The Midnight Vampire Trap

by L.S. Richards

  “Jesus, Cyn, don’t you see? That’s going to be their tactic with every judge up to the Supreme Court! We’re screwed, Cynthia, because it’s true. Desmond is a vampire! We’re screwed!”

  “No. There has to be a way.”

  “Well, I’m out of it, right now.”

  “What?”

  “I’m out of it, and if anybody asks I never knew, not until just a minute ago, you hear me? I never really knew!”

  “Of course you knew, and you were happy to profit from it! Desmond Sharpe made you rich!”

  “And he’s still going to,” Guy said, pulling out his phone and escaping into the hall. Before the door closed Cynthia heard him saying, “Terry, baby! Do me a solid. Get on the horn and get me some CG&P stock…”

  “You bastard! Guy!” she yelled, but it was no use. The door was closed and he was gone.

  “Cynthia,” said Desmond through the intercom. She turned, and there he was, his skin red and blistered.

  “Desmond, I’m so sorry,” she said. “What Guy says is true, they’ll do that with every judge who stands in their way, all the way to the Supreme Court.”

  “I’m sorry too, Cynthia,” Desmond replied. “I’ve always tried to shield my servants.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” Cynthia said, a very difficult admission for her.

  “How long until we get to the Supreme Court?” Desmond asked.

  “Oh, Desmond. That’s the thing… with all the appeals, by the time we work our way through the courts, it could be years from now.” Cynthia replied, fighting tears.

  “Years!”

  “Yes.”

  Desmond stalked away, making a circuit of his cell before coming back to the window between Cynthia and himself.

  “Cynthia?” he said. “Do I have your attention?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good. You’re fired, Cynthia.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t take it personally. You’ve done enough. We’ve had a good run but the rules have irrevocably changed, and I don’t want you exposed to any liability you don’t have to be. Understand?”

  “But…”

  “I mean it, Cynthia.”

  “Okay,” Cynthia said, her heart breaking.

  “Good. Thank you, Cynthia. Now go.”

  She turned and opened the door to the hallway. Halfway through, she turned back.

  “Oh, I forgot. The kids at that theater are having a rally tonight in your honor. I thought that might cheer you up.”

  “Thanks, Cynthia,” Desmond replied. “It does. Goodbye, Cynthia.” And he watched the door close behind her.

  In her car, Judge Davis searched her purse and pockets. “Where’s my cell phone?” she asked no one.

  In his cell, Desmond moved to the one corner he’d discovered was uncovered by the closed-circuit cameras and pulled Judge Davis’s cellular telephone from the inside pocket of his rumpled tuxedo. Opened it. Dialed a long number. It rang once. Twice.

  “Ja?” said a voice.

  “Ingmar, ist Desmond,” Desmond replied. “Jag behover din hjalp med en sak.”

  9

  Cynthia

  For years, Cynthia Carroll had worked as a prosecutor in the L.A. County D.A.’s office, and for years she’d watched criminals she knew to be guilty as sin walk free on technicalities. The final straw had been Wilberforce Clarence-Hughes IV, CFO of Hancock Investments, whom she knew had arranged the rape and murder of a nine-year-old girl as punishment for her father’s cooperation with an IRS investigation. As he exited the courtroom a free man, surrounded by his high-priced legal team, Clarence-Hughes, this elegant, dignified bastion of old Los Angeles in a four thousand dollar suit, had looked at Cynthia and fluttered his tongue in his mouth, miming cunnilingus.

  Cynthia almost quit that night. Instead, she got a present. Flicking on the lights of her condo, she gasped at the sight of Clarence-Hughes’s head sitting in a pool of blood inside a 13 x 9 glass baking pan on her kitchen table.

  “Don’t scream,” Desmond had said, and he had talked to her. Told her that she’d never again have to watch scumbags like Clarence-Hughes walk free. That she’d never want for money. He’d told her what he was, and that she was free to say no, but the offer would never come again, and no one would ever believe her if she talked.

  And she’d said yes. Maybe if was wrong, but Cynthia had lived long enough in the world to know that wrongs very frequently went unpunished, and that there were degrees of wrong. So she’d gone to work for Desmond Sharpe, helped him realize his dream of movie stardom, and never regretted her decision, until tonight.

  She sat in her car across from the Galaxy Cinema. Rain was falling. November was L.A.’s rainiest month, and a steady drizzle showed signs of getting serious later. A line had formed down the block from the theater, the kids huddled against the cold and wet, and against the TV crews trying to get sound bites and the religious wackos trying to save their souls. Cynthia got out of her car, picked up the ticket left for her at the box office. Walking to the end of the line, she overheard snippets of talk:

  “It’s not fair!” a girl said. “He belongs to us now! They can’t just take him away!”

  “No way, Dude!” said a boy. “He’ll get free. You can’t keep Desmond in a cage, you’ll see!”

  “These children are mislead. God told me to come here tonight and lead them to the path of true righteousness…”

  Cynthia took her place at the end of the line, behind two teen-aged boys who passed a doob back and forth between them.

  “Did you hear?” one of the boys said. “They subpoenaed a copy of the movie. They’re going to try to prove it isn’t fiction.”

  “That’s pretty cool, actually,” the second boy replied. Then the line began to move, and she found herself walking up the faded staircase to the balcony, took a seat at the far right.

  Below, the mood was subdued. There was no dancing, no rock music, no balloons bouncing back and forth. The stage was now blocked by black curtain, and there was a depressed, funereal feel in the house.

  Without preamble, a young woman in a simple black dress, with red hair and elfin features, stepped through the curtains, and stood, waiting, until the house fell silent. Then, without accompaniment, she began to sing.

  Her voice was thin, shaky, and heartbreaking in its naked exposure. Cynthia felt a stab of pity. Poor thing, she meant so well, but was clearly out of her depth.

  She sang a stanza, then music did come in, strings, simple and warm, and it was as if the music itself were laying hands upon her, propping her up, supporting her. Her voice grew stronger, surer, even as the song dropped to a low note, her body bent as though beneath a terrible weight… and then shockingly, stunningly, she stepped that note up, octave after octave after octave after octave, her back straightening, her chin lifting, and Cynthia felt the hair on her neck stand on end as the girl’s voice soared, Broadway strong, hitting the back wall. Behind her, the black curtains swept open, and she was suddenly backed by a full, robed choir, and it was like getting punched in the heart. The song became an anthem, openly defiant, and it wasn’t just about Desmond anymore, it was a song for anyone, anywhere, who had ever experienced defeat, scorn or injustice and was determined to survive, overcome and triumph. It was a song about resurrection, and Cynthia, overcome, found herself choking back sobs.

  It finished on a mighty, sustained chord, and the audience was on its feet, chanting Desmond! Desmond! Desmond! shaking the very walls. The girl had spun around, acknowledging the choir, but then she turned and stalked to the front of the stage, where she spoke the words that started every midnight screening of King of Vampires: “Start the fucking flick!”

  The audience took it up. “Start the fucking flick! Start the fucking flick!” Only this time it was a cry of defiance, the defiance of the young toward every self-serving, compromised, cowardly decision ever made by the adult world. The movie began to a thunderous cheer, and below, Cynthia saw the red-hea
ded girl moving toward the lobby with one of the camera crews, and was suddenly seized by the need to thank her for her song, to let her know how much it would have meant to Desmond. Skirting the side wall of the balcony, she took the stairs to the lobby.

  The cameras were already rolling. The girl was speaking, her voice tight and squeaky with emotion.

  “Desmond Sharpe is a vampire, so what?” she was saying. “Does that mean he has no rights? Is there no room in our world for him? If this movie really does show actual events, then look who he picks for his victims: murderers, rapists, tyrants… maybe Desmond Sharpe exists because he was meant to exist!”

  “So you think he’s just part of the natural order?” a reporter asked.

  “It’s like putting wolves back into Yellowstone,” the girl replied.

  “But what about due process?” asked another reporter. “Aren’t those alleged murderers and rapists guaranteed a fair trial?”

  “Perhaps nature has her own ideas about what’s fair.”

  “But he kills people!”

  “Yes, but it’s not as if he has a choice, is it? Unlike a mortal killer, he has a--” and she just happened to turn her head in Cynthia’s direction, just happen to make eye contact as she said it, “biological imperative to do it.”

  Cynthia backed away. The reporters had closed around the girl, and now Cynthia’s head was spinning. She left the theater, got in her car. Sat staring blankly at the rain.

  Could it work? she was thinking. Is he part of the natural order? And are you prepared to argue that in Federal Court?

  She put her head down on the steering wheel. If he is part of the natural order, she thought, then what is the law to do with him? What place in society is he to fill? Is he to be exploited, like a piece of livestock? Or is he a human being, with all the rights and privileges inherent thereto? And if he is, then is he to be tried for his crimes and executed, if state laws apply? Jesus, how many states has he lived in? How many countries? What are the statutes of limitations in those states/countries?

  “Can’t someone else ask these questions?” she said out loud, knowing even as she did that no, there was no one else. It had to be her. She was Desmond’s lawyer, and it was Desmond in that cage. If these questions were to be asked, in court, it was she who must ask them. That, or quit now. Cut and run like Guy. Run… or fight.

  The anteroom door opened, and Cynthia, soaking wet, entered. A voice in the hall, high-pitched and anxious, was calling, “I’ll have to notify Legal…”

  “You do that,” Cynthia called back. “Court order, Buddy!” and she slapped a wet document up against the window to Desmond’s cell.

  “Cynthia?” Desmond asked. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have a court order allowing you access to counsel pending the determination of your legal status,” Cynthia replied.

  “I thought I fired you,” Desmond said.

  “You were obviously under duress and didn’t know what you were doing.” Despite himself, Desmond smiled.

  “Desmond, I’m going to fight,” Cynthia said. “I’m going to argue that you have rights in spite of what you are. I’m going to argue that you have a biological imperative to do what you do, and that the law must be amended to make room for you.”

  “But, Cynthia, by defending me you open yourself to prosecution.”

  “I know. I don’t care.”

  Desmond brought his hand up to the glass, nodded for her to do the same. Across the glass they stood palm-to-palm, until Desmond could stand the searing no longer.

  “That court order shuts off the recording devices in this room,” Cynthia said. “And when we’re sure they are off you must tell me everything, even the bad parts. I’ve arranged an expedited hearing in County Superior, and it’s better if we bring up damaging evidence before they do.”

  Desmond thought. “How soon is expedited?” he asked.

  “Two days,” Cynthia replied.

  “Two days… that works,” said Desmond.

  “Works for what?” Cynthia asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud,” he said. “Pull up a chair, Cynthia. It’s a long story.”

  10

  L.A. Superior

  Six stories below the lighted window of the courtroom, a media circus had taken up residence in the street, their anchors competing for space to shoot without showing another anchor doing just that in the background. Remy Ramierez, off Movies Tonight! forever, and possessed of the coveted spot just opposite the imposing doors, was saying into her camera, “In the Los Angeles Superior Court tonight, a battle that can only be described as bizarre. On one side a Hollywood megastar, famed for walking the tightrope between fantasy and fact, on the other industrial giant CG&P. At stake: a man’s freedom, the future of nuclear energy, and just possibly, the definition of what it means to be human.”

  In the courtroom, Cynthia paced before the Superior Court judge. Behind her, on one side, sat Eleanor, Courtland and the CG&P lawyers; on the other, studio lawyers, and behind them all, local and national press.

  “Your Honor,” Cynthia said, “we are here tonight to determine the legal status of the individual known as Desmond Sharpe. You will hear my opponents claim that Mr. Sharpe has no rights under the law, because the law guarantees rights to humans only, and that Mr. Sharpe is not human. They will tell you that he is a vampire.”

  She looked up and met the judge’s gaze.

  “Well, Your Honor, they are correct in one thing: Desmond Sharpe is a vampire.”

  The observers gasped, and the Judge waved them quiet.

  “Are you really sure you want to continue with this, Ms. Carroll?” he asked.

  “Quite sure, Your Honor,” Cynthia replied. “May I?” The judge nodded.

  “He has been so for over four hundred years.” Cynthia said. “Nevertheless, we intend to prove that he was human before he became a vampire, and he is, therefore, human now, despite the physiological changes he has undergone. We intend also to prove that whatever acts he may have committed since that transformation --assault, robbery, even murder-- were committed against his free will, in response to the overwhelming biological imperative placed upon him by his own body. And now, Your Honor, I would like to call as my first witness Mr. Desmond Sharpe.”

  There was a jostling as the observers jockeyed for a view of the courtroom doors, and they gasped again as a shiny, silver coffin rolled in on a wheeled cart, escorted by wand-armed CG&P guards, some kind of running machine attached to its top.

  “What the hell is that?” one reporter asked another.

  “Uh,” the second reporter replied, reading from a CG&P press release, “It’s, uh, a ‘vapor-diffusion vacuum pump.’ It creates a vacuum inside the coffin, so that anything inside would be pushing not just on the lid but against atmospheric pressure if it tried to get out. And the coffin is made of titanium.”

  “Holy jeez,” the first reporter whistled. “They’re loaded for bear.”

  The guards pushed the coffin to the front of the courtroom. They threw a switch, and a great hissing was heard as air sucked into the coffin. They took up posts in the corners of the room as Desmond’s shackled hands pushed up the lid. The observers gasped again as he sat up in the coffin.

  “Cute, you assholes!” he snarled.

  “There will be no swearing in my courtroom, Sir,” the judge remarked.

  Desmond kicked up the lower lid of the coffin and swung his legs over, hopped down.

  “You have my deepest apology, I’m sure,” he drawled.

  He checked his wristwatch, and stepped aside as the coffin was wheeled away, sneering at the guards. Cynthia came forward and his expression changed to a smile.

  “Will you take the stand, Mr. Sharpe?” she asked, and he did, lounging in the chair, ankles crossed in front of him as Cynthia began her questioning.

  “First off, you’re not really “Desmond Sharpe,” are you?” she asked.

  “No,” Desmond replied.
“No. I was born Johannes van der Hoeven in Antwerp, in the year 1621.”

  “Your Honor, I would like to submit the following exhibits: a photstat of Johannes van der Hoeven’s baptismal entry in a 1621 parish register, and bank records dated 1644, 1792, 1838, uh, 1867, 1912, 1963, and 2014, all bearing the signature --under various aliases-- of the individual currently known as Desmond Sharpe.”

  She turns back to Desmond. “How did you become a vampire?” she asked.

  “I was waylaid one night by a vampire, who drained my blood and then forced me to drink his,” Desmond replied. He shrugged. “The usual.”

  “Why did he do it?” Cynthia asked.

  “Ironically, I think he did it as an experiment,” Desmond replied.

  “Experiment?”

  “To see if vampirism could survive the ‘new religion,’” Desmond said, his tone implying the utter, utter pointlessness of such a transaction.

  “So you never sought it out?” Cynthia asked.

  “I never even knew it existed,” Desmond replied.

  “Did you fight it?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yes. I preyed on dogs and cats for as long as I could… horses, sheep, cattle. But I knew from the first what it was my body really wanted.”

  “Human blood.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you took human victims.”

  “Yes. But I’ve always tried to take those I felt to be deserving of death: the thieves, the rapists, the killers worse than myself.” He smiled, as if reliving a favored memory. “I rather enjoyed the Nazi occupation,” he said.

  “And you continue that pattern today?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yes,” Desmond replied. “There are so many creeps out there even I can’t keep up with them. Internet pedophiles alone take up half my time… I’m only one vampire!”

  A laugh rippled through the room, and the judge said again, “Quiet.”

  Cynthia smiled. Was the tide turning? “What happens if you refuse to drink human blood?” she asked.

  “Overwhelming pain,” Desmond responded. “Like being eaten alive from the inside out. Like starving with terminal cancer.”