddy. It’s no problem. Consider it done. I am your precious. Lean on me
.
    “Good boy. I knew I could count on you. Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a while. I love you, little buddy.”
    As I was talking to my son, though, a little of the feelings of the night before rolled over me like some cold, wet fog coming up from the Anacostia River.
Coincidences
, I remembered.
The bad things that had happened around me for the past two years. A real bad run. The murder of Betsey Cavalierre. The Mastermind. The vampire killers
.
    I needed for it to let up some, needed to come up for air.
    When I got to headquarters that morning, a message was waiting for me. There had been another vampire murder. But the game had just changed, taken another turn.
    This one had taken place in Charleston, South Carolina.
    The killers were on the East Coast again.

Part Three

MURDER IN THE SOUTH

Chapter 42

    I FLEW to Charleston and arrived a little before ten in the morning. The local murder story was boldly splashed across the front pages of the
Post and Courier
and also
USA Today
.
    I could feel uncertainty and fear in the bright, sterile, overly commercialized confines of the airport. Travelers I passed seemed nervous and wary. Several looked as if they hadn’t slept well the night before.
    I’m sure that some of them felt that if the mysterious killers could strike in the heart of Charleston, they could do it in an airport waiting room or food court just as easily. No one was feeling safe anywhere.
    I rented a car at the Charleston airport, and then I set off for a spot called Colonial Lake in town. A male and female jogger had been murdered there at around six the previous morning. The couple had been married for just four months. The similarities to the murders in Golden Gate Park were unmistakable.
    I had never been to Charleston, though I’d read books set in the city. I soon discovered for myself that Charleston is physically gorgeous. Once upon a time, it had been a city of incredible wealth, most of which came from cotton, rice, and slaves, of course. Rice had been the biggest export, but slaves, who were brought into Charleston Port and sold throughout the South, were the import that proved the most profitable. Wealthy planters had traveled frequently between the plantations in the lowlands and their homes in Charleston, where the important balls, concerts, and masquerades were held. Relatives of Nana Mama’s had been brought into Charleston Port and sold there.
    I found a parking spot on Beaufain Street, which was lined with Victorian-style houses and was lovely. I even spied a few English gardens. This wasn’t the kind of place where ghoulish murders ought to happen. It was too pretty, too idyllic. Was that what drew the killers here? Did they appreciate beauty — or hate it? What were they revealing to us with each new murder? What was their dark fantasy? Their horror story?
    If Charleston was suspicious and fearful about the murders, then the streets around Colonial Lake seemed close to terror. People eyed one another warily and coldly. There was nothing even close to a welcoming smile, no Southern hospitality on display anywhere.
    I had left a message for Kyle to meet me at the lake. It was surrounded by wide sidewalks and wrought-iron benches. Yesterday, it had probably appeared picture-perfect and completely safe. Today, bright yellow