Tears of No Return Read online

  ADVANCE PRAISE

  “David Bernstein has a knack for getting to the heart of a story, and with Tears of No Return, he’s taken a classic tale of lovers on the run and made it boldly and genuinely his own. Reading Bernstein’s latest, I felt like I was reliving everything I loved about The X-Files, and Dean Koontz, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer...yet filtered through a tough, original voice, one that maintains perfect control over the story at all times. I’ve said before that Bernstein is who you should be reading now, and this book is absolute confirmation that Bernstein is a storyteller of the first stripe.”

  —Joe McKinney, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Flesh Eaters and Inheritance

  “Tears of No Return begins with a gripping chaos of mind-readers, secret government agencies and vampires and never lets up. It demands to be read for all its intensity. David Bernstein plants a central idea in a minefield and just sits back and watches the explosions domino on each other. Thoroughly entertaining and highly recommended!”

  —Benjamin Kane Ethridge, Bram Stoker Award- winning author of Black & Orange and Dungeon Brain

  “David Bernstein deftly threads the needle with this one, intertwining genres and stitching together with honed precision a story of two most improbable protagonists thrown together to foil a most devious government agency. There are aliens. There are vampires. And amidst a relentless narrative, blood spills, tears fall, and the tropes get wonderfully skewed! This is what the Friday-Night-Frights always wanted to be! I loved this!”

  —Jon Michael Kelley, author of Seraphim

  TEARS OF

  NO RETURN

  Tears of No Return

  Copyright © 2012 by David Bernstein

  Evil Jester Press

  Ridge, New York

  All Rights Reserved

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the authors. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Gregory L. Norris

  Formatting and design by Peter Giglio

  First Digital Edition

  TEARS OF

  NO RETURN

  David Bernstein

  Evil Jester Press

  New York

  This book is dedicated to my family, as always. I cannot thank them enough for supporting me in whatever I do.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Karen was on her way to work and needed cash. She had spent her entire paycheck at Donna’s Male Review the night before where she and her best friend, Melanie, were celebrating Melanie’s landing of a new client for Gimble, Mercowitz and Steiner, the architectural firm where they both worked. Looking forward to taking her best friend out for some time, Karen had paid for tips, drinks, everything.

  Heading down Houston Street—a route she knew well—Karen pulled her Mercedes over to a metered parking spot.

  She grabbed her purse and quickly exited the car, pressing the lock button on her remote keychain. Even when she was only going to pop in and out of a place, the task had become habit.

  Karen slid her ATM card into the card reader on the bank’s door. The red LED on the device switched off, replaced by a green one. As she pulled the door open and stepped inside, someone from behind slammed into her spine, knocking her to the floor.

  “Get up. Get the fuck up,” a man’s voice demanded.

  Karen turned and saw what looked like a homeless man standing a few feet from her. He was huge, easily over six feet tall. His clothes were ragged and bombarded with a multitude of stains, but his face was cleanly shaven, the skin appearing soft. He wore a dirty wool hat, but no hair showed from beneath it. A noxious aroma, a mixture of bad body odor and garbage, invaded her next desperate breath. She wanted to vomit.

  “Are you deaf? I said get the fuck up.” The man had lowered his voice, but his eyes were as intense as a starving lion’s.

  Karen did as ordered, her right leg biting. She glanced down and noticed her knee was scraped and bleeding. Not wanting to take her eyes off the man, she looked back up and asked, “What do you want? Money?”

  The man pursed his lips together. Cheek muscles bulged as he ground his teeth. “I want you to do exactly as I say. You got it, Lady?”

  Karen nodded as if she understood, but just wanted the man gone. She held out her ATM card, hoping he’d take it and leave.

  “Here,” she said. “The pin is 4-3-5-5.” She had seen enough news stories about people getting mugged while at ATMs and knew it best to just surrender. The most he could get was five hundred dollars, not an amount worth dying over.

  Ignoring her, he asked, “Is that your car out there?”

  Karen glanced at her Mercedes—had he seen her drive up in it?

  “No,” she answered.

  The man didn’t like that response, his face grimacing as if he was in physical pain over the lone word. He stepped toward her.

  Karen recoiled. The man’s right arm became a blur, shooting forward with lightning quickness. He grabbed her by the throat and pinned her against the wall. “I’m not playing around here, honey, so stop the lying.”

  Loosening his hold on her, he said, “Let’s start again, okay? You do what I say, and don’t lie to me, and maybe—just maybe—I won’t plunge this knife into your skull.”

  The man drew a large steak knife from the inside of his jacket and held the menacing-looking piece of cutlery in front of Karen’s widening eyes. He grinned wickedly, revealing nicotine stained teeth, then slid the knife under her chin and caressed the nape of her neck with its sharp edge.

  Karen closed her eyes, too frightened to look, and raised herself up onto her toes in an attempt to get as far away from the knife as possible. She struggled to breathe while waiting to feel the burn across her throat as the blade separated her flesh.

  The man release
d his grip on her and stepped away.

  Karen opened her eyes to see the man returning the weapon to his filthy coat. She tried not to cry, but the situation was too much for her. Tears welled, blurring her vision.

  “Don’t even think about crying,” the man told her. “I hate that shit.”

  Karen fluttered her eyelids and took a few deep breaths, trying to stem the flow of tears.

  “Now, this machine is out of order, so we’re going to take a little ride in your car, okay?”

  That was a no-no, the worst possible outcome, and Karen knew it. He could have the money, but getting into her car with this guy could lead to bad things, very nasty things; things she didn’t want to think about. She looked back and saw the ‘Out of Order’ sign taped to the machine. The man grabbed Karen by her left arm and pulled.

  “Please, don’t do this,” she pleaded.

  The man released Karen’s arm, instead grabbing her by the hair. Turning, he headed for the door, dragging her with him. She reached up, trying to pry the man’s gargantuan mitts off of her, and dropped her ATM card in the process.

  The man stopped abruptly. He pulled Karen close and spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill you. Right here, right now. Your pretty little face doesn’t mean shit to me. I’ll find another bitch to use. Now pick up the fucking card and stop screwing around.”

  Karen was frightened, but could feel a seed of fury growing in her belly. She was angry and growing more so with every second. Who the hell was this pig, thinking he could treat her as if she were a worthless piece of trash? To do with her whatever he wanted?

  Karen told herself that if he didn’t have the knife, she’d fight back, punching, kicking, clawing, biting—whatever it took. She’d leave the scumbag with war wounds he would never forget, but she was scared, terrified. Beyond that, there was something wrong about him. He was dressed like a homeless guy, but his face, skin, and breath spoke otherwise. He was acting like a homeless man—but why?

  Karen bent down. Her bruised knee protested. She picked up the ATM card. Dropping it into her pocket, she pondered the walk to the car.

  It was Monday morning. She remembered pulling up to the bank at ten minutes after six, according to the clock in the car. Leaving the bank with this guy—dressed as she was in her gray suit, long legs jetting out from her skirt—might be enough to attract the help she needed. The bloodied knee only added credibility.

  He made Karen give him her car keys. “I’ll unlock your doors on the way, but you’re driving, and don’t try to run or yell for help.” Then he added, “I won’t give you another warning.”

  She believed he would cut her down the minute she made a sound or tried to break for freedom.

  They left the bank, Karen in the lead with pretend-boy behind her. The lights flashed twice on her car, indicating that the alarm was off and all four doors were open. She glanced left and right without moving her head, looking for someone she could make eye contact with, but there was no one. At the end of the block, people were waiting for a bus. Even if she could get someone’s attention the big guy would probably kill her before help arrived.

  Karen walked around the front of her car while the man waited at the passenger side door. She got in and sat down. The man stood outside with his door ajar, keeping her from locking him out.

  This guy was no street resident. He was too clear-headed, and acting like he’d done this before.

  The man got in and shut the door. He pushed the lock button and all four doors clicked simultaneously. His nauseating odor filled the car, making the air too thick to breathe. Karen gagged, the foul combination of odor and nerves threatening to overpower her consciousness. She began breathing through her mouth in order to avoid the acrid smell. Another wrong move on her part and the guy would simply off her and move on to another target.

  “Drive,” he commanded. “And put your seat belt on; we don’t need any unfortunate stops.”

  She always wore her seat belt and would have put it on regardless, but hoped he wouldn’t. To her dismay, the man strapped himself in, killing any idea of launching him through the windshield with a crash.

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “Just drive. I’ll tell you where to go when you need to know.”

  He grabbed her purse as she pulled away from the curb, rummaging through it and pulling out her cell phone. After playing with the buttons, he tossed the phone onto the backseat. Next, he yanked out her wallet and tore the license from it.

  “Karen, Karen Lakemire,” he said. “Pretty name, Karen. Are we married, Karen Lakemire of 214 Clearview Drive?”

  She was glad she hadn’t gotten around to changing her license yet. She had moved from the address on her I.D. four months ago, but her job at Gimble, Mercowitz and Steiner had kept her too busy for a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles. There was no way for him to find out where she lived now and that was enough to make her feel slightly better.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Sounds like a married name, too bad you’ll have to lose it. Unless you’re one of those bitches who want to keep her name, or worse, hyphenate it.”

  Not knowing if it was a real question or just babbling, she decided not to answer. She came to a red traffic light and stopped the car.

  “How’s a woman like you not married yet? Wait let me guess.” He paused as the light turned green. “Too busy to settle down; wants to be a career woman. Have kids when you’re forty-five, fifty even. I can’t blame you, Karen. Turn left at the next light. There’s an ATM at the end of the block. Stop when you get there.”

  She made the left, drove down the street, and parked in front of Mark’s Deli, the only open store on the block at this early hour. A cardboard sign with the words ‘ATM Inside’ written in black marker hung in the store’s dingy window. The street was void of any activity. Graffiti laced the building’s exterior. The sidewalks were cracked and broken, pieces of concrete jutting out like giant spear heads.

  Karen and her captor sat in the car with the engine running for over five minutes. The man didn’t say a single word the entire time, just stared out the window at the street. By then, he’d finished fishing through her purse, had taken all her cash and credit cards, even her gift card from B & N. Why the hell wouldn’t he just leave?

  “Give me your keys,” the man said suddenly, shattering the silence. “I’m going to step out, but I won’t be gone for long.”

  Karen handed him the keys and he got out.

  She watched him walk across the road, lean against a street sign. Another long five minutes passed with no change in the man’s position. Karen wanted to jump out of the car and sprint up the block, but terror kept her paralyzed to the spot. The street was deserted and she wouldn’t make it far before the big guy ran her down. The speed and agility he demonstrated in the bank clearly indicated that the guy wasn’t malnourished.

  She felt a warm spot of optimism grow in her stomach. The ATM at the bank must have had a camera. Didn’t all banks? The whole episode had to have been caught on tape, unless the ‘Out of Order’ sign applied to the camera as well. It was something, enough of a reason to keep it together. She was going to use everything and anything as fuel for her mind. She needed to keep her wits so she could stop this guy, or at least get away. She’d never had a mission before, a real true-to-life responsibility, and that’s exactly how she had to look at her situation. She had to stop this maniac before he hurt anyone else.

  Looking out the windshield, Karen noticed a man dressed in a suit had appeared a ways down the block. He was walking toward her, but on the opposite side of the street; the same side as her kidnapper. She could break the window and yell to him for help—

  The homeless guy sprang to life as the businessman approached. Karen’s captor reached out and grabbed the man’s face, brought him down, and slammed his head into one of the jagged impalements of cement. The back of the man’s skull caved in. Blood poured and the man’
s limbs flailed wildly. The homeless man whirled around the body, leaning on the wiggling dead man’s legs, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  Karen watched in disbelief and horror. It wasn’t real, it couldn’t be. She was still in her bed, cozy and asleep, while her mind endured this terrible nightmare. She turned away, not wanting to watch, pleading with herself to wake up. Raking her nails across her arm, the pain sharp and arousing, Karen realized she wasn’t dreaming. Looking up, she saw the son-of-a-bitch flip the man over like he was weightless. The guy was strong, powerful. He had the dead man’s jacket off in seconds, tossing it to the side along with the corpse’s tie.

  The white button-down shirt came off next. The murderer then took off his own raggedy coat, revealing a muscled torso with tattoos running up and down his arms. She couldn’t see his back, but guessed it was covered in ink as well. He put on the dead guy’s shirt, the fit snug, outlining the man’s tightly honed body. He buttoned it, covering his chiseled six-pack. The muscle man, no longer looking homeless, went back to work and removed the pants, socks, and shoes off the dead man. He took his time, not seeming to care if cars drove by or if people were watching from their windows.

  Fully dressed in new clothes, the man crossed the street. He passed in front of the car and held his index finger in front of his lips, indicating for Karen to be quiet. He was still wearing the cap and she guessed he must have forgotten it was on his head. As he passed by, Karen noticed a blood stain on the collar of the jacket. A shiver raced down her back. The man went inside the store, leaving her in the car alone.

  She sat there staring at the dead man dressed only in his underwear. Blood pooled around the body, dripping off the curb like spilled strawberry syrup. She started to cry. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Hold yourself together, girl. Don’t let this asshole see you like this,” she told herself aloud in a voice she didn’t recognize.

  Hearing it was frightening but also sobering. She’d never sounded so commanding and strong before. The tears stemmed. Karen looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror and wiped her cheeks. She didn’t want the man to see that she had been crying.