Suburban Vampire: A Tale of the Human Condition—With Vampires

by Franklin Posner

  “A vampire attorney?” Scott asked. Vampire lawyers. Why was he not surprised there were such things?

  “An attorney versed in vampire law. I know of a very skilled one. I would like to say I trust him, but naturally I cannot.”

  “Of course not, because he’s a vampire, right?”

  “No, because he is a lawyer. Meet me at the courthouse.”

  Scott agreed. He said his good-byes and then got in his car and drove off into the night.

  Jeremiah remained for a brief while before strolling into the deepening gloom. From the corner of his eye, he noticed an older black sedan drive by, heading in the same direction as Scott. He was sure they had been watching, but he dismissed the thought as being overly aware to the point of paranoia. Then again, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you, he thought.

  CHAPTER 20

  The next morning came, just as wet as the rest of them, with a biting wind that caused the airborne droplets to crash violently against the window of Scott’s room. He did not look forward to going out in the hard, cold storm. Oh well, he didn’t really have a choice.

  Irene, of course, always concerned about his health and comfort, told him to tightly bundle up; the concern was both touching and annoying. Scott told her not to trouble herself, which was pointless, because he knew she still would. He also told her to be watchful for the delivery of an item he had purchased online during the week: a brand-new miniature refrigerator for his room. She questioned why Scott wanted such a thing, since the kitchen fridge was perfectly large enough for anything he wanted to place there, including the paper bags that contained his special diet supplements. Scott once again made her promise not to open the bags, telling her the mixtures were sensitive. She promised she would not, and even though her curiosity was certainly aroused, her promises were always kept, at least, as far as Scott knew.

  Parking in downtown Portland was, as usual, a hellish affair. Scott thought that he may need to use his skills of suggestion against some meter maid or traffic cop in order to procure a space; he gave it a second thought and decided to park in an overpriced, privately owned parking lot. At least he knew the lot was monitored, as he didn’t want to risk theft or damage to his classic Mustang, although the protection was more for the would-be auto thief than it was for the car itself. Scott believed that if someone stole her, he’d have to hunt the bastard down, and then he would so drain him. And nobody wanted that.

  The Multnomah County courthouse was bubbling with activity, as it does most weekdays, with attorneys, judges, police officers, suspects, witnesses, and jurors, both active and potential, going in and out of the building. Scott met Jeremiah on the curb immediately outside the courthouse. They then entered the main hallway, where they passed through metal detectors manned by security guards. Scott was glad he had left his pocket knife at home. Then again, he wondered why he still felt the need for a pocket knife. After all, he had fangs. (Although, on second thought, it’s still easier to open boxes with a knife. Scott eventually tried it with his fangs, and it’s not as easy as you’d think at first.)

  Scott followed Jeremiah to the third floor, where the attorney they were looking for was currently engaged in a hearing. They arrived on that floor, sat on a bench outside the courtroom, and waited. And waited. And waited some more.

  At length, the courtroom doors swung open, the room emptying of reporters, legal aides, parties to both sides of the unknown dispute, and other observers. Among them was a short, gaunt man with thin brown hair and sideburns, wearing a brown three-piece suit and ugly yellow tie, carrying a briefcase, and speaking it seemed to no one, at least until Scott spied the Bluetooth device in the man’s left ear. Jeremiah pointed to the man, indicating that this was the attorney they needed. They left their seats and followed the man down the marbled halls of the courthouse.

  “…yeah, I got the injunction reversed…Of course, I did. Why did you have to ask me?…Fine, fine…Yeah, I guess you’re gonna have to cancel my three o’clock. I want you to get on the phone with Judge Josephs. Tell him tee time is eight sharp. I ain’t gonna be standing around on the green freezing my ass off for him, so advise him not to be late. Nicely, though; I still have to appear before him. The client would not be happy if we pissed the judge off. I’ll be back to the office in a few minutes, so get a fresh bag ready for me…I don’t know, the B positive, I guess. See you in a few.”

  “Mr. Sinner?” Jeremiah called.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite vampire, Jeremiah,” Sinner responded, not slowing his pace as he walked away from the courtroom. “Which it isn’t. Favorite, that is. Talk to me, Jerry. What do you want?”

  “We need a lawyer.”

  “We? Who’s we?” The lawyer stopped and turned around to face Jeremiah and Scott.

  “Well, me, actually,” Scott answered. “I need a lawyer. One versed in vampire law.”

  “Oh! You’re…wait for it…that Campbell guy, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m that Campbell guy.”

  Sinner turned on his heels and started walking away again. “Humph. Scott Campbell, the big damn hero. Stopping mass shooters, rescuing kittens from trees, helping old ladies across the street. The goody-two-shoes vampire. God, you’re pathetic. You may as well sparkle.”

  “Hey! That’s a low blow!”

  “Is it now?” Sinner stopped once more to face them. “And why am I not surprised that you two are hanging out together? You’re simpatico. I guess what they say about birds of a feather is true.”

  “Mr. Sinner, I’m in grave danger. The House wants me dead.”

  “Yes, and they have called in an Inquisitor,” Jeremiah said.

  “You know what? Not my problem. And in any case, I doubt you could afford my retainer fee anyway. Sorry. Good luck, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”

  “I can afford the retainer,” Jeremiah said.

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Money is money, correct?”

  “Okay, then, I don’t want the hassle. Look, I have standing in the House. This case could hurt my reputation. Not something you are concerned about, I get that. Still. Sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “What if we could convince you otherwise?”

  “How?”

  “The prophecy.”

  “The prophecy? Seriously? You’re trying to convince me with some apocalyptic religious mumbo jumbo? Wow, that’s effective. Consider me converted. Hallelujah!”

  “There are many among us who believe in the prophecy of IshBosheth. I know you are familiar with it.”

  “Yeah, sure, I am. But if you’re trying to convince me that Boy Wonder here is the promised deliverer, sorry, no deal.”

  “Mr. Sinner, please,” Scott pled. “All I know is that I’m in trouble here, and I could use some help.”

  “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all, but I’m sorry, really I am. Maybe there is another vampire attorney who can help you. I’m not your guy.”

  “Sinner, wait!” Jeremiah said. “I mentioned that many of us believe in the prophecy. I know you are highly regarded in the House. Well, many among those in the higher places hold the prophecy as sacred. Some of them may even consider that our Mr. Campbell here completely meets the description of the Redeemed One. Now, think on this: If you fail to mount an adequate defense for Scott or refuse to represent him, how do you think that will look to those you are trying to impress? And they are not the only ones. There are other factions that are looking for the Promised One, and their interest in this vampire is considerable. But no, please, refuse to take this case. Do nothing. Let Scott Campbell be culled. I am sure this would boost your image.”

  Sinner stroked his chin with his free hand. Jeremiah had struck a nerve with the vampire attorney; he could not argue against such logic.

  “Okay, okay. What the hell. It’s just my reputation on the line. But you better be the deliverer, ’cause I’d hate to think I pissed away my upward mobilit
y on a fraud. Meet me at three o’clock. My office. Here’s my card.”

  Sinner handed Scott his business card and then turned to leave. Scott read the card to himself: F. Scott Sinner, Attorney at Law. Yes, his name is Scott, too. Don’t make a big deal out of it.

  “Uh, I work at three o’clock,” Scott said.

  “Call off. I’m doing you a favor; don’t piss me off.”

  Jeremiah looked down at Scott. “Seriously. Call off.”

  Despite her workload, Grace managed to locate Eric Samson Pong, the owner of the ESP76254 YouTube account who had posted his cell phone video to the Internet. The interview didn’t reveal much. Eric had been in the mall applying for a seasonal job at Foot Locker, hoping to get his application in before the Christmas season kicked off. When he saw the “crazy guy with the machine gun,” he dove into the jewelry store, almost knocking down the saleswoman who was attempting to secure the door as stealthily as possible. He hit the floor, holding his phone upright in order to catch the action. He had hoped that he would live to see it later and kept his head down. He swore he didn’t add or alter any of the footage. Other than that, he could add nothing new to the case.

  Grace returned to the sheriff’s office unfulfilled, her desire for what she called the truth of the matter about Scott Campbell still alive. There was one other person she needed to talk to, and she knew it.

  The Clackamas County Jail is not a particularly long drive from the sheriff’s main office. Grace told Mason that she was heading there to perform a follow-up interview with Ralph Stevens, which she was, but not for the purposes she divulged. He gave her the go-ahead, still thinking her continued interest in the case was unnecessary. She left Kevin at the station, as he was following up with the witnesses to a murder-suicide just outside Oregon City.

  She arrived at the jail. After going through security, she asked for the use of an interview room, one used when lawyers came to talk to their incarcerated clients. She knew such a room would likely be free from monitoring devices. Ralph Stevens would have to be brought up from a special high-security holding area, as he was constantly under suicide watch. There was certainly no way he would be admitted into the general population; the bizarre moral code of most inmates dictated that mass shooters were beneath them, not as bad perhaps as child molesters, but certainly bad enough.

  Grace patiently waited in the room. After a longer wait than she would have preferred, Ralph Stevens entered in an orange jail jumpsuit, handcuffs, leg irons, and restraint belts. The corrections officers escorted him to the gray table that separated him and the detective, handcuffing him to an iron loop inset into the table. He sat down across from Grace.

  “Good afternoon, Ralph,” she said.

  Ralph looked her up and down. “Damn,” he said. “Is this a conjugal visit or what?”

  Grace had heard cruder comments directed at her before. She was a cop, so she expected it. Unfazed, she started her interrogation.

  “They’ve arrested your friend Brian Carter. They’ve got him on more charges than I care to even think about, including conspiracy and accessory to attempted aggravated homicide. He’s looking at some hard time.”

  “So? Why are you telling me this? I’ve already agreed to plead guilty. No deals; I did it. It’s not like I can do anything about it anyway. There’s nothing Brian can tell you about me that you don’t already know.”

  “Just thought I’d make conversation, Ralph. Got a problem with a little conversation? Or are those voices in your head company enough for you?”

  “What are you doing here, Detective? Tormenting me? Hell, I’m already tormented. I wanted to die in blaze of fucking glory that day, to make people suffer, to show them what fear is. But I didn’t have any idea what fear was myself. No fucking clue. Not until…”

  Ralph cut himself off at that point. Grace looked straight at him. He avoided her gaze. “Not until what, Ralph? Not until what?”

  “Not until nothing! Just…just leave it alone, all right?”

  “Leave what alone? Talk to me. What is fear? Do you know what it is?”

  Ralph’s former defiance had turned to something else. Something deeper and darker that spoke to the true level of horror he had seen. Tears came to his eyes. “He told me to plea. He told me I’d die.”

  “Who told you that? Did Scott Campbell tell you that?”

  “The eyes! Those eyes! They told me that!”

  “Whose eyes?”

  Ralph was shaking with terror. “The eyes of evil, the eyes of death, the eyes…they told me. They told me all I needed to know…oh God.”

  “Whose eyes, Ralph? I can’t help you unless you tell me.”

  He once again focused on her, seeming to calm somewhat. He looked right at her. “His eyes.”

  Grace knew what he meant, even if he was being purposefully vague. She had the information she needed; no more would, or even could, be gained. She got up, walked to a speaker mounted on the wall near the door, and spoke into the receiver. “Okay, I’m done here,” she announced.

  The corrections officers came in, unhooked Stevens from the table, and escorted him away. As they did so, Ralph began struggling.

  “Don’t tell him I said anything!” Ralph cried. “Don’t tell anyone! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill you! He will kill us all!”

  The officers dragged Ralph down the long corridor away from the interview room. Grace knew she had been right all along but was now unsure how to proceed. This would not be enough to get the sheriff’s office to sign off on her investigation. And there was no way it would help her get a warrant. But she knew she had to do something. Grace left the interview room and headed out of the jail.

  She did not notice yet another corrections officer standing in the hallway, observing his coworkers as they were dragging Ralph away. This officer watched Grace leave and then went to a nearby wall-mounted phone and dialed an outside line.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” the officer said. “We may have a problem.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “The problem with vampire law,” Sinner said, sitting in his black leather-lined executive chair in his fifth-floor office in the law firm of Chaney, Oldman, and Lee, his back to a spectacular view of the Willamette River, “is that there really is no such thing.”

  Scott was dumbfounded, more so than usual. “Okay, so why is this an issue, then?”

  “Don’t get me wrong; there are rules and regulations. Every branch of the House has ’em. But as to actual legislation? It doesn’t work like that. What we call ‘vampire law’ isn’t much like human law. Modern jurisprudence relies heavily on precedence. Case law. Vampire law doesn’t. It’s based on your argument, and I don’t mean based on previous court cases or even common law but simply how well you argue. In other words, you gotta have the gift of gab. Which is where I come in.”

  “If this is the case,” Jeremiah said, “I could mount Scott’s defense.”

  “Oh no shit? And just when did you pass the bar? Where did you take law? Did you even take your LSATs? No? Didn’t think so. So shut up. Let the professionals do their job. You just keep doing that supervisor thing you’re doing.”

  Jeremiah now in his place, Sinner got out of his chair and stepped over to the wooden inset bookshelf, which was lined with a myriad of leather-bound books, most of which looked like normal law books. Sinner looked up at the endless volumes.

  “So,” Sinner continued, “it helps to have firepower. And I mean multiple pieces of vampire prophetic literature that refer to deliverers and end-of-days nonsense. Vampires just eat that crap up. And I have several different sources here, so let’s see.”

  Sinner started selecting books, slamming some on a nearby console table while putting others back in their place. “Okay, we’ve got The Tragedy of Arthansas, The Sufferings of Al-khazad, The Horror of Batta-Nui, The Sucking Chest Wound of Alphonse the Awful—”

  “Wow,” Scott said. “Those all sound pretty depressing.”

  “Vampire literature. Whaddaya gonna
do? Anyway, here’s a few that might not offend your sensitive ears.” Sinner looked at the next shelf. “The Epic Poem of Wang Fu, The Annotated Poetry of William the Bloody, Bram Stoker’s Dracula—hey, I like a bit of fiction every now and then, too—and oh, here’s one. The Prophecies of Flavius.” He pulled the ancient leather-bound volume out and dropped it on the console table with a thud.

  “The Prophecies of Flavius?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Yeah, dates to the third century AD, written by a famous Roman vampire.”

  “I am aware of its provenance.”

  “Great. It runs almost entirely parallel to the IshBosheth prophecies. Foretells a lot of the same stuff, including the deliverer. Some take it as evidence of the inspired nature of the IshBosheth text.”

  “Well, perhaps they should be a bit more discriminating. The Flavius book is not a parallel of the IshBosheth text. It’s a complete and unabashed rewrite with some minor stylistic changes. Flavius wanted his moment of fame, and he got it. Unfortunately, he was simply an uninspired, talentless hack. And I would hardly call him famous.”

  “I take it you knew the guy?”

  “Indeed. Do not be impressed.”

  “Okay. If Mr. I-Was-There says it’s a fraud, then we’ll need something else.” Sinner continued to look at the multiple texts on the wall. “Here’s something. It’s a bit of a stretch, though.” He pulled the volume from its place and took it to his desk. “The Book of Vampiricus.”

  “An actual copy of Vampiricus?” Jeremiah said. “I have not seen a copy in several hundred years. How did you procure this?”

  “Through channels. I know this shaman over in Beaverton. Has a used bookshop, and he can find just about any text you want. Get this. He even offered to get me an actual copy of The Book of the Dead—not the Egyptian one, but the honest-to-Satan book compiled by the Mad Arab himself. I passed on that one, though. Cracking that open never ends well. And I have no idea how he’d get it through customs anyway. But back to Vampiricus here. As Jeremiah knows, its authorship is unknown.”