Vampires: The Recent Undead

by Harris, Charlaine; Russell, Karen; Kiernan, Caitlin R. ; Smith, Michael Marshall; Armstrong, Kelley; Caine, Rachel; Sizemore, Susan; Vaughn, Carrie; Black, Holly

  “Neither is the sort of matter my employer likes to talk about. He is not inclined to have his fortune bruited about, and the investigation of crime is not his area of expertise. He leaves such things to the police and their investigators.” The houseman stepped back, preparing to close the door.

  “Then he’s talked to them?” the reporter pursued.

  “A crime scene technician named Fisk has asked for various samples from the Count, and he has provided them.” The houseman started to swing the door shut.

  “Fisk—the new tech?”

  “That was his name. I have no idea if he is new or old to his position. If you will excuse me—” There was less than three inches of opening left.

  “I’ll just return, tonight or tomorrow, and I may have some of my colleagues with me: I am not the only one with questions.” This last was a bluff: she was relishing the chance for an exclusive and was not about to give up her advantage to any competition.

  “You will receive the same answer whenever you call, Ms. . . . is it Barradis? If you want useful information, I would consult the police, Ms. Barradis.” The houseman lost none of his civility, but he made it clear that he would not change his mind.

  “Barendis,” she corrected. “Solange Barendis.”

  “Barendis,” the houseman repeated, and firmly closed the door, setting the door-crossing bolt into its locked position before withdrawing from the large entry-hall, bound for the parlor on the west side of the house that gave out on a deck that was added to the house some fifty years before. It had recently been enlarged to make the most of the glorious view afforded down the hill, colored now with the approaching fires of sunset.

  The house had been built in 1924 in the Arts and Crafts style, with cedar wainscoting in most of the rooms, and stained glass in the upper panes of many of the windows, all in all, a glorious example of the style, for although it did not appear to be large from the outside, it had three stories, and thirteen rooms, all of generous proportions. The parlor, with its extensive bow windowand the deck beyond provided the appearance of an extension of the room through two wide French doors into the outside, making it one of Roger’s favorite places in all the house. Here he lingered until a beautiful Victorian clock chimed five; then he started toward the stairs that led to the upper floors, to the room on the south side of the second floor, a good-sized chamber that once held a pool table but was now devoted to books. He went along to the library and tapped on the door, opening it as soon as the occupant of the room called out, “Do come in, Roger.”

  Roger opened the door and paused on the threshold, watching his employer, who was dressed in black woolen slacks and black cashmere turtleneck, up a rolling ladder where he busied himself shelving books at the tops of the cases. “The reporter was back.” The French he spoke was a in a dialect that had not been heard for more than two centuries.

  “Ms. Barendis?” the Count asked. “I’m not surprised to hear it. I’m a little puzzled that she hasn’t brought more press with her, considering.”

  “She has threatened to do so. She said she was asking about the Center, but it—”

  The Count sighed. “She had another topic in mind, I suspect.”

  “You mean the body they found?” Roger knew what the response would be.

  “That, and her reporter’s inclination to uncover information that appears to be hidden.”

  “Such as the size of your donation to the Blood Center; a legitimate story as well as a workable excuse to talk to you to find out about the murder victim,” said Roger, a bit disgusted. “She asked about the money as well as about the body.”

  “I doubt she will pursue the money: it isn’t scandalous enough. The murder is more intriguing than money, since it appears to be one of a series,” said the Count dryly. “Even the Canadians are fascinated by human predators, it would seem.”

  “And this young woman is stoking the furnace,” said Roger.

  “All the more reason for her to find more combustible fuel to consume—money hasn’t the engrossing power of serial murders, especially such messy ones as this man commits—he is seeking as much gore as he can create,” said the Count. “The murder is scary and exciting—large donations only spur a moment of greed, which is insufficient to hold the audience’s attention.”

  “Whatever the public may find interesting, this reporter is proving as persistent as a burr.” Roger came a few steps into the room and flipped on the light-switch, banishing the thickening shadows with the gentle glow of wall-sconces. “She says she’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “I would not doubt it,” said the Count, coming down the ladder. “So long as she confines her pursuit to the daytime, she will be nothing more than inconvenient. We have dealt with far worse than she.” As he said the last, he put his foot on the floor.

  “She may expand her inquiries,” said Roger, sitting on an upholstered rosewood bench and giving his attention to the end table beside it; he picked up a small ivory carving of Ganesh riding his Rat and moved it to a less vulnerable place on the end table. “I recommended she speak to the police.”

  “If they lead her away from me, so much the better,” said the Count, sitting down in a leather recliner. “You know, when we first came here in—was it ’38?—well, after we left California, near the start of the war—I didn’t appreciate what a handy place this would be, or how pleasant. Who could have foreseen the expansion of the Pacific Rim, especially then, as the war was getting under way? This has been a much better investment than the house in Winnipeg.” He reached over and turned on a floor lamp with a frosted tulip motif, banishing the last of the gloom; the shining paneling, along with the array of spines, gave the place a cozy elegance.

  “Winter is easier here than in Winnipeg,” Roger observed.

  “You have the right of it,” said the Count.

  Roger brushed his hand over the embossed leather cover of a book printed in Amsterdam almost five hundred years before. “Do you think you will want to remain here much longer?”

  “Perhaps year or two, until the Center is fully established. It will depend somewhat on the state of the world then; I am not in any particular hurry to return to my homeland, not as things are going now. The government has already seized half the money I left for the university I endowed on the pretext of using it for cultural projects: I would just as soon not provide them more occasions for another raid.” He shoved the recliner back, sighing luxuriously as he did so. “These are wonderful inventions.”

  “So they are,” Roger agreed, knowing it was prudent not to press the Count about his plans “And it is not difficult to conceal your native earth inside them.”

  “Another advantage,” said the Count, and closed his eyes.

  “A fifth body,” Solange exclaimed as she stared at her computer screen some twelve days after her second fruitless visit to the Count’s house. “Near the university, this time.” She shoved back from her workstation and stood so she could see over the top of her cubical. “Hey, Baxter! You seen this?”

  The night city editor came over to her, his silk regimental tie loosened and his well-cut hair slightly mussed. “Seen what?”

  She pointed to the computer screen. “Another one with a cut throat, blood everywhere, and mutilations. Fair-haired, cut short, above average height, on the plumpish side, between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age—a cookie-cutter victim for this guy.” She stamped her foot. “And Hudderston isn’t doing anything! Crime desk—yeah, right!”

  “How do you mean?” Baxter asked. “I have his column on the daily report from the police—they say they’ve doubled patrols, and the crimes are getting top priority, the crime scene tech is preparing a new report.”

  “Fisk also says the forensics are inconclusive, even though there are pools of blood around the victims, the same thing you can get off the Internet, or on the hourly news spots,” said Solange. “You saw the report on the confusing DNA results—animal blood mixed with human and both contaminated with ch
emical additives. Any identification they may make from the analysis of the blood, even though it’s accurate, won’t hold up under rigorous cross examination.”

  “But five women with cut throats, multiple stab wounds in the upper bodies, and perforated uteruses! The public won’t stand for much more of this, and arrest—let alone a trial—is a long way off.” Baxter sighed. “McKenna has the story on days; if you want to take it on for nights, I won’t stop you. I’ll clear it with Sung.” Louie Sung worked the night crime desk, and was known to be territorial about his fiefdom.

  Solange tried to contain her excitement. “Sung could say no.”

  “Not to me,” Baxter told her.

  “Okay, then. You clear it.” Eyes glistening with excitement, Solange picked up her recorder, her camera, and her tote, then reached for her coat. “I’m on it, boss,” she vowed, and tapped in her code to block access to her terminal. “I’ll call in before one, and I’ll report before six.”

  “Sounds good,” said Baxter, and stood aside as Solange swept out of the city room of the Vancouver Print and Media News Corporation, bound for the parking lot and her hybrid hatchback.

  At police headquarters, Solange avoided the press office and the front desk where the usual assortment of denizens of the night were gathered with arresting officers; she made straight for the squad room and the desk of Neal Conroy, who shook his head as soon as he caught sight of her. “Barendis, get out of here,” he said cordially. “You know I can’t talk to you.” He was slightly stooped, slightly scruffy: pushing forty, and forty was pushing back.

  “Sure you can: here or at your house, Uncle-in-law—you know Aunt Melanie won’t keep me out. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, she will. And don’t tell me you don’t talk to her about your cases, because you do,” she said, sitting down in the old, straight-backed chair that was intended for visitors and victims of crimes. “The murders. What’s happening? And why is the DNA inconclusive? It is identifiable or it isn’t.”

  “You’re too nosy for your own good, Barendis,” said Conroy.

  “That’s how I earn my living,” she countered, undeterred by the frown he offered.

  “Well, use a little good sense for once in your life and keep clear of this one. For your own protection. Melanie would agree with me, if you bother to ask her,” Conroy advised her seriously. “This murderer targets women alone, in their late-twenties to early-thirties, cuts their throats and then chops at the bodies, and adds cows’ blood to mess up the crime scene. You know the basics already.”

  “Chops—with a knife?” Solange asked, pulling out her pen and notebook, saying nothing about her recorder in her tote’s outer pocket, already in the on position.

  “Stop it, Barendis,” said Conroy, sounding tired. “I hate it when you fish.”

  She shook her head, undeterred. “Not a knife, but it cuts throats? For all five women?”

  “What can I say—the guy likes blood, lots and lots of it,” Conroy told her, deliberately harsh. “Don’t put that in your story.”

  Eyes sparkling, Solange shrugged. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try not to get you into trouble.”

  “It’s not getting you into trouble that concerns me,” Conroy riposted. “I mean it, Solange. Don’t try to make your mark on this one—it won’t do you any good, and you could become a target.”

  “Not a knife, but something that slices, that’s for sure,” said Solange, paying no attention to Conroy’s last statement. “A dagger—I do know the difference between a knife and a dagger—or a poignard . . . no.”

  Conroy took a long, slow breath. “If you will give me your word you won’t go after Melanie about any of this, I’ll tell you what the medical examiner thinks made the wounds, but you have to keep this out of your story, or you compromise the whole investigation.”

  Solange sat upright in the chair, and managed to say, “I promise,” all the while staring at Conroy.

  “It’s some kind of curved sword—a saber, a scimitar, a katana—or something like a Medieval battle-hammer, with a long, pointed claw at the back of the head—we can’t say for sure. There’s too much damage.” He had lowered his voice and now was more pale than he had been.

  “That’s really . . . ” She stopped before she said something she would regret.

  “Appalling,” said Conroy.

  “God, what grisly stuff,” said Solange. “I wish I could use it.”

  “You try and I’ll have your press-badge pulled until the perpetrator is caught.”

  “You know you won’t do that. Aunt Melanie would never permit it.” She showed him a smug smile.

  Conroy sat back. “You’re probably right, but that doesn’t change anything. Let Fisk and the M.E. do their jobs, and keep your two cents out of it. You can screw this investigation royally if you don’t play by the rules, and that would mean more people getting killed.”

  “You mean more women getting killed,” Solange corrected as she got out of the uncomfortable chair. “I’ll go along for now, but you had better give me a first call on the story when it breaks.”

  “Certainly,” said Conroy. “You know I’ll do that.”

  “Yes. Or Aunt Melanie won’t—”

  “—let me hear the end of it,” he finished for her.

  The restaurant was elegant, the lights low and golden instead of brilliant and white, the upholstery heavy tapestry to match the draperies, the silverware was sterling, the napery linen, the china Spode, the glassware Reidel. Solange, in her second-best cocktail dress—a designer-label, bias-cut, cobalt-blue, bat-sleeved sheath—was trying to conceal how impressed she was while reading from the six-page menu. Finally she looked up at her host and asked, “Why did you change your mind, Count?”

  “About the interview?” he countered, his demeanor urbane and genial; he was in a tailor-made black silk suit, a very white silk shirt, a burgundy-red damask tie, tie-tack and cufflinks in white-gold with discreet black sapphires for ornamentation.

  “Yes,” she said, glancing at the approaching waiter. “What are you having?”

  “The pleasure of your company, but do not let that deter you in ordering anything you want.” He waited for her to ask something more, and when she did not, he went on, “I fear I have a number of . . . allergies, I suppose you could call them. I must constrain my dining, and so, to avoid any unpleasantness, I take my nourishment in private. I am used to having others eat when I do not.” He signaled the waiter to take down her order. “And if you have a wine list I would like to see it.”

  Solange’s eyes lit up. “Then you drink—” she began.

  “The wine will be for you,” he said, adding, “I do not drink wine.”

  She laughed aloud. “You know who says that, don’t you?”

  With a swift, ironic smile, he answered, “Vampires.”

  Her laughter increased, and she had to choke back her amusement in order to tell the waiter, “I’d like the cream of wild mushroom soup to start, then the broiled scallops in terrine; for an entrée, the duck with cherries and pearl onions in port, next the endive salad, and I’ll think about dessert when I’ve finished dinner.”

  “Very good, ma’am,” said the waiter. “I will bring the wine list, Count.”

  “Thank you, Franco.”

  “So they know you here,” said Solange, her curiosity engaged again.

  “I have a minor investment in this restaurant, and the hotel across the courtyard.” He held out his hand for the wine list as the waiter approached, bringing it and a basket of small fresh-baked loaves of bread and a ramekin of sweet butter.

  “You are a man of surprises, Count,” said Solange, idly wondering if his investments might be a story worth pursuing at another time.

  “Am I,” he said, and opened the wine-list, settling on a Cotes Sauvage. “It may not go well with the scallops, but it will compliment the soup and the duck.”

  “For a man who doesn’t drink wine, you have a discriminating palette.”


  He turned his dark eyes on her. “I hope so, Ms. Barendis.”

  To her astonishment, she felt herself blushing, and she tried to stop the color rising in her face. “I . . . Well, thank you for ordering such an unusual wine.” This sounded lame, even to her own ears, so she made another attempt. “I’m very flattered that you’re willing to talk to me.” That was a little better.

  “You’re a very persistent young woman, Ms. Barendis; I decided we might as well arrange a discussion, and if we are to discuss difficult questions, we may also be comfortable.”

  “I wish all my subjects were so reasonable,” said Solange archly. She broke one of the small loaves of bread in half and set it down on the bread plate. “It smells wonderful, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does,” he said, rather distantly.

  She paused in the act of cutting butter. “Will my eating bother you, considering we will be talking about murder during the meal?”

  “No; it is not my appetite that could be compromised,” he said wryly, and went on, “I realize you are on assignment tonight.”

  “Yes,” she said, as if she had forgotten it. “This is an assignment, and an important one.”

  “That is why I agreed to the meeting,” he said.

  “Then I’ll thank you for the very civilized way you have of conducting it, even to this public setting, so my reputation wouldn’t be damaged. As if gossip can damage a reporter.” She took a bite of the bread, feeling somewhat embarrassed for being hungry.

  “It may be an unnecessary precaution,” he said, “but you are not the only one who could be endangered by the appearance of collusive arrangements.”

  Her smile was at once worldly-wise and relieved. “You mean that you don’t want it said that you are influencing or being influenced by me—it’s not worry about people speculating what our relationship might be.”