First to Die

By Norm Applegate

A vampire with a sickening fetish.
A gypsy she loves the kill.
A CEO probably insane wants revenge.
A sexually bent woman, Kim Bennett.
...and they want her dead!

First to Die by Norm Applegate
This book is not for vegetarians

A grave has been robbed. A document has been stolen. Vampires are turning on each other. The Black Testament, discloses the truth behind vampires. How to live with them, how to kill them.

A vampire has taken the document to the vaults beneath Notre Dame. Kim Bennett goes after it. It’s a trap. The CEO of the organization wants to see Kim bleed. Former dominatrix, part vampire, Kim Bennett turns it up a notch. Carve in, carve out, blood leaks...

Kim battles twisted characters, a killer with a sickening fetish and a society fueled by blood lust. This novel is as much a thriller as it is blunt force trauma. Laced with sexual frenzy layered on graphic violence, this book is not for vegetarians.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norm Applegate
• Release date: Mar 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458133861

Norm Applegate

I live in Sarasota, and I write thrillers, horror and paranormal books.I’m also a Mac Fanatic. Smooth Jazz enthusiast. Drummer. Former hypnotist and Horror Movie Fan.Norman Applegate is an author and consultant, with a growing body of work to his credit. Born in Glasgow Scotland, growing up in Toronto Canada and now residing in Sarasota Florida with his wife Cheryl, Norm Applegate works and travels for an international consulting company, then occasionally scares the “heck” out of his family with his thoughts and writings.Bibliography:Novels* (2012) The Prisoner* (2011) Shockwave• (2011) First to Die* (2011) Sadist (Turkish translation of Into The Basement)• (2009) Blood Bar, a vampire tale• (2007) Into the Spell• (2006) Into the BasementShort Story• (2011) JumpersAnthologies:• (2008) From the ShadowsScreenplays:• (20010) Grotto• (2009) Into the Basement (co-writer Nicholas Grabowsky)Norm’s writing began while travelling through New Zealand and Australia as a Hypno-therapist with colorful letters to his family of his tales as a hypnotist and the weirdness it attracts.His early years in Toronto were filled with aspirations of the 60’s Yorkville music scene, and as a drummer in numerous bands led to a short lived career playing the bars and clubs in the Toronto area. The band Photograph, signed to a recording studio, made some noise on the coast to coast CBC radio show, the Entertainers. In 1973 the band worked with Canadian artist & producer Tony Kosinec, (All Things Come From God), and after legal issues strangled them into submission, they went their separate ways. The band members were George Szabo and Stan Meissner, (Stan later wrote for Céline Dion, LeeAnn Womack, Eddie Money, Rita Coolidge, BJ Thomas, Ben Orr (The Cars), Triumph and Toronto). The life of drugs, sex and rock and roll were over, sad but true.After a few years of travel, he had the bug, and entered the world of management consulting to become a road warrior, and is now a 2 million miler with Delta. Away from home and with the desire to write a novel it began. His first book, “Into the Basement,” is a raw, dark thriller, described as "juicy." His second novel of the Kim Bennett series, “Into the Spell,” explores the horror of a copy-cat Son of Sam killer and hypnosis.Early 2008, Norm contributed with a short story called “Jumpers,” into the horror anthology “From the Shadows.”In 2009, Norm developed the screenplay for his novel “Into the Basement,” with Nicholas Grabowsky and director J. L. Botelho of Triad Pictures.In 2010 he released, Blood Bar, a vampire tale and wrote the screenplay for a short horror film, Grotto.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A dark SUV slipped through the fog and came to a stop. It was quiet. Almost silent.

Three men and a woman dressed in black gothic garb, with wrinkled denim coveralls slung over their shoulders, slid out of their car carrying grey fiberglass shovels. Hunched over and silent, they made their way fifty feet along the west wall toward an overgrowth of tall shrubs heavy in fog.

In front, Jean St-Pierre raised a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the streetlights, and scanned the cemetery in the direction of a marble mausoleum. Ahead, rows of chiseled headstones stood erect like an army of dead soldiers at attention. His stomach was full but he was fighting a hunger. He was used to eating the dead while robbing graves, not stealing their secrets.

The wall was five feet tall and built with round, smooth stones. Streetlights along the cemetery's road illuminated the white and grey marble grave markers.

He thought about grave robbing. Then he heard the dogs. At first, he thought they were chained up. He heard them moving walking around. Then he realized they would have to be dealt with.

The surrounding buildings were lit. St-Pierre looked for movement but very little funeral work took place this early in the morning. The main part of the cemetery, its crematorium, landscaping, garage, and a well-lit two-story house were to the east, close to the road and hopefully empty.

The rest of the property, across the driveway on the other side of the house, was lined with aisles of dead people, each with its neatly manicured lawn and sweet, fragrant flowers. There were four sections dividing the cemetery and in one of these was the assignment.

St-Pierre glanced at his team, lowered his hands and looked at the grey mist covering the moon. It was three thirteen. He sniffed the air with two quick motions and turned his head, listened for a sound, human or not, that might indicate trouble. San Francisco PD and hired security guards kept watch on the cemetery preventing anyone from stealing from the dead, but tonight it was quiet.

In seventeen minutes, a disturbance would take place on the east side of the cemetery, but they had to cross the main driveway before it happened. That would allow them time to reach section four, but they would have to get by two vicious Rottweilers, standing guard and trained to attack.

Reaching under his vest to a gun holster he pulled out a Glock 21 .45 ACP caliber pistol. It felt comfortable in his hand. One of the most important factors for him. Plus, he liked to put the bullet where it needed to be. With the Glock, he could do that. It was simple to operate and he liked that. He headed toward the driveway, keeping the main house in sight, his team following behind in silence.

After crossing the road, he signaled to his men to get down. They crawled like a cunning pack of wolves hunting prey. If anyone was watching, they would have been startled to see four people moving like animals, on all fours, fangs displayed, and eyes red, until they were in the cemetery and out of the light. They were here to steal from the dead, not join them.

Two minutes later, they huddled against the fence surrounding section four of the cemetery that contained the Black Testament. They were on a flat grass lawn that gave way to a slight hill to their right that protected their cover with a cluster of trees.

It was three twenty-nine. In three minutes, the dogs would be distracted.

Jean St-Pierre took the shovel and coveralls off his back, slipped them over his clothes and without speaking, his team did the same. He adjusted his eyes to the dark until he saw the sharp etched lettering on a headstone thirty feet away. His mouth watered as he realized the future that lay ahead for him. The plan was perfect, no noise, police or security; it was well thought out. The briefing and maps they had reviewed had paid off and got them to the site undetected.

Now the final stages of the mission depended on how well trained his team was.

On the other side of the driveway, beyond the main house, the dogs came alive. A raw slab of meat was lobbed into the air and slapped hard on the ground sending a fragrance of bitter copper to the canine’s eager nostrils.

The dog’s teeth ripping into the meat was heard by each member of the team.

St-Pierre looked over and signaled to his men. He raised his hand in the air and made a circular motion to move quickly. Then slipped the Glock back in its holster. The final phase of the plan meant teamwork, communication and speed if they were going to pull it off. The lure of meat diverted the dog’s attention away from the graves.

It was working, St-Pierre crawled toward a headstone with his men following and with precision timing, they began digging.

In less than three minutes, they had the top soil gone and were lifting the casket out of the ground. It was cold, damp. They could smell the earth.

St-Pierre fell to his knees, and with the fiberglass shovel in his hand, adjusted his sight. He brushed dirt away from the casket. Felt the edge with his fingertips. Finding a small opening, he rammed the shovel tip against the edge. It bounced back. He lined the tip up to the seam. He hit it again. Then forced the shovel in and pried the lid off. He looked left then right. Nobody. Darkness. Silent.

He crawled alongside the dead body of Thomas Nicholls, the great-grandson of Mary Ann Nicholls, the first victim of Jack the Ripper. The body was thin, old, hard.

Jean St-Pierre, felt beneath the shriveled carcass and his eyes, penetrating the dark, caught sight of it. His fingers brushed against the smooth surface. He glanced back to his team; they were smiling. He tightened his grip on a soft leather tube, and he whispered to himself. Got it.

The Black Testament was a four by five foot long document, cut into three pieces and rolled into a single tube.

*

Out of the dark, a tall, muscularly fit, handsome man slid onto his balcony near the San Francisco cemetery and leaned against the hand railing. The morning breeze tingled his face. Squinting, he locked his sight on the grave of Thomas Nicholls in the far distance, and tightening his jaw, he knew what had happened. He heard them. Heard the noise they were making. Heard the shovel hit the casket.

He was dressed in a tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. His skin appeared pale as he stood against the night sky, and although he expected this day would come, he hoped never to face it.

He had moved from Manhattan to the bay to be close to the cemetery, and this was the first time someone had made a move on it.

He held his breath when he saw Jean St-Pierre step from the grave somewhere in the cemetery across the street, and he got the feeling they knew he was watching.

Nicolai Avelli turned his head and listened. It has started just like Kim said it would. He was built with broad shoulders and firm arms, but his face was a delicate shade of white with a straight nose and soft skin, and yet he commanded a strong aura mixed with the mischievous warm eyes of a young boy. He was a cultured eighty-two-year-old Italian-born man who looked not a day over forty, and was attractive to most women.

He was born into the vampire world, and like his father before him, had risen rapidly through the ranks of The Society. But then the Black Testament surfaced, and he fell in love with an intriguing woman, Kim Bennett, who helped him hide the document under the dead body of Thomas Nicholls.

Nicolai, once a high-ranking elder in The Society and working out of House Hawkins, a vampire haven in New York City, reported to the director of the Sanguinary, Victor Moulin. For the most part Nicolai was well liked, respected and was watching his star rise when he was catapulted into the center of a vampire uprising. Falling in love, he was determined to prevent The Society from killing Kim Bennett and keep the Black Testament out of their hands.

*

Jean St-Pierre lifted the tube containing the document out of the casket. He studied it for a moment, lifted it to his face, inhaled the leather, then stepped out onto the grass.

While his team began taking off their coveralls, St-Pierre knelt down and unraveled the scroll to see if it was genuine. His attention drawn immediately to the old English text provided the proof. Their assignment had been achieved. There were two things he had to do. One of them he just finished. The other was about to happen.

Jean St-Pierre glanced back at the two men and lone woman behind him. He was instructed, once he held the Testament in his hands, to eliminate all witnesses. Leave no one alive.

The two guard dogs stood on top of the road winding down to the cemetery. Looking toward the grave, their eyes focused on the blurry figures in the distance examining the Black Testament.

Move, St-Pierre thought to himself, considering his next steps. Quickly.

He’d known Anna Haeussler for over ten years and from the first day, she accepted the privileged assignment of going to America to find the Black Testament; she knew either of them could be killed. It was a risk she was willing to take because she loved him, and St-Pierre promised nothing harmful would happen to her.

What are you doing? Anna cried; she would be the first to die. St-Pierre didn't want to hear her pleading for her life as she watched the others die. He brought his sword out from behind his back. Having never been used, the blade had a mirror sheen. He held it high and lined it up on her neck. Then slicing once, hit the woman in the side of the throat like he was swinging a bat. It cut clean, skin, muscle, veins. He felt it hit bone. A gush of air escaped. Blood flowed, welling up. Her lifeless body fell to the ground. Her head rolled on the grass, spraying blood across the gravestones and onto his shoes. The men were stunned, their faces frozen. They were focused on the sword.

St-Pierre spun around and jabbed the blade into the face of one of the vampires. It smashed his teeth, sliced the gums and slid through the roof of his mouth. Blood filled his throat. Three inches of blade popped out the back of his neck. He pulled the sword out. It slid easily. It was wet. The second slice whistled through the air hitting the man below the chin. His head fell backward into the hole. His body collapsed on the dirt.

Keeping his eye on the final vampire, St-Pierre raised his sword. The blade was red. The lone man groped at him. St-Pierre sliced once more, opening a thin line across his chest. Then again across his forehead. And again. He was still alive. Blood flowed down his face, into his eyes, into his mouth. Raising his hands to protect himself, Jean St-Pierre cut them away. They hit the ground. Fingers moving, spider-like. He held the sword with both hands, drew the blade back slowly, and held his breath uncoiling a vicious swing. The third strike separated the head from the vampire's neck killing him instantly.

Jean St-Pierre walked away from the carnage but he wasn't finished. The dogs had started after him. He scanned his eyes across the field and saw a blur moving toward him like a rocket.

He pulled the gun from its holster under his arm and crouching in a shooters stance, brought the Glock up to shoulder height. He had one up the snout giving him fourteen rounds of influence. He extended his arm. Held his breath. Slowly let it out, then squeezed the trigger and began firing until his weapon went dry.

One of the dogs cried out. Eerie sound. It dropped to the driveway at the edge of the grass twenty feet from St-Pierre. A red dot in its chest. Two slugs penetrated the skull of the second dog at point blank range, flipping it backward through the air, it's legs twitching. A bubble of red exploded. St-Pierre saw the back of its head, gone.

Everything went quiet.

Nicolai watched from the balcony as a black SUV drove off, turned south at the corner, and was gone in seconds. Letting himself back into his living room, he walked directly to the phone and called the only person

who knew what to do.

Chapter 2

Six-thirty Saturday morning and San Francisco's homicide division and duty officers were on the scene. The cemetery was bristling under illuminated floodlights when Detective Randy Morrison ducked beneath a yellow crime tape and made his way to the grave. It had been an hour and forty-five minutes since the murders and Morrison was feeling over-worked. As he got closer, he felt his black leather shoes sink into the soggy grass. Even in a city as kinked out as San Francisco, he couldn't recall the last time he investigated a murder in a cemetery.

His slight frame, lean face, capped with short brown hair and long legs, set him apart from most of the out of shape officers. Today he wore a soft grey, two-piece suit and smooth leather slip-ons, because he was scheduled for a court appearance downtown. Only a few miles from where he was now. Unlike most detectives, Morrison had studied Biology after winning the state high school science award sponsored by Stanford University in Palo Alto. Graduating twenty years before, he found himself in debt and took the police exam on a whim. Occasionally he stopped to consider what might have been had he pursued a career in academia. Instead, following in his father’s footsteps and living up to his expectations, he joined the police force.

The San Francisco cemetery located northwest of downtown and not far from the Golden Gate Bridge, sat on twenty-five rolling acres. It provided an attractive garden environment with lawn crypts, white marble monuments and a separate cremation garden. The house was used as an office and was empty in the evenings.

He crossed the wet manicured lawn and entered the crime scene. A duty officer nodded, acknowledging his presence. Speculating by the size of the operation, he guessed they were looking at a multiple murder, and in his gut, sensed it was going to be a tricky one.

Walking up the shallow slope to the open grave, he wanted all the details before guessing what had happened. If it was grave-robbing as he suspected, and the casket had been opened, the reason behind it would be nothing less than bizarre. Possibly, bizarre enough to drag his name into national headlines.

The crime scene was surrounded by some of his fellow officers. Forensics was taking pictures, and the area was thick with activity. Everyone was talking on a secured frequency throughout the cemetery. They were following procedures to the letter. No one was distracted as he stood above a dead guard dog and a brass bullet casing ten feet away.

Murders can be easy to solve. They leave all kinds of evidence. Mostly because the killers don't have a plan. Mostly because they're not too smart. Mostly because they don't give a shit. If they did, they wouldn't do it. But this was different. Either they were the sloppiest shit for brains killers he’d ever heard of or they were brazen beyond belief.

The first officer to arrive at the scene, rookie detective Tadioshi Makasa was walking toward him with a white business card. He was tall for a Japanese-American, well built, with a round face, black hair, and almond eyes showing no emotion. He appeared bored with everything. That wasn't the case. During cadet training, his superior aptitude for investigation had caught the attention of the instructors and he was tagged as a quick study. He had mentioned to Detective Morrison once. I look forward to the day when I'll be working beside you; we studied a few of your cases. The instructors speak highly of you. However, that was a few years ago, now that he was working with him, he considered himself Morrison’s equal.

With a stalwart expression, he raised his arm, catching Morrison's attention. Wait ‘til you read this.

Let me see. Morrison said.

Tadioshi nodded. Were you briefed this morning?

Morrison shrugged.

Only that there was a shooting at the cemetery and someone might have killed the perps. He took the business card and started to walk to the grave.

You need to read the card; the assholes want you, Tadioshi smiled. You’re buddies the FBI.

The FBI, Morrison shouted. Son of a bitch, they want in on this?"

There's more. Before we could say anything, they took the surveillance tapes, and beat it out of here. One more thing, they want me to escort you immediately. You hear this shit? The guy said immediately to me.

The cemetery had cameras?

Just installed; about a month ago someone kept driving over the graves in one of those four-wheel drive vehicles. Kids, made a mess of the place

Tadioshi and Morrison walked back across the cemetery. They got into Tadioshi's vehicle drove down the street and peeled off around the corner. They were headed to the FBI's San Francisco office. Lined up along the street were mainly police vehicles, though a light-bodied black truck was parked at the corner with officers dressed in their SWAT gear ready for action. No one was talking to the news media.

Tadioshi flicked on the siren so they would get there quickly.

Not only were the bad guys killed, Tadioshi said, But all of them were Frenchies.

Morrison was puzzled, and he looked back at the cemetery. Why were a group of French thieves stealing a dead body in the middle of the night?

They didn't take the stiff. The body is still there, but someone killed them.

French? Morrison said. The guys robbing the grave were French?

Yeah, all their clothing tags were in French, and get this, they were killed with something sharp, maybe a knife, maybe a sword.

That's crazy.

When was the last time you heard of that shit? Then the FBI assholes showing up and asking for you.

Sure they were frogs?

You question the FBI, Tadioshi said.

They stopped short of the front doors to the Montgomery office building. Unmarked cars were parked on both sides of the road. They found a parking place, and he and Tadioshi entered the building. They were stopped by the armed security agent who controlled the entry point.

Morrison showed his detective gold shield and identification then gave the agent the business card. The agent turned to Detective Tadioshi Makasa. They only want Morrison. You'll have to leave. Nottingham, the special agent on the case made that clear.

Tadioshi faced Morrison before leaving. You want me to stick around outside in case you need some real police work done?

No Detective, thanks.

Tadioshi glanced at the FBI agent and paused for a moment before he walked out of the building and down the street to his car. He was sure if he had a gold trim around his shield he could have negotiated his way in.

Agent Ron Nottingham, dressed in blue pants and a wrinkled light blue shirt, his necktie loose and sleeves rolled up, stepped into the hallway. He waved to Randy Morrison as he passed through security. He wasn't smiling.

We've got some tapes, lots of questions, and expect some answers before we turn this back over to your department, he said in a harsh tone.

Let's see the evidence, Morrison said. And why did you remove them from my crime scene?

A flash of anger flushed Nottingham's face, but he let it go. This way.

He led Detective Morrison into the screening room and pointed to an analyst behind a computer, giving him the signal to proceed.

Morrison thought this was too much drama for a homicide, even if it was a triple murder of some non-Americans.

Nottingham pointed to the screen. Four unidentified people crossing the lawn right there, going straight to a grave, and when they open it, one of them goes scrounging around for something, then whammo, kills the others.

The analyst replayed the video from the beginning. Morrison turned and looked at a whiteboard where they had written notes about the murders. Four people, three dead, one female, and two dogs caught his eye.

Morrison watched it again. Obviously someone wanted no witnesses, but why? And they're all French?

Terrorists, probably here illegally, Nottingham fired back.

Maybe so, but why kill your partners and for something in a grave? Morrison asked, Must a been pretty valuable.

Nottingham shrugged. The French Embassy’s been notified; we’ve got three bodies with no I.D. and they'll want the bodies as soon as possible. You need to have some answers before this goes political; you know what I mean?

Of course, Morrison said. He glanced at the screen, watching the video play out again and suddenly felt his blood pressure rising. I'll need a copy.

Sure. Nottingham ejected the disk from the computer, slid it into a white plastic sleeve and gave it to the analyst. Make him a copy. Film’s dark, faces were covered, but our boys will work on it. They'll give you a call in an hour, should be done by then.

It had been sometime since he had seen anything this vicious. Decapitating your partners and leaving them out in the open, unless that was the point. Send a message to someone.

At exactly the same moment Morrison was leaving the building, Tadioshi Makasa was sitting alone in his vehicle placing a call to Victor Moulin in Paris France.

Everything was working according to plan.

Chapter 3

Nobody noticed the leader of The Society for the Sanguinary, Victor Moulin, as he got out of his black Citroen in front of the French Consulate in Paris. It was a white stone building with flags flying and a black iron fence around the perimeter. The eight-story structure had limousines and taxis lining the street.

He nodded to his driver, then walked past the main gates and moved up the stairs. The two guards on duty beyond the front doors didn't question his presence or his reason for being there. He stared straight ahead. There were two more guards at a counter, ten yards away to his left. Just for show, they had no guns. They didn't look at him. They were busy talking to a young blonde.

Moulin walked straight and tall, steady pace. It would be too suspicious to speed up or slow down. Security notices those things.

He was used to respect and he had the look of someone important so he breezed through. When he reached the lobby, it was busy with tourists, immigrants, and the middle class. Maybe a hundred people acting nervous. Doing things nervous people do. Shifting their weight from one foot to the other, looking around a lot, waiting for someone to call their number.

He had the pear-shaped body and round stomach of a Frenchman who enjoys his cuisine. But his face was quite hard, with a ruddy complexion, and a strong, almost handsome square jaw. His baldhead gave him a distinguished look and Moulin carried his five foot seven frame as if he owned the place, in the center of the aisle. As though he was about to deliver a keynote speech.

The CEO entered the consulate, bypassing rows of people standing in line to see an officer. He had been here before. A blonde woman, Sophia Dubois, who was head of security, waved him through. There was no waiting for a man with his influence. In a few minutes, he would be clearing the way for his merchandise, recently recovered from a grave in America. First, there was an obstacle to overcome.

At the end of the hall a door opened and a senior officer dressed in an expensively tailored suit, motioned him in. I was told you’d be punctual.

Of course, Moulin said. He didn't smile. In the world of vampires, he was the thinker, the strategist who kept everyone in line. He was always obeyed, but here in the bureaucracy and government of civilians, he had no patience. His assistants, working for the society, had made the appointment but