Bloodwalker

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Rurik

Obudai Island, Hungary

Sausages sizzled and popped in a frying pan, spattering oil over the countertop in Rurik’s RV camper. A few burning drops landed on his bare chest, but he hardly noticed. The lightning strike that seared his face and chest hadn’t left many nerve endings alive.

He threw diced tomatoes into the pan. A steam cloud boiled up, and a layer of condensation fogged the window above the sink. When he fished the farmer’s cheese out of the refrigerator, he sniffed it and almost gagged. Between chasing the killer, secretly combing the circus tents for the clown costume, and working, he’d forgotten groceries.

He lobbed the rank cheese into the trash can where it splattered against an empty vodka bottle.

“Katenka?” his father called in a slurred voice from the bedroom. “Make me blinis.”

Katenka, Rurik’s mother, had died eight years earlier, but with enough vodka, the dead could come back to life. At least in his father’s mind.

“Omelet and sausage today, Papa,” Rurik said.

“I want blinis…” A minute later, snores rumbled from the bedroom.

“Rurik! Rurik!” From outside, a woman’s voice cut through the snores.

In three strides, Rurik crossed the dining area to the camper’s door and threw it open.

Marva rushed down the line of parked RVs, her wrinkled face flushed as red as her hair. She owned the best dog act in the business and doubled as the circus nurse. Few things rattled her.

Rurik’s mind leaped to possible emergencies. Fire? An accident? Someone hurt? He hoped not. The circus people couldn’t take any more bad luck.

“It’s Ivan and Alexei.” Marva arrived at the door, panting. “They’re going to kill each other!”

Before she finished, Rurik whirled and shut off the stove’s burner. He then dove into the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, searching for his Security shirt. Damn laundry. Another chore forgotten. A chunky mess coated the clothes, gluing them together. He sniffed. Vomit mixed with vodka. His father hadn’t made it to the bathroom again.

“Hurry!” Marva called.

All his clothes reeked of alcohol. One whiff and the gossips would pounce. They’d make a beeline for the manager, Alyosha.

Rurik couldn’t take the chance. If he lost this job, he’d never be hired on the outside. Not with his looks.

He sprang from the vehicle bare-chested and ran beside Marva between the dented and scratched RVs. Black-out curtains darkened almost every window despite the fact it was after noon. Circus people kept vampire hours.

Rurik glanced at the sky out of habit. Bright sun. No storm clouds. No lightning. His breathing eased slightly. “Where are they? In their tent?” he said.

“No, they’re in...”–Marva paused, gasping for air–“…in Johan’s workshop.”

He slowed, more worried about the woman who was like a second mother to him than about Ivan and Alexei. Those two were probably fighting over something stupid.

“Don’t wait…for me.” Marva stopped and bent over, a hand clasped to her ribs. She waved him on with the other. “Go on! Stop that fight!”

Leaving the parked vehicles behind, he sprinted toward the next meadow. The slaps of canvas hitting poles grew louder. Two dozen tents filled the grassland. Constant exposure to the weather had faded all the tents to the same greenish gray. Silver duct tape fluttered in the wind, peeling from rips and holes in badly-patched canvas. Sloping roofs sagged. Rusty poles propped up lopsided awnings.

On the far side, like an astounding mirage, the brilliant white and red stripes of the big top soared into the sky.

At night, strings of tiny lights transformed the circus into a fairyland, dusting everything with magic. The magic lost its sparkle in the daylight, but the gleaming big top never did. At least, not to Rurik.

Outside Johan’s carpentry tent, a red pickup truck glinted in the sunshine. Tied to its bed was a motorcycle spray-painted with leaping flames and the name “Alexei” in big letters. About a dozen circus folk, some still in their bathrobes, clustered around the tent opening, peering in.

Rurik stopped. A shaky breath filled his lungs. He knew what was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. “Let me through,” he demanded.

Faces swung toward him. Eyes latched onto the mass of scars ridging his chest and neck. Some lingered on his face, probing every inch of the damaged flesh as if they expected it to have changed since the last time they saw him.

It wasn’t the ones who stared that bothered him most. He understood their fascination with ugliness—the same way people slowed when passing an accident on the highway, mesmerized by blood and broken limbs. Those people drove away flushed with relief, their own problems suddenly seeming small by comparison.

He didn’t mind being the one who made others feel lucky.

What bothered him were the ones who wouldn’t even look. Their gazes skittered away. They cringed and shuffled sideways as if afraid he’d hurt them, as if he were as vile on the inside as the outside.

Okay, he wasn’t the headlining “Strongman” in the circus anymore. Didn’t bask in the spotlights as the crowd roared its approval. Didn’t earn a lot of money. Wouldn’t marry and have children like others. The lightning had destroyed any chance of that.

But he was Chief of Security, and they had to respect the job.

“Move!” he yelled.

The group broke apart in a flurry. Two female gymnasts tripped over the Austrian horse-master. The Serbian jugglers elbowed the Latvian slackliners out of the way.

In the tent’s entrance, Rurik spotted Yuri, another security guard. The overweight, balding man met his gaze, gasped, and shoved a wad of money into his pocket while whipping a pad he’d been writing on behind his back.

Taking bets. Typical. Rurik would tend to him later.

Rurik pushed past and entered the tent. The smells of fresh lumber, sawdust, and the oily odor of paint wafted up his nostrils.

A table flew through the air and clattered into a tool closet, tossed out of the way by two Russian men. Built like bulls, Ivan and Alexei circled each other, fists up, blood trickling from cuts on cheeks and eyebrows. By the sweat dripping off them and their heaving chests, Rurik figured the fight was winding down. But then, Ivan—the leader of the motorcycle act—landed an uppercut on Alexei’s jaw, knocking the younger man off his feet.

“Go ahead and leave, traitor!” Ivan stood over Alexei, his swollen lips and bloodied mustache garbling his words. “But you’re not taking my sign!” He picked up a large painted canvas from the ground and made it three steps toward the exit before Alexei jumped up and leaped onto his back. The sign tumbled to the floor. Ivan collapsed onto his knees, arms pinned behind him by Alexei.

“Enough!” Rurik said, but Ivan ignored him.

The older man dropped his chin, gray locks flopping onto his sweaty forehead, and then snapped his head back. His skull slammed into Alexei’s face.

Alexei staggered backward, a hand flying to his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Ivan climbed to his feet, spun around, and punched Alexei in the eye. “Ha! You may be able to ride your bike with one eye swelled shut—but how about both!” He c****d his arm for another punch.

Rurik leaped between the two, wrapped a fist in each shirtfront, and held them apart. All three of them topped six feet, but Rurik’s abnormally dense bones made him far more powerful. “Stop it,” he roared. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” Alexei dragged his forearm across his nose, smearing blood and mucus onto his cheek. “I just want my sign.”

“My sign, you ungrateful ass!” Ivan tried to smack Rurik’s hand away and get at Alexei, but couldn’t get past Rurik’s steely grip.

“Look at this!” Alexei bent down, lifted the painting, and pointed past the words Ivan & Alexei’s Globe of Death to the picture of a man straddling a motorcycle. “This is me, not you, and I’m taking it with me, old man.” He strode out the exit, shoving past Yuri and the gawking onlookers.

“When you come crawling back, you better bring it with you!” Ivan shook loose from Rurik’s grip and glared at him. “A lot of help you were. You’re supposed to stop thieves from taking things.”

Rurik folded his arms over his chest and gave his friend the look—the one he used to scare off parking lot buskers who mooched customers from the circus.

“Don’t you use your monster face on me. I’m old enough to be your father. Show some respect.”

“Then act like a man who deserves respect,” Rurik said.

Ivan’s neck and face darkened in a flush. Throwing back his shoulders, he stomped toward the exit. “Nothing to see here! Go back to your own damn tents,” he bellowed, sending people scurrying.

Marva appeared and blocked his way. “That split lip looks bad. You need stitches.”

Ivan puffed out his chest. “It’s nothing,” he said and stalked off.

“Yuri.” Rurik’s menacing tone carried across the tent to where Yuri was trying to slink away with the others.

Yuri pulled his collar away from his flabby neck, and his lips tweaked up in a half-hearted smile. “Just a little sport, boss.”

“Why aren’t you behind the main tent, setting up for the wedding?”

“Johan and Misha are there. They can handle it.”

Rurik’s jaw tightened. Yuri probably hadn’t even showed up, and Johan was too old to be lifting things. “Come with me.” He left the workshop and headed for the big top.

Marva fell into step beside him. “I have to talk to you,” she whispered. “Privately.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Something wrong?”

“Yes.” She peered over her shoulder to where a sulky-faced Yuri plodded through the grass twenty yards behind them. “This morning I woke up to find the Petrovich trailer gone. They joined the Olympia Circus! And from the mess back there,”—she tipped her head at Johan’s tent—“it seems we’ve lost a cyclist. Ivan will look ridiculous circling the cage by himself. Plus, the slackliners are demanding more money, and the Bartelli family is feuding and half refuse to perform tonight.”

Just great. The Petrovich’s defection meant five acts had left the circus in the last month. Box office receipts were lower than any year he could remember, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. “You should talk to Alyosha.”

“I did.” Marva’s tone sharpened. “But he isn’t doing anything! The whole circus is coming apart, and this bloodwalker wedding is making it worse. When I was a kid and Alyosha married Zora, he could keep everyone in line. No one dared say a thing against her. But he’s never around anymore except during the show, and the people are getting angry about Zora and the bloodwalkers. They’re afraid tourists on the island will spot them and word will get out. The last thing we need are rumors keeping customers away. And with Alyosha changing our tour schedule every week, we can’t advertise properly to begin with.”

Rurik’s hand rose, rubbing at the scar that ran across his temple and into his hairline. He hated to hear anything against the man who’d done so much for him. As far as he was concerned, Alyosha always had everyone’s best interests at heart, and it didn’t sit right to hear others criticize. Not even Marva. “It’s true we’re in Budapest early this year, but Zora’s been too ill to do a wedding for a long time. Alyosha’s probably happy she’s feeling good enough to do one this year.”

“There’s one more thing.” Marva’s gaze flashed around the surroundings nervously, and she lowered her voice. “Someone told the clowns you were in their tent while they were working last night. Now they’re claiming things are missing… They’ve made threats.”

Rurik’s steps faltered. None of the clowns wore a costume like the killer’s, but to make sure they weren’t hiding it, he’d snuck in and opened every trunk and closet looking for it. He’d found nothing. “It’s just gossip. It’ll blow over.” He feigned an indifferent shrug, but knew he’d have to be more cautious when searching the other tents and RVs.

“Rishya.”

The old pet-name made him stop and turn toward her.

“Things are worse than I’ve ever seen them. I think there’s going to be trouble, and I’m worried about you.” Her eyes watered, and she swallowed hard. “You have to be careful, Rishya. Promise me!”

He reached out and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. Beneath his large hands, her bones felt as delicate as the trubocki puff pastries she liked to bake. “Don’t worry. I can handle anything that comes my way. I’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be.” She wagged a finger at him before hurrying away, swiping at her cheeks.

He shook his head. Marva was sweet, but her warning didn’t change his plans. He’d been up all night thinking about how to catch the killer. The police would be patrolling Istvantelek depot after the attempted abduction yesterday. The murderer would have to find a new location. Since Rurik couldn’t be everywhere, he saw only one solution. He’d stake out the island’s only bridge all afternoon and turn back any circus people who tried to leave.

If the killer couldn’t get off the island, Budapest’s children would be safe.

He just had to make sure Yuri and Misha—his two deputy security guards—watched the bloodwalkers’ ceremony and headed off any problems, so he could guard the bridge.

In a clearing behind the big top, two long tables had been set up, but nothing else. Johan and Misha crawled over a big trellis-like structure lying on the ground. Johan’s white hair glistened from the gel keeping his pompadour in place. The old man was ridiculously vain about it. He might wear threadbare shirts, have sawdust under his fingernails, and stink of sweat, but his hair was always perfect.

Johan spotted Rurik and stabbed a finger at the trellis. “The damn wedding arch hasn’t been used for so long the wood rotted. One of the legs collapsed.”

“So just set up an awning instead. Who will know?”

“Who? Who? Alyosha will! And Zora.” Johan shuddered, his wrinkled face puckering. “No! I’m not having them say I can’t do my job. I just have to build a support base. Misha’s helping.” He pointed his hammer at a lanky teen who grinned at Rurik. “It’ll be done in a half hour, so if Alyosha asks, you tell him everything’s fine. Except I need someone to go to equipment truck three and find the plastic roses we drape on this thing.”

Rurik beckoned Yuri over. “Here, explain to Yuri where—”

“Are you kidding?” Johan interrupted. “He’ll disappear again, and I won’t get my roses! You go.”

Dammit! The killer might be getting into a car any moment and making for the bridge. But the wedding was important to Alyosha, and Yuri couldn’t be trusted to search for the roses. Rurik clamped stern eyes on Yuri. “I’ll get the roses. But since Misha’s busy, you have to wait in the tourist’s parking lot for the brides and their mothers.”

“The bloodwalkers? Hell no. I’m not interested in babysitting those freaks.”

“Are you interested in getting paid next week?”

Yuri looked down. His toe dug into the soft earth. “Yeah…”

“Then meet the women and bring them to the dressing room trailer.”

“But I can’t do that, boss. Madame Nadia will go crazy! She said if she sees those bloodwalker bitches—her words—near her wardrobe trailer, she’ll quit.”

Rurik ground his teeth. He’d never get to the bridge at this rate. “Then take the women to the public restroom building. Stay with them to make sure they’re okay, and then escort them here. You got it?”

Yuri mumbled something.

“I can’t hear you,” Rurik bit off each word.

“All right, all right...” Yuri trudged off in the direction of the public parking lot.

Leaving Johan and Misha repairing the trellis arch, Rurik jogged to the rear of the encampment and headed down the row of semi-trucks until he found the one marked “3.” His key ring held over two dozen keys, but he’d labeled them and quickly found the one for the trailer. The back doors swung open with a screech. He vaulted inside.

Dusty spotlights and spools of electrical wire and steel cable lay stacked on one side of the truck bed. On the walls, ladders, hydraulic hoses, and extra supports for the audience bleachers hung on metal hooks. He sped to the end, where cartons held props and set pieces for the acts.

Pulling open the first one to look for the plastic roses, he suddenly realized he should be looking for the clown costume, too.

When he’d come up empty in the clowns’ quarters, he’d mentally cleared them from the list of suspects—but he hadn’t considered the trucks. Zorka Cyrka traveled with six equipment trucks, two horse trailers, and a converted horse trailer for Marva’s dogs.

The killer could have secreted the costume inside any of them. He could still be one of the clowns.

Rurik crushed the cardboard flap in his hand. He should have thought of it before. Now he had no time to search all six equipment trucks. It was getting late. He had to find the roses, grab some clean clothes, and stake out the bridge.

A grunt came from the rear of the trailer, and the floor dipped as a group of men climbed in.

“We hear you visit our tent last night.” Silhouetted against the sunlight, the speaker was a black shape, but Rurik knew that Italian accent anywhere. Antonelli. Leader of the clowns. “Funny thing,”—Antonelli gave a snarling laugh—“we not remember inviting you.”

The group cackled in appreciation.

Antonelli’s tone hardened. “No one allowed in our tent. Ever.”

“As head of security, I go where I want,” Rurik said, but there was really no point in arguing. The Italian comics were a nasty bunch, and nothing would stop them from what they’d come to do.

“Security.” The shortest of the six spat on the floor. “You’re no cop—just nosy like one. You gotta learn to mind your own business.”

Six against one. Hardly a fair fight. But the clowns knew that whatever happened, Rurik wouldn’t rat them out. Even if he did, they wouldn’t be fired.

There were only two punishable offenses in circus life. You never messed with someone else’s act, and you never, ever involved the police. Everything else was fair game.

Knowing minutes were ticking past, and he had to get to the bridge, Rurik raised his fists and tucked his chin. “Come on then.”