Hard Spell ocu-1

by Justin Gustainis

  "Except we don't know what that is, either."

  "Or when he's gonna do it, or where, or even who this Sligo is. But other than that, I'd say we're pretty much on top of this thing."

  We'd gone about a mile down the highway when Karl said, "Stan. Listen."

  "What?"

  "If this is none of my fucking business, then just say so, but…"

  "But what? Just spit it out, Karl – I won't shoot you. Not while I'm driving, anyway."

  "Well… it's pretty obvious that you've got a real hard-on for vamps. Not for other supes, so much. I never heard you bitch about weres, or trolls, or even ghouls – and those fuckers creep me out. But you just hate vampires. And that's your business, I'm not tryin' to tell you what you oughta think. I was just wondering… how come?"

  I thought about making a joke about it and changing the subject. And I thought about telling Karl to mind his own fucking business. Then I thought about telling him the truth.

  Since he's my partner, who's saved my ass at least twice, I decided to go with door number three.

  I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay," I said. "It's like this."

  I've been on the force fornine years, and a detective for two, and I want that Detective First Grade shield so bad I can taste it. I can't explain why it means so much to me. Maybe it had something to do with my old man, who said I'd never amount to much, or the Irish nuns, who always treated me like just another dumb Polack – it doesn't matter why. I want that promotion, and the way to get it is to make collars and clear cases. So I'm putting in a lot of overtime, and I mean a lot.

  This brings me a fair amount of grief at home, with Rita complaining about how I'm not there much and when I am all I want to do is sleep, or vegetate in front of the TV, stuff like that. But she never complains when I bring home the paycheck, which is pretty fat because of all that overtime.

  Once I make First, I'm gonna dial it back a bit, start spending more time at home with my wife and kid. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

  So I come home late one Saturday night (weekends are busy times for cops) and my daughter Christine is out with friends, and my wife is in bed, and that's all normal except when I go up there I find Rita isn't breathing.

  I call 911, then do CPR until they get there, and the am bulance guys are pretty quick, but none of it makes any difference. They pronounce her about ten minutes after we get to the hospital.

  Once I can think again, there are two questions burning in my mind: "How?" and "Why?" I start by demanding a copy of the autopsy report and I finally get one – but it's not brought to me by a doctor, but by another guy from the job. His name's Terrana and he says he works in Super natural Crimes. In my department we used to make jokes about Supernatural Crimes.

  I've seen plenty of autopsy reports, and I try to close my feelings off and treat this one like its about somebody who doesn't matter to me. That works until I get to the part where it says "exsanguination."

  I look at Terrana. "She bled out? That's bullshit – there wasn't a fucking drop of blood on her or on the bed. Not a drop."

  "I know," Terrana says to me. He's got one of those slow, measured voices that reminds me of funeral directors. "But there's more than one way somebody can bleed to death."

  I stare at him and I think about what unit he's with and the little light comes on in my head, finally. "Vampire? You saying a vampire killed Rita?"

  He just looks at me, which is all the answer I need.

  "Wait a second," I tell him. "There were no marks on her neck. I'd have seen 'em, count on that."

  "That biting on the neck stuff is kind of a cliche spread by the movies, Stan. Sure, it happens sometimes, especially when it's involuntary, such as in cases of surprise vampire attack. But there's lots of veins and arteries all over the body that a vampire can make use of."

  "Terrana, will you talk English and stop with the rid dles? Please? You're saying a vampire killed her but that she wasn't attacked? What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means it may have been consensual," he says.

  I feel my hands form into fists, seemingly of their own accord. "You're telling me she let some fucking blood sucker…?"

  "The M.E. did find fang marks, Stan. And you're right, her neck was clean. He found the the inside of her thigh, high up, near the… uh, there's a big artery that runs through there, the femoral artery."

  "So the blood-sucking bastard raped her with his fangs, the fucking-"

  "I'm sorry, Stan, but the M.E. doesn't think there was force involved. If you read the rest of the report, you'll see that there was no evidence of other trauma, and that there was more than one set of fang marks. Some of them were… old."

  I run my hand over my face, maybe trying to wipe away the expression that I knew was stamped there. Then I have a thought. "So he snuck in, night after night, like in Drac ula. He kept attacking her in her sleep until she-"

  "Stan, that book was written before we knew very much about vampires. Stoker got a lot of it right, but there were quite a few things he got wrong."

  "Like what?"

  "Vampires can't sneak into a house like cat burglars, Stan. Nobody knows why, but they have to be invited in."

  A few days later, I apply for the transfer. It works its way through the system, and a week later I get approval. So I go through the special training, then start work as a detec tive in Supernatural Crimes. And in my time away from the job, I hunt the bloodsucker who had seduced and killed my wife.

  It takes me eight months. Eight long months of research, cultivating informants, reading old arrest reports, trading favors with other cops, intimidating and cajoling and brib ing members of the local vamp community.

  Eight months. And then I find him.

  But it isn't that simple anymore, because by then, I've got a bigger problem to deal with. My need for revenge is now mixed with fear – fear for my daughter, Christine.

  Anton Kinski's got a job. Most vamps do, I'd learned. Since the undead had made themselves known, along with the rest of the supes, they were able to stop living in graveyards and the basements of abandoned houses. But rent and decent clothes cost money, so Anton has found work (night shift, of course) as a pleater at a small gar ment factory.

  He's a good worker, is Anton. Puts in his time, rarely misses a night (vamps don't call in sick) and pretty much keeps to himself. When he's not off seducing and murdering women, he's got a pretty boring life, or whatever it is that vamps have.

  Until the day he wakes up at sunset to find me leaning over him, the sharp point of my wooden stake resting lightly against his chest. My other hand is holding a mallet, and I make sure he sees that, too, along with the silver crucifix hanging on a chain around my neck.

  "You don't know how much I want to pound this stake clear through your body, Anton," I tell him, my voice thick and tight. "And if you so much as twitch, that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

  Nothing moves but his eyes, which search my face and see there the truth of what I'd just told him.

  His lips barely move when he finally speaks, and his voice is barely loud enough to hear. "Who – who are you?"

  "I'm the husband of Rita Markowski, the woman you killed last fall. Remember, Anton? There can't have been so many of them since then that you don't remember Rita."

  He closes his eyes for a few secs. Then he opens them and says, "I don't suppose it will matter if I tell you it was an accident – carelessness, really, on my part."

  "No difference, Anton. None at all."

  His head moves about an eighth of an inch in a nod. "So, why are we talking? You want to gloat a while before you stake me?"

  "No, Anton. It tears my guts out to say it, but I need you."

  He looks a question at me.

  "You didn't turn Rita – didn't make her… one of you."

  "Like I said – accident. Got… carried away."

  "But you know how to do it."

  "Sure, of course," Anton says. "I've done i
t before."

  "Is it true, what I've heard? You have to exchange blood with the victim before she dies? Is that how it's done?"

  "Yeah, pretty much." He swallows. "That it? You want… me to turn you?"

  He winces as the stake's point presses harder into his chest. "Don't push your fucking luck, Anton. I'd no more become one of you leeches than I'd volunteer to work in a concentration camp."

  "What, then?"

  "My daughter. I want… I want you to turn my daughter."

  Christine's admitted to me that she'd been concealing the symptoms – the weakness, night sweats, joint pain – for as long as she could. She didn't want to be a bother, she said – meaning, I guess, that she saw I was half-crazy with grief and she didn't want to push me the rest of the way. And I guess she also thought that some of it was just her body's way of dealing with the shock of Rita's death.

  But when the lumps appeared in her armpits, she'd re alized that something more serious was going on. By then, of course, it was too late.

  The docs did everything the book says – radiation, chemo, even some experimental medicines. Then one day her pri mary physician took me into that little room they have at the hospital, just off the intensive care unit. As soon as I sat down, I figured this was the room where doctors give you the Bad News. I was right, too.

  I'd suspended my off-hours search for Rita's killer when Christine was hospitalized. But the night they gave me the Bad News, I went back to it. If possible, I pushed even harder than before – and it paid off.

  That's how I find myself kneeling over a vampire and telling him that he's going to buy continued existence by making my only child a bloodsucking leech just like him.

  I bring Christine home a few days later, promising the hospital people that I'll arrange for twenty-four-hour nurs ing care. I tell them that I'll make sure she gets everything she needs.

  And then, one night, when the painkillers have pushed her to edge of unconsciousness, I tell the night nurse she can go home early. Then I get in touch with Anton Kinski again.

  He doesn't have to ask my permission to enter the house. He's been there before.

  Even now, I'm not sure if what happened next was the right thing to do, or the worst idea I ever had.

  Pittston's only about twenty minutes' drive from Scranton, so I gave Karl the short version of the story, but it contained all the essentials.

  When I was done, he turned in his seat and looked at me. "Stan – Jeez – I'm sorry, man, I didn't-"

  "Forget it, Karl," I said. "You didn't know and now you do, and there's nothing else to say about it. Besides, it's time to go to work."

  We had reached the crime scene.

  Pittston's a town of about nine thousand, midway between Wilkes-Barre and Scranton. It's got more hills than any other town I've ever seen. I hear San Francisco's worse, but I've got no desire to find out – they can keep their vamp mayor, as far as I'm concerned.

  The city's in Luzerne County, not Lackawanna, which explains why Lacey Brennan got the call from the State Police and I didn't. Besides, Lacey's got a much cuter ass than I do.

  • • • •

  We parked behind a Pittston PD cruiser that looked like it had a lot of miles on it. I could see yellow crime scene tape fencing off a white duplex with green trim. The place had seen better days. A couple of shingles were gone from the roof, and the paint was peeling in several places. As soon as we were out of the car, Lacey came strolling over, a notebook in her hand and a frown on her heartshaped face.

  "Good evening, as Bela Lugosi used to say," she said to me, then nodded at my partner. "Karl."

  "Whatever chance this had of being a good evening went down the tubes hours ago," I said. "You wanna fill us in?"

  "I might be able to do better than that, and get you inside for a look," she said. "The Crime Lab guys have been and gone."

  As we walked toward the house Lacey said, "Family's name is Dwyer. They've got the upstairs."

  "Who's ROS?" I asked her. I wanted to know who the Ranking Officer on Scene was because I wasn't going in that house without permission. Lacey couldn't give it, because this wasn't her case, or her jurisdiction. The last thing I wanted was some Statie calling McGuire to complain that I'd violated procedure.

  "Twardzik," she said flatly.

  There was silence for three or four paces.

  "Of course it is," I said. "Why should God start taking pity on me now?"

  I followed her through the small crowd of milling cops and technicians to where the Ranking Officer on Scene was chewing on a couple of guys in plain clothes. Even from the rear, Lieutenant Michael Twardzik was easy to spot. He was the only one around in a State Police uniform who barely topped 5'5". That's the minimum height requirement, and I swear the little bastard must've worn lifts in his shoes when he applied for the academy. His case of short man complex isn't much worse than, say, Napoleon's.

  "And if either of you fail to turn in your Fives in a timely manner again," Twardzik growled, "you'll be packing up for your transfer to Altoona before end of shift. Understand me?"

  He didn't wait for an answer. "Dismissed."

  Every big organization has its version of Siberia – the place they send you when you fuck up not quite bad enough to be fired. In the Army, it used to be the Aleutian Islands off Alaska. With the FBI, it's Omaha, for some reason. And the Pennsylvania State Police's designated version of Purgatory is Altoona. I wouldn't argue the choice – I've been to Altoona.

  I let Lacey take the lead as we came up behind Twardzik. "Lieutenant?" Even in that one word, I could tell that she'd made her voice softer, a little more feminine. This surprised me some, since Lacey's normally a "fuck you if you can't take a joke" kind of gal. She must really want us to see the inside of that duplex. "Would it be okay with you if I give these officers a look at the crime scene?" div› Twardzik turned, squinting against the flashing lights from the police cruisers. "Which – oh, these officers."

  Years ago, before I joined the Scranton PD, I thought I wanted to be a Statie. So I took the exam for admission to their academy. Something like two hundred and thirty guys (it was all guys, back then) took it that year, and I scored fourteenth. Each new class is capped at a hundred, no exceptions, and the test score is what they go by.

  Before you can even take the exam, they check to make sure you have a high school diploma and a clean record, and you've got to pass the physical fitness test. So if your score is in the top hundred, you're in, and if not, sorry, Charlie. And they only let you take it once.

  The scores are public record, which is how I know my rank – as well as Twardzik's, which was one-ohone. When I decided not to go (that's pretty rare, I guess), everybody below me moved up one. And that's how Twardzik got into the academy. He owes his career to the fact that I gave up my place in line.

  No wonder the little bastard hates me – even though I've never once mentioned it to him.

  Twardzik gave me the kind of look you'd give a particularly scuzzy-looking panhandler. "You're a long way from your playpen, Markowski. What'd you do – take a wrong turn on your way to the whorehouse?"

  "Patronizing prostitutes is illegal, Lieutenant," I said evenly. No way was he getting a rise out of me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction – or the excuse.

  "I asked these detectives to come down from Scranton, Lieutenant," Lacey said hastily. "It looks like this homicide has some similarities with others that we're currently investigating."

  Twardzik looked at Lacey. "Last I checked, WilkesBarre and Scranton were some distance apart, not to mention being in different jurisdictions. How is it you two are investigating homicides together? Has a law enforcement romance blossomed?"

  That was when I wanted to hit him. But before I could say anything, Lacey got in with "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I was being unclear. I meant that each of us is investigating separate homicides that seem to have similarities with each other, as well as with the case you have here. I thought it might help both investi
gations to move forward if these officers had a chance to view this crime scene."

  Twardzik looked at me, then back at her, taking his time. I was pretty sure I knew what was going through his mind. If he denied permission, and Lacey and I each sent separate complaints to his Troop Commander, Twardzik would have to give a reason why he'd done it – and it would have to be a better one than his desire to see me in Hell with my back broken.

  "Yeah, all right, go on," he said to me, making a head gesture toward the house. "The sooner you do, the quicker you'll be out of my sight." Then he turned away, probably looking for a stray dog he could kick.

  • • • •

  We followed Lacey up the creaking steps that led to the second floor apartment. "Snotty little fuck," she said quietly, but with a lot of feeling. "It should come as no surprise that he's got a tiny cock, too."

  "And you would know that, how?" I kept my voice casual, as if the answer wouldn't matter.

  "I'm friends with his ex-wife, Stan. Jeez, how did you think I'd know?"

  I didn't say anything, but felt my shoulders lose some tension I hadn't even known was there.

  The steps brought us to a small landing in front of a simple wooden door that had plastic numbers "443B" glued to it. The doorway was spanned by a big yellow X of crime scene tape, which Lacey started o remove.

  "Careful now," Karl said. Even though he was behind me, I could hear the grin in his voice. "Wouldn't want to upset the lieutenant."

  "Are you kidding?" Lacey said. "I'm gonna put that back exactly the way I found it. Shit, I was tempted to take a picture, to make sure I get it right."

  Once the tape was down, she opened the unlocked door and led us into the living room. I stepped to the side to make room for Karl's bulk and almost knocked over a knick-knack shelf full of little ceramic leprechauns. There'd be hell to pay if I broke any of them.

  The furniture and drapes were old, but well caredfor. The floral wallpaper wasn't peeling anywhere, although nails stuck out from it in several parts of the room. The rug we stood on was threadbare in a few places, but it was as clean as you could expect with cops tramping all over it.