Chapter Six

                Home at last.  I was in such a rush to leave, that I’d left my bike at the impound lot.  Oh well. I hadn’t used it in eight years. Perhaps someone that can’t afford to get their car out will find use in it. I parked my car in my driveway, rushed inside, and headed straight for my bedroom. Time to pick out new clothes and shower. I should probably trash the clothes I’m wearing. Burn them. There is no way these stains are ever coming out of these clothes.

            I laid out a new outfit, cast aside the old, and hopped into the shower.  Even my arms and legs looked deathly pallid. It was the first time I had seen them since I’d died.  I searched for wounds, but I could not find any marks on me. I’d at least expect to see teeth marks on my neck, but there was nothing. I suppose the quick healing myths were true. As I turned the shower on, I felt the water rush over me – washing away the horrors of yesterday. I couldn’t wait to be clean again, it felt like ages since I’d been in fresh clothes.

            I got out, towel dried off, and put on my new pretty, unsoiled outfit. I felt like a new woman. I know I needed to find my murderer, but suddenly I felt the need for a nap more. I let myself fall backwards onto the bed and lost all motivation to do anything else. Cooper jumped up and snuggled next to me. He seemed to be warming up to me again. I guess the familiarity of his owner was enough to overcome the deadness factor.  

            Wait, Owen! I sent him a quick text.

            “Hey Owen, I’m so sorry about last night.  I ended up having an emergency come up and then my car got towed so I didn’t have my phone.  Are you free Friday for a redo?”      

            I put my phone down, pulled Cooper in, and closed my eyes.

            I woke up after what must have been a few hours. I didn’t even check the time before I had finally crashed out. Dying is exhausting. Starving, even more so. I decided to be productive once again and went to go find the list of sketch artists I had found earlier. I called the first number, no answer. I left a message.  I called the second number and a man answered on the first ring.  “Hello, I was hoping I could find a sketch artist to help me identify someone. Would you be able to help me with that? I can describe him to you.”  The man said he could help and gave me an address to meet him at.  He had availability in an hour. If he isn’t that busy, does that mean he isn’t good? I must try anyways.

            I drove my car (yes!) to the address the man gave me. I didn’t even get his name or the business name.  Hopefully my phone GPS would be enough to take me to the right place. I pulled up to an older building near the outskirts of downtown Dallas. There was no one else there.  Empty parking lots didn’t work out well for me the last time. I opened my door, grabbed my purse (yes again!), and walked up to the building.  The first suite number sign I saw read 3A.  That was what the man had told me.  No signs were on the door, and it had that tinted window coloration over it. A bit sketch.  The door was unlocked so I figured I’d try my luck and walked in. Inside, there was a younger man sitting behind an easel.  He had a display of different drawings behind him and a small lobby area inside.  I seemed to be the only customer and he was the only worker.  He was a good-looking man.  Dark hair, dark eyes. He was taller and had those model-like features. Sharp jaw line, perfectly straight nose, big eyes, perfect lips, nice hair. It’s unfortunate that he seemed to be a struggling artist.

            “Hello” I said as I walked towards the man. “I had called a bit ago about having a picture sketched of someone.” He looked up and smiled a bit.

            “I know who you are, I don’t get many walk ins these days.  I just moved into this building and haven’t finished getting my signs and things put up” he replied.  

              That explains it. I walked over and took a seat near his easel.  I began to explain the details of my murderer to him and felt sick all over again.  Thinking of that man in such detail brought the trauma back to the forefront of my mind.  Luckily, I don’t think the sexy artist man noticed.  He kept up small talk here and there.  His name was Eric and he had moved into this building the prior week.  His old building was in a rough part of town and crime had risen so he decided to shift locations further North. He was nice.  I continued to describe the man from my car. Dark, unkempt hair. Outdated clothing (makes sense I guess), blue eyes, unruly beard, thick, overgrown eyebrows, slender. I tried to remember any other discernable details I could think of and as he continued to draw. The resemblance of his drawing became clearer and clearer.

            Eric started to slow his drawing.  He looked at the canvas for a moment and looked at me.  “How did you say you know this man?”  I hesitated for a moment.  I can’t tell him the truth. “Well, it is a long story.  He actually broke into my car and stole something from me” My life. “I wanted to track him down.  I would have talked to the cops, but I figured they would just blow it off and not really help me.  You seemed to be my best hope.” Eric had backed away from the easel a bit and had a look of concern on his face. His brows furrowed.  He seemed to be trying to find the right words to say. “This man, this drawing, it looks very similar to a man that I know of.  He’s not a man that I know well, he’s a dangerous man.  If this man stole from you, even if it was something of value, you might want to just let it go.  He is trouble.”

            I could not believe what I was hearing. I came here on a glimmer of hope that I might be able to track this man down and Eric knows him? I wonder if he was a vampire too.  It’s not like I could just ask him that though… because what if he is not? “How do you know him? Do you know his name?”

            Eric looked at me for a moment as if deciding how much to reveal. “I don’t know much about him.  He owns a bar near my old location.  His area is one of the worst spots in town.  High crime rate, a lot of murders nearby and people disappearing from his bar.  I’m assuming he is in the mafia or some organized crime type group.  I don’t know if this is his legal name or not, but the people I knew around there would call him the Barton. I believe his full name was Anton Barton.”