The Vampire Files, Volume Four

by P. N. Elrod

  Someone rushed up, apparently grabbing the case. I shifted to wrap around him. He muttered a curse against the sudden chill but kept going. This was familiar. I’d had plenty of practice hanging on to people in such a manner.

  He moved fast, puffing hard with his burden. I stuck with him as he ran, stopped, turned, and sat. We were in a car. A door slammed, the motor gunned, and away we went.

  It seemed safe to flow clear and explore the confines of the vehicle. I reached out with what would be my hands and felt my way around, craving orientation. The buoyant freedom of this form was extremely enjoyable, but going on for this long was turning it into too much of a good thing.

  The front seat held two men, the back was empty but cluttered with unidentifiable stuff. I bumbled my way behind the seat, down to the floorboards, and cautiously went solid amid a debris of cast-off clothes, musty blankets, and empty beer bottles. Drained and dizzy, I ached to stretch. It had been a while since I’d spent so extended a period in a formless state. If either of the two men happened to turn, they’d spot me, but I was willing to chance it for the reassuring relief of having my body back to normal again.

  For the time being, the men were too distracted with jubilation to bother. They’d just picked up the ransom—a neatly packed hundred grand—and the guy on the passenger side was doing a rough count. Eavesdropping, or in this case backseat-dropping, I’d learned his name was Ralph; the driver was Vinzer.

  Mine is Jack Fleming. I should mention that I’m a vampire. I drink blood and can hypnotize most people into doing what I want, but vanishing’s one of the best aspects of the condition. No turning into mist or fog, but absolute invisibility, more presence than person, very handy in tight spots.

  It made me the ace up the sleeve for the kidnap victim’s family, so forget the stakes and garlic, I’m one of nature’s good guys.

  “Anyone following?” asked Ralph.

  “No.”

  “Then let’s go back.”

  “Dugan said to be sure. I’m gonna be sure.”

  A third member to the party? I decided to hold off breaking heads until we met up with this Dugan bird. Maybe the girl they’d taken away was with him.

  Turns were made; so far as I could tell, speeding laws were observed; then Vinzer slowed and stopped, motor running. “There he is.”

  A window was rolled down. I felt a wash of icy air.

  “Is it all there?” a man called to them.

  Vinzer repeated the question to Ralph.

  “Gimme a minute.”

  It took Ralph longer than that to count the cash, during which I remained absolutely still and quiet, easy enough with no beating heart or need to breathe. These clowns were in for a truckload of trouble. I could afford to wait before running them over with it.

  Only a patch of night-gray sky was visible through a grimed window. I thought we were still well within the city, though, just not in an area with high buildings to give me a landmark.

  “Yeah,” said Ralph. “It’s all here, Dugan, small bills. We’re rich!”

  “Right, then,” said the third party. “Lead on, and I’ll watch your backs.”

  The window went up, and Vinzer shifted gears. We rolled forward, apparently on a more direct course to our destination. There were fewer turns, and I saw the rise and fall of telephone wires and passing streetlights. No way to tell where we were heading.

  “Watch our backs,” Vinzer muttered. “More like watching us so we don’t run off with the dough.”

  “I’d do the same if I was him. Just makes sense. Dugan trusted us to meet up with him.”

  “Only after he told me how tough it would be to do anything else.”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “He didn’t come out and say it, but he let me know.”

  Ralph persisted with the same question.

  Vinzer snorted. “He told me it would be too bad if the cops got a description of us and the plate numbers of the car.”

  “So?”

  “It was how he said it. Like he’d phone it all in if we didn’t show.”

  “Well, we did show, so now it don’t matter.”

  “He don’t trust us, so I don’t trust him.”

  “You worry too much. Dugan’s been straight from the start, just careful, you know? This was being extra careful. I’d do the same if I was him.”

  “If you was him, you wouldn’t need the money.”

  “He said he was broke.”

  “Yeah. He said. You ever once live in a place like he’s got? I don’t buy his story.”

  “Don’t matter to me. This job worked out. That’s what matters.”

  Vinzer muttered again but subsided.

  The stready undulation of phone wires threatened to make me carsick, so I looked away. I’d materialized down in the foot well, which was unpadded, with a blackjack in one coat pocket and a .38 revolver in another. Both seemed to be burrowing toward each other as each bump and pothole in the road telegraphed through my long bones. I settled in as best I could for the duration and hoped my unaware companions continued to be preoccupied by thoughts of Dugan. He sounded to be the possible brains behind their operation and apparently lived somewhere nice enough to impress Vinzer. Maybe it was too nice and needed a lot of expensive upkeep, so he chose kidnapping over bank robbery to acquire some big cash.

  As a crime, kidnapping used to be almost respectable, a popular, lowrisk way of getting rich quick. All you had to do was walk off with someone’s kid for a day or so, trade the tot for a box of spending money, then hope to lam it before the cops caught up. The American public had developed a sneaking admiration for such criminals, almost like for Robin Hood. It was a lark, an adventure, and no one was ever really hurt. Until the Lindbergh case showed everyone up. The fun had gone out of the game. Now it was as deadly as it had always been, maybe more so. Harsh federal penalties had raised the ante for the criminals, so the more ruthless ones made killing the victim part of the job. If they were really sadistic, torturing the victim’s family with a mixture of hope and anguish kept things even more entertaining.

  The family in this case was a widowed mother who had inherited a Great Lakes shipping business. Mrs. Vivian Gladwell, short, a little wide in figure, in her young forties, had been content to host bridge parties for her friends and attend church and charity events. Her only offspring was Sarah. She was physically sixteen years old. Mentally, she would never progress much farther than ten. She would always be a harmless, loving child. Vivian doted on her.

  Two weeks ago, Sarah took her French poodle for a walk on the estate grounds, where she always stayed inside the wall and gates. The dog had come back to the house, but not the girl. A terse message was tied to its collar like a Christmas tag. In block letters it said Sarah would die if the police were brought in; the place was under watch.

  My partner, Charles W. Escott, a detective for all his protest at being a private agent, had worked for Vivian on something minor a few months ago. He was evidently still fresh in her mind when she phoned with barely suppressed hysteria. He told her to bring in the cops. She refused and begged for his help. He reluctantly involved himself. He instructed her to send her chauffeur to his house with a spare uniform and to take a long, zig-zag route.

  I’d just woken up for the night, emerging from my hidden sanctuary in the basement to find my sometime partner apparently changing trades in the living room. He said the chauffeur would be staying over awhile, then explained why.

  Escott’s impersonation idea was good, allowing him to gain unnoticed entry to the Gladwell house, but the flaw in the plan jumped right out at me. While Escott buttoned up the dark gray uniform coat and gave a last buff to his high boots, I took the chauffeur aside for a little chat. A short bout of forced hypnosis eased my worry that the man might be in on the crime. It wouldn’t be the first time a servant had been turned by a bribe. Escott tipped his peaked hat in salute to my idea but showed a grim face.

  “I’ve rather a nasty feeling
I’m in over my head on this one,” he said, his way of asking for help. Until now, the only kidnapping case he’d ever dealt with had to do with a purloined pooch he once stole back for a client.

  “No problem.” I got dressed, called the head bartender of my nightclub to tell him not to expect me any time soon, and we loaded into the Gladwell Cadillac. I invisibly smuggled myself into the house, was introduced to Vivian, and made it my business to hypnotize the rest of the staff on the sly. They were in the clear, which was too bad. A solid lead would have finished things right away.

  For the next two weeks, Escott remained on the estate, phoning brief reports to me and the chauffeur just after sunset. The kidnapper called the Gladwell house several times, usually in the middle of the night. Vivian’s conversations were short and heartbreaking, pleading for her daughter’s return and to speak with her; the muffled voice on the other end of the line hissed dire warnings against involving the law.

  The man eventually lowered his ransom demand for a million dollars to a more reasonable hundred grand after Vivian swore she couldn’t remove such a huge sum from her bank without drawing notice, which was true. Twice she’d gone out to hand it over. False alarms. Escott judged the apparently cruel ploy was to see how obedient she would be, and he assured her none of it was unusual.

  “I do not think we’re dealing with a professional,” he confided to me in private.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “A smart man would want to finish the job quickly. Keeping a person confined against their will is a difficult and consuming task. Delay increases the risk of discovery. This fellow makes me think he saw a film about the topic and took it as a pattern to follow. Amateurs are unpredictable, more dangerous. I don’t hold much hope for Sarah.”

  It was rare for Escott to be pessimistic, but he was too well aware of the seriousness of this job, and the pressure ate steadily at him. Lean already, he lost weight, and from the hollow cast of his eyes, I was sure he wasn’t sleeping. If Sarah came to harm or had already been killed, he would carry it the rest of his life.

  But today the last post brought instructions. Escott phoned me just at sunset. I hurried over, again sneaking into the house.

  In a plain envelope was a blurred, inexpertly shot photo of Sarah Gladwell staring in wide-eyed confusion at the camera, holding a two-day-old copy of the Tribune. The background consisted of churned snow and the white clapboard side of a building, with no other clue to her location. A block-printed card stated calling the police would get her throat cut. To bring home the point, the bottom corner bore a large red smear. It could have been ink, but I’d instantly picked up bloodsmell. No matter whether the blood came from Sarah or not, the effect on her mother was the same. She’d shown an astonishing amount of restraint so far, but she didn’t have much control left. Tears streamed, but for the moment, she held off breaking down completely.

  “We’ll get her back, ma’am,” I said, and hoped like hell I’d be right.

  No way of setting the odds for that, but they were bad. Unless the kidnapper wore a mask, the unblindfolded Sarah would have seen him. Maybe he thought a girl with her limited mental state posed no threat. Otherwise, he would kill her. He may have done so right after taking the picture, but there was no point saying that aloud to her mother.

  Fortunately for me, he liked working after dark. Soon after I arrived, the hissing voice was on the line with directions and more threats. Escott put on his chauffeur’s cap.

  The first time we’d made a run, he’d told Vivian that my job was to trail the kidnapper from the drop. She’d objected, even though my sudden inexplicable appearances in her home with all the doors and windows bolted convinced her of my talent for getting around unobserved. This still wasn’t enough for her to risk Sarah’s life. Escott and I had exchanged a look. From that point forward, I’d pretend to stay behind but would vanish into the car, and off we’d roll.

  And this time, finally, it turned out to be the end of the line, one way or another.

  “Wish it was closer in,” said Ralph, sounding impatient. “I wanna cut free and leave. Is he still there?”

  “Yeah,” said Vinzer. “Right with us.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  “That crap don’t matter. You just do the job.”

  “He’s doing the job. Job’s done. Know what I’m gonna do with my share?”

  “You only talk about it fifty times a day.”

  “I’m going to Miami,” Ralph continued, ignoring him. “Gonna get one of those fancy places on the beach, buy a joint with some good-looking girls, and have them do all the work. Have fun with ’em any time I want.”

  “Miami’s too expensive. Go to Havana.”

  “But they got horse races, dog races, everything—an’ they talk American.”

  “Once you hit the tracks, you’ll be broke in an hour.”

  “Not if I win. Everyone knows when you lay down the big money, you get back bigger money. No more stinking two-dollar windows for me.”

  “Same horses run at two bucks as for twenty-five Gs. Same horses lose.”

  By that division of the money, I could deduce there might be four in the gang. Three to make the pick up and one left behind to watch Sarah? I could hope.

  I’d gotten used to thinking we were dealing with a single man. Not easy to tackle four, but possible by taking out one at a time, and only after I got the girl clear. If she was still alive. I was tempted to make my presence known to these goofs right now and hypnotize them into submission, but I’d tried a stunt like that once and had nearly wrecked the car and me with it. Besides, there was the guy following us. Dugan. Better to let things move forward, then jump in once I had the whole picture.

  “You just don’t want me havin’ fun,” Ralph grumped. “I got all the money in the world now, and you act like it’s nothing.”

  Vinzer sighed. “No, I’m acting like you’re an idiot. If you played it smart, you could make your share last the rest of your life. You almost got it right about buying a business, but go anywhere near the tracks and you’ll be back here again.”

  “Holding a suitcase with a hundred Gs?” Ralph snickered.

  “Aw, shuddup an’ lemme drive.”

  One of them turned on the radio. We listened to Bergen and McCarthy fading in out of the static. I was too nerved to laugh at the jokes. Ralph hooted and repeated punch lines to himself.

  After an entirely too long but favorably uneventful ride, Vinzer made a turn onto an unpaved road. We left behind the march of phone lines that comprised my only scenery except for occasional looming trees. I wanted to sit up for a look, eager as a kid for the end of the trip. They had the car heater going the whole time, and in my heavy coat and gloves, I’d grown warm, weary, and cramped. If I’d still been human, I might have disastrously dozed off.

  The road got rougher; we skidded on icy patches. Vinzer grumbled under his breath. He finally braked and cut the motor. He and Ralph left the car. At nearly the same time, another car door slammed shut close by. The sound was flat, isolated. I counted a slow ten before raising my head in the hard silence.

  Empty, snow-covered countryside, no lights showing except from a small clapboard house that had seen better days. Vinzer and Ralph went right in. I sieved out of a fairly new Studebaker and made note of a battered old Ford parked next to it. No other cars were in sight.

  Partially materialized, I floated lightly over the snow, drifting close to the building. Escott said I should rent myself to haunt houses for Halloween. The ghost gag was damned helpful for this kind of work; it made me harder to spot, left no tracks, and I could still discern things fairly well through the gray fog that hindered my sight.

  The stark structure was no more than fifteen feet wide but went back three times that distance. I knew the type. If you stood at the front door, the hall lined up with it so you could see to the back of the house. Every window was shaded or thickly curtained, not one crack to peer through.

&nbs
p; Going to the side, I went solid near a front window that served the living room. Within, the men whooped and laughed like Dodge City on a Saturday night. Vinzer and Ralph were the heroes of the moment with their delivery.

  Guessing the presence of so much money would keep them occupied, I eased down to the next window. Less noise here, perhaps an empty room. As good a place as any to start. I had to brace internally. Sieving through the tiny spaces between wood and lathe was different from flowing through a gap like a mouse hole. It was more a mental than a physical sensation, not a favorite, but the unpleasant restriction was brief as I passed from outside to in, no invitation required. I listened for signs of company in the space around me, then slowly went solid.

  Some nights it’s great to get out of bed. Sarah Gladwell was fast asleep on an army cot shoved next to one wall. Her breathing didn’t sound right, kind of hoarse, but she was breathing. She didn’t wake to my intrusion. I hoped it meant she’d been drugged and wasn’t sick. The room was cold; she had only one blanket.

  The door was wide open to a narrow hall. Any second one of the men might walk past and look in. I couldn’t carry her out that way. They had to be taken care of before I could get her clear.

  Barging in on them like a fist-swinging gangbuster had appeal. Even at four to one, I could win with my strength, but fights were unpredictable. If the men were armed and quick enough to shoot, the walls were too thin to risk having bullets flying around. I could survive getting shot, but not Sarah. She was going back to her mother in one undamaged piece.

  Getting the gang separated so I could more easily take them was best. I just had to figure out how. Making a racket to draw them to the rear of the house would put them on guard, bring them running, alert and suspicious. If I waited, something would turn up in my favor. They wouldn’t stay in the front forever. My betting money was on the bathroom. Sooner or later, someone had to use the toilet. Did this old place have one? No matter, an outhouse would work even better for me. I wouldn’t have to worry about making noise during the bushwhack.

  Hiding behind the open door, I went still again and paid attention to the conversation in the next room. The guy named Dugan seemed to be in charge. His accent was from Chicago, and he spoke like he’d had some education. He praised Ralph and Vinzer for a job well done, then announced it was time to pack up and leave.