"Who, and why?"
"The name won't mean anything to you."
"Try me."
"Mr. Oliver."
"First name?"
"I don't know it."
"Okay, then why should I meet him?"
"He has a good plan for killing the Master of the City."
"What?"
"No, I think it will be better if Mr. Oliver explains it in person. He's much more persuasive than I am."
"You're doing okay," I said.
"Then you'll meet me?"
"Sure, why not?"
"That's wonderful. Do you know where Arnold is?"
"Yes."
"There's a pay fishing lake just outside of Arnold on Tesson Ferry Road. Do you know it?"
I had an impression that I had driven by it on the way to two murders. All roads led to Arnold. "I can find it."
"How soon can you meet me there?" he asked.
"An hour."
"Great; I'll be waiting."
"Is this Mr. Oliver going to be at the lake?"
"No, I'll drive you from there."
"Why all the secrecy?"
"Not secrecy," he said, his voice dropped, embarrassed. "I'm just not very good at giving directions. It'll be easier if I just take you."
"I can follow you in my car."
"Why, Ms. Blake, I don't think you entirely trust me."
"I don't entirely trust anybody, Mr. Inger, nothing personal."
"Not even people who save your life?"
"Not even."
He let that drop, probably for the best, and said, "I'll meet you at the lake in an hour."
"Sure."
"Thank you for coming, Ms. Blake."
"I owe you. You've made sure I'm aware of that."
"You sound defensive, Ms. Blake. I did not mean to offend you."
I sighed. "I'm not offended, Mr. Inger. I just don't like owing people."
"Visiting Mr. Oliver today will clear the slate between us. I promise that."
"I'll hold you to that, Inger."
"I'll meet you in an hour," he said.
"I'll be there," I said. We hung up. "Damn." I'd forgotten I hadn't gotten to eat yet today. If I'd remembered, I'd have said two hours. Now I'd have to literally grab something on the way. I hated eating in the car. But, heh, what's a little mess between friends? Or even between people who've saved your life? Why did it bother me so much that I owed Inger?
Because he was a right-wing fruitcake. A zealot. I didn't like doing business with zealots. And I certainly didn't like owing my life to one.
Ah, well; I'd meet him, then we'd be square. He had said so. Why didn't I believe it?
29
Chip-Away Lake was about half an acre of man-made water and thin, raised man-made bank. There was a little shed that sold bait and food. It was surrounded by a flat gravel parking lot. A late-model car sat near the road with a sign that read, "For Sale." A pay fishing lake and a used car lot combined; how clever.
An expanse of grass spread out to the right of the parking lot. A small, ramshackle shed and what looked like the remains of some large industrial barbecue. A fringe of woods edged the grass, rising higher into a wooded hill. The Meramec River edged the left side of the lake. It seemed funny to have free-flowing water so close to the man-made lake.
There were only three cars in the parking lot this cool autumn afternoon. Beside a shiny burgundy Chrysler Le Baron stood Inger. A handful of fishermen had bundled up and put poles in the water. Fishing must be good to get people out in the cold.
I parked beside Inger's car. He strode towards me smiling, hand out like a real estate salesman who was happy I'd come to see the property. Whatever he was selling, I didn't want. I was almost sure of that.
"Ms. Blake, so glad you came." He clasped my hand with both of his, hearty, good-natured, insincere.
"What do you want, Mr. Inger?"
His smile faded around the edges. "I don't know what you mean, Ms. Blake."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I really don't."
I stared into his puzzled face. Maybe I spent too much time with slimeballs. After a while you forget that not everyone in the world is a slimeball. It just saves so much time to assume the worst.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Inger. I . . . I've been spending too much time looking for criminals. It makes you cynical."
He still looked puzzled.
"Never mind, Mr. Inger; just take me to see this Oliver."
"Mr. Oliver," he said.
"Sure."
"Shall we take my car?" He motioned towards his car.
"I'll follow you in mine."
"You don't trust me." He looked hurt. I guess most people aren't used to being suspected of wrongdoing before they've done anything wrong. The law says innocent until proven guilty, but the truth is, if you see enough pain and death, it's guilty until proven innocent.
"All right, you drive."
He looked very pleased. Heartwarming.
Besides I was carrying two knives, three crosses, and a gun. Innocent or guilty, I was prepared. I didn't expect to need the weaponry with Mr. Oliver, but later, I might need it later. It was time to go armed to the teeth, ready for bear, or dragon, or vampire.
30
Inger drove down Old Highway 21 to East Rock Creek. Rock Creek was a narrow, winding road barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Inger drove slow enough for the curves, but fast enough so you didn't get bored.
There were farmhouses that had stood for years and new houses in subdivisions where the earth was raw and red as a wound. Inger turned into one of those new subdivisions. It was full of large, expensive-looking houses, very modern. Thin, spindly trees were tied to stakes along the gravel road.
The pitiful trees trembled in the autumn wind, a few surprised leaves still clinging to the spider-thin limbs. This area had been a forest before they bulldozed it. Why do developers destroy all the mature trees, then plant new trees that won't look good for decades?
We pulled up in front of a fake log cabin that was bigger than any real cabin had ever been. Too much glass, the yard naked dirt the color of rust. The white gravel that made up the driveway had to have been brought in from miles away. All the native gravel was as red as the dirt.
Inger started to go around the car, to open my door I think. I opened my own door. Inger seemed a little lost, but he'd get over it. I'd never seen the sense in perfectly healthy people not opening their own doors. Especially car doors where the man had to walk all the way around the car, and the woman just waited like a . . . a lump.
Inger led the way up the porch steps. It was a nice porch, wide enough to sit on come summer evenings. Right now it was all bare wood and a huge picture window with closed drapes in a barn-red design with wagon wheels drawn all over it. Very rustic.
He knocked on the carved wooden door. A pane of leaded glass decorated the center of the door, high up and sparkling, more for decoration than for seeing through. He didn't wait for the door to be opened, but used a key and walked in. He didn't seem to expect an answer, so why knock?
The house was in a thick twilight of really nice drapes, all closed against the syrup-heavy sunlight. The polished wood floors were utterly bare. The mantel of the heavy fireplace was naked, the fireplace cold. The place smelled new and unused, like new toys on Christmas. Inger never hesitated. I followed his broad back into the wooden hallway. He didn't look behind to see if I was keeping up. Apparently when I'd decided not to let him open my door for me, he seemed to have decided that no further courtesy was necessary.
Fine with me.
There were doors at widely spaced intervals along the hallway. Inger knocked at the third door on the left. A voice said, "Enter."
Inger opened the door and went inside. He held the door for me, standing very straight by the door. It wasn't courtesy. He stood like a soldier at attention. Who was in the room to make Inger toe the line? One way to find out.
I went into the room.
T
here was a bank of windows to the north with heavy drapes pulled across them. A thin line of sunlight cut across the room, bisecting a large, clean desk. A man sat in a large chair behind the desk.
He was a small man, almost a midget or a dwarf. I wanted to say dwarf, but he didn't have the jaw or the shortened arms. He looked well formed under his tailored suit. He had almost no chin and a sloping forehead, which drew attention to the wide nose and the prominent eyebrow ridge. There was something familiar about his face, as if I'd seen it somewhere else before. Yet I knew I'd never met a person who looked just like him. It was a very singular face.
I was staring at him. I was embarrassed and didn't like it. I met his eyes; they were perfectly brown and smiling. His dark hair was cut one hair at a time, expensive and blow-dried. He sat in his chair behind the clean polished desk and smiled at me.
"Mr. Oliver, this is Anita Blake," Inger said, still standing stiffly by the door.
He got out of his chair and came around the desk to offer me his small well-formed hand. He was four feet tall, not an inch more. His handshake was firm and much stronger than he looked. A brief squeeze, and I could feel the strength in his small frame. He didn't look musclebound, but that easy strength was there, in his face, hand, stance.
He was small, but he didn't think it was a defect. I liked that. I felt the same way.
He gave a close-lipped smile and sat back down in his big chair. Inger brought a chair from the corner and put it facing the desk. I took the chair. Inger remained standing by the now-closed door. He was definitely at attention. He respected the man in the chair. I was willing to like him. That was a first for me. I'm more likely to instantly mistrust than like someone.
I realized that I was smiling. I felt warm and comfortable facing him, like he was a favorite and trusted uncle. I frowned at him; what the hell was happening to me?
"What's going on?" I said.
He smiled, his eyes sparkling warmly at me. "Whatever do you mean, Ms. Blake?"
His voice was soft, low, rich, like cream in coffee. You could almost taste it. A comforting warmth to your ears. I only knew one other voice that could do similar things.
I stared at the thin band of sunlight only inches from Oliver's arm. It was broad daylight. He couldn't be. Could he?
I stared at his very alive face. There was no trace of that otherness that vampires gave off. And yet, his voice, this warm cosy feeling, none of it was natural. I'd never liked and trusted anyone instantly. I wasn't about to start now.
"You're good," I said. "Very good."
"Whatever do you mean, Ms. Blake?" You could have cuddled into the warm fuzziness of his voice like a favorite blanket.
"Stop it."
He looked quizzically at me, as if confused. The act was perfect, and I realized why; it wasn't an act. I'd been around ancient vampires, but never one that had been able to pass for human, not like this. You could have taken him anywhere and no one would have known. Well, almost no one.
"Believe me, Ms. Blake, I'm not trying to do anything."
I swallowed hard. Was that true? Was he so damn powerful that the mind tricks and the voice were automatic? No; if Jean-Claude could control it, this thing could, too.
"Cut the mind tricks, and curb the voice, okay? If you want to talk business, talk, but cut the games."
His smile widened, still not enough to show fangs. After a few hundred years, you must get really good at smiling like that.
He laughed then; it was wonderful, like warm water falling from a great height. You could have jumped into it and bathed, and felt good.
"Stop it, stop it!"
Fangs flashed as he finished chuckling at me. "It isn't the vampire marks that allowed you to see through my, as you call them, games. It is natural talent, isn't it?"
I nodded. "Most animators have it."
"But not to the degree you do, Ms. Blake. You have power, too. It crawls along my skin. You are a necromancer."
I started to deny it, but stopped. Lying to something like this was useless. He was older than anything I'd ever dreamed of, older than any nightmare I'd ever had. But he didn't make my bones ache; he felt good, better than Jean-Claude, better than anything.
"I could be a necromancer. I choose not to be."
"No, Ms. Blake, the dead respond to you, all the dead. Even I feel the pull."
"You mean I have a sort of power over vampires, too?"
"If you could learn to harness your talents, Ms. Blake, yes, you have a certain power over all the dead, in their many guises."
I wanted to ask how to do that, but stopped myself. A master vampire wasn't likely to help me gain power over his followers. "You're taunting me."
"I assure you, Ms. Blake, that I am very serious. It is your potential power that has drawn the Master of the City to you. He wants to control that emerging power, for fear it will be turned against him."
"How do you know that?"
"I can taste him through the marks he has laid upon you."
I just stared at him. He could taste Jean-Claude. Shit.
"What do you want from me?"
"Very direct; I like that. Human lives are too short to waste in trivialities."
Was that a threat? Staring into his smiling face, I couldn't tell. His eyes were still sparkling, and I was still feeling very warm and fuzzy towards him. Eye contact. I knew better than that. I stared at the top of his desk and felt better, or worse. I could be scared now.
"Inger said you had a plan for taking out the Master of the City. What is it?" I spoke staring at his desk. My skin crawled with the desire to look up. To meet his eyes, to let the warmth and comfort wash over me. Make all the decisions easy.
I shook my head. "Stay out of my mind or this interview is over."
He laughed again, warm and real. It raised goose bumps on my arms. "You really are good. I haven't met a human in centuries that rivaled you. A necromancer; do you realize how rare that talent is?"
Really I didn't, but I said, "Yes."
"Lies, Ms. Blake, to me, please don't bother."
"We're not here to talk about me. Either state your plan or I'm leaving."
"I am the plan, Ms. Blake. You can feel my powers, the ebb and flow of more centuries than your little master has ever dreamed of. I am older than time itself."
That I didn't believe, but I let it go. He was old enough; I wasn't going to argue with him, not if I could help it.
"Give me your master and I will free you of his marks."
I glanced up, then quickly down. He was still smiling at me, but the smile didn't look real anymore. It was an act like everything else. It was just a very good act.
"If you can taste my master in the marks, can't you just find him yourself?"
"I can taste his power, judge how worthy a foe he would be, but not his name and not where he lies; that is hidden." His voice was very serious now, not trying to trick me. Or at least I didn't think it was; maybe that was a trick, too.
"What do you want from me?"
"His name and his daytime resting place."
"I don't know the daytime resting place." I was glad it was the truth, because he would smell a lie.
"Then his name, give me his name."
"Why should I?"
"Because I wish to be Master of the City, Ms. Blake."
"Why?"
"So many questions. Is it not enough that I would free you from his power?"
I shook my head. "No."
"Why should you care about what happens to the other vampires?"
"I don't, but before I hand you the power to control every vampire in the immediate area, I'd like to know what you intend to do with all that power."
He laughed again. This time it was just a laugh. He was trying.
"You are the most stubborn human I have met in a very long time. I like stubborn people; they get things done."
"Answer my question."
"I think it is wrong to have vampires as legal citizens. I wish to put thing
s back as they were."
"Why should you want vampires to be hunted again?"
"They are too powerful to be allowed to spread unchecked. They will take over the human race much quicker through legislation and voting rights than they ever could through violence."
I remembered the Church of Eternal Life, the fastest-growing denomination in the country. "Say you're right; how would you stop it?"
"By forbidding the vampires to vote, or take part in any legislation."
"There are other master vampires in town."
"You mean Malcolm, the head of the Church of Eternal Life."
"Yes."
"I have observed him. He will not be able to continue his one-man crusade to make vampires legitimate. I shall forbid it and dismantle his church. Surely you see the church as the larger danger, as I do."
I did, but I hated agreeing with an ancient master vampire. It seemed wrong somehow.
"St. Louis is a hotbed of political activity and entrepreneurial vampires. They must be stopped. We are predators, Ms. Blake; nothing we do can change that. We must go back to being hunted or the human race is doomed. Surely you see that."
I did see that. I believed that. "Why would you care if the human race is doomed? You're not part of it anymore."
"As the oldest living vampire, it is my duty to keep us in check, Ms. Blake. These new rights are getting out of hand and must be stopped. We are too powerful to be allowed such freedom. Humans have their right to be human. In the olden days only the strongest, smartest, or luckiest vampires survived. The human vampire hunters weeded out the stupid, the careless, the violent. Without that check-and-balance system, I fear what will happen in a few decades."
I agreed, wholeheartedly; it was sorta scary. I agreed with the oldest living thing I'd ever met. He was right. Could I give him Jean-Claude? Should I give him Jean-Claude?
"I agree with you, Mr. Oliver, but I can't just give him up, just like that. I don't know why really, but I can't."
"Loyalty; I admire that. Think upon it, Ms. Blake, but do not take too long. I need to put my plan into action as soon as possible."
I nodded. "I understand. I . . . I'll give you an answer within a couple of days. How do I reach you?"
The Scoundrel Page 19