The vampire files volume.., p.46
The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 46
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
“It’s getting late for you,” she said.
“You, too.”
“I’ll be fine. Shoe and I are staying.”
Coldfield didn’t speak, but his expression was eloquent. Yes, Escott seemed to be safe now, but that did not mitigate the fact that I’d nearly killed him. If not for Gabriel Kroun and the devil’s own luck, Escott would almost certainly be dead by now. However matters had turned out, I had been stupid, and Coldfield did not forgive stupidity.
We were very much alike on that point.
The blue tinge to Escott’s skin had faded. His color was nearly normal except for the bruises, and he looked to be in a natural sleep instead of deeply unconscious. That death smell was still present, but it was old air not yet cleared by the ventilation. What I got from him now was ordinary sweat, and that more than anything reassured me that he was truly recovering.
It’d happened extremely fast. In a tiny span of hours he’d drifted back from the brink. I’d watched the process and hardly dared to hope. The doctor had muttered about a miracle and recorded it on the clipboard. The nurses would glance at me and whisper to others, and on down the ladder went the story. Even the deaf old janitor must have gotten word; he kept his back to the commotion, clearly not wanting any part of it.
What the consequences might be later for Escott I couldn’t begin to guess. Bobbi—all of us—wanted to know if it would change him in some other way.
I only knew of one means to turn a person into a vampire and just how rarely it worked. A blood exchange takes place, but with a normal human donating first, then taking in the vampire’s blood; that was how it was done.
Kroun’s variation was new to me, only he wasn’t talking, which was nuts. What harm was there in telling?
Would Escott recall anything about drinking Kroun’s blood? Perhaps as a fever-induced dream?
Coldfield might tell him. I wouldn’t know where to start.
Bobbi promised to phone me at sunset tomorrow. I kissed her good-bye, nodded at Coldfield, who did not react, and left.
I drove to the Stockyards.
Snow sifted down, cheerful as Christmas. It was pretty until the window wipers began to clog. The milk trucks were out, as were the newspaper trucks, not a lot of cars. We made good time.
Kroun was pale as paint, though he wouldn’t admit to being hungry. I was, mildly. Before Hog Bristow put me through hell, I’d gotten into the habit of never letting my hunger go beyond the mild stage. I found a place to park under a broken streetlamp and we got out.
“Cripes, what a stink,” he complained.
“Don’t breathe.”
“Huh.”
A high fence separated us from the source of the stink. Not a problem for me, but he’d have to climb get in. He studied the fence and shook his head, apparently mindful of his new clothes.
“It’s not that bad,” I said.
“Yes. It is. You have more of those bottles in your icebox?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I know. Not fresh. I’ll get by. Hurry it up before we’re under a drift. I’ll be in the car.”
He had a hell of a lot more self-control than I did. By now I’d have been crazy-starved, shaking, and suffering tunnel vision. Maybe the bullet in his skull had something to do with it. Kroun sauntered back to the Buick and shut himself in.
I vanished, passed through the fence, and re-formed on the other side.
After my resurrection, it’d taken months for me to get used to my new diet. The profound physical satisfaction I got was one thing; it was the part about biting into a living animal’s vein and feeding from it that had bothered me for a long time. The benefits outweighed the unpleasant details, though, and eventually I reached the point of not thinking much on them.
Getting blood while it was still flowing and hot might not have the same importance to Kroun. Some people demanded bread straight from the baker’s oven while others were happy enough with two-day-old leftovers. Others wouldn’t even notice a difference. Maybe he was like that.
These nights I had to be cautious about choosing a four-footed victim. My hypnosis had been handy for soothing skittish animals; now I had to find ones that were already calm. Not easy. Cattle could be deceptive: one second lethargic, the next trying to trample you. Horses were easier prey; they were used to being handled. The shorter hair on their hides was a bonus.
Three tries to find an animal that allowed me to do what I had to, then I rushed the process. Things were getting damned cold. The snow swirled and fell more thickly, caking on my shoulders. Kroun’s idea of going to a butcher shop was looking better by the minute.
The cattle in the next pen over abruptly stirred, restless and noisily fretting. They might have smelled their impending death on the freezing air, but if not, then something else had bothered them. Kroun’s advice about being more careful was still fresh in my mind.
You can’t be paranoid if someone really is after you.
I broke off feeding and looked around, listening hard, but I heard only lowing and the wind. Sight was limited because of the falling snow. The cattle could have been reacting to the weather or one of the yard workers. I’d learned to avoid them, but sometimes got spotted. Usually a man would shout, which was my cue to vanish, leaving him with a mystery. I was sure stories were circulating about a dark-clad specter haunting the stock pens.
Had it been a worker, he’d have yelled by now. My neck prickled the way it does when you think you’re being watched. Most of the time we’re wrong, and no one is around, but I paid attention to such warnings. The instinct is there for a reason. The last time I’d felt it, Hurley Gilbert Dugan had stepped out of the cold shadows and shot me.
He didn’t seem to be around, which was just as well for us both. I’d have killed him on sight. Not a lot of people inspired that kind of reaction in me, and I wasn’t proud of it. On the other hand, given the opportunity to bury him in the lake, I’d do it and no second thoughts.
I had come a long way down my private road to damnation.
Sparing my shoes further damage, I vanished and floated out, not re-forming until I was close to the Buick. If anyone saw, then their view would be as impaired by the snowfall as mine.
I took a last gander at what I could see of the empty street, got in, and wasted no time flooring it.
“What?” Kroun asked. “Something wrong?”
“Not much. It’s been a hell of a night.”
No disagreement from him on that.
THE house had been broken into, again.
Any other time, I’d have gotten somewhere a few miles beyond mere anger, but it was late, and I was tired. I should have a revolving door installed so the next wave of housebreakers would have an easier time of it.
Instead of picking a door lock, someone had let himself in the hall window at the back with a brick, smashing out the glass near the top so he could twist the catch, lift, and climb in. The front door looked straight down the hall, and right away I noticed the curtains fluttering. The window was wide open, and glass shards gleamed from the melted snow that had blown in. It overlooked the alley behind the house. The neighbors had missed the noise, else the cops would be waiting.
“Your friends were here again,” I said, disgusted.
Suitcases full of his new clothes in hand, Kroun put them down by the stairs, balancing the box of del Mundo cigars on top of one. He walked to the window and studied smears left by the intruder’s wet shoes. “Don’t think so. Michael can open any door, and Broder would just kick it in. They’re not this sloppy.”
Yeah, maybe. I did a quick search of all three floors, attic, and the basement, but no big bosses from New York lurked in the shadows. Sweeping outside, I looked in the garage, but Escott’s Nash was safe. I found footprints in the snow by the house, but the fresh fall had nearly filled them in—not that I was an expert tracker. The intruder had pushed a garbage can under the window and used it to boost himself up; ignoring the locked doors, he’d left the same way. His prints led toward the alley entry and the street beyond.
“Michael’s got no reason to return,” Kroun said when I came back. “If he wants to know more about you, there’s other ways for him, like talking to Gordy.”
“What if they were here for you?”
“Then they were disappointed, but this doesn’t smell like either of them.”
“They’re trying to shake me up.”
“Why should they bother?” He shut the front door, cutting down on the cold cross draft from the broken window. “Anything missing?”
“Don’t know.” I made a second search of the place. Escott and I didn’t have much in the way of valuables. He had an old gold pocket watch, but kept it in a safe hidden under the basement stairs along with his petty cash. I had a few cigar boxes stuffed with money there, too. Neither of us trusted banks much. The safe hadn’t been broken into, but throughout the house someone had rummaged around in the drawers and closets. Nothing seemed to be gone, though.
“Not a burglar,” said Kroun. “A reporter after dirt? There were plenty of them around when that Russian dame was all over you.”
“Maybe. Faustine wasn’t shy about naming names. But if anyone wanted to know about me, he could ask for an interview. No need to do this.”
“What about the FBI?”
I didn’t like that one. “I’m not important enough for them to bother with.”
“Don’t be so sure. That Hoover is crazy. He tells his boys to do something, and they do it, whether it’s a good idea or not. Like me with Gordy’s bunch.”
“But—” I broke off.
“You think of something?”
“It’s nuts.”
“But worth considering?”
“Gilbert Dugan—that society bum behind the kidnapping I worked on? He was going to send anonymous letters off to a lot of places, the cops, the FBI, the tax people, to let them know that I was a suspicious character they should investigate. I got rid of those letters, but he might have written more.”
“They’d pay attention to mail from some lunatic?”
“Probably not, but it’d only take one guy having a slow day to set a ball rolling. Maybe the G-men would burgle a joint, but this doesn’t make sense. They’d pick me up for questioning first.”
“Who else has it in for you?”
“Hand me a phone book.”
“Don’t stay here then. I’m not.” He went into the kitchen and opened the icebox. He pulled out a brown bottle and yanked the cork. I’d seen drunks guzzle a beer that fast, but not often. As before, it hit him like a jolt of hard booze. “Wow. That’s good stuff you keep there. Thanks for the hospitality.” He left the empty in the sink and went toward the front hall. He looked at his suitcases a moment, shook his head, and walked out the front door without them.
“Hey, I’m supposed to keep an eye on you,” I called from the porch.
“I’ll stay out of trouble, I promise.”
“Where you going?”
“Don’t know yet. Safer that way.”
“You need a ride there?”
“Nope.”
“You coming back?”
“Tomorrow night, first thing. Still need to wind up some business.” He moved briskly down the sidewalk, ignoring the snow.
No point asking what the business might be. He would return, if only to get his clothes.
I shut the door and muttered unkind things about the ass who’d broken the window. The place wasn’t secure for me, not during the day.
My secret room under the kitchen…well, someone had found it.
The heavy kitchen table and the rug under it were slightly out of place. Escott was meticulous about keeping one of the table legs squarely over a small cigarette burn he’d made on the floor. He’d put it there on purpose, claiming it was a kind of burglar alarm, and damned if it hadn’t worked. The burn was visible now. I was seriously spooked.
The intruder had not made it down into the room. A normal human could drop in but needed a ladder to get out. I had a folding one kept out of sight under my cot, and it was still out of sight, unused.
The intruder chose to avoid getting trapped in my basement lair, but he’d still seen it. What had he made of it? I didn’t keep any secret diary or important papers there, just my attempts at writing lurid fiction for dime magazines. One close look, and he’d probably laugh himself silly.
A sense of violation, shaken confidence, and rage—I had the whole list of what it feels like when an unknown threat invades one’s supposedly safe castle. This was far from the first time I’d been through the experience, but you never get used to it. If I found the guy…he wouldn’t be happy. With both arms broken, it’s hard to climb into people’s houses.
I scavenged scrap boards in the basement that were long enough and got the hammer and nails. Fastening the boarding to the sash, I stuffed layers of newspapers in the gap between them and the remaining glass. If anyone wanted to get in again, he could do it; this was just to keep the weather out. As a repair it stank, but I felt better for the effort.
It was too dangerous to sleep the day here, and there wasn’t time to drive to Lady Crymsyn and hide out in its hidden sanctuary—if it was indeed still hidden. The bad guys might have found it as well. I thought of calling the Nightcrawler and having a couple of the bouncers come over to watch the house, but for all I knew they might be in on it. Maybe it had been an overeager reporter looking for dirt. Maybe it had been those two cops, Merrifield and Garza.
Locking the front and back doors—including shoving a chair under each knob—I inspected all the windows, pulling shades, seeing to it the catches caught. It was more habit than expectation of keeping anyone out. I worked my way upstairs.
The clock on my dresser showed I had enough time to take care of some much-needed details so long as I was quick. One scalding-hot shower and a close shave later put me in an improved state of mind. I dressed to be ready for tomorrow night, intending to waste no time getting back to the hospital to see Escott. Yes, he was better, but a relapse could happen. Hope and worry chased themselves around inside my skull, each feeding and exhausting the other turn on turn, no end in sight to their insane race.
Grabbing two spare blankets from a cupboard and an oilcloth packet of my home earth, I went up to the attic.
A determined break-in artist could still get in despite a heavy trunk I’d dragged over the trapdoor, but I wouldn’t be sleeping there. Stooping to avoid rafters, I walked to the far end of the narrow space where a small window with cloudy glass peered at a similar window across the alley. Vanishing, I sieved through, floated over, and re-formed in the neighbor’s attic.
I got my bearings, went semitransparent, and drifted to a dark corner behind some junk that hadn’t been moved in years. Solid again and moving quietly, I put one blanket on the dusty floor, lay down, and wrapped up in the other. Very cozy. I’d done this before for a little peace of mind. The packet of earth was snug under the small of my back. It was cold, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I’d rest well for the day, as safe as could be improvised, and not too worried the neighbors would find me. Spring cleaning was weeks away.
What arrangements would Kroun make? Perhaps something similar. With those picklocks he could walk through most any door. He could also hypnotize people into forgetting his presence. He’d look after himself well enough, hopefully without hurting anyone along the way.
That gave my conscience a pang. He was supposed to be a bad guy, same as his friends. Michael had specifically warned me to beware of him. But Kroun’s reputation wasn’t matching up to the side he’d shown tonight. If he was that bad, then why had he saved Escott? So that I’d owe him twice over? Maybe, but he had looked genuinely concerned at the time.
Why wouldn’t he talk?
Wh—
Sunrise.
KROUN
COLD town. Damn cold town.
Gabriel felt a lot better with a bellyful of blood, but even that wasn’t enough to take away the heavy weariness that had crept up on him over the last few hours.
He needed rest, the kind he only ever got from sleeping on soil, but that was a luxury he’d just have to put off. Leaving himself open to having the dreams, nightmares, night terrors in the day, whatever they were, was more important.
Mixed in with their horrors was information…memories.
Bad ones, like the bomb ripping through the car, but if they also led to something useful—like how he’d known his blood would help that man—then Gabe would take the bad with the good and get through it.
Fleming was getting too pushy with his questions.
Gabe hadn’t enjoyed busting the kid, but sometimes you have to make a point when the other guy’s playing dumb. Fleming wasn’t dumb, not for damn sure, but he had a hell of an instinct for getting under the skin. No wonder Hog Bristow had…
Gabe’s shoulders jerked. No, better not to be thinking about that mistake just before bedtime. The memories he courted had to be his own, not imaginings about another man’s run of bad luck. He did not need to dream about being skinned alive. How the hell had Fleming survived the ordeal? Even Gordy didn’t have those particulars.
Looking over his shoulder more than a few times, Gabe checked to see if anyone followed. Whoever had gotten into Fleming’s house might have been watching from a distance, waiting to come after one or the other of them.
No one showed himself on foot or in a car; what could be seen of the street through the thick snowfall was clear. Fleming was the target, then. Presumably he would find a safer haven for the day than that drafty brick barn.
Not my problem.
Long strides eating up the pavement and the snow filling in his tracks, Gabe left the rows of houses, entering the beginnings of a business area. This was where the neighborhood wives bought their groceries, where their husbands worked, where their kids ran errands. A good life when you could find it. Gabe’s life before his change had not been so tranquil, he was certain of that.
He found the shop he wanted, one that Fleming had driven past on the way back to the house. On second look it still seemed suitable. The dingy window fronting the street was obscured with sheets of yellowed newspaper to discourage the curious from peering in, and a faded CLOSED sign hung crookedly on the door. The alcove entry was littered with minor trash, indication that no one had been there for months. Make that years. The papers dated from ’33.
