Page 36 of John’s Yearning

“Just getting to Glen Park. Why?”

“Shit!” Damian was even farther away from Savannah’s neighborhood than he was. “Do you have eyes on Alexi?”

“Yep, he just stopped at a hardware store. There he is, coming out again. Why?”

“Stay on him. I have reason to believe Savannah just received a ransom note.”

“Huh? I thought you said we’re dealing with a child trafficking ring. Are you changing the rules on us?”

“This is real, Damian! A real case. Get that?” John slammed his hand against the steering wheel and honked at an idiot driver in front of him. “Don’t lose Alexi. If he’s behind the kidnapping, he’ll be preparing for the money drop.”

“Uh-oh,” Damian let out.

“What?”

“He bought some rope and duct tape in the hardware store.”

“Oh, shit! Follow him, no matter where he goes. Have Benjamin back you up.”

“You got it.”

John disconnected the call, saw an opening ahead of him and passed the indecisive driver blocking his progress. He managed to drive one block before he had to avoid another obstacle. At the next light, he turned left before the oncoming traffic had a chance to make it into the intersection, and finally, followed by angry honking, escaped the worst of the traffic jam.

He used his knowledge of the city’s shortcuts to avoid more bottlenecks and finally reached Lower Pacific Heights.

A few more blocks, and he turned into the side street where Savannah’s flat was located. All looked quiet from the outside. He saw no light in the front rooms, but then, it was too early to need light inside: the sun was still up, even though it was foggy here, foggier than in the Mission or his own neighborhood. He was glad for it, because at least the fog would help shield him a little.

John drove as close to the front steps of Savannah’s duplex as he could and stopped the car. From the glove compartment, he retrieved a small leather etui and shoved it into his inside pocket. Then he checked behind his seat, and to his relief, the old blanket he’d tossed there a few nights earlier to give to the next homeless person he encountered, was still there. He pulled it out and wrapped it around his torso, covering his head and shoulders, and holding it closed under his chin.

“Here we go,” he murmured to himself and opened the door.

He jumped out of the car as fast as he could, slammed the door shut and sprinted to the stairs. Already he could feel the UV-rays heating his body, though it was not as bad as being exposed on a sunny day. He reached the front steps and sprinted up to where two front doors were located. He now had a ceiling above him, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet, because the sunlight could still penetrate the otherwise protected space from the street.

John hit the doorbell, but didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he pulled the leather etui from his pocket, took out a lock pick, and went to work. He hunched over the lock, making sure his head and shoulders were covered by the blanket and his broad body was shielding his hands from sunlight. But he could feel heat on the back of his calves, which were only covered by the thin cloth of his cargo pants. They didn’t provide much protection, and he knew he would sustain burns there. But he didn’t care. He would heal. He’d sustained worse burns before and survived.

Finally, the lock clicked. He shoved the door open, rushed inside, and slammed it shut behind him. Sighing a breath of relief, he paused for a brief second, letting the dark interior of the staircase soothe him.

He listened. No sound came from the flat above. Savannah would have heard the door being slammed, yet there was no reaction. It only confirmed what he already suspected. That he was too late.

John ascended the stairs and entered the hallway. He still wore the blanket around his shoulders, because the light entering from the windows in the kitchen and the front of the house, where the living room was located, could still burn him.

Without calling out for her, he moved from room to room, first the bathroom, then Savannah’s bedroom in the middle of the house—the darkest room—then Buffy’s room and the kitchen. Nothing. She wasn’t there. He marched back to where he’d entered, then continued into the living room. It was brightest there. A large bay window let in the sun’s UV-rays. John shielded his face as best he could, when his cell phone suddenly rang. He walked back into the hallway and the shade it provided and answered.

“What have you got for me?”

“She must be at home,” Deirdre answered.

“I’m in her flat. She isn’t here.”

“Her phone is. Let me call it.”

There was a brief pause, then John heard the ringing of a cell phone coming from the living room.

“I hear it.” He marched back into the living room and saw the cell phone on the coffee table. Next to it lay several items: an envelope, a letter, and a picture. He grabbed all of them and hurried back into the hallway.

“Call you back,” he said to Deirdre and disconnected the call.

He recognized the person in the picture immediately: Buffy. He also realized what the photo signified: proof of life. His gaze snapped to the letter. But before he read it, he drew it closer to his nose. He picked up a strange scent. Something pungent. A human might not smell it, but his enhanced sense of smell picked it up. Odd. But he had no time to think about it further. Instead, he read the letter, his heart pounding.