By Donald Harstad
CODE sixty one: retain radio silence. an individual can be listening.Investigating the plain suicide of a colleague’s niece, Iowa Deputy Sheriff Carl Houseman is startled to discover a bunch that transforms the darkish fantasies of vampire legend into grisly fact: they ritualistically drink small quantities of 1 another’s blood. As Carl is drawn deeper into this unnerving international, it turns into transparent that the lifeless girl could have been the sufferer of a twenty-first-century Dracula.The top suspect, Dan Peale, is a sinister presence in the group--a guy a few say beverages blood and not, ever dies. It’s an outlandish, heinous thought, yet then suspicions are strengthened by means of rumors of a card-carrying vampire hunter who's additionally pursuing Peale. All too quickly, Houseman reveals himself scrambling to trace a vampire--before he kills back.
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Its rails were just two-by-fours with peeling paint. I shined my flashlight down into the wide ditch, and checked the damp, accumulated silt as far as I could see. No foot tracks there, either. Too bad. Tracks in the silt had solved at least two burglaries for me in the past. I shined my flashlight up on to the rear of the buildings, left to right. There were all sorts of color variations, pieces of black felt and tar paper dangling from unused windows and old doors. One in particular, a door that just opened up to emptiness because the stair had collapsed years ago, seemed to be packed with a black drop cloth.
She took a deep breath. ” With that, she stood, and walked over to the mirror. “I was standing right here,” she said. ” She demonstrated by turning her back to the mirror and looking over her shoulder at her reflection. “I turned my head like this,” she said, and looked over toward Byng and me. And also right at the window in question. ” She gave a very genuine shudder. Whatever else, I was certain that she believed she was telling the truth. I walked over to her, and asked her to move a little, so I could stand in her place.
She was a middle-school teacher, and Saturday was about the only day she could sleep past six-thirty. I was tapping the toothbrush on the side of the sink, and just reaching to turn off the water, when the bathroom door opened a few inches, and Sue's hand and arm came through, holding out the portable phone. “Okay,” she said, her voice throaty with sleep. ” It would have been better if she'd said that into the phone, but I didn't think it prudent to bring that up. I was going to hear about this.