She laughed at his desperate attempt to cling to his skepti-cism. “I keep telling you, we are. But not the way you think.” She let go of his hand and rearranged her clothes. “That's kind of draining the first time, isn't it? If you've worked up an appetite, let's get out there and score.”
Roger was surprised and not quite pleased to find that the trick came easily to him. His hypothetical kinship with Sylvia cast doubt on what he'd always considered his unpardonable guilt. Could a spider be damned for trapping flies? A cat for devouring mice?
So should I adopt Sylvia's notion that I'm a superior being, and humanity is my lawful prey? This is progress?Only natural that he half wanted to believe her—fantasies of glamorous origins, indulged in by most children, were especially common among adoptees. As a Freudian, he should be particularly aware of that tendency. He needed expert help, and not from a medical expert. From the Church.
He wouldn't consider, however, unfolding the truth to his own parish priest. The seal of confession would prevent the pastor from revealing Roger's secret and compel him to act as if he'd forgotten it, but nothing could keep him from viewing Roger differently thereafter. On the other hand, the idea of picking a priest at random from the phone book repelled Roger. A quick scan through his mental card file turned up a suitable confessor. Some months back, he had attended a weekend psychiatric conference in Providence. While there, he'd heard Mass at a small nineteenth-century church near Brown Uni-versity. The pastor, an older man near retirement, had made a favorable impression on him.
Telephoning the Providence parish long distance, Roger arranged a Saturday afternoon appointment. Enduring the loss of half a day's sleep and a long drive in daylight would be worthwhile if he got some answers.
* * * *
ARRIVING IN Providence with a pounding headache from the sun, Roger walked for a few minutes under the shade of the hundred-year-old oaks in the small churchyard, contemplating sculpted cherubs and lilies on headstones, postponing the moment of confrontation. The afternoon sun made him over-heated in the coat and tie he wore to underline his solidly professional status. The discomfort drove him into the cool dimness of the church. Bas-reliefs of the Stations of the Cross lined the side walls, while up front a life-size grouping of the Holy Family brooded over a bank of votive candles. Roger lit one on principle, though the only petition that came to mind was the missal's prayer for examination of conscience.
I confess myself in the dark as to my own failings; my passions blind me, self-love flatters me, presumption deludes me ... remove every veil that hides my sins from me, that I may be no longer a secret to myself.
Kneeling at the altar rail, he heard the creak of a side door and the pad of feet on the carpet. He sprang up to face the priest.
“Dr. Darvell?” The man was slightly plump, with a fringe of sandy-gray hair. “I'm Father Hale. Shall we go into my office?”
Too late to back out now.
“You don't use the old-fashioned confessional?” Roger glanced at the carved mahogany doors to one side of the nave.
“Sometimes those little boxes could be a device for evasion, I'm afraid,” said Father Hale, leading the way through a dusty back hall to the office. His blue eyes flashed a challenge at Roger. “Do you think I'm wrong?”
“I think you're all too right.” He followed the priest into a room dominated by a wide desk that barely left space enough to navigate between bookshelves and overstuffed chairs. Father Hale tugged aprie-dieu from a corner and placed it in the one clear spot on the braid rug.
Roger knelt stiffly upright as the priest donned his stole, murmuring the familiar prayer. “Shall we begin, my son?”
No escape—no barriers.Roger recited the customary opening phrases and ground to a halt.
“Please go on,” Father Hale softly prompted. “You made your last confession less than two weeks ago, yet today you come here, to a parish where you're unknown. There must be a particular reason. What is it?”
Unable to think of any smooth lead-in to his revelation, Roger blurted out, “Father, I drink human blood.” For a few seconds he felt dizzy with relief at getting the words spoken.
Aside from an acceleration in his heartbeat, the priest showed no reaction. His face remained expressionless. The man was as good at his job as Roger had hoped. “My son, are you confessing to murder?”
“No, I don't kill.”
“What, then? Perversion?”
“I'm not sure. I thought so at first, but now I'm reconsidering.” With the critical words spoken, Roger found he had no further trouble discussing his problem. “Living on blood is abnormal for human beings. Suppose I'm not human?”
Father Hale gave a single start of astonishment, instantly suppressed. “What else could you be?”
“Could you accept the possibility of another intelligent species—humanoid but not truly human—created to feed on blood?”
“If they existed, wouldn't we know about them?”
“Not if they carefully concealed themselves, as they certainly would.” Noting the priest's continued skepticism, Roger added in a more insistent tone, “Father, I've met one. She claims that she isn't human—and she believes I belong to her species.”
After a moment of thoughtful silence, the priest said, “You're a physician. If someone came to you with a story like this, what would your scientific training tell you?”
“This woman has shown me—things—that suggest she may be telling the truth. And it's not scientific to ignore the evidence of one's senses.”
Father Hale shifted uneasily in his chair. “I can see you believe this. I haven't experienced your ‘evidence,’ though. Can you give me any reason to believe?”
Roger bowed his head on his hands. How could he demonstrate his paranormal talents in any way that would convince a skeptical observer? Any use of hypnosis would be recognized as just that—and hypnotic illusion proved nothing. He looked up to meet the priest's eyes. How easy it would be to bend Father Hale's will, force him to believe. An act that would subvert the whole purpose of making this confession. “No, I can't,” Roger said. “I only know that I'm going out of my mind, living a lie, not sure what I am.”
“Are you prepared to give up consuming blood?”
“Don't you understand what I'm getting at?” Roger snarled. “I can't give it up. I'm asking you to show me how to live with it.”
With no trace of fear, only sorrow, the priest said, “You know I can't absolve you of a sin you don't repent and have no intention of stopping. When was the last time you—?”
“Sunday night.” The question reminded him of his growing hunger, which would drive him to satisfy it before the weekend was out.I was tapering off, before. Why is it getting worse now?
“And you perform this act frequently?” To Roger's silent acknowledgement, he continued, “For how long? How many years?”
“Almost twenty,” said Roger.
“You see what I mean, my son? If you remain willfully incorrigible—”
Roger got wearily to his feet. “Then what do you advise me to do about it?”
Father Hale, too, stood up, removing the sacramental stole. “I suggest you see a psychiatrist.”
Roger swallowed the obvious reply that leaped to mind. Instead, with a bitter smile, he turned and walked out.
* * * *
SOON AFTER HIS confrontation with Father Hale, Roger received an unexpected call from Lieutenant O'Toole. “Doc, we have ourselves a suspect in that serial murder case.”
Roger sat up straight in the padded leather office chair where he'd been dozing when the telephone had interrupted his lunch break. “Excellent. How did you manage to track him down?” He wondered whether the profile of the hypothetical killer that he'd assembled from the police reports and a rereading of Krafft-Ebing'sPsychopathia Sexualishad been of any help.
“Didn't. It was pure dumb luck.” O'Toole sounded dis-gusted. “He confessed, for God's sake!”
“Not unheard of,” Roger said. �
��The ‘stop me before I kill again’ syndrome. Some criminals commit their crimes precisely in order to be punished. On the other hand, irrational guilt can drive people to confess crimes they didn't commit.” Catching himself lecturing, he stopped short. O'Toole knew as much as he did about false confessions, maybe more.
“Yeah, we get the crazies. That's exactly why I called you. The details this guy gave us fit the murders, but we can't be sure.” He emitted a nervous cough. “Plus, his lawyer's bringing in a consultant to pass on the suspect's competence to stand trial. So the D.A.'s going to ask you to check him out for the pro-secution. That okay with you?”
“I'd be glad to.” Roger's hand, clenching the phone receiver, began to ache; he deliberately relaxed his grip. So he would finally get to meet Sylvia's supposed “outlaw vampire.”Maybe. Or maybe it's a false alarm, after all. Nevertheless, his mouth went dry with excitement.
“Great! The D.A.'s office will contact you later today to set it up, probably for tomorrow sometime. I just wanted to touch base with you first.”
“Can you give me a general idea of why his competence is in question?”
“Personally, I think the lawyer's laying the background for an insanity defense.” Over the phone, Roger heard the detective tapping a pen against the receiver. “But I have to admit the guy is a little weird. He didn't want a lawyer; his married sister practically forced one on him. He hasn't given the cops one minute of trouble. He doesn't react to anything much, sits around staring at the walls like he's in a trance. Only thing that got him worked up was the mention of bail. Said he didn't want to be let out, can you beat that?”
“Oh? Did he say why?” The whole profile didn't fit Sylvia's claim of a serial killer vampire. Nor did this behavior sound much like the human psychopath Roger had postulated in his report. He reminded himself that the chance of a false confession was better than even.
“Said he wouldn't be safe on the outside.”
“What's the suspect's background?” Not that he needed to know any of that to evaluate the man's mental balance, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity. He wanted to know how closely this self-confessed murderer matched Sylvia's hints.
“Security guard at M.I.T., name of Albert Warren, age fifty-two, not married,” said O'Toole, again tapping his phone as if the sound stimulated his thought processes. “Usually works the night shift. He managed to give us some on-target times and places for the crimes, and being he lives alone, he doesn't have anybody to alibi for him, but he doesn't really fit that profile you worked up. Of course, that's just your statistical average, right?”
“True, this kind of prediction is far from an exact science,” Roger said.
“Listen, if you find out anything useful when you examine the perp, you'll let me know, right?”
“Of course. I'll call you immediately afterwards, either way.” Roger hung up, his thoughts drifting to Krafft-Ebing's examples of subjects addicted to “infliction of pain during the most intense emotion of lust.”Is that what they've got locked up downtown? Or do they have something even less human?
Shoving aside these futile speculations, he considered whether to tell Sylvia her “vampire” had been arrested. No—why upset her until he was certain the suspect had indeed committed the murders?
* * * *
THAT NIGHT, driving with Sylvia through downtown Boston, he found her in an unusually communicative mood. She asked him whether he hadn't been lonely before the two of them had met.
The question touched too closely upon memories of his childhood that had sprung to mind while reviewing the case histories of blood fetishists. Roger had to spend several minutes sorting out his thoughts before he could reply. Sylvia waited quietly, with uncharacteristic patience.
“If I was, I didn't know it,” he said, rolling down his win-dow to let in the summer night breeze. “As the only child of parents well into middle age—Mother and Dad were in their late forties when they adopted me—and a pretty strange child at that—”
“Strange?” He could almost see Sylvia's ears perk up.
“I was a solitary introvert, with no idea how to relate to other children.”But not “hypochondriac” and “neurasthenic” like those pathetic specimens in the textbooks. Aside from his food allergies and sensitivity to sunlight, Roger had never been ill in his life. “Even at a Catholic high school run by Jesuits, an academic overachiever with no social skills doesn't score high in popularity. My strength and reflexes didn't help, since I couldn't stay out in the sun long enough to apply them to something useful, such as football.” He smiled at the memory of the day his more athletic classmates had taunted him too far, causing his temper to break out with devastating effect. Being left alone from then on had been well worth the demerits he'd received for fighting.
“You didn't mind that?”
With a shrug Roger said, “I came to terms with it. Maxi-mized the things I did well, won Latin competitions for the school and so forth. I enjoyed the company of older people and had easy successes with the young ladies from the girls’ academy down the road—surprised me almost as much as it must have annoyed my rivals. No, I didn't miss having a more ‘normal’ up-bringing. I assumed that was the only way to live. Wishing for something different, even later, as an adult, would have been like—” he flashed her a self-mocking smile—"wanting to change into a bat. It never occurred to me.”
The car inched along clogged streets past Quincy Market, with its open-air stalls selling everything from produce and flowers to fish and meats. Even after dark, shoppers crowded the sidewalk between the rows of displays. Aromas of fruit, fish, fresh-ground coffee, and the occasional nauseating whiff of garlic scented the air. Among the storefronts that lined the alley, Roger glimpsed a butcher shop with a sign in the window, “Fresh-killed goat, whole or half.”And people think buying fro-zen blood is peculiar!
Sylvia wrinkled her nose at the flood of odors. “You must have wondered about your special powers. Other teenage boys didn't see auras, read emotions, or seduce girls with a look and a touch.”
He shrugged his shoulders as if the memory weighed on him like a poorly balanced backpack. “Of course I did. I learned quickly to use them—and hide them. And naturally I wondered why I was—strange. But as for not being human—my imagi-nation didn't run wild to that extent, and it still doesn't.”Not quite true. If I weren't entertaining the idea, I wouldn't have gone to Father Hale. The priest's rejection still left a bitter taste in his thoughts. He braked, waiting for the traffic light to change.
“That's where we differ,” she said, still unusually serious. “I always knew what I was, and I had a family that understood my needs—even if not exactly what ephemerals would call a family. Going to Radcliffe, then living here after graduation, I've missed that companionship. Meeting you has helped.” That was the most she'd said at one time about her background, whether real or fan-tasized. With an impish grin she added, “Even if you are incre-dibly square.”
“So you did have a childhood?” he said, hoping to take advantage of her willingness to talk.
She gave an impatient sniff. “Of course we have a child-hood. We just don't have the same family structure homo saps do.” She stretched and wiggled in her seat. “Have you been practicing that disappearing act?”
“Once or twice. I'm almost afraid of it,” he confessed.
“You still doubt your own sanity, don't you?” She sounded both impatient and incredulous. “Look, I can prove one thing—we both see auras. It's not your imagination or mine.” She dug a pen and pocket notebook out of her purse. “Choose a couple of people on the street. I'll write down what I see in their auras and then give you my list. You tell me if you picked up the same things.”
“Well—I have to admit that's a sound scientific approach.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said with her wolfish grin. “And I trust you to answer truthfully when I hit the target. Go ahead, pick two people at random.”
He glanced over the throng of pedestrians a
nd said, “All right, how about the plump woman at the flower stall and that black man crossing the street?”
“Fine.” After staring at each of the two subjects for a few seconds, Sylvia jotted in her notepad. “Here.” She handed him the list.
Not bothering with the dome light, Roger read her notes in the glow from nearby street lamps: “Woman—dull yellow with muddy gray blotches around the chest area—sick with some-thing, maybe breast cancer. Man—deep reddish pink, with darker vermilion swirls around his head—probably has a headache—high blood pressure?”
Roger exhaled a long breath and gave back the paper. He felt as if he'd plunged into water over his head, and the undertow was dragging him out to sea.
“Well?” The teasing lilt in Sylvia's voice proved that she sensed his stunned reaction. “Do your observations agree, Doctor?”
“You know they do.”I'm not deranged. I actually do have some kind of ESP. "I suppose I should thank you.”
“After you get over the shock? I won't hold my breath.”
They headed into the heart of the North End, where the cooking smells from scores of Italian restaurants forced Roger to roll up the window and turn on the air conditioner. Just as well, since he heard thunder in the distance, and a sprinkle of raindrops spattered onto the windshield. Shortly the car turned in front of the courtyard in front of the Old North Church. A wind sprang up, plucking a few leaves from the trees to whisk them across the brick pavement.
Roger couldn't help recalling the girl whose body had been found here. The memory of his nightmare made a sour taste rise in the back of his throat. “Fighting traffic isn't my idea of a pleasant evening,” he said. “Why did you suggest we come down here?”
“Just cruising. You know I like to pick up tourists.” She glanced toward the plaza just ahead. “Hey, look over there.”
The Citroen's headlights illuminated a skinny teenager slouched on a stone bench under a tree near the equestrian statue of Paul Revere. The boy looked up as the car slowed at the curb.
Dark Changeling Page 7