by Declan Finn
Father Rodgers smiled. “Tea?”
“More like scotch. But I'll take what I can get.”
* * * *
Up in Boston, Amanda Colt walked towards the store known as “Dark Krafts.” It took her a while to find the store in the Back Bay of Boston. The entire street was one of homes, fancy stores, and numerous other boutiques. Each brown brick building contained two stores, one above street level, and the other below.
The first problem happened when she learned that the online address for the store was totally inaccurate. It had taken a while to find someone who knew enough about the creepy and bizarre. She was bounced from one person to another, from one street to another, until she was finally pointed here. No one would call the owner anything but “Kraft,” until she exhorted them to use the first name. She had almost taken to threats to procure the first name—Dalf. To make certain, she had asked if he was Eastern European, like actor Dolph Lungren. No, this Dalf was a dark Irishman with hair as black as tar in a coal mine and shadowy eyes of midnight blue.
Which meant she was on the right track.
As she approached, she heard the high and harsh opening note of Frank Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” floating into the night. As she closed in, the front door opened, and she was met by a set of midnight blue eyes and a pale, charming face.
Before she had closed to normal earshot range, he said, “You have been asking about me all over town.” His voice was smooth, mellow, with all the quality of fine velvet.
How did he know I would hear that? “Da. You are hard to find, Mister Kraft.”
Dalf smiled. “I would be. I take it you have ways of making people talk, Miss Amanda Colt.”
Amanda stopped before she took the first step up the stairs. How did he know my name? “All I did was follow the darkness. I would like to talk with you about your brother.”
The magic store owner gave his head an infinitesimal bow. “This is new. Most people want to talk with him about me. Come in.”
* * * *
Marco sat in the rectory of St. Anthony - St. Alphonsus church, across from Father Rodgers and next to the dark-suited leader of the Vatican Ninjas, Robert Hendershot.
Hendershot was definitely Germanic in background, and he talked with a light German accent. He said he was Swiss, and one of the Guards. He was blond and blue-eyed, and his expression was so neutral, he might as well have been a block of cheese. He also had a dancer's build, quick muscle, not gym muscle, though Hendershot had enough heavy weapons on him that it had to have added a hundred pounds.
“What does your surname mean?” Marco asked.
“It is German,” Hendershot said. “It means 'rearguard.’ Not many of us tend to survive. You should look up our history. It might teach you manners. And character.”
“Buddy, you are the last one to talk about having a character. Everyone who knows me knows I'm a character. Possibly a cartoon character.” He rolled his eyes to Father Rodgers. “Next time, bring Bram. I'll take sniper-boy over the cheesehead any day.”
“He is at Mount Olivet,” Hendershot cut in, “keeping an eye on the area, smart-mouth.”
“Seen anything yet?”
Hendershot shook his head. “Not yet. It is a big area.”
“I know. How many guys do you have?”
“Twenty. Keep in mind, most of them are still in Brooklyn, supporting your people.”
Marco's expression went flat and cold. “You are supporting my people?”
The ninja Hendershot nodded. “Of course. Why?”
He gave a little cough, and leaned forward, his eyes going even darker. “You realize that if you’ve been helping my people and no one realized it, you were fully and completely doing the invisibility thing.”
“That is part of our job.”
“Your invisibility means that your support has been all but meaningless. You have been wasting your time, resources and, more importantly, my time. I want all of your resources on Olivet.”
Hendershot grimaced. “You do not order me around. My orders are to protect life, not stare at rock, you American prick.”
“You're in my little pond, buddy. In case you haven't heard, I am the–”
“Feudal lord, I heard,” he cut Marco off, rolling his eyes.
“I can be the model of a modern major general, doesn't matter. My people can take care of themselves.”
“Tell that to Mister Vega.”
Marco's fingers curled into a fist and uncurled again. “Who I noticed that your lousy protection managed to, oh, not protect.”
“You do not get to tell me where to put my men.”
“Oh? Really?”
Marco's left hand shot out. Hendershot, being a leader of a highly elite group of commandos that took on vampires on a routine basis, shot his hand up to deflect the punch. It was so telegraphed, it was pathetic. It was so easy to block, he was about to start laughing.
Instead, Marco's left hand recoiled, and the right hand shot out, latching onto Hendershot's wrist. Marco's entire upper body twisted, dragging Hendershot closer, and his left hand jammed against the ninja's elbow, putting him into an arm lock.
The ninja leader threw himself forward, into a roll, which was a standard counter for an arm lock. He was going to push off of the wall so he didn't run into it like a battering ram.
However, Marco pushed back, sitting in the chair, jamming it against the ninja's back. “The last thing I want to do is cripple you, but I will be happy to ram the legs of this chair into your back and play vampire with you. Because, guess what, you're really predictable. And I'm smarter than you are. So, how about this – you will either play well with me, or I will–”
Marco felt a little stab in his arm. He blinked, looked down at his arm, and saw a dart sticking out of it. He looked up at Father Rodgers, who calmly held a tranquilizer gun in his hand.
Marco looked at the priest. “You, not so predictable.”
That was the last thing Marco remembered.
* * * *
“So,” Amanda began, “tell me about Merle.”
“You want him for what purpose?”
“Vampires,” she said without hesitation.
Dalf gave a deep, theatrical nod. “You chose wisely. As for Merle, he is a reliable man. He is good. Very good.”
“You make it sound like something dirty.”
Dalf grinned. Amanda half-expected him to have vampire fangs. “You would be surprised what I consider dirty.”
“How do you know about vampires?”
Dalf's face didn't change. “Plenty. I also know about Marco Catalano.”
Amanda knew something like that was coming. If Dalf knew Amanda's name–well, her current alias–he would have to know Marco's.
Still, how did someone make a name sound salacious, lurid, and almost vile?
“You know Marco. That is good.”
“I make it my business to know creatures like Marco.”
“What do you know about dead FBI agents?”
Dalf laughed. “You don't read the New York Times, do you?” He reached into his opera cape and came out with a collection of paper sheets. They were printed newspaper articles from the Times’ website.
Amanda frowned, took them, and gave them a glance.
Someone leaked information to the newspaper. They had all sorts of details. They had dead FBI agents in Brooklyn. They had a fuzzy picture of what was undeniably Merle Kraft.
“Why does this say that there are dead British MI-6 intelligence agents in New York?”
“Because there are.”
“But how would they know this?”
Dalf's voice dropped half an octave. “Obviously, somebody told. I wonder who.”
The vampire had the sneaky suspicion that, not only did Dalf Kraft know a lot of things he wasn't supposed to, this was a creature she should be worried about.
“This is getting bad.”
Dalf's eyes flashed. “Oh yes!”
* * * *
Ma
rco awoke quickly, blinking several times and trying to figure out exactly what was going on. He wasn't in the rectory anymore, but on a bed in his father's hospital.
Father Rodgers was right next to him.
“You're awake. Good. We need to talk.”
Marco blinked, then looked to make sure he wasn't tied down. He was slightly surprised that, after his outburst in the church, he wasn't. “You didn't want to make sure I wouldn't go postal on you?”
“I knew you wouldn't be so foolish again. You generally only bother with people who are a threat, or when you think you need to. However, Marco,” he leveled his gaze directly into his parishioner’s eyes, “if Commander Hendershot needs convincing, you should have left that to me.”
“But did I convince him? Is he going to move his forces to fully cover Mount Olivet?”
“No, and yes. You had a perfectly valid point, but you’re temper tantrum and attack on him didn’t convince him, if that’s what you’re thinking. He wasn't going to do it just on your say so. I spoke to him.”
Marco smiled, chagrined. He pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Oh well. I should have known better. Sorry about disrespecting your church and your guy. I'm usually better at figuring out what I need to be for the occasion. Lately I seem to be stuck on feudal lord and knee-breaker.”
“Apology accepted. There's another problem.”
Marco sighed, then shook his head. “You have got to be kidding me. Now what? Seriously, what? What could happen to make things even worse? Honestly, tell me. What in God's name could possibly screw up the situation any further?”
Rodgers cleared his throat, and reached into his suit jacket. He came back with a cigar. Despite all hospital regulations, he lit it, rather casually, in fact. After a few puffs, he waved out the match. “Remember when you thought there might be something about the United Nations?”
“Of course I do.”
“MI-6 seems to think so too.”
“Oh, so…what? The British are coming, the British are coming?”
“Several of them were found floating in Turtle Bay.”
Marco shut his eyes. It wasn't hard to do the math. The United Nations was on Turtle Bay. That there were people from MI-6 told Marco that there was more than just a little casual corruption going on at the UN. They weren't sent out on cases unless they thought there was something seriously wrong.
Marco ran through everything he remembered about the United Nations' recent history. The one thing that leapt to mind was the major scandal during the latest Iraq war: the food-for-oil scam with Saddam Hussein. Instead of the arrangement where oil would come out of Iraq so food could be purchased for the starving populace, oil was used as bribes to government officials, even to entire governments.
So what? Marco thought. That was years ago. Saddam had his neck stretched. Many of the major players have been removed from power.
“The last thing I need is this complication. Fine, something's going on around the UN. Doesn't solve our situation, now does it?” He growled in frustration, swinging his legs over the side of the hospital bed. He was angrier at himself and the situation than anything else. “How did you find out, anyway? I didn't know the British would talk to the Vatican.”
“They generally don't, I read about it in the New York Times.”
“Okay, so it’s public knowledge.” He stared off into space for the moment. Not enough data. Move on. “Have you seen Hector Vega around here?”
Father Rodgers nodded. “He's asleep.”
“Of course.”
The light from the hallway was suddenly blocked out. “I had heard you were down for a bit.”
The shape of Officer Donald Tolbert filled the doorway like a fog bank. While he was tall, he wasn't overly broad.
Marco looked at the family friend and grinned. He was glad to have a private hospital room. “Yeah, well, they keep trying, but they can’t keep me down. Father Rodgers, meet Officer Tolbert. Don, meet Father Rodgers.”
Rodgers waved with the cigar. “A pleasure.”
Tolbert nodded. “The same, Reverend.”
“You both know vampires exist,” Marco said, so they both knew this was a safe place to be open, “only Don's experience is a little more recent. Rodgers has his own force of Vatican ninjas hanging around. How about the police? You manage to get anybody on board with us?”
“After a fashion.” The black officer looked around for someplace to sit. He didn't like to feel like he was looming, which he did to every room he had ever walked into. Since there were no other chairs, and he didn't want to sit on the bed with Marco, he leaned against the wall. “I created an anonymous website a while back, and I posted some ads on Craigslist looking for any cops who had seen strange happenings lately. After fending off spam from Russian fetish prostitutes, I got a collection of cops who have noticed the same problems lately. A lot of the same problems. Many of them were in Greenpoint, Bensonhurst, around Rockaway, and in Maspeth, Queens.”
Marco nodded. Greenpoint and Bensonhurst he knew–Bensonhurst had brought the mafioso Enrico down on him–and he’d heard about the area around Rockaway, which included Howard Beach, where mobsters went to dine. Maspeth even made sense because that's where Mount Olivet cemetery was located.
“How many cops do you think you have by now?” he asked.
“We have about a thousand men who are in the know.”
Rodgers blanched. “A thousand? That many?”
Marco held up a hand. “Do the math. We have over thirty thousand cops in New York city, over five boroughs. Guess that half of them do night-shift work. Figure that there will be overlap between where they live, where they patrol, where they hang out, where they have relatives, and factor in multiple levels, from officers to detectives and back again. Add it all up, and you have a decent number of people. Be grateful Tolbert doesn't have a large number around the United Nations.”
“About two dozen, mostly homicide people,” Tolbert replied. “They mentioned something about British spooks floating in the East River. Why do you ask?”
Marco winced. “MI-6 agents. Nuts. Here we go again. When Amanda gets back, we'll need to talk with Merle Kraft, one way or another. Hope she’s right, and that we can trust the guy.”
Chapter Twenty-Six: Enter the Twilight Zone
April 14th, 5:00 p.m. San Francisco
Merle Kraft would remember this day like most New Yorkers would remember September 11, 2001. It started just as clear and calm and as dull a day in San Francisco as it was in New York, but the rest of the day turned out to be something else entirely.
Merle entered his magic store early, rolling out of bed and into his back room. Many customers only came at night because, after all, it’s San Francisco, and some of the locals really did think they were vampires.
There were certain things he really didn't want to sell them.
At five o’clock that evening, the sun hid behind the Pacific like the coward it was, and Merle's business really heated up—literally. A pothead ignored the “no smoking” sign and lit up near the magnesium flash powder.
After making sure his store didn’t blow up, Merle tossed the jackass out, making sure to empty the guy’s wallet to pay for the damages.
Five minutes later, she walked in.
The cascading red-gold hair caught his attention first, even more than the curves of her body under her fitted sweater.
Granted, it is a nice form with curves that a Volvo would hug.
She smiled. “Accident?”
Figured. White Russian skin, Russian accent.
“Pothead and flash powder are not a fun mix.” Merle tossed away the last of the powder box. “Now, what can I do for you? Help you find something?”
She nodded and her eyes wandered over him. He knew the look. Short Asian guy with midnight blue eyes, how’d that happen?
She surprised him by asking, “You’re Maylynn Kraft?”
Merle winced, as he usually did when someone mangled his name. “
Just call me Merle.”
“I have heard that you are the one to talk with about…strange things.”
He chuckled. “Strange…that’s pretty much San Francisco.”
“I meant stranger. Would it help if I said your brother sent me?”
Merle winced. “Depends, which one? I’ve got dozens.”
“Dalf.”
Do I get my knife, or retreat? he thought.
“Something bad?” she asked. “Your irises dilated.”
“Did Dalf tell you to use his name?”
“Da. Why?”
Merle Kraft relaxed; this woman was not an enemy, at least. “That probably means he wants you dead. So, what can I help you with?”
“You were in New York lately, weren’t you?” Amanda asked.
“How’d you know?”
“The New York Times told me,” she said with a smile.
He rolled his eyes. “Great. My next step is to call out an air strike on them.”
“Well, the thing is, there are more bodies. Look them up if you do not believe me.”
“More bodies? Whose?”
“Anyone looking around the United Nations. Several MI-6 agents who have also been…eaten.”
“Eaten?”
“Da, eaten. Throats ripped out and blood drunk.”
“Why me?”
“Why not? Besides, it is either you or Dalf.”
“Good point. I’ll start packing.”
She smiled sweetly. “Good.”
“Beforehand, a little information?”
“Of course.”
“Who are you?”
“Amanda Colt.”
Merle raised a brow. Colt? As in Sam Colt? He gave what could only be termed an “automatic” response. “Have any relatives in Pennsylvania?”
“You sound like my friend. He asked about that as well.”
“Smart man.” Lucky man, too, if he’s your friend. “How did you manage to find my brother?”
“I have…connections…to the underworld.”
“Where Dalf is concerned, that could mean you hold séances to discuss events in Hell with Jack the Ripper.”