The Midnight Vampire Trap

by L.S. Richards

  Rising, she inserted a file drive into the TV port and pushed PLAY… and Brian and the executives all flinched as Desmond’s angry screams came from the TV monitor.

  “Note that no matter what implement was used,” Eleanor said, “Scalpel, bone saw, propane torch, the healing was almost instantaneous.”

  Ejecting and pocketing the file drive, she faced the men.

  “Unfortunately, due to the invasive and, well, potentially destructive nature of these experiments,” she said, “We have decided that possession of a second specimen is advisable. Therefore, another collection is scheduled for tonight. Are there any other questions? No? In that case, gentlemen, I suggest we get back to work. There is much to be done.”

  Eleanor picked up her bag and everyone rose, the executives returning to their offices, the scientists and Courtland heading back down to the labs.

  “I’ll ready the team,” Courtland said, and turned down a side hall, leaving Eleanor alone with Brian. A few seconds passed. Brian coughed.

  “You know, Eleanor,” he began. “Are the pain experiments really necessary?”

  “Why, of course they are, Brian,” Eleanor replied. “We may learn something that will help humanity.”

  “It’s just,” Brian said, clearly reluctant, “It’s just that you so seem to enjoy them…”

  Eleanor stopped, appraised him.

  “Are we not paying you enough, Brian?” she asked coolly.

  “No, Eleanor,” Brian replied, the flush back on his cheeks. “The money is more than adequate.”

  “Good,” Eleanor said, continuing down the hall. “I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”

  A few seconds later, Brian tried changing the subject. “You know,” he said, “I can’t help wondering, how did you get into this? How did you go from the porphyrin rings in a textbook, to--”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Eleanor said. “I got you something.” She pulled a book out of her bag and handed it to him. “It’s a popular history of radiation,” she said. “It’s not a scientific text by any means, but I found it enjoyable. Did you know that as late as 1953 you could buy an over-the-counter contraceptive jelly laced with radium? Ah, here we are.”

  They had come to the door to Desmond’s cell.

  “Now I warn you, Brian.” Eleanor said. “You’ve seen video of this individual and you’ve seen the lab reports, but they cannot prepare you to meet him in person. Always remember, he’s a killer, and like most sociopaths he’s charming, manipulative, and narcissistically self-confident. Were it not for the intimate nature of your work with him, I wouldn’t allow you to have access to him at all. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Brian replied. “I see.”

  She unlocked the door and they entered a small anteroom on the other side of the lasered windows. The lights in the cell were on, but Desmond himself could not be seen. Eleanor punched the button on an intercom.

  “Mr. Sharpe?” she asked.

  Desmond’s face lurched into view right in front of them, his expression ghastly, as if he were a walking corpse. Brian jumped, startled. Eleanor frowned.

  “Stop that,” she scolded, as if talking to a naughty puppy. “I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

  Desmond looked at Brian, and his eyes locked, boring into Brian’s.

  “This is Brian Nicholls,” Eleanor began brightly, “My new assistant, he’s--”

  She noticed Desmond’s raptness, and rapped sharply on the glass in front of his nose, making him blink. His eyes narrowed, staring at her with unmitigated hatred.

  “You. Behave yourself!”

  Desmond backed off, making an exaggerated ‘moi?’ gesture.

  Brian shook himself, as if waking. “Hello,” he said through the intercom.

  “Hi there,” Desmond replied. “So, what’s your interest in all this?”

  “Brian is a physiologist,” Eleanor replied. “He’s here to help us understand how your mitochondria make energy.”

  “How nice. You wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you, Brian?”

  “Well, no, I…” Brian began, and then his eyes went blank and his mouth went slack as Desmond’s gaze returned to him.

  “Brian!” Eleanor yelled, and grabbing the lapels of Brian’s one good jacket, she shook him as hard as she could. Behind her, Desmond smiled.

  “Who?” Brian said, foggy. What…what happened?”

  “It was a mistake to bring you in here!” Eleanor said. “You’re not ready. Get out!”

  “But, I…” Brian protested.

  “Now, Brian!” And he left, still slightly dazed. Eleanor kept her face toward the closed outer door, frowning.

  “That went rather well, I thought,” said Desmond.

  Eleanor’s expression changed, the frown vanishing, replaced by a cheery grin. She pivoted.

  “Nice try,” she said to Desmond.

  “Thanks,” Desmond replied, eyeing her warily. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Oh, nothing. Why do you want a phone?”

  “So I can call my lawyer, why do you think? People will be looking for me, you know. You can’t just keep me locked up forever, with nothing to do or to read, for you to experiment on whenever you want.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought that’s what we were doing. Your physiology is very interesting, you know.”

  “That’s right, you want to know all about what makes me tick, don’t you. Hence Brian, the cute physiologist.” He stopped, considering her. “You know, Eleanor, I’ve been thinking about you. What would make a frigid woman like you choose vampires as her life’s work? Disappointed in love, Eleanor? Taking all that rage and frustration and projecting them onto me… because I embody everything you don’t have? Excitement… passion… consummation?” His voice dropped, becoming a seductive purr. “Don’t you know there’s another way? Wouldn’t your work be easier if you and I worked together? And oh, I promise you, it would be so much more pleasurable--” and then he broke off, because Eleanor had burst out laughing.

  “Sorry,” Eleanor said, wiping away tears. “I was wondering when you’d get around to that. Don’t get me wrong, I did enjoy it, you being all sexy and all. It was quite the performance. But sorry, Cupcake. There is nothing we want from you we cannot take by force. Besides,” she continued, looking up at him, a head and a half taller than she, and said, with utter honesty, “You’re not my type.”

  The stood a moment longer, Desmond glowering, Eleanor rocking on the balls of her feet.

  “Well,” Eleanor said finally. “That was fun. I have to go now.”

  Turning, she unlocked the outer door. Then she looked back, over her shoulder, and damned if she didn’t actually wink:

  “Let me know if you have any questions.”

  The door shut, leaving Desmond staring at blank steel.

  6

  Setback

  The van and its crew had assembled in a downtown alley on the outskirts of skid row. Courtland Warner cast a disapproving eye on the alcoholics and drug addicts drifting past the alley’s mouth.

  “This is a freaking goose chase,” he complained.

  “The L.A. coroner’s office reports two deaths due at least in part to exsanguination in these alleys in the past six months,” Eleanor replied, settling her bag more comfortably on her shoulder. “That young one we destroyed favored the waterfront and this isn’t exactly Desmond’s cup of tea. I’d say these deaths were the work of a third.”

  “I hope you’re right, Ella,” her cousin shot back. “Because this is costing us twenty grand a night.” Still grumbling, he turned away to set up the equipment.

  Behind him, a sound at the bottom of the alley caught Eleanor’s ear. A scuffle? On her own, she stepped toward the sound. One step. A dozen. The sound was coming from the far side of a trash-filled dumpster. She stepped closer.

  A body exploded from the side of the dumpster, a skinny vagrant in filthy rags, with wild eyes and snarled black hair. He collided with Eleanor,
knocking her down and grabbing her shoulder bag.

  She fought to hang onto it, but couldn’t. He ripped it away and was gone, down and out of the alley. Eleanor screamed.

  Courtland and the men came running up. “He got my bag!” Eleanor cried, cradling her skinned knee. And to their blank looks she screamed “It has the file drive in it!”

  “Shit!” Courtland said. He took off after the vagrant, followed by the others, who moved more slowly, encumbered by their half-donned equipment. He rounded the corner, and Eleanor limped after him, nursing her knee. At the corner, her cousin was nowhere in sight.

  “Courtland?”

  He emerged from the mouth of another alley, his fist wrapped around a bleeding wrist.

  “Son of a bitch cut me!” he said.

  “Did you get the file?”

  “No.”

  “We have to find it!” Eleanor cried, panic rising.

  “Okay, okay,” Courtland replied, fishing a first aid kit out of the van. “Suits off, guys. Change of plans. Split up. We’re looking for a tan leather shoulder bag. Check every dumpster, every doorway, under every car.”

  The men shed their backpacks and wands and moved off. “It’s okay,” Courtland said to Eleanor. “He’s probably just after cash to buy drugs, and will dump the purse as soon as he can. The file drive will mean nothing to him. We’ll get it back.”

  “Yes, but if we don’t,” Eleanor said, fear coming into her eyes, “What am I going to tell Deke Hollingsworth?”

  Eleanor, her eyes red-rimmed and tired, stood before Deke Hollingsworth in the CG&P executive boardroom, Courtland slightly behind her. Deke was not happy.

  “And CG&P personnel were depicted on this file,” he said, tight-lipped.

  “Yes,” Eleanor replied.

  “Wearing CG&P uniforms,” Deke continued.

  “Yes,” Eleanor replied.

  “The guy probably just wanted cash for drugs, and threw the purse into the nearest sewer,” Courtland offered.

  “Well by God he better have!” Deke exploded, all six feet two of his former college-football-star body trembling with rage. “Because if this gets out I swear to you, heads will roll!” With an effort, he got himself under control. “Now I have a meeting to attend and you’ve made me late. In future,” he growled, “all CG&P property is to remain on CG&P grounds. Is that clear, Dr. Warner?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hollingsworth,” Eleanor replied, miserable.

  “Good!” Deke left the boardroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Meanwhile, across town, a pair of double-gloved hands placed the file drive from Eleanor’s purse into a stolen Magna Pictures envelope, sealed it, and affixed a label addressing the delivery to Remy Ramierez, Wolf News.

 

  7

  Remy

  Remy sighed, running the footage of the Clarke sisters across her screen again. Offspring of a successful restaurant-chain family, trust-fund kids with no need to ever really work, the teen-aged twins seemed to spend all their time getting kicked out of nightclubs and driving drunk. But they were young, thin and rich, so America couldn’t get enough of them. ‘Talentless train wrecks,’ Remy thought, but no, that wasn’t right. Being train wrecks was their talent.

  She sighed again. Graduate of Columbia School of Journalism. The first of her family to attend college, scrounging through on scholarships, part-time jobs, legal amphetamines and grit. And this was her job: reporting on the antics of spoiled brats.

  The mail kid dropped her mail onto her desk and the Magna Pictures envelope caught her eye. For your consideration, read the tag on the file drive, so she stuck it into her computer’s port. Then she blinked, lunging for the volume control as Desmond Sharpe’s screams filled the room.

  “Jeez, Rem, what are you watching, Writhe?” her colleague Jim asked, naming the latest torture-porn horror flick cleaning up at the box office. Intrigued, he rolled his chair over to Remy’s cubicle. “Is that Desmond Sharpe?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Remy replied, not taking her eyes from the screen.

  “Is this from his movie?” Jim asked.

  “No,” Remy replied. “I just saw it on Saturday, and there’s nothing like this in it.”

  “What’s that on their uniforms?” Jim asked, squinting at the screen. “C…G…and P. The gas company? Why would the gas company be torturing Desmond Sharpe?”

  Remy didn’t answer. The back of her neck was tingling. Sweat had broken out in her armpits. All her reporter’s instincts, long dulled by a steady diet of tabloid crap, suddenly revived. Writhe was doing good business but King of Vampires had been number one at the box office for the past three weeks straight, and that in the crowded autumn market. This might be a hoax, it might be a joke, but every fiber of her being was telling her it was a lead. A real story.

  “Good question,” she said, and reached for her phone.

  Remy waited in a reception room at the CG&P headquarters, her computer on her lap, Guy Mitchell at her side. Remy was waiting quietly, but she couldn’t help but notice Guy was nervous, fidgety. She considered asking him how Desmond was but decided against it, deciding instead to let it play out, see where it went.

  A receptionist ushered them into an office, where a tall, middle-aged man in Friday-casual chinos and polo shirts held out his hand to Remy.

  “Mr. Mahoney,” Remy said. “Thank you for meeting us on such short notice. Allow me to introduce Guy Mitchell.” She watched Mahoney’s face carefully. “He’s Desmond Sharpe’s agent.”

  Remy felt a burst of joy as Chuck Mahoney blinked and blanched, obviously rocked. But he recovered quickly.

  “The movie star?” he said, as if baffled. “I’m sorry… are you researching a movie? How can I help you?”

  Remy spun her notebook around to face Mahoney. “Perhaps this will explain, Mr. Mahoney,” she said, and pushed PLAY. Desmond’s screams sounded forth. Mahoney swallowed hard.

  “I… I’m sorry,” he said, stalling for time. “I don’t understand… is this from a movie? I don’t think legal will allow our uniforms…”

  “Mr. Mitchell here,” Remy replied, “Is of the opinion that it’s a hoax. Cornelius Ray, the director of King of Vampires, denies any knowledge of it.”

  “I never said that!” Guy said, startled.

  “Of course not,” Remy replied. “I called him after I called you.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Chuck Mahoney said, “I don’t know anything about this and I’m certain nothing like this was ever shot in any CG&P facility.”

  “Well then, I’m sure Mr. Mitchell is right, and it’s a hoax,” Remy said to Mahoney. “I’m sorry to have taken your time. Thank you again, Mr. Mahoney.”

  “Any time, Ms. Ramirez,” Mahoney lied. “Anytime I can do anything for you…”

  They left his office, and Chuck grabbed the phone.

  “Get me Deke. Now. Tell him it’s urgent!”

  Out in the parking lot, Remy turned to Guy.

  “So,” she said.

  “So,” he replied.

  “So you don’t know anything about it, Cornelius Ray doesn’t know anything about it, CG&P doesn’t know anything about it, and according to you, Desmond Sharpe is shooting an independent film in Tierra del Fuego.”

  “Looks like,” Guy replied, shrugging, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his $400 jeans.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re right,” Remy said, edging toward her car. “It’s just a hoax. But hey, when Desmond gets back from South America, remember, ‘Wolf Number One!”

  “Sure thing, Remy.”

  They both headed for their cars, each trying to move faster than the other but not look like it. As soon as she got in her car, Remy reached for her phone. In his car, Guy reached for his.

  “Mike,” Remy said to her producer.

  “Cynthia,” Guy said to Desmond’s lawyer.

  “Deke,” Chuck Mahoney said to his boss.

  “About that file drive, CG&P denies kno
wing anything about it.” Remy said to Mike.

  “About that file drive, have you been able to raise Desmond?” Guy said to Cynthia.

  “About that file drive, Jesus, the fucking media has it!” Chuck said to Deke.

  “So it probably is a hoax,” Mike replied to Remy.

  “No. I’ve tried the Tokyo house, the Sydney house, even the mausoleum, nothing,” Cynthia said to Guy.

  “What!?” Deke bellowed at Chuck.

  “Yeah, except that Guy Mitchell just drove over and spent two of his very important hours with me, on nothing more than that drive.” Remy said to Mike.

  “Jesus, Cyn, what if they really have him?” Guy said to Cynthia.

  “Remy Ramierez, that Movies Tonight bimbo, and Desmond Sharpe’s agent were just here! They have the file!” Chuck said to Deke.

  “Did he really.” Mike said.

  “We have to get him back. We have --Guy, are you on a cell?” Cynthia said.

  “Jesus Christ. How’d they get it?” Deke said.

  “Yeah! And he’s as curious as we are, almost jumping out of his skin,” Remy told Mike.

  “Yeah,” Guy told Cynthia.

  “I have no idea,” Chuck told Deke.

  “Mike, you know this is hot. This isn’t Movies Tonight. This is--”

  “Then get here as fast as you can or call me on a land line! We have to get our story straight before they put it on--”

  “Fucking hell. Call Legal. We have to get our asses covered before they put it on--”

  “The six o’clock news!” Remy, Cynthia and Deke all said.

  Eleanor and Courtland Warner stood before a livid Deke Hollingsworth and a grim-faced Chuck Mahoney in the CG&P executive board-room. On the wall, a Remy Ramierez’s face filled a TV screen.

  “What you are about to see is graphic,” Remy was saying. “Viewer discretion is advised.”

  And Desmond’s outraged screams once more sounded forth.

  Across Los Angeles, others also watched their TV screens. In a Century City high-rise, Guy and Cynthia watched. In the Wolf News bullpen on Bundy, Remy and Mike watched. Out in Burbank, executives at Magna Pictures, which had released King of Vampires, watched. Downtown, the L.A. District Attorney watched. And in their homes and in their bars and on their phones, Desmond’s fans watched. Many, many people watched Desmond Sharpe be tortured on TV, but not Desmond, who was in his cell, being subjected to a TV he couldn’t control perpetually tuned to Jim Henson’s Muppet Babies.