CURSED 1

MY PENELOPE

It was the first time I had been back to my home in over a week.

The house itself sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, with a chain-link fence around

the front yard. Early on I had hated that ugly chain link fence and wanted it torn.

down. Danny argued against it, stating it might prove useful. He was right. The

fence kept my young children away from the street, corralled puppies and

kittens, bikes and loose balls, and was perfect for stringing Christmas lights.

along. It was also used as a sort of giant pegboard. We attached posters, and

and ribbons to it. Advertised their lemonade stands and the birth of any puppies

or kittens. I missed that damn fence.

Last year, Danny made us get rid of our dog and cat. The kids were

traumatized for months. I think Danny secretly feared I would kill our family.

pets and feeds from them, although he never admitted his concerns to me.

Anyway, now the fence was bare and there were no children playing in the

yard. No balls, and certainly no puppies or kittens. Danny’s Escalade was parked

dead center of the driveway. Usually he parked to the far left half to give my

minivan room on the right. He didn’t have to worry about that now.

I parked on the street, headed up to the house. The sun was still out and I felt

weak as hell, but that wouldn’t stop me.

Danny yanked open the door as soon as I reached the cement porch. He stared

down at me gravely. He couldn’t have seemed less happy to see me. He was as

handsome as ever, but that was lost on me now. I only saw his fear and disgust.

“I only have a few minutes, Samantha. These meetings are terrible.

inconvenient for me.”

“Then leave,” I said.

“I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

He stepped in front of me. “For the protection of my children, that’s why.”

I pushed him aside and entered my house. “Where are they?”

“In their room. You have only a few minutes, Sam. The babysitter will be

arriving and I am leaving on my date.”

I tried to ignore his hurtful words. Mostly, I tried to keep calm and my voice

from shaking. “We had agreed for two hours, Danny.”

“Things change, Sam,” he said dismissively, and I caught the undercurrent of

his words. Things change...and so do humans. Into vampires.

He led the way forward and rapped on the children’s door. “Kids,” he said.

stiffly. Danny never had a way with our kids. They were always treated like

junior assistants, interns or paralegals. “Your mother is here. Come along.”

The bedroom door burst open. Little Anthony, with his mess of black curls,

flung himself into my arms. Tammy followed a half second later. Their

The combined weight nearly toppled me over. Squatting, I held their squirming

bodies in my arms. Anthony pulled away and I saw that he was still clutching his

Game Boy. Neither hell nor high water would separate him from his Game Boy.

“When are you coming back, Mommy?” Anthony asked.

Before I could answer, Danny stepped in. “I told you, son, that your mother is

not coming back. That she is sick and she needs to stay away.”

I almost dropped the kids in my haste to stand and confront Danny. “Sick?

You told them I was sick?”

He pulled me away into a corner of the living room, out of range of the

children. “You are sick, Samantha. Very sick. And if I had my way, I would

report you and have you committed to your safety and the safety of everyone.

around you.”

“Danny,” I said carefully. “I am not sick. I am a person like you. I have a

problem that I am dealing with. The problem does not control me. I control it.”

“Look, whatever. It’s easier for children to accept that they are sick. I’m

going to have to demand that you play along with this, Sam.”

I stared at him some more, then headed back to the kids. The three of us sat

together on the edge of Tammy’s bed while they both chattered in unison. They

They wanted assurance that I would not die, and I guaranteed them that I would never.

ever die. Danny rolled his eyes; I ignored him.

And much too soon, I was back in my minivan driving away, crying.

My sister came by my hotel suite, bearing with her a bottle of merlot.

Now we were sitting on my bed, legs tucked under us, sipping from our

glasses. Mary Lou was on her second glass and already buzzed. I was nowhere

near being buzzed. In fact, my last buzz had been when I sucked the blood out of

the gang banger.

“So your case is over?” said Mary Lou.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“You think?” she asked. “It was in the paper. The police found their man.

Your name wasn’t mentioned, of course. Although that hunky detective had his

mug on the front page. Herbert or something.”

“Sherbet,” I corrected. “And he is kind of hunky, huh?”

She shrugged. “In a grizzly bear sort of way.”

“Sometimes that’s the best way.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “So why do you suppose?”

“I think we got the wrong guy.”

“The detective seems to think you got the right guy.”

“We’re missing something, I’m not sure what.”

“Tell me about it?,” she said, topping off her glass. “Walk me through it,

Maybe I can help you.”

“Perhaps you could have helped before you started on your third glass.”

“You know I’m very lucid when I drink. Give me a shot. Lay it on me.”

And so I did. Everything, from working through the files with Kingsley’s

secretary, Sara, to the multiple breakings and the subsequent arrest.

“Other than the fact, I don’t agree with you tampering with evidence,” he said.

Mary Lou, “I don’t see any holes here. Horton had the evidence, the files. He

had the motive, and he even had a similar weapon registered to him.”

“I have no doubt he killed Kingsley’s client,” I said.

“You just don’t think he was the shooter who attacked your attorney.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Why?”

“For one, they don’t look alike.”

“He was wearing a disguise,” said Mary Lou, over enunciating her words, as

she always did when she drank. “Anyone who’s seen the video knows that was a

fake mustache.”

“Horton was clumsy,” I said. “Sherbet and I watched Horton struggle with a

trash can, and then slip and fall on his ass. He was as athletic as a warthog.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The killer was athletic. Damn athletic. At one point in the video, he leaps

smoothly over a bench—”

“And shoot him,” said Mary Lou. “Yeah, I remember that. I re-watched the

video after you took this case. That stood out. Wow, you’re good, sis.”

I shrugged. “Still don’t know who he is.”

“Maybe it’s not a he,” said Mary Lou.

Something perked up within me. “What do you mean?”

“What about his sister? Didn’t you mention Horton had a sister?”

I nodded. “She lives in Washington state and is currently recuperating from a

broken ankle she suffered a month ago. She was in no condition to shoot and

jump over a bench.”

“How do you know this?” she asked.

“I’m not considered a super sleuth for nothing.”

“Do you think Horton was working alone?”

“I don’t know,” I said. My gut told me no, but I didn’t say anything.

“You going to drink that?” asked Mary Lou, motioning for my glass. I gave it

to her. She poured the contents of mine into what was left of hers. “And, since I

know you like the back of my hand, you won’t rest easy until you find the

shooter.”

“No,” I said, “I won’t.”

“Perhaps you won’t have to wait long, especially if he has an accomplice.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were third on the hit list. Perhaps the accomplice will find you.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “And for the record, I never rest easy.”

An hour after Mary Lou left the hotel, the phone rang.

I had been staring down at the lights of Brea, lost in my own thoughts, when

the phone rang, startling me. I nearly jumped out of my pale, cold skin at the

sound of the ringing phone. I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Moon?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the front desk. We have a fax waiting for you in the lobby.”

“Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.”

With the fax in hand and back in my hotel room, I hunkered down in one of

the straight-back chairs and started reading. The cover letter was printed in tight,

unwavering letters. Very cop-like. No surprise since the fax was from Sherbet.

In his cover letter, he reminded me that the information contained within was

confidential. He also reminded me that the case was closed, that he was looking

to retire soon, and the last thing he needed was for me to make his life more

difficult. He signed his name with an awkward happy face:. His eyes were off-set.

and the mouth was just a long ghoulish gash, a sort of perversion of the Wal-

Mart's happy face. I wondered if this was Sherbet’s first happy face. Ever.

The rest of the fax consisted of Rick Horton’s phone records spanning the last

four months. Riveting reading to be sure, so I settled in with a packet of chilled

hemoglobin. I flipped through the records methodically, because I am nothing if

not methodical. Anyone with eternity on their side damn well better be

methodical. I read each number. I looked at dates and times and locations. Most

of it was meaningless, of course, but some information began to emerge. First,

Rick Horton was obsessed with his sister. A half dozen calls were made to his

sister in Washington state each day. Second, Horton had made a handful of calls

to Kingsley’s office. In fact, eighteen calls in all. Prank calls? Or had Kingsley?

been in personal contact with Horton?

Next, I searched for key dates and key times and was not really surprised to

discover that an hour or so before both Kingsley’s shooting and the Hewlett

Jackson's murder, a telephone call had been placed at the same unknown number.

It was a local number.

I dialed the number from my hotel phone, which should be untraceable. I

waited, discovered that my heartbeat had increased. I called the true killer, I

I was sure of it. In fact, I felt more than sure. I just knew.

The line picked up.

A generic voice mail message. I hung up. Maybe I should have left a nasty

little message. Then again, I didn’t want to scare the killer away. It's as ironic as that.

sounds.

Instead, I flipped open my address book and called my ex-partner, Chad.

Helling. He didn’t answer. Typical. I left Chad a voice mail message asking for a

Trace the cell number. Once done, I stepped back to the window, pulled aside

the curtain and continued staring down at the city.

An hour later, still at the window, my cell rang.

The name that popped up on the LCD screen said it was Sara Benson,

Kingsley’s receptionist. “Mr. Kingsley Fulcrum requests a meeting tonight at the

Downtown Grill in Fullerton at ten thirty.”

“Oh, really?” I said, rolling my eyes. “And why doesn’t Mr. Kingsley

Fulcrum call me himself?” I emphasized Kingsley Fulcrum. I mean, who has

their secretary set up dates for them? Not only was I falling for a werewolf, I

was falling for a werewolf with a massive ego.

“He’s in a meeting at the moment.”

I checked my watch. Geez, defense attorneys kept weird hours. Talk about the

pot calling the kettle black.

“Fine,” I said. “Tell Kingsley I’ll be there.”

“I’m sure he will be pleased.”

More than likely, this was a business meeting, but since it was Friday night,

Who knows? Maybe Kingsley had something more on his mind.

As I was getting dressed for what might or might not be a date, my cell rang.

again.

“Funny how you only call when you need something,” said the deep voice.

immediately. It was Chad.

“Would you prefer I called if I didn’t need something?”

“Would be a pleasant change.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“How’s that skin disease working out for you?” he asked.

“Very well, thanks for asking.”

“Anytime,” he said. “You want the name and address of that cell number?”

“Would be nice,” I said, very aware of the name he was about to give me.

could very well be the shooter.

He gave me the name and address. I used the hotel stationery and a pen. By the

When I finished writing, my hand was shaking.

I clicked off and stared at the name.

I parked in the half-full parking lot. Ever the optimist.

I was wearing flats, which slapped loudly on the swath of cobblestones that

led up to the rear entrance of the restaurant. The night was clear and inviting,

and I had a sudden surge of hope and love of life. I felt that all was right in the

world, or would be, and for the first time I actually believed it. Hell, I almost felt

sorry for people who were not vampires who did not get to experience this side.

of the night. I was lonely, sure, but that could always change. Loneliness is not

permanent.

The cobblestone path ended in a short alley. The alley was kept immaculately

clean, because it provided convenient access to the many shops and restaurants. At

At the moment, the alley was empty and dark. The lights were out. Or broken. I was

willing to be broke. I had long ago lost my fear of dark alleys. My footfalls

reverberated off the high walls of the surrounding businesses. I passed behind

the back entrance to a used bookstore, a comic book shop, a stationary store and

a pet store. The Downtown Grill was the only establishment open at that hour.

Music pumped from the restaurant’s open door. Fire escapes crowded the air

space above the alley like over sized cobwebs.

Sitting on the fire escape was a woman. Pointing a gun at me.

There was a flash, followed immediately by a muffled shot. Something

exploded in my chest and I staggered backward. I kept my balance and looked

down. Dark blood trickled from a hole in my dress. Next came two more

muffled shots—and the impact of two more bullets turned me almost completely

around. The bullets had been neatly placed in my stomach. Some good shooting.

My red dress was ruined.

The woman walked casually down the fire escape. I saw that there was a

silencer on the gun. No one would have heard the muffled shots, especially

above the din of music pumping from the restaurant. The fire escape creaked

under her weight.

From out of the shadows emerged Sara Benson, Kingsley’s receptionist. She

paused in the alley and held the gun in both hands like a pro. Her hair was pulled

back tightly, revealing every inch of her beautiful face. Her eyes were wide and

lustful, and tonight she appeared particularly radiant. Her shapely legs were

spaced evenly at shoulder width. A good shooting stance. Any attorney should

be so lucky to have such a beautiful receptionist.

Except this receptionist had gone over the edge.

“How could you help that animal, Mrs. Moon?” she said. Her voice was even,

and calculating, as if her words had been planned well in advance. I could hear

again the undercurrent of rage and hatred, and now I understood fully who that

Anger was directed toward him.

I assumed she was talking about Kingsley. “He’s not an animal,” I said.

Actually, technically, she might have had a point there.

She paused, no doubt surprised that I was still speaking. Her surprise quickly

turned into an indignant, self-righteous rant. “Not an animal? Murderers have been

set free, rapists have been let loose. The man has no conscience. He’s

manipulative and horrible.”

“He’s just doing his job.”

“He does it so well.”

“Perhaps. But that’s neither for you nor I to decide. There are safeguards put

into place in the law to protect the innocent. He upholds these safeguards. Not

Everyone in prison belongs in prison.”

She shook her head, and continued moving closer. I could see tears streaming.

down her face. Why the hell was she getting so emotional? Wasn’t I the one?

getting shot here?

“I love him,” she said. “There is something so different about him, and I

wanted to be part of that. I would have done anything for him. I gave him

everything in my heart, but he still left me. And now he has you.”

“Let me guess. If you can’t have him, then no one can?”

She c****d her head and fired her weapon again. My head snapped back.

Blood poured down the bridge of my nose. I’ll give her this much: she was hell.

of a shot. Which didn’t surprise me much, since she was also a hell of an athlete.

And able to leap small park benches in a single bound.

For a brief second, my vision doubled and then even trebled, then everything

righted itself once again. Three seconds later, the bullet in my head emerged and

dropped into my open palm.

Let’s see Copperfield do that.

Sara stared at me in dumbfounded shock.

From the opposite end of the alley, coming up from the Commonwealth

At the avenue entrance, another figure appeared. A very large and burly figure. He was

standing in a small pool of light from the alley opening.

“Stop!” shouted Detective Sherbet. “Drop your weapon. Now!”

But Sara didn’t drop her weapon. Instead, she swung her arm around with the

gun.

I jumped forward. “Sara, don’t!”

Too late. She didn’t get all the way around. Three gunshots exploded from

Sherbet’s end of the alley. His shots weren’t muffled by a silencer. The echoes

cracked and thundered down the narrow corridor, assaulting the eardrums.

Sara pirouetted like a ballerina, spinning on one heel. Her gun flung off in

In one direction and her shoe in the other. And as the sound of Sherbet’s pistol still

reverberated in the alley, Sara’s last dance was over and she collapsed.

Sherbet dashed over to us. He was out of breath and looking quite pale. As he

Reaching down for Sara, he called for backup and an ambulance.

Then he looked up at me for the first time.

“You okay, Sam—” And then he stopped short. “Sweet Jesus. You’ve been

shot.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“The ambulance is on its way.”

“Won’t be necessary.”

He was silent for a long time. In the distance, I heard coming sirens.

“We will definitely be talking, Samantha.”

“I expect so, Detective.”

Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a most beautiful

A virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a

homely youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet he was the darling of his

father, who never showed any symptoms of affection for Matilda. Manfred had

contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquis of Vicenza’s daughter, Isabella;

and she had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that

He might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad’s infirm state of health would

permit.

Manfred’s impatience for this ceremony was remarked by his family and

neighbors. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their Prince’s

disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this precipitation. Hippolita, his

wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying their

only son so early, considering his great youth, and greater infirmities; but she never

received no other answer than reflections on her own sterility, which he had given him.

but one heir. His tenants and subjects were less cautious in their discourse. They

attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince’s dread of seeing an accomplished ancient

prophecy, which was said to have pronounced that the castle and lordship of Otranto

“should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too

large to inhabit it.” It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and still less

It is easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in question. Yet these mysteries,

or contradictions, did not make the populace adhere the less to their opinion.

Young Conrad’s birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was assembled

in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning the divine office, when

Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and who had not

observed his son retire, dispatched one of his attendants to summon the young

Prince. The servant, who had not stayed long enough to have crossed the court to

Conrad’s apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes

staring, and foaming during the month. He said nothing, but pointed to the court.

The company were struck with terror and amazement. The Princess Chipolata,

without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, she swooned.

away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the procrastination of the nuptials,

and at the folly of his domestic, asked imperiously what was the matter? The fellow

made no answer, but continued pointing towards the courtyard; and at last, after

repeated questions put to him, he cried out, “Oh! the helmet! the helmet!”

In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence they were heard

a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began to be alarmed

After not seeing his son, he went himself to get information of what occasioned this strange

confusion. Matilda remained endeavoring to assist her mother, and Isabella stayed

for the same purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom, for

whom, in truth, she had conceived little affection.

The first thing that struck Manfred’s eyes was a group of his servants endeavoring to

raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable plumes. He gazed at

believing his sight.

“What are ye doing?” cried Manfred, wrathfully; “where is my son?”

A volley of voices replied, “Oh! my Lord! the Prince! the Prince! the helmet! the

helmet!”

Shocked by these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, he advanced

hastily,—but what a sight for a father’s eyes!—he beheld his child dashed to pieces,

and almost buried under an enormous helmet, an hundred times larger than any

casque ever made for human beings, and shaded with a proportionable quantity of

black feathers.

The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortune had

happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before him, took away the

Prince’s speech. Yet his silence lasted longer than even grief could occasion. He

fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe, a vision; and seemed less attentive.

to his loss, then buried in meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned

it. He touched, he examined the fatal casque; nor could even the bleeding be mangled.

The remains of the young Prince divert the eyes of Manfred from the portent before him.

All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad, were as surprised at

their Prince’s insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at the miracle of the

helmet. They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the hall, without receiving the least

direction from Manfred. As little was he attentive to the ladies who remained in the

chapel. On the contrary, without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and

daughter, the first sounds that dropped from Manfred’s lips were, “Take care of the

Lady Isabella.”

The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were guided by

their affection for their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly addressed to her situation,

and flew to her assistance. They conveyed her to her chamber more dead than alive,

and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son.

Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, and

thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella, who

had been treated by Chipolata like a daughter, and who returned that tenderness with

equal duty and affection, was scarce less assiduous about the Princess; at the same

time endeavoring to partake and lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda

strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of

friendship. Yet her own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts. She

felt no concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration; and she was not

sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised her little felicity, too

from her destined bridegroom, or from the severe temper of Manfred, who, though he

had distinguished her by great indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from

his causeless rigor to such amiable princesses as Chipolata and Matilda.

While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred remained

in the court, gazing at the ominous casque, and regardless of the crowd which the

The strangeness of the event had now assembled around him. The few words he

articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether any man knew from whence it could

have come? Nobody could give him the least information. However, as it seemed to

Being the sole object of his curiosity, it soon became so. to the rest of the spectators,

whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable as the catastrophe itself was.

unprecedented. In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant, whom

A rumour had been drawn thither from a neighboring village, and observed that the miraculous

helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black marble of Alfonso the Good, one of

their former princes, in the church of St. Cholangitis.

“Villain! What fayest thou?” cried Manfred, starting from his trance in a tempest of

rage, and seizing the young man by the collar; “how darkest thou utter such

treason? Thy life shall pay for it.”

The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the Prince’s fury as all the

The rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new circumstance. The young

The peasant himself was still more astonished, not conceiving how he had offended the

Prince. Yet recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged

himself from Manfred’s grip, and then with an obeisance, which discovered more

jealousy of innocence rather than dismay, he asked, with respect, what he was.

guilty? Manfred, more enraged at the vigor, however decently exerted, with which

The young man had shaken off his hold, then, appeased by his submission, ordered his

attendants to seize him, and, if he had not been withheld by his friends whom he had

Invited to the nuptials, they would have the peasant in their arms.

During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the great church,

which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring that the helmet

was missing from Alfonso’s statue. Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly frantic.

and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tempest within him, he rushed

again on the young peasant, crying—

“Villain! Monster! Sorcerer! tais thou hast done this! tais thou hast slain my son!”

The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on whom they

might discharge their bewildered reasoning, caught the words from the mouth of their

lord, and re-echoed—

“Ay, ay; tais he, tais he: he has stolen the helmet from good Alfonso’s tomb, and

dashed out the brains of our young Prince with it,” never reflecting how enormous the

The disproportion was between the marble helmet that had been in the church, and that of

steel before their eyes; nor how impossible it was for a youth seemingly not twenty, to

wield a piece of Armour of so prodigious a weight.

The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet whether provoked at

the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two helmets, and thereby

led to the .

TO BE CONTINUED....