by Drew D'Amato
Warburton noticed Vlad stride into the bar. Warburton was standing against the pewter top of the main bar. As Vlad made his way toward him, he checked out the place. The Prospect was a famous pub in London. It had a wooden décor one would expect from a pub in London. There was an open fireplace, and columns that looked like a ship’s mast. The Prospect was also one of the oldest pubs in London, called Devil’s Tavern back in the 18th century thanks to the type of clientele it attracted.
Warburton paid no recognition to Vlad. The only other person in the bar was the bartender who was focused on the small flat screen television. It was a Sunday morning, not many people were in the pubs right now. On the TV was a reporter at the Vatican covering the story of the attack the night before.
“Hey, Will, can you put on the Sporting Bengals?” Warburton asked the bartender.
“This coverage is on the all the channels. Terrorists blew up St. Peter’s Basilica, 21 men found dead inside. The place is ruined, it will never be the same.”
“Well I guess that is more important than the hapless Bengals.” In the 2008-2009 season the Sporting Bengal United managed to go the entire season without winning a single game, the first time it had ever happened in the Kent League, but they were from the Tower Hamlets and so Warburton loved them unconditionally. “But they play the best bloody sport in the world.”
Vlad took this as his sign to chime in. “I don’t see how this sport can be better than real football, where you get to use your hands.”
“Oh American football, you Americans always think whatever you do is the best,” William the bartender chimed in, turning away from the news coverage of the Vatican.
“We’re also pretty good at fighting for our freedom from a mother country.”
Will started to get tense, and Warburton saw Vlad might not be playing this game exactly the way Warburton wanted him to.
“Let’s keep this debate civil, just sports,” Warburton interjected. “Besides you Americans know it is very difficult to defeat a country fighting for its freedom on its own soil. I think you Americans pronounce it vee-et-NAHM.”
“Fair point, but our sport is tougher.”
“How can it be tougher? You guys take breaks in between plays,” Warburton said before he sipped his beer.
“That’s because they are kicking each other’s ass every play, while you fairies just run around, fall down and cry,” Vlad countered playfully.
“That’s called stamina, most of those on the field run non-stop for ninety minutes.”
“Let them take one hit from Clay Matthews and see how much running around they will do after that.”
“Oh you Americans always think might makes right. What about the finesse of the game, the mental aspect?”
“Are you kidding, quarterbacks have to know hundreds of plays, there is a squad of coaches on a team, they study film for hours. How can soccer have more thinking—run, kick the ball, run some more.”
Warburton laughed. “I can see we could have much to argue about this. Let’s go to the balcony and hear the Thames hit the earth. It’s a nice day, and I would hate for some of my fellow Londoners to hear of this conversation and turn this casual debate ugly.”
“If you Londoners take your soccer so seriously, why don’t you make a better attempt at the next World Cup? Didn’t we tie you in the last one, and this is your sport?”
“This is why we should walk away before others overhear, for your sake. I’ll get the next round.”
Warburton paid for two more Guest Ales and the two of them made their way up to the balcony out back. The two of them sat down at the table. Nobody else was outside with them.
“So what the hell was that whole charade for?” Vlad asked.
“Nevermind the fact that what you want to talk about is not something you would want anyone else to hear. I am also a little paranoid, since the unpleasantness at Favorite Things.”
“What came out of that anyway?”
“They found my prints, but they also found other policemen’s prints. I told them I browsed for a gift, and no one thought much after it. They are concerned with the two sets of prints they found in the back room, like you expected. No leads with any of them. Not even Pacami’s prints were on any kind of file. However, there was an anonymous tip called in right after you shot him that attracted some attention.”
“It was probably Bandini.”
“Who is Bandini?”
“He is nothing now.”
“Well anyway, luckily no one noticed the three of us exiting, but I am a little nervous being seen out in public with you, so I did that little dance just so people would figure we genuinely had just met. Now, what is this that happened at the Vatican, it’s all over the news, and where is Pacami’s body?”
Vlad told him everything that happened the night before. What happened at the Vatican, that the Crusaders were destroyed, where Pacami’s body was, and the quagmire of someone discovering his body so that he could get the burial he deserved back home.
“He died by a bullet wound to the head?” Warburton asked when Vlad finished with his story.
“Yes, I was thinking I rent a car, and we burn it up.”
“The car rental is a good idea, but burning a body in a car won’t work. It’s a good idea if you want to just fake someone’s death, and leave a body unidentifiable. However, fire does not cover every form of death. A burnt car would not hide the fact there is a bullet in the man’s head.”
“Even if we take the bullet out?”
“Vlad, forensics can tell where a person was shot even if they just have a skeleton to work with. Your best bet unfortunately is if no one discovers his body.”
“Then he won’t have a funeral.”
“No, but if we can let it be known that he is dead, he will still get the services he deserves. His body can never be discovered, that would show the truth of his death.”
“So what should I do with his body?”
“Leave it, you said it’s like ten feet under the earth. Thames Chase is a community forest, there won’t be any construction or anything like that on it for years, decades, if there ever will be. Thames is 40 square miles, and it is designed to be land left undeveloped. It’s intent is to allow Londoners to remember what the Earth is supposed to look like. It is a preservation project, the body will never be discovered. But you should go back and get his wallet.”
“Why?” Vlad asked clueless to the plot Warburton had in mind.
“Rent a car like you said, do it under one of your aliases, then at night when you can fly, drive it off London Bridge, right into the Thames. Make sure you leave his wallet and ID in the glove compartment. Divers will find it, however with no body discovered the police will only come to one conclusion: Pacami and his driver—whichever name you rented the car under—lost control and swerved off the bridge. Since neither of you have come forth, you both must have drowned and the bodies were not discovered. He will get to have his services back home. But rent something big, strong enough to get through the barrier, and do it late at night, with as little witnesses as possible.”
Vlad saw that this plan would work, but he wasn’t happy with it. He wanted Pacami’s body laid to rest, but then again Vlad wasn’t happy with almost any aspect of what happened in Europe. Pacami was dead, he was a master vampire again, and he would never get to be with Jasmine. Oddly though, he was winning.
“Thank you Warburton, your help has been priceless.”
“Don’t worry about it Vlad, you are doing this all for mankind. There is just one thing left you must do for us?”
“What is that?”
“Kill Radu.”
4
The ten o’clock mass was not the normal service at The Divine Saviour. There were two reasons for that, but only Jasmine O’Reilly really noticed the second. The first was the obvious—the Vatican had been attacked last night. St. Peter’s Basilica had been destroyed, and no one is sure why or who did it.
The news of this
stayed on the television at Jasmine’s home as her father and mother flipped between CNN and Fox for the different perspectives. This wasn’t really a political issue so in this instance, their reporting was not that much different. The Pope made an announcement that they were cooperating with Interpol, and using all their resources to get to the bottom of this, but there had been no threats from any faction leading up to the event.
The dead cops could not be hidden from the press, even though the Vatican had wanted that, especially since one of them was their own, but at least the fact they were all dressed in red robes had been kept from the public. The last thing the Vatican or Interpol wanted was people to think some sort of Satanic cult was conducting services out of the Vatican. Gonzalez agreed to covering it up, that information leaked would get them nowhere.
The President of the United States made a statement expressing his condolences along with other leaders of the world. Every Christian, especially Catholic, was affected by the news of this attack. Many still thought it was terrorists, extreme Muslims especially, yet no Muslim group had come forward to take credit for it. Who could have done this? Jasmine thought with no idea as to how close she was to the actual culprit.
She had never seen the church this quiet, this solemn. Everyone wore emotionless expressions on their face. They looked lost. More people than the average had shown up this morning, like it was Easter or Christmas. These were just curious people, wondering if their church had any specific information that the news didn’t.
Father Montes conducted the mass in English, and Jasmine wondered where Pacami was. This was the second thing she found odd.
Before mass started Montes spoke to the followers about what was on their mind.
“I am sure most of you have heard about the attack on the Vatican this morning. There has been no evidence found showing that Muslims or those from another religion were behind this, so please let us not spread hate at this moment. The Church has seen worse and we have perservered through love not hate. I ask that we continue this practice ourselves. Pray for those who have lost their lives, but do not feel all is lost. It is not the building that defines a church. It is the faith inside that does.”
Montes went back to conducting the services, and prayed his words had inspired some hope to his people. However, even he was unnerved by what had happened. There was an enemy of the church out there and it was powerful. It was dangerous.
When the mass was over, Jasmine made her way over to Father Montes.
“Father, is Father Pacami okay?” she asked.
“What do you mean Jasmine?”
“Well he usually does this mass, and I didn’t see him today so I wasn’t sure if maybe the attack troubled him in some way?”
“Oh no, that doesn’t explain his absence.”
“Oh, what does then?”
“Father Pacami went to Europe with a new parishioner of the church. A Raoul Wellington. His father was very sick, and Father Pacami had been helping him through his last days. I admit it was a strange request, but the money they offered to allow this trip I could not in good conscience say no to, and deprive this Church of such a generous gift. He should be back in a few days, though I haven’t heard from him in a while. I hope everything is all right.”
Jasmine was shocked. She tried to hide it.
“Thank you Father,” she said as she walked away with a feeling of bitterness rising up inside her. He knew who Raoul Wellington really was—Vlad. For the first time Vlad had made her feel like Kevin did—betrayed.
5
Vlad learned quickly that most car rental places in the city were closed on Sundays. He gave up looking for an open one after the fifth and just made his way to Heathrow. When he got there he rented a car from Hertz. He wanted a legit record of Raoul Wellington renting a car that hours later tumbled over London Bridge. He declined the insurance.
He asked for the biggest car they had. He got a Ford Ranger. A pick up truck, but not a big one. When he got a closer look at the bridge he saw even an F150 wouldn’t have made much of a difference. He couldn’t be sure even if the truck got enough speed that it would be able to make it through the barriers of the bridge. They were designed to prevent this kind of thing. He had driven across the bridge seven times that afternoon just to get an idea of whether it would work.
Jasmine had called him three times late that afternoon, a few minutes apart until she gave up. He was afraid to pick up. He knew that when he did speak to her, it would be the last time. He wanted to be sure of what he said. But he didn’t want to overthink. Paralysis of analysis is often the case, and no one ever says all the right things at the right time. So he stopped thinking about her for most of the day and instead spent the afternoon trying to figure out how he could get the truck into the water.
Luckily he would do this at night, when he had all of his vampire powers. That allowed more options like maybe carrying the car off the bridge himself. It would be safer for him, so he didn’t have to risk not being able to get out of the car, or even cutting it close, because if he did hit the water, he would freeze like a stone and sink to the bottom, and all that had been sacrificed so far would have been for nothing. The Thames River was living, moving water, a weakness of his.
Night fell and he left the car in a garage by the bridge. From the garage’s roof he leapt up and flew toward the Thames Chase Forest Center. Once there he had to remember where he left Pacami’s body, for his wallet was still on his person. He had the general idea in his mind, but the actual location was harder to remember. When vampires dig into the ground they leave almost no trace of their burial, just a small dimple which makes it hard to discover. This benefit was not helping Vlad now.
He was confident down to the ten square feet where it could be, but then he had to spend some time dipping into the dirt and searching in the dark Earth for Pacami’s body. After almost an hour of trying he felt a hand and worked his way from there. He got into Pacami’s pocket and pulled out the wallet, then made it back out.
He was covered in dirt again, but this time he didn’t care as much. He had to get this truck in the Thames and get back to LA. He felt wrong leaving Pacami, whose body had a good chance of being left there unmarked for all of eternity. He couldn’t do much to mark it without attracting attention, but he had to do something.
He left a deep footprint to remember the spot of his body and moved toward the trees. He broke some branches off and brought them back. Using the smallest of the branches he broke and bent them to spell:
PACAMI
He arranged this in finger length letters with small twigs. He laid it above the grave. A stiff wind would blow the twigs away, and he was sure no one would even notice it by tomorrow, but it was there, he had a marker. His soul could rest.
Vlad didn’t say a prayer. He didn’t feel Pacami’s eternal soul needed any help. If a God wouldn’t want a man like this, who would he want? Instead, Vlad decided he would not live in regret that he did not have Jasmine. If the plan had worked, sure, there was a chance he could have Jasmine back, but also Pacami would be alive. It seemed the epitomy of selfishness to mourn over a love lost, when another lost their life by the same turn of events. A brave man who did not deserve this fate, how could he cry about his? He owed Pacami his life. Had Pacami not been brave, not offered to drink the Blood himself, than it would have been Vlad who drank the decoy; and Vlad would be dead. He thanked Pacami and then he left the park.
6
It was empty in the garage. He broke into a store, changed into clean clothes, and cleaned his face in the bathroom sink. He was in and out of the store within minutes and now stood on the roof of the parking garage. It was 11 p.m. in London, which meant 3 p.m. in Los Angeles. It was time to call Jasmine and speak to her for the last time. He felt the anxiety build up in his chest as he stood on the windless parking garage roof. She answered on the second ring. He didn’t expect what she had to say.
“Why did you lie to me?” she asked him.
&n
bsp; “What?”
“What the hell’s going on Vlad? I know Pacami came with you to Europe. Why did he go, but you didn’t want me?”
How could she know? It’s Sunday, she must have noticed Pacami missing at church this morning.
“And don’t give me that crap about your sick father that you told Father Montes. Why did you lie like that, why do you have so many lies?”
Because you can never know the truth and love me. But maybe she could. Maybe if he had just been honest from the beginning, she would understand. Sure that would have gone great, I’m a six hundred year old vampire, wanna lose your virginity to me? Maybe she would want to be a vampire. No, he wouldn’t do that to her, he loved her. And even if she would make such a sacrifice and loved him that much, she had no idea what she was getting into. She had never seen the look in someone’s eyes when their life was taken. The experience of piercing your teeth into another’s neck and draining the life from them. Living off death. No, she would not have those experiences, those memories. Consciousness is the proof of the existence of the soul. Her soul was beautiful, and he would never corrupt it by exposing her to the horrors that he has lived through for more than half a century as a vampire. He would not do that to her just so that he could not be lonely. He loved her, he cared for what was best for her, and best for her was to move on, and have the memory of the person she first gave herself to, to have unfortunately died prematurely, but did love her. So he continued with his lies. It was the only way to show her the truth that mattered—he loved her.
“I lied to Montes because I couldn’t tell him the real reason Pacami came with me.”
“What is the real reason?” He could tell the anger in her voice, something he never sensed before, but now he could imagine that night with Kevin when she caught him cheating red handed, and the anger that burned inside her.
“Pacami never got to see Europe. He always wanted to see the Vatican before he died. I felt that after everything he had done for Malachi, I could do that for him. I paid for his flight, and let him come along. We haven’t really even been together. While I was with my family in Ireland, he was over in Italy at the Vatican.”