51.

Sometime during the night I awoke in the bathroom to find myself in a pool of my own blood. I was cold and not very shocked to see that the wound in my shoulder had healed completely. I stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed into bed.

I slept through the day and awoke at dusk. I felt like hell, groggy, disoriented. I had to remind myself where I was. I bolted upright. Shit! I had forgotten to pick up the kids!

I was just about to hop out of bed until I remembered it wasn't my job to do so anymore. Danny's mother picked them up now. I slumped back into bed, immediately depressed.

My daytime obligations had vanished. Perhaps that was a good thing in away, since I did not operate well during the daylight hours. And, for the first time since the kids had been taken away from me, I felt�Dwhich was immediately accompanied by a lot of guilt�Da sense of freedom. No kids to pick up. No dinners to cook, no husband to attend to or worry about.

Freedom and guilt, in just that order.

I stretched languidly on the bed, reveling in the surprisingly soft mattress. Why had I not noticed how soft the mattress was? A moment passed, and then another, and then my heart sank.

I had no children to pick up from school and no one to cook for! I missed my kids�Dbut not my husband. Knowing I repulsed him helped sever my emotional ties to him. Yes, I missed the good times with Danny. But I wouldn't miss these past few years.

But I would see my children this weekend. It sucked, but there was nothing I could do about it now, although I vowed to get them back.

Somehow.

For now, though, there was nothing to do but lie here and hurt�Dand wait for true night to fall. The drapes were thick and heavy and kept out most of the setting sun. My window dressings at home were, in fact, the same heavy curtains found in hotels. Early on, right after my attack, I had wanted to board up the windows, but Danny resisted and we compromised with the heavy drapes.

I massaged my shoulder. Although it still ached, there was no evidence of a wound. Another few inches over and I would have been dead. My only saving grace had been a last-second alarm that went off in my head, a warning that told me to turn dammit.

I thought of the vampire hunter. I couldn't have him taking potshots at me whenever he damned well felt like it. I had to do something about him, and short of killing him�Dwhich was a definite option�DI just wasn't sure what yet.

First things first. I needed to figure out how the hell he kept showing up without me spotting him. I always check for tails, a good habit for an investigator to have. So I was certain he wasn't following me.

Of course, there are other ways to keep tabs on people, especially tabs on vehicles. In fact, at HUD, we had employed such techniques. Tracking devices.

As I waited for the sun to set, I turned on the boob tube and flipped through some news channels and a re-run or two until I came across an Angels game. I couldn't recall the last time I watched an Angels game. I loved baseball, especially the leisurely pace of the game. I liked the quiet moments when the pitcher stepped off the mound and gathered his thoughts while the world waited. My father was a minor league pitcher in Rancho Cucamonga. He was good, but not great, which is why he never made it past single-A ball. Still, surrounded by my three older brothers, I learned to love the game at an early age.

The Angels were up 3-2. Tim Salmon had just hit a line-drive single up the middle.

Those childhood memories seemed to belong to someone else. Someone I barely recalled, yet remembered in detail. I was a different person now. The pre-attack Samantha as opposed to the post-attack Samantha were two different people. Hell, two different species.

Salmon had a nice butt. So did most baseball players.

I rubbed my shoulder again as I watched the game. So how the hell did it heal so quickly? What caused this to happen? Ancient magic? If so, was this the same magic keeping me alive? Was I even truly alive? Or was I dead and didn't know it?

Bengie Molina, the Angel's catcher, ripped a line drive back to the pitcher. The pitcher doubled-up Salmon at first. End of inning.

Perhaps I was nothing more than a spirit or a ghost who didn't have enough sense to move on. But on to where? I didn't feel dead.

It was the eighth inning, and the Angels brought in their closer, El Toro, the bull. Percival was a big man with big legs. He looked like a bull. I liked the way he squinted and curled his tongue. He looked like a gunslinger. Except this gunslinger slung baseballs. He struck out the first batter in four pitches.

Perhaps I was a plague on the earth, an abnormality that needed to be cleansed. Perhaps the world would have been better off if the vampire hunter's arrow had hit home.

More squinting from El Toro. I heard once that Percival needed to wear glasses but he chose not to while pitching, forcing himself to focus solely and completely on the catcher's signals, blocking out all other distractions. On his next pitch, the batter popped out to center field.

Perhaps I didn't need to know what kept me alive. Perhaps my existence was no more a mystery than life itself. Hell, where did any of us come from? That thought comforted me.

Percival struck out the next batter and pumped his fist. It was the bottom of the eighth inning.

I was suddenly content and at peace with myself. I would have ordered room service if fresh plasma was on the menu. Instead, I sipped from a bottle of water and let the day slip into night. And when the sun finally set, when my breathing seemed unrestricted and my body fully alert, I was ready to take on the world.

Oh, and the Angels won.

With all the time on my hands, maybe I'll catch a night game this season.

52.

I first headed over to an auto repair shop in Fullerton.

The young mechanic came out to meet me as I pulled in front of an empty service garage. He wore a light blue workshirt with the name Rick stitched on a patch over his chest.

"Sorry, we're closing," said Rick when I rolled down my window.

I pulled out a twenty dollar bill. "All I need for you to do is lift my van."

"Why?"

"I want to have a look underneath."

"You want to? Why?"

"Because this is how I spend my Friday nights. Just lift the van for a few minutes, let me have a look underneath, and the twenty is yours."

Rick thought about, then shrugged. "Hey, whatever you say, lady," he said and took the twenty.

He motioned me forward. I drove into the narrow space, straddling the lift. I got out and Rick manipulated some nearby controls and soon the above-ground lift was chugging into action. The van rose slowly, wheels sagging down. A few minutes later, now at eye level, I thought the minivan looked forlorn and sort of helpless, like a wild horse being airlifted from an overflowing river.

"Okay," Rick said. "Have at it. Just don't hurt yourself. You need a flashlight?"

"No,"

"So what are you looking for?" he asked, standing next to me.

"I'll know it when I see it."

The underside of the van was a mess of hoses, encased wires and steel shafts and rods. I walked slowly along the frame until I found it. Held in place by magnets and twisty-ties, the tracking device was about the size and shape of a cell phone.

"What the hell is that?" asked Rick.

"My TV remote," I said. "Been looking everywhere for it."

"No shit?" he said.

"No shit."

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