2. The Strange Couple

Introduction of Samantha McDuff, Bullock the Vampire, and the Vampire-Human Commission.

The pair had been driving through the night, and had nearly reached their destination, Port Rock, North Carolina.  Both had been put out of sorts by the long drive, but for different reasons.  Samantha McDuff, the passenger of the black sedan with government tags, showed her weariness.  Normally she was neatly dressed and put together, but at the moment her sandy blonde hair was hanging loosely around her face and her clothes were disheveled.  She wore her usual black golf shirt, olive drab cargo pants, and heavy boots.  Her shirt was wrinkled and felt as though it was wadded behind her back.

She had tried to sleep on the ride east from Raleigh because she knew that these small coastal towns rolled up the sidewalks at dusk, which meant she would have to do much of the work during the day.   A slight problem for someone with her partner's "condition."  Unfortunately, she had too much on her mind for sleep to come easily.  

By way of contrast Bullock, her partner, was still neatly dressed in an expensive charcoal grey three piece suit, crisp white dress shirt, and blood red tie.  His agitation came not from lack of sleep, but rather from receiving an assignment at 2:00 am.  He had been awake when the call had come in, of course he had, and he had tried to explain to Agent Jerome Peters that they did not have time to make the drive before sunrise.  Peters, the arrogant b*****d, had blown off his objections by quoting policy at him.  Policy that he had helped to write several years before Peters was even born.  "Stupid pup."  Bullock mumbled.  

"Are you still mad about that?"  Samantha asked from his right.  "You know that Peters is an undeniable jackass."  She knew what Bullock's answer would be before he muttered the words.

"I am not angry.  I do not get angry.  I am simply annoyed."  Bullock said predictably.  

Like the rest of is kind, Bullock was fiercely proud, and his long years had only cultivated that natural tendency.  Bullock wiped imaginary sweat from the top of his clean shaven head.  Samantha watched with pleasure as Bullock tried to conceal his true feelings.  

"Oh, come on Bullock," she said laughing now.  "Are you going to let that pup, a human pup, get under your skin that way."

"And what about you?"  Bullock asked irritably.  "Your dreams disturb you.  You grunt like a pig during your restless slumber.  Do you dream of an enemy or...a lover?"  

"A lover?"  She scoffed at him.  "Who has time for a lover?"  The truth was she remembered the dream all too well.  How could she not?  She had been having the same dream since early childhood.  The man with the snake's voice that she had never seen.  Though she had never seen the man she knew that something bad would happen if he ever caught her.  So she kept running, which would explain the verbalization.  Bullock knew nothing of these dreams, one of the few things he did not know about her.  For all of his bluster about being a modern man Bullock tended to hold on to the superstitions from his childhood.  No doubt, recurring dreams would concern him.  "How long have we been partners?" 

Bullock stared straight out at the road, and said nothing.  This was his normal posture while driving.  He was not chatty.  In fact he could have been the original strong, silent type and probably the tall, dark and handsome prototype too.  He surely fit the qualifications.  

"That's right," she said as if he had answered.  She was so used to arguing with him, and would not let is silence detour her.  "Five years.  And in that five years have you ever heard of me taking a lover?  No, you haven't.  I work just as many hours as you.  I haven't been home in weeks, and I live out of my bag.  Mr. Robertson's probably re-rented my place by now."

Bullock sat silently.  He knew that if he let her ramble she would eventually get to what was really bothering her.  She was correct about the number of years they had been partners, but Bullock had been studying human behavior for many more years.  He knew that, with the exception of sociopaths, people wanted to talk about their problems.  He also knew this tactic worked on Samantha from personal experience.

"No man, no home, no friends to speak of, and no family that will speak to me."

"Did I not see you speaking with the director last week in Washington, D.C.?"  Bullock asked.  "Is he not your father's brother?"  

Bullock expected Samantha to throw something at him.  I would not be the first time she had such an outburst.  "Of course, you know he is my uncle.  Hell, you probably remember when he and my father were on speaking terms.  But even the director and I are on a  business only setting.  When you saw us we were talking about the LeFey case.  Nothing more."  she said quietly.  "My own father won't speak to me."

Now Bullock knew they were finally at the heart of the matter.  "When did you last speak to Clarence?"  He asked.  He dared not push to hard, or he would end up with an ear full of Samantha's colloidal silver spray.  

"Nearly two years," she said with a sigh.  She realized that Bullock had baited her yet again.  She was not sure how he did that without saying anything.  This was not the first time he had let her talk herself into a corner, and she always swore she would not do it again.  "Two years," she said. 

"And why is that?"  Bullock asked.  He had no interest in her family dramas.  He had seen them all before, dozens of times.  But, he knew, that if Samantha talked about it she would perform much better in the field, so he indulged her. 

"Come on Bullock.  You've known both of those stubborn idiots much longer than I have."

He nodded quietly.  "Yes, and their father before them.  They are both good men, but very different.  I can not believe that Clarence would choose to be estranged from his only child."  He lied.  He knew the reason behind the reason, but now was not the time nor place to tell Samantha about that. 

"Well, he has," she said defiantly.  "He hates that I work for the Agency.  He hates that the director.  told me the truth all those years ago.  Clarence McDuff tried to take away my birthright.  This is my world."

"Do you believe that?"  Bullock asked.  "Do you believe that it is your destiny to serve The Commission?" 

"Destiny?"  She asked.  "I don't believe in predetermined fate, but I do believe that it is my choice, and that my father tried to take that choice away from me.  If not for the director I may still no know about all of this."

"I wouldn't worry about that.  Government bureaucracy is all-encompassing,"  Bullock said.  "But you have made your choice.  Do you not think that Clarence would welcome a relationship with you?"  Bullock asked.

"Only if I quit the agency.  The agency his own grandfather helped establish."  

"Ah, yes.  Roland McDuff, another good man," Bullock mused.  "I knew him well.  Even before he left his ancestral home on the shores of Loch Lomond.  That is in Scotland, if you did not know.  He was a fierce fighter and a passionate friend.  In other words, he was a true Scot and a true Celt.  You have much to be proud of and many reasons to reconnect with your father."

"You pretentious sonofabitch."  

"In my experience parents only want what is best for their children.  The problem arises when the child's idea of what is best and the parent's ideas are not the same.  Do not give up on your father."

"So I should quit The Agency?"  She asked.

"That is your choice not mine," Bullock said quickly.  "I can say that you have become a good agent during your five years.  Thanks, in no small part to me, and I have no doubt that with a few more years of intense tutelage by yours truly you shell continue to improve."

"I think there was a back handed complement buried in there somewhere," Samantha laughed and checked the briefing email that Peters had sent on her cell phone.  "And as much as I am enjoying this witty banter. It will soon be sunrise. If my memory, shoddy as it may be, serves, vampires do not do well in sunlight.  I suggest we find this Port Rock Motel soon.  It appears that Mr. and Mrs. Ignacio Bullock have a reservation for a  room with a king sized bed."

"Ignacio?"  Bullock asked reproachfully.  "Do I really look like an Ignacio?"  

"I am beginning to think that Agent Peters really does have it out for you," Samantha laughed as she pointed out the window as a blinking neon sign.  "I do believe we have arrived, my dearest husband."   

.   .   .

The Port Rock Motel looked dilapidated.  The roof looked as though a couple more falling leaves would do it in, and the shutters hung crookedly.  The office doors were made plate glass but probably hadn't been cleaned since the Carter administration.  The handle on the door was protected by several layers of ancient looking masking tape.  

Samantha, who was accustomed to working with and fighting with vampires, was afraid to touch the door.  She had no idea what kind of mutated germs were being cultivated on that crusty layer of tape.  As she swallowed her pride, and the rising vomit, she opened the door to find exactly what she had expected when she saw the picture that accompanied the briefing file.  The shag carpet was faded and bald in spots, the check-in counter was stained linoleum, and the woman behind the counter fit the overall look of the place.

According to the nameplate the woman wore, her name was Gladys.  She looked to be at least 150 pounds overweight for her five foot, seven inch height.  She wore a Garth Brooks t-shirt, which in better condition would have probably been a collectors item.  The t-shirt was reminiscent of the carpeting, faded and full of holes, not a sight that Samantha particularly enjoyed.  A Marlboro cigarette dangled beneath Gladys' mustachioed upper lip.  She slowly deposited the cigarette in an overflowing tin ash tray, wiped a string of drool from her mouth with the back of her hand, and said, "What?"

"Yes, ma'am,"  Samantha said.  It was only long years of training in a federal government agency that elicited the 'ma'am.'  Just like the FBI and DEA it was required for VHC employees to refer to everyone as sir or ma'am while in training and that habit is expected to carry over to the field.  "I believe you have a reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Ignacio Bullock for tonight."

Samantha watched with little surprise as the woman's eyes flicked over her shoulder and through the windows to study the huge black man that had just climbed out the the black sedan.  The look of displeasure that the woman gave Samantha was also to be expected.  "Is that Mr. Bullock?"  She asked without shame at the obvious implication.  

"And what if he is?" Samantha asked with just a hint of anger.  "All we want is for you to rent us the room we reserved.  It looks as if you could use all the revenue you can get."

"You damned city people," Gladys mumbled as she turned to the surprisingly new looking Apple computer.  "You know I reserve the right not to rent to anyone that I don't find desirable, and nobody else in this town is going to take you in at this time of night."

"Ma'am, we are on official business from the United States Government, how could you ever make a case of us being undesirable.  All we want is a room for the night.  If you feel it necessary to give us a room with two beds we will accept that.  All we want is somewhere to sleep after a very long drive in the middle of the night."

Gladys slid the metal key with a plastic key fob across the counter into Samantha's waiting hand.  "You're in room seven."