Stake

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Carrow parked his Ford at the curb on the steep street just beyond the mansion’s black wrought-iron gates. As he stepped out of his car, he tugged down his dark sport jacket, unconsciously brushing the front. He felt woefully underdressed just standing in the street. When he took a deep breath, he thought the air seemed thinner here.

  The gates were closed in front of him, metal spikes like medieval defenses. The property was surrounded by a red brick wall, also topped with iron spikes. Carrow found an intercom box on the brick post beside the gate and pressed the button.

  As soon as he did, a storm of barks and growls erupted from inside the walls, followed by the clatter of galloping paws. Carrow thought that a werewolf was charging toward him – which showed how much this ridiculous case was getting to him – but instead it was a pair of Dobermans with long snouts and sharp fangs. They streaked to the gate, snarling and panting like furnace bellows.

  Carrow jittered back, cursing to cover his surprise. Blocked by the gate, the Dobermans trotted back and forth, as if ready to squeeze between the bars so they could rip his throat out. ‘Nice dogs,’ he said. ‘I like dogs.’

  The Dobermans didn’t seem to believe him.

  A deep male voice came over the intercom speaker, startling him almost as much as the dogs had. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat to keep his voice from cracking. ‘This is Detective Carrow from CSPD. I have an appointment to see Mr Zelm, but there’s a couple of hellhounds in the way.’

  ‘Please wait.’ The speaker fell silent.

  Carrow faced the two intimidating dogs that kept barking and growling at him behind the bars. He felt braver with the gate closed and locked.

  After a few interminable minutes, two men in dark security uniforms walked down the drive. One man carried two chain leashes, and he grasped the collars around the Dobermans’ necks, unconcerned about being mauled. He clipped the leashes in place, never taking his eyes off Carrow through the bars. Without saying anything, he yanked on the chains and pulled the dogs away. The second guard opened the gate and ushered Carrow inside, not even pretending to smile.

  According to public records, Hugo Zelm had no wife, no children, no significant other, just an extensive staff. Maybe that was why he needed such a large house. The mansion had two wings, a sloped black roof, and tall windows. Carrow paused to take in the breathtaking view of Colorado Springs below and the rugged Front Range behind the house. The sun had already set behind the hills, and long mountain shadows spilled across the development like an ominous blanket.

  ‘This way please, Detective Carrow.’ The guard led him up the drive to the imposing house and climbed the steps to the front entrance. He opened a door that was high and wide enough for a mounted knight to ride through.

  Inside, the staff had turned on all the house lights. A sparkling chandelier lit the high-ceilinged foyer. Carrow looked at the sweeping staircase, decorative marble columns, the polished marble tile floor, the framed paintings on the walls. Rooms full of lavish furniture extended in every direction.

  ‘Huh, reminds me of my own place,’ he said to the guard, who merely frowned at him.

  Hugo Zelm entered from a side room, a bald man with liver spots on his scalp and hands, just like in his photographs. He wore a white dress shirt, black dress pants and gleaming patent-leather shoes. His thin, pale face looked like parchment stretched over his skull, and his aquiline nose could have been used as a weapon. He wore a heavy gold ring on one hand and a heavier gold Rolex on the opposite wrist.

  ‘Detective Todd Carrow, so very, very pleased to meet you.’ His smile came straight out of a vinegar bottle. ‘I have been following your cases.’

  That surprised him. ‘My cases?’

  ‘I am alarmed that such violence could exist in our serene city.’ Zelm led him into a drawing room that was larger than Carrow’s entire townhouse. ‘I am happy to answer your questions, and I hope you will indulge my own curiosity.’

  The fifteen-foot-high windows in the large room would have offered a breathtaking panorama of the city below, especially at sunset, yet the philanthropist had covered every window with dark, heavy curtains. ‘Considering how much you must have paid for this place, why would you block the view?’

  Zelm pursed his lips. ‘The sunshine bothers me.’ He rubbed his fingertips over the back of his opposite hand. ‘The doctors say I am very, very susceptible to skin cancer, and I must avoid all exposure to direct sunlight. Fortunately for me, the night view is stunning as well.’ He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. ‘This is where I find my greatest peace.’

  His eyes grew more intense and he leaned close as if imparting a secret. ‘I also keep the curtains drawn because the paparazzi spy on me, and I will not let them leer inside my home.’ He tugged on a heavy pull rope at the side of the window, drawing aside the curtains to reveal the sunset shadows across the hills and the city to the east. ‘There, you see. I love to enjoy a glass of wine and just watch the busy activities of the little people down there.’

  ‘Some might consider the curtains evidence of you being a vampire.’

  Zelm chuckled. ‘If you are inclined to believe things like that. Are you, Detective?’

  Carrow scoffed. ‘Not me, but I’m surprised the media hasn’t made a scandal out of it.’

  The philanthropist clucked his tongue. ‘The more I value my privacy, the more they want to take it away from me. And that is one reason why I host such a large open house every year, where I invite in all sorts of media, allow the reporters and the general public to see me for one night in hopes they will leave me alone for the rest of the year. It is a vain hope, I know.’ He sighed again. ‘Now tell me, Detective, what brings you here?’

  ‘Your name has come up in connection with a series of murders.’

  ‘Oh dear, am I a suspect?’ His eyes went wide. ‘I’m a little old to be wrestling people with mallets and stakes.’

  ‘I didn’t mention the stake killer.’

  Zelm’s thin lips formed a smile. ‘Is there another series of murders I am unaware of? I have my own sources of information.’

  ‘Good sources, apparently,’ Carrow said, though he wasn’t surprised the details of Eldridge’s murder had started to leak. ‘But you’re not a suspect, sir. In fact, you might be in danger. We obtained a list of potential victims from the possible killer, people he thinks are actual vampires. Your name was there.’

  Zelm snickered. ‘I know my behavior is unusual, eccentric, but I never thought it was vampiric. I suppose a madman can convince himself of whatever he wants to believe.’

  ‘He is a madman,’ Carrow agreed. ‘I’ve been to the crime scenes.’

  Zelm’s eyes lit up. His pale lips drew back as if someone were stretching the skin on the back of his neck. ‘I hear there is a second stake victim, and a decapitated man. Do describe the cases for me. I am fascinated by such things.’

  Carrow was disappointed but not surprised the man knew so much. ‘At least three victims so far, each one murdered in a way supposedly effective on vampires. At first I thought it was gang activity, excessive violence to scare rivals, but it seems the killer really believes in vampires.’

  ‘Ah, excessive gang-related violence, like Chop Chop down in Pueblo.’ Zelm’s eyes glittered. ‘I told you I have been following your cases, Detective. But I agree with your conclusions. This deranged individual truly must believe he is killing vampires.’ He chuckled. ‘Have you read HideTruth? It is filled with remarkable information. Did you know that the site is based right here in Colorado Springs? I am one of their supporters.’

  ‘Yes, I’m familiar with the site,’ Carrow said, cautious. ‘I’ve already spoken with Alexis Tarada.’

  ‘Oh, I very, very much look forward to meeting her! I have invited her to my gala this weekend.’

  ‘It might be wise to cancel the party, sir,’ Carrow said. ‘You could be in danger. It’s a golden opportunity for the killer to make his move.’r />
  Zelm gave him a patronizing smile. ‘I assure you I am in no danger. Have you seen my wall, my gate, my dogs, my guards? I am quite capable of protecting myself. I have had to do it for some time.’

  Carrow didn’t want to be brushed aside. ‘Still, I could provide an additional police security detail, station officers on the property. I’d like to be here myself, just to observe.’

  ‘Is that a subtle way of requesting an invitation? Why of course you are welcome to come. Will it fit into your social calendar?’

  The man had a distinctly mocking tone, but the invitation was serious. ‘I’m sure I can clear it.’

  ‘I could send over a list of etiquette rules to your CSPD office, if you need them?’

  ‘Thank you. That would be helpful,’ Carrow said, then realized the comment might have been a jab. ‘I’ll be here. Just keep your eyes open in the meantime. Alert your staff about the murderer still out there.’

  Zelm gazed at the shadows spreading across the city. ‘Instead of viewing the open house only as a threat, can you look at this as an opportunity to trap the killer?’ His dark eyes took on a new sparkle. ‘In fact, since you know Miss Tarada, maybe you should accompany her as a bodyguard. I would not want anything to happen to her.’ He rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘Yes, that would do nicely.’

  The philanthropist locked his hands behind his back and stared out the window as the lights began to come on in the city.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Helsing had done his research and made his choice. He was ready for his next target.

  Alexis Tarada would study the file of evidence he had given her, but he did not intend to wait for her. Even if the young woman shared his certainty, he wasn’t sure she would participate in the violence. Even Lucius and the Bastion refused to join him in his bloody work. That was Helsing’s fight alone.

  Tom Grollin, late-shift taxi driver, lived in a small flat on the second floor of an old building on Cascade Avenue downtown. The shops and restaurants at street level drew a lot of pedestrian traffic, but Grollin worked at night – hunted at night, Helsing was sure – and slept during the daytime, hiding in his protected lair.

  Because the door to the stairwell leading to the upper apartments was on a public street, Helsing would not break in during daylight hours to make his kill. His chance to get inside would be in the dead of night, when the streets were silent and when Grollin was out hunting. Once in position, Helsing would lie in wait and attack the vampire while he was awake.

  Feeling a thrill, Helsing approached the street entrance in the sullen darkness before dawn. The taxi driver was still out on his rounds, and Helsing had plenty of time to set his trap. When the vampire returned, sated and sluggish from his evening prowl, Helsing would strike. He had already proved that the Taser was effective.

  The door to the upstairs flats was just off the sidewalk, sandwiched between an upscale clothing shop and an art gallery. At this hour, even the restaurants and bars on the street were closed.

  The door was locked, accessible only to the tenants, but it wasn’t a very secure lock. He huddled in the portico dressed in dark clothes and a gray trench coat, nothing that would be recognizable on surveillance cameras. He would appear to be just one of the homeless seeking shelter in the doorway. He worked quickly with the lock picks, opened the door to the entryway and slipped inside. A well-lit staircase led to the second floor, and he hurried up, though no one would likely be wandering the hallways at 5 a.m.

  Grollin’s apartment was one of four doors upstairs. The vampire had installed a deadbolt to supplement the lock on the doorknob, and Helsing had a few bad moments when he couldn’t get inside. Though he made little sound, he was taking too much time. Finally, he clicked the deadbolt aside and ducked into the darkened apartment.

  The retractable window shades were raised to give Grollin a full view of downtown Colorado Springs at night. Helsing was surprised a lampir would let himself be so exposed, but he imagined Grollin rising after full darkness and raising the shades to look out at his hunting territory. He would prowl during the night and return in time to draw the shades before dawn.

  This time, though, Helsing would be waiting for him.

  He closed the door securely behind him, locked the deadbolt again. With the streetlights shining through the window, he didn’t have to use a flashlight as he slowly assessed the area.

  The taxi driver’s studio apartment had a Murphy bed that was already folded down from the wall, the sheets and blanket rumpled, as if he never tidied his place. There was a tattered old recliner that might have been through several tenants, and a tiny kitchen with dishes piled in the sink. Tom Grollin was a complete loner, understandably so.

  The lowered Murphy bed filled most of the open space, leaving little room to maneuver. Helsing found the best spot for an ambush, just behind the door and next to the recliner. He set down his satchel and slid out of his trench coat. He sprinkled himself with holy water, then removed the long hunting knife, the hatchet, and the jar of fresh garlic cloves.

  It was now 5:30 a.m. according to the illuminated clock in the kitchen. Less than forty-five minutes to sunrise, and Grollin needed to return home before dawn.

  Helsing removed the Taser from the satchel and crouched, ready. With his vampire senses, Grollin would know something was amiss the moment he entered, so Helsing would need to strike instantly. He wouldn’t have a second chance. Freshly fed, the vampire would be strong, capable of tearing out Helsing’s throat – unless Helsing killed him first.

  The minutes ticked by. His grip was sweaty on the Taser. He was sure he would detect footsteps coming up the stairs, certainly the key in the lock.

  But a faint glow of color suffused the eastern sky, visible through the windows. Something wasn’t right. What if Grollin had more than one place to go to ground? Helsing’s research had found nothing, but what if he was wrong? How could a vampire be out in the sun? Did he need to change his plan?

  Slanted golden light came through the windows, full sunrise, before he heard footsteps plodding up the stairs. Grollin didn’t seem to be in a hurry, no frantic rush to reach his dark daytime shelter; he just sounded tired.

  No. Helsing touched the cross around his neck. By now the holy water had dried to a faint dampness. He could not let himself doubt. He was doing the right thing.

  He heard the jingle of keys, a rattle in the lock, and he tensed, made sure the Taser was ready to fire. He aimed toward where the man would step through the doorway.

  The deadbolt clicked, then turned, and Tom Grollin pushed open the door with a grunt and a grumble. The taxi driver sounded weary and unhappy as he stepped inside.

  When he saw Helsing standing in front of him, his mouth dropped open, and his eyes went wide.

  Helsing fired the Taser before the vampire could make any sound. The electrode wires spun out and the barbs dug into Grollin’s chest. The cartridge discharged with a zapping, popping rattle of electricity, enough to make the man jitter and flail. His legs gave out.

  Helsing was already moving. He got behind Grollin, used his shoulder to knock the man forward into the small flat. The taxi driver staggered ahead two steps until he crashed into the Murphy bed.

  Helsing quickly swung the door shut, clicked the deadbolt. Grollin lay groaning on the rumpled sheets, clawing at the electrode prongs in his chest. With a vampire’s recuperative powers, Helsing knew he had only a few seconds.

  He tossed the Taser aside, grabbed the long knife, and jumped on top of the Murphy bed, pinning Grollin on his back. With his left hand, he pushed the vampire’s chin upward, then made a hard, swift stroke with the blade in his right. He cut into the neck, sawed through blood vessels and tendons. A fountain of red showered Helsing, soaked his hair, his shirt. He worked swiftly, cut, sawed, severed all the soft tissue.

  Grollin’s struggles ended quickly. The Murphy bed was a swamp of blood. Daylight streamed through the open windows and spilled over the bed, across the victim. But just
cutting a lampir’s throat wasn’t good enough. He set the knife aside and grabbed the hatchet. He brought it down as if he were chopping kindling. Two swift, sharp blows cleaved the vertebrae and the remaining skin until the man’s head rolled free from the body.

  Still not good enough. He pried open Grollin’s mouth, separating the teeth. The fangs were hidden now, reverted to the natural state. He dumped several cloves of garlic into the open mouth and pressed the jaws shut again.

  Blood was everywhere, sprayed on the walls, the mattress, the sofa, even a fan pattern across the window glass. He looked down at what he had just accomplished. The mess always disgusted him, but it was necessary. Decapitation with garlic was the most thorough method Helsing could imagine.

  Pounding a stake through the heart was far less messy, though, and quicker. That would be his preferred method from now on, except for the silver-filled shotgun shells, which he would use against the king vampire.

  He backed away from the Murphy bed, glad he had brought his trench coat. At the kitchen sink he washed the obvious blood from his hands and face, letting the red trails trickle down among the dirty dishes. Through the walls, he heard a radio alarm in the apartment next door, someone no doubt waking up to get ready for work. Helsing had to get out of there before anyone saw him.

  He hadn’t expected to be here so late, never imagined the vampire would return after sunrise. Hoping to remain unnoticed, Helsing pulled on the trench coat to cover his blood-soaked clothes, enough to let him get out of the building and through the side alley to where he had left the car.

  Once he made it back to the Rambler Star Motel, he could clean himself up and take a well-deserved rest.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Arriving at his downtown CSPD office the next morning, Detective Carrow collected the eighteen names from Simon Helsing’s dossier and knew it was going to be a long day. He had arranged for added manpower to talk with the other potential targets. Hugo Zelm hadn’t seemed worried, but he had his own security army. The others in the dossier seemed like normal, everyday people who happened to have nocturnal schedules.