The Vampire Files, Volume Three

by P. N. Elrod

  “Only one free show a night,” I said, re-forming after his hand was out of my midsection. “After that I sell tickets.”

  “Shit.” He flexed his hand, working to warm it up.

  Maxwell’s head came up in a listening pose as we closed on him. He must have sensed some kind of change in the air and that it might not be especially good news for him. “What is it? What are you planning to do?”

  “Nothing fatal, Maxie,” I answered. I found a couple of cans of paint left over from Escott’s efforts at fixing up the house and stacked them, placing the lamp on top.

  He went very still. “Who are you?” A tremor infected his usually smooth voice. If he’d recognized mine, then he had a right to be worried, since I should have been dead.

  “Guess.”

  There was a wall outlet close by and the cord just reached it. I clicked the lamp on and angled its flexible neck so the light would strike Maxwell right in the eyes. A high sign to Escott and he and Coldfield shut off all the other lights; the only one left was the glowing cone focused on our seated and trussed-up friend. He wouldn’t be able to see past it.

  I took the black sack off his head and let him wince, blink, and get used to things. He looked even more deceptively harmless without his glasses, which were tucked in his breast pocket. I removed them and put them on him.

  His eyes went wide with recognition combined with fear.

  Good. For talks like this, fear is a very good thing. It makes a person vulnerable.

  Without distractions like being stabbed with fancy fountain pens or people like Doc watching over my shoulder, I got all the information I wanted and more from Maxwell, and this time I got the truth.

  The plastic-surgery joint was real, but he’d lied about its location being behind the roadhouse. He and his bushwhacking friends had been paying a visit to quite another kind of house located a few miles farther up that lane when they’d returned, spotted the Caddie parked in the wrong place, and decided to check it out.

  As for the surgery, at least as of last night, Opal had been there and was being looked after, but the place was actually in the city, and not all that far from a real hospital. I wrote down the address. With Escott sometimes making suggestions, I also made notes about all the places where Sullivan might be found, how many men were with him, and what his likely actions would be at the news of Maxwell’s kidnapping and Doc’s escape with my help.

  It didn’t look good for Angela. Maxwell’s guess was that Sullivan would blame her and try for another hit. The hitch in the plan would be not knowing where she could be found. The solution: bribery. A thousand bucks to anyone who pointed out her hiding place, a grand in a town with hard times where most people would do it for the price of a hot meal.

  “Not the best news in the world for Miss Paco,” said Escott, shaking his head. It was safe for him to talk. I was finished with Maxwell, having told him to completely forget everything that had happened since the first time I knocked him out behind the roadhouse. He was thoroughly asleep now and would stay that way until someone said his name three times and clapped their hands. I’d seen my share of stage hypnotists.

  I rubbed my temples. An easy session, but still headache-making from the effort. “Yeah, but Angela’s probably good at pulling holes in after her, since you haven’t heard of anything all day.”

  “Doesn’t mean much if Sullivan got to her and was quiet about it,” said Coldfield.

  “Believe me, if he did try for a hit on her it wouldn’t be quiet. She’d make sure of that.”

  “What’ll you do?”

  “First I get Opal away from him. Maybe she might have an idea on where I can find Angela. If she’s able to talk.” If she’s still alive.

  “And if not?”

  “Then I go take Sullivan out of the fight. Him I know where to find.”

  “Doing like you just did here with this guy?” Coldfield gave Maxwell a sideways look, perhaps worried he’d wake up. Fat chance of that.

  “Pretty much. Then I’ll try the dance studio for Angela, and if necessary that crappy hotel—don’t worry, no one’s gonna remember me being there. Someone at one of those places will know where she is.”

  “Along with all that money in the car?”

  “I hope so.” I was assuming the worst, that once Doc was back with friends, sooner or later somebody would get curious and take a peek in the laundry bags and declare it was Christmas all over again. Come hell or high water, I wanted the dough back. Sure, I’d walked away with a nice bundle, but that was nothing compared to the balance.

  But first things first: I had to take care of Opal.

  “THE place looks too damn respectable,” said Coldfield, scowling over the wheel of his Nash.

  “Which is probably why its shadier activities pass unnoticed by the police,” said Escott.

  I didn’t feel like adding anything and just looked out the passenger window as our big car slowly cruised by. The three of us were shoulder to shoulder in the front seat again, but with Escott in the middle for a change. I wanted them to stay out of this, but they ganged up on me and insisted on coming. Besides, Escott wanted to make a surprise delivery to his charming friend Adkins a little later, which was why Maxwell was tied up nice and cozy in the trunk. Good thing he was oblivious or he’d have had plenty of justifiable complaints about the travel accommodations.

  The address he’d given us was a surprise, being a neatly kept red-brick house in one of the better neighborhoods of the city. It was larger and much more expensive than Escott’s area, but very similar in looks, quite genteel, and, as Coldfield had accurately observed, respectable. A tasteful sign featuring a caduceus on the wrought-iron gate told people that it was the Balsamo Clinic and gave the hours it was open. There was no clue as to exactly what sort of treatment it offered, only that it was supervised by Dr. Joseph Balsamo, his name followed by a string of letters to show how well educated he was and to hint at how much his services might cost his clients. According to Maxwell, he was the one Sullivan had called in at a moment’s notice for Opal’s emergency.

  “We’re too late for an office visit,” I said.

  “But lights are showing on all the floors,” said Escott. “There may be a houseful of patients.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of, people getting caught in the cross fire.”

  “You expect to do some shooting?”

  “All the time with this crowd, but I won’t let things go that far. No one’s going to get hurt if I can help it.” Well, not unless they really deserved it.

  I asked Coldfield to take us around the block again. The house was on a corner lot, with a short driveway on the side leading to a separate garage that was closed down. You couldn’t tell if the doctor was in or not.

  When Coldfield began his third circling of the block, I asked him to pull into an open spot by a fire hydrant. It commanded a view of the front gate. We gave the place a good long study, with special attention to doors and windows, and Escott recommended I try one of the latter to make my entry. It was in the back, up on the third floor, and dark.

  I shook my head.

  His left eyebrow shot up. “You can’t just go in the front door.”

  “Why the hell not? I’m tired of sneaking around, of not being able to see where I’m going.”

  “She’s sure to be guarded.”

  “They won’t know what hit’em.” I opened the passenger door. “Don’t know how long this will take, but be ready to roll.”

  “Keep your head down, kid,” Coldfield advised.

  I grunted, making a mental note to tell him what my real age was sometime, then shut the door gently. There wasn’t much wind tonight and the sound would carry.

  Through the gate, up the walk to the porch to ring the bell and wait. The foyer light was on, but I couldn’t see any movement through the sheer white curtains covering the diamond-shaped window set in the door. All I heard were my shoes scraping on the welcome mat. Rang the bell again, then knocked. N
othing, and I was starting to get chilled in my short jacket. Maybe some of that damned poison still lingered in me—that or I was starting to get nervous. I’d have worn my long coat, but it needed to go to the cleaners.

  Another ring and knock, along with a sigh of exasperation. They had their chance to answer a dozen times over by now. I just might have to do something.

  What the hell, why not? I thought, and faded out, passing through the cracks around the door and going solid inside.

  I didn’t surprise anyone on watch. The foyer was small, with arched openings leading to the hall stairs and a waiting room. Everything was as nice in as it was out, tasteful, even elegant, with a fancy spindly-legged reception desk and velvet curtains on the waiting-room windows. Balsamo made a mint at his work and wasn’t shy about showing it.

  Except no one else seemed to be here to enjoy the decor. I went very still and listened hard and didn’t hear so much as a mouse with asthma.

  Another chill hit me that had nothing to do with the weather. This sort of silence wasn’t right. It was well and truly a dead silence, too similar to the kind I endured the other night while in that coffinlike box over the shop.

  My fear steadily growing, I searched the place, tearing into every room, every closet, from basement to attic. Nothing and no one. The lights were on for a reason, the best one being to keep someone like me busy watching here instead of looking elsewhere for Opal. Sullivan knew Maxwell might talk and had had all day to find a new parking place for his prize bookkeeper. I hoped to God that was what he’d done, then went all over the house again, this time looking for some clue as to where they could have gone.

  To judge by the leftovers in the icebox and a calendar with a slash through the date, people had been in this day, and then they’d all done a bunk. I’d found living quarters, perhaps belonging to Balsamo, examination rooms with the usual medical supplies and equipment, an office, and several hospital-style rooms where patients probably rested after their operations. I’d found the operating room, too, and it was a pip; this joint didn’t seem to lack for anything except for a staff and patients—one in particular.

  I got a fresh thought and went in search of the trash cans. Those were just outside the kitchen door. The second tin lid I lifted revealed that Opal had, indeed, been here.

  Right on top was a pile of bloodstained white cloths. Table linens from the roadhouse.

  My heart and hopes plummeted with sickening speed.

  The idea I’d been pushing to the back of my mind since I’d walked in shoved its way forward. It couldn’t be ignored anymore. Maybe she’d not made it; maybe she’d died, and because of it they’d cleared out.

  And if that had happened, then someone was going to pay.

  10

  “YOU found her discarded bandaging,” said Escott. “That’s not proof of her death. It’s not proof of anything except that they’ve likely been changed for a proper dressing.”

  But he hadn’t seen them, seen how much blood was on them. I stared out the front window of the Nash as the streets slipped past in one streaming gray blur.

  Coldfield snorted. “Charles, if he wants to feel guilty about her being dead, go ahead and let him.”

  “We don’t know that she’s dead.”

  “Yeah, but he did spend half the night hauling those bags of money to his car instead of looking for her.”

  “He was filling in the time until the house was quiet so he could get Doc out.”

  “And if the money hadn’t been there, maybe he could have done something else during that time that might have helped her.”

  “Now, that’s quite unfair to—”

  “Charles.” I held up a hand. “Stop defending me. Shoe’s right. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  He opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but the look I shot him shut him up tight. It didn’t work on Coldfield, who was watching the road.

  “Yeah, she’s probably stone cold by now. Of course, if you’d really worked at it last night and found her, everything would be different. She’d still be dead, but maybe you wouldn’t be feeling so sorry for yourself for getting distracted.”

  The flash of rage that shot through me was a physical thing. It seemed to roar up and envelop me like red flames. Escott reacted as if he saw and felt it, too, and flinched, his face going white.

  “Jack . . . ” he whispered. “No.”

  Coldfield ignored us. “On the other hand, if she’s alive, then you’re feeling sorry for yourself for no reason at all, unless it’s something you enjoy doing. I know people like that, and I never do have much use for ’em.”

  I was trembling from it, from the sudden rush of adrenaline, trembling from the effort to keep myself from moving. I didn’t dare, for then I might kill him.

  “On the other hand, what happened is what happened and can’t be changed or made better. I’d say you did the best you could at the time and you should let it go at that until we find out one way or another about the girl.”

  Escott held his breath for the longest time, and even over the sound of the car I could hear his heart thumping fit to burst. A few moments went by, and when it looked like I wasn’t going to go berserk after all, the harsh pounding eased, and he let his pent-up air sigh out very slow and easy.

  I imitated him, the slow breathing, had to shut my eyes and consciously work at it, but the action helped get me calmed down and nearly reasonable again. I wasn’t ready to talk and be polite yet, but was past the point of being dangerous to anyone within shouting distance of me, myself included.

  About five minutes later I looked at Coldfield. “You really are a son of a bitch.”

  He glanced over, chuckled once, and kept driving.

  We were going straight to the roadhouse and only barely staying inside the speed limit. He skimmed under stop signals just as they changed and ran some when he saw the cross streets were clear. If there were any cops around, they weren’t interested in us.

  When I’d come stalking out of the clinic without Opal, he’d started the car and pulled forward, ready to brake when I stopped, only I’d not stopped, but kept coming, to vanish and reappear in the seat next to Escott so as not to waste time. Coldfield had nearly swerved off the road at this. I barely noticed, being too busy telling them where we needed to go next. Then I told them what I’d found—or rather not found—in the house on the corner and the dark conclusion I’d drawn from it.

  As the miles passed under us my anger settled back into its box. There was no point being mad at Coldfield since he was only giving me the truth; I just wasn’t so good at wanting to hear it. Guilt and self-pity were old, unwelcome acquaintances of mine, slithering in to smother me whenever I was dumb enough to let them get away with it. You’d think I’d know better by now. Coldfield certainly did and could recognize when a man needed a kick in the butt. So did Escott, though his way was usually a lot more diplomatic.

  The trip to the roadhouse was a long shot. Sullivan probably wouldn’t be there, but I was gambling someone would be left behind who could tell me where he’d gone or how to contact him. If gone, then he’d be in some place Maxwell didn’t know about, but that the local muscle would. That’s where I would put the pressure until something broke.

  I looked up from studying the floor in time to call out the turn we needed and asked Coldfield to cut the lights and stop just before we came in sight of the house. We were all straining for a look ahead and made it out at the same time, a dense cloud of dark smoke rising high into the black sky.

  “Holy hell,” said Coldfield, and hit the gas.

  The sight didn’t get any better the closer we got; the whole joint was on fire and so far gone it’d be useless to call for help. The building was already collapsing in on itself. No more dance music, no more summer nights on the big veranda.

  Coldfield made a wide, cautious circle of the place, giving us an eyeful of the destruction, and pulled up behind it. The parking lot was clear of cars, but we did see evidence that s
omeone had been there and gone . . . leaving two of them behind. I boosted out of the Nash before it stopped and hurried toward the slack forms lying on the gravel. The fire created its own hot wind, and it plucked at my clothes.

  Even at a distance you can tell the difference between alive and dead. The dead seem smaller, even when they aren’t. The first man I came to had been shot in the back of the head and must have dropped right where he stood without trying to run or resist. Maybe he hadn’t known what hit him. Some of his skull was gone, and I went sick at the smell of his blood mixed with the wood smoke from the building. A few feet from his body were three spent brass casings catching the intermittent light from the fire at my back—.45s. The killer must have stood about there with a semi-auto in hand and . . .

  I walked around to see the dead man’s face, though I’d recognized his coat. He was in profile, his eyes were still open, and hadn’t clouded over yet.

  Baker.

  The second man had tried running; he was sprawled flat, arms and legs thrown wide. There was a hole in his back, which may have stopped him, and another in his head, which had certainly killed him.

  Calloway. Eyes also open. Mouth sagging, a thick line of spittle and blood flowing from one corner.

  Still flowing. He was alive.

  I bawled at Escott and Coldfield to hurry over.

  COLDFIELD turned the car heater up as high as it would go; I took the coat from Baker’s body and wrapped it close over Calloway, a futile attempt to keep him warm, then we put him in the backseat and drove like mad to find a hospital. None of us thought he had a snowball’s chance of surviving, but it was what you’re supposed to do, so we were doing it.

  “It had to be Angela,” I said. In my own ears my voice was a tired monotone. “When Doc got back he could give her whatever information she’d need on the layout of the place. She’d want to hit it to get back at Sullivan. She’d kill these guys on principle simply because they jumped on the wrong wagon when Kyler and then Sullivan came to town.”