Tucker wasted no time printing off Reyes’s vital statistics. Caxton ran to the printer to gather up the printouts.
“Tell me his LKA,” Arkeley said, referring to his last known address. “We flushed them out of the hunting camp. They’ll need a new hiding place, and most likely they’ll turn to a place where they feel comfortable.”
She found the information easily enough but shook her head. “It’s an apartment building in Villanova. They won’t want that, will they? Too much activity, too much chance of being noticed when they go in and out.”
Arkeley nodded. “They prefer ruins and farms.”
“Then there’s nothing here. Reyes lived in the same building for years, at least since 2001. Listen, let me try a cold call and see if I turn something up.” Maybe—maybe if she could turn up some useful information, then Arkeley wouldn’t consider her such a failure. She cursed herself for using his opinion to define her self-esteem. What stupider thing could she possibly do? Still. She took her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed the emergency contact number, which was also the number of the manager for the apartment building. When she’d established she was a police officer the manager was more than willing to talk to her. She got what details she could and hung up.
“So?” Arkeley asked.
“Efrain Reyes was a nice guy, kept pretty much to himself, no wife or girlfriend, no family, or at least no family that ever visited. The building manager thought maybe he was an illegal immigrant but had no proof of that.”
“He would at least need a green card to get in here,” Tucker clarified.
Caxton nodded. “The man I spoke to liked Reyes a lot, because Reyes fixed a problem with the building’s circuit breakers a couple of years ago for no charge. He was informed by the local police that Efrain Reyes died seven months ago in an accident at his workplace. He says he wanted to attend the funeral but was told that because no one had claimed the body it had been given a quick burial at the state’s expense in the potter’s field in Philadelphia. He’s holding Reyes’s few personal effects in a box—he says there’s nothing unusual among them, just some clothes and toiletries. The apartment was furnished and Reyes doesn’t seem to have added anything to it.”
“He sounds like a ghost, not a vampire,” Tucker suggested.
Caxton shrugged. “From what I heard he sounded like a severe depressive. Apparently the only thing he ever complained about was being tired, but the building manager suggested he missed more than a few days of work, especially in the winter. Judging by the mail he got, he read a lot of men’s magazines—Playboy, FHM, Maxim—but never went on a date or anything more social than a movie.”
Arkeley nodded as if it was all starting to make sense. “A virtual nonentity who no one really missed when he was gone. Tell me how he died.”
“Industrial accident. He touched a live wire or something and died of cardiac arrest before the ambulance could even arrive. That’s what the building manager told me.” She studied the printout in her hand. “It happened at an electrical substation outside of Kennett Square.” She checked the printout again. “Let me make another call.”
Arkeley stood stock still while she called the substation’s offices. Tucker started a game of computer solitaire, then had to close it out when she hung up her phone after less than a minute. “You’re going to love this,” she said.
Arkeley’s eyebrows inched up toward his hairline.
“He wasn’t working at the substation. He was helping to dismantle it. The substation was a hundred years old and they were closing it down. Most of the buildings onsite are still standing but have been permasealed. Which means all the windows are going to be covered with plywood and the doors padlocked.”
“A vampire could tear a padlock off with his bare hands,” Arkeley said. His face started to crease into a very wide smile.
“You said they liked ruins. Should we get on the road? We don’t have too much daylight left, but we could at least scope the place out, and maybe get an order of exhumation for Reyes’s grave.”
The smile on Arkeley’s face stopped short. “We?” he asked.
Caxton was about to reply when her phone rang again. She expected it was the building manager with a detail he’d just remembered, but it wasn’t—the call was coming from state police headquarters, from the Commissioner’s office. “Trooper Laura Caxton,” she answered, placing the phone to her ear. When the Commissioner’s assistant had finished relaying his message, she hung up once more. “We’ve been instructed to come to Harrisburg immediately.”
“We?” Arkeley asked again.
“We, you and me. The Commissioner wants us, and he says it’s urgent.”
28.
T he Commissioner stood in his doorway when they arrived—never a good sign. It meant he was looking forward to having them at his mercy. They filed into his office and sat down across from his desk. The air in the room felt hot and becalmed, and Caxton wished she could undo the top button of her uniform shirt, loosen her tie; but she knew it wouldn’t be allowed. There was a dress code to maintain. Arkeley just sat down in his awkward fashion, his fused vertebrae making it impossible for him to sit comfortably. He did his best to appear as if this were just a routine meeting, perhaps a chance to prepare a new strategy. While Caxton stewed in uncomfortable silence the Commissioner busied himself at the front of the desk for a while, saying nothing, working with paper and tape.
When he was done five letter-sized color laser prints hung down from the edge of the desk. Portraits of state troopers, probably taken the day they graduated from the academy. They wore their hats with the chinstraps actually under their chins (by the next day, Caxton knew, they would learn to wear the straps across the backs of their heads) and looked out of the paper and over her shoulder as if toward some bright tomorrow.
“Would you like to know their names?” the Commissioner asked when they’d had time to look at the portraits. “There’s Eric Strauss. And Shane Herkimer. And Philip Toynbee. And—”
“I resent your implication,” Arkeley said. As evenly and dispassionately as he said anything. His left hand gripped the desk, and he leaned forward to stare right into the Commissioner’s eyes.
“I haven’t even begun to imply,” the Commissioner fired back. He leaned forward in his chair and grasped either branch of a pair of antlers that had been turned into a pen and pencil set. “These five men died two nights ago. They were Troop H, and they responded to a call for backup. Their deaths are inexcusable—five men lost to bring down one bad guy? These were well-trained troopers. They would have known how to handle themselves in a hazardous situation. That is, if they had known what to expect. They were not given sufficient information, and they died because no one told them they were facing off against a vampire.”
Caxton was confused. She knew it wasn’t her place to speak out—the two men expected her to remain silent throughout this interview—but she couldn’t help it. “We didn’t know either, when we called for them,” Caxton tried, but Arkeley held up one hand to quiet her. He looked at the other man as if he was ready to hear what came next.
The Commissioner made a low sound in his throat. “And let us not forget the two troopers and the local policeman who died watching the hunting camp. They died because they were sitting on a porch.”
Caxton shook her head. She wouldn’t speak, not after Arkeley warned her off, but she had to make some gesture of her incomprehension.
“I sent my two best trackers down to that camp,” the Commissioner said, looking at her as if he wanted to see her reaction. “They were Bureau of Investigation hotshots, top marks at the academy, lifelong hunters, mountain boys—these two have bow-hunted for bear and come out on top. They set up shop in a handmade blind a hundred yards from the camp and they waited to see if anybody was coming back to the scene of the crime. At least, that was the plan until your man Arkeley here called them and told them they were perfectly safe and they could sit on the porch, out in the open, where anyone
could see them. Now they’re dead.”
She glanced across at Arkeley. He only nodded. He must have made the phone call while she was sitting with Vesta Polder. But why? What had made him think the porch was a safe place for the troopers? He must have at least suspected that the half-deads were coming back.
“I have their pictures here, too,” the Commissioner said, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Want to see?”
Arkeley stirred in his chair and cleared his throat before speaking. “I’m not entirely sure what you’re getting at, but I do know what you’re missing. The thing you don’t understand, Colonel, is that we are not fighting gangbangers, or terrorists, or drug dealers. We are fighting vampires.”
The Commissioner sputtered, “I think I know—”
Arkeley cut him off. “In the dark ages a vampire could live for decades unopposed, feeding nightly on people whose only defense was to bar their windows and lock their doors and always, always, be home before sundown. When it became necessary to slay a vampire there was only one way it could be done. There were no guns and certainly no jackhammers at the time. The vampire slayers would gather up every able-bodied male in the community. The mob of them would go against the vampire with torches and spears and sticks if they had to. Very many of them would die in the first onslaught, but eventually enough of them would pile on top to hold the vampire down.” He paused and raised one finger in the air. “Let me be clear about this, they quite literally climbed on top of the vampire to keep him from running away, pressing their own bodies against his, exposing themselves to his teeth by necessity. Those who made it this far would usually die as the vampire struggled to get free. Often enough the vampire would get free and the process would start over. Eventually our forefathers would prevail, but only through sheer dint of numbers. The men—and the boys—in those mobs did not shirk from their duty. They understood their terrible, grievous losses were the only way to protect their villages and their families.”
Fuming, the Commissioner stood up from his desk and came around to the front, so close to Caxton that she had to move her knees to let him pass. “I’ll use that story when I speak at the combined funeral next week. The families will be comforted, I’m sure. It will help them understand why their children had to be cremated before they were even allowed to say good-bye. It will help them understand why you felt it necessary to throw their babies to the wolves.”
Arkeley rose as if he would leave.
“We’ll finish this right now, right here,” the Commissioner told him.
Arkeley was taller. It let him look down his nose when he said, “You have no authority over me whatsoever.” He actually turned to go.
“Stop, Marshal,” the Commissioner said.
Arkeley did as he was told, though he didn’t turn to face the other man. The line of his back moved gently as he breathed. He didn’t look like a man with fused vertebrae. He looked like somebody who ought to be holding a broadsword in one hand and a flag in the other. In the hot, close space of the office his body seemed enormous and powerful. He looked like a man who could fight vampires. Caxton wondered if she, herself, would ever come close to that kind of presence, that kind of confidence.
“I have authority over her,” the Commissioner said. Arkeley turned back around. “I’m taking trooper Caxton off this case right now. You want to try to fight me? I’ll suspend her for using unauthorized ammunition in her weapon. Ha. I think I got you right there.”
Arkeley stood in total silence, looking down at the other man. Caxton did not understand what was happening. She was a nothing, a nobody, somebody barely fit to make phone calls for the Fed. The two men were acting as if she were a bargaining chip. What did the Commissioner know? What did he suspect about Arkeley’s motivations that was still such a mystery to her?
“You want her pretty bad, don’t you? I saw it the last time you and I met, when you snatched her right up. I offered you ex-marines and special investigations boys, but you wanted one little slip of a girl from highway patrol.” The Commissioner’s smile was a gouge in the middle of his bright red face. “She’s special. She’s special for some reason and you need her.”
Arkeley waited for him to finish. Then he cleared his throat, glanced at Caxton (the look was inscrutable), and sat back down. “What are you asking me for, really?” he said, finally. “Please, just spit it out. I’m a busy man.”
“I want to protect my troopers,” the Commissioner said. His attitude changed immeasurably—he had won, and he knew it. He sat down on the corner of his desk. He and Arkeley might have been two old friends working out who was going to pay for lunch. “That’s all. I want you to let me do my job. There will be certain safeguards for anyone involved in this investigation, alright? There are two more vampire kills to be completed, but we are not going to lose any more personnel. This will be done by the book, by our best practices. My best practices. I will not let you use my boys as live bait anymore.”
Caxton’s mouth fell open.
“The survivors told me all about you, Arkeley. I’ve already called your supervisors over in Washington. They were very interested in hearing about how you just let my boys die, one after the other, biding your time, hiding in the shadows. My troopers had no idea what they were up against, and you didn’t seem to care. In twenty-some years of law enforcement work I have never heard of such—”
“Done,” Arkeley said.
“I—you—wait. What do you mean?” the Commissioner stumbled.
“I mean that I agree to your conditions. The rest of it, all this nonsense about using state troopers as bait, the threat of calling my superiors, is immaterial. I really don’t care what you think happened the last two nights. I was there and you weren’t. However, if you’re going to hold trooper Caxton hostage, then I am acceding to your demands.”
Caxton’s brain reeled in the heat of the office. “This is about me?” she asked.
Apparently it was.
29.
A rkeley rose again, and this time he was going to leave. Caxton could just feel it. “Any questions?” he asked.
The Commissioner nodded. “Oh yeah. I want to know what you’re doing every step of the way. I’ve got so many questions you’re going to feel like directory assistance from now on.”
Arkeley smiled, his most gruesome, face-folding smile. The one he used when he wanted someone to feel small. “Well, sir, I intend to raid a vampire lair tomorrow morning at dawn. That’s my next step. I’ll need some support on the ground, and your troopers are my best resource for that. Take whatever safety measures you think are appropriate—gas masks, Kevlar vests, whatever, but have them ready and mustered at the station nearest Kennett Square by four-thirty tomorrow morning. Trooper Caxton need not be among them.” He turned to look at her and gave her a new kind of smile. This one looked a little melancholy. “You, young lady, can sleep in. You’ve been enough help locating Reyes’s hiding place.”
She had the presence of mind to nod and shake his hand. He left without saying good-bye or anything else—well, she had expected that. But there was still one thing she needed from him, something she had to know.
The Commissioner gave her the rest of the day off. She started by racing down to the motor pool to catch Arkeley before he could leave. She needed to know the answer to a question she couldn’t have asked in the overheated office. In the parking lot Arkeley was signing for an unmarked patrol car of his own so he wouldn’t have to rely on her vehicle. He looked mildly peeved to see her, but at least he didn’t drive off while she just stood there.
“I have a right to know,” she told him. “In the Commissioner’s office you gave up as soon as he tried to take me off the case. You’re a tough guy, but you caved over me.” She tried to push a little self-esteem into what she said next, but it still came out sounding as if she doubted her own worth as a human being. “What is it about me that’s so important? Why can’t you afford to lose me?” Originally she’d been convinced by his story that because she h
ad actually read his report she was the best prepared to fight vampires. Later she’d thought he might be grooming her as a replacement. When he took her to the Polders, she honestly believed he wanted to keep her alive, that he was actually worried about her safety—but then after her failure at the hunting camp he’d been willing to write her off. She didn’t understand any of it. She didn’t understand why he valued her or why he disregarded her so easily. Why he tried to physically protect her or why he didn’t seem to care if she got hurt.
“The night I took over this case,” he said, his face neutral. “The night we met, a half-dead followed you home.”
She didn’t understand what that had meant, either. “I remember,” she said.
“You were on this case before I was. You’re part of it. The vampires know you and they want something from you. I’d be a fool to let you out of my sight.”
She remembered what he’d said about Hazlitt. If someone was determined to be your enemy you gave them exactly what they wanted. The vampires wanted her. They were out to consume her, one way or another. So he would dangle her before their toothy mouths just so he could get close enough to jump down their throats.
“That’s…it?” she asked. Her heart sank in her chest. All the time she’d spent trying to prove herself, to impress him, was wasted.
“That’s it,” he said. He opened the car door and climbed inside. She let him go.
She was vampire bait. That was all that she was.
She watched him drive away. She had no idea where he was headed. Perhaps he wanted to check out the substation near Kennett Square by himself, or maybe he wanted to exhume Efrain Reyes. Maybe he just didn’t want to be around her. Maybe he was afraid she would be angry.
She was, of course. And confused. And sad. And afraid. And just a little bit relieved.
Relieved because she had finally found how she fit into the vampire investigation. Because now she knew exactly where she stood with Arkeley.
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