BloodWalk

by BloodWalk (lit)

  Feet whispered down the back steps and across the lawn toward him, but he left his eyes closed. The scent of lavender overwhelming that of blood told him who it was.

  The feet stopped a short distance away. "Dearg-due. Undead," his grandmother's voice said quietly. Fighting his eyes open, he saw her lower herself into a lawn chair. "Why is it you're walking?"

  He sat up. "Grandma, I'm not dead! Look at me. I walk; I breathe; my heart beats. I reflect in mirrors. I can touch your cross, too."

  "But what do you eat? Do you still love the sun?" She pointed at his glasses.

  He could not answer that. Instead, after a hesitation, he said, "Whatever else I am, I'm still your grandson. I won't hurt you."

  She regarded him uncertainly, then, with a quick touch on the cross around her neck, patted the side of the chair. "Come to me."

  She sat in the sun, but he moved to the ground beside her.

  She reached out hesitantly to touch his cheek. "Is it to avenge yourself on she who did this to you that you can't sleep?"

  He considered several answers before sighing and giving the one she appeared most ready to accept. "Yes."

  She stroked his hair. "Poor unquiet spirit."

  His inner self protested, denying that he was walking dead, but he swallowed it as useless to say-she would expect the refusal to believe-and leaned his head against her knee. "I need your help."

  "To find her?"

  Garreth nodded.

  "What will you be wanting me to do?"

  At the fierce tone of her voice, he looked up and had to laugh. She looked so righteously angry, so ready to go into battle against the fiend who had done this to her grandson, that Garreth regretted needing only the photograph from her. Coming up onto his knees, he hugged her.

  She hugged him back and then, to his dismay, began sobbing. He knew he was hearing her cry over his grave.

  He held her until she quieted, wondering . . . could she be right? Was he nothing but a temporarily animated instrument of revenge?

  It made a hell of a thought to take with him when he visited Brian. Thinking it, he stood at a distance from himself and the boy. He noticed for the first time a certain formality in the boy's attitude toward him, a reservation not exhibited toward his stepfather. Logic told Garreth that was natural; Brian saw Dennis every day, whereas, for six years, since the boy was two years old, Garreth had been no more than a visitor. How much less would Garreth be from now on?

  "Judith," he said, "I've been thinking about the adoption."

  She looked quickly at him. "I'm sorry I brought it up when I did; I didn't realize the kind of stress you were under."

  He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. If you and Dennis want to go ahead-"

  She shook her head, cutting him off. "Of course we want to, but can you be sure you really want us to? Why don't we let it ride for a bit, until you have things straightened out for yourself."

  He had regarded her with surprise, but nodded, and for once, a visit had ended amicably.

  He wished he could have said as much for the rest of the weekend, which became a test in ingenuity in avoiding meals and dodging questions about how he had changed and what he planned to do now. Altogether, returning to San Francisco had been a great relief.

  A relief which, unfortunately, had not lasted long. Harry, feeling better every day, began nagging him during Garreth's daily visits. "Kansas? What in the world are you going to Kansas for? Come on, Mik-san; why don't you see the shrink and come back to the department where you belong?"

  Only Lien kept silent on the subject, quietly helping him sublet the apartment, sell what he no longer wanted, store what he chose not to take with him, and buy a few new clothes to replace the ones that no longer fit. She had said nothing until the day she helped him pack his car. Then, as he closed the back, she said, "I don't know what's happened to you. I wish I knew how to help. I asked I Ching for advice to give you. Do you mind listening to it one last time?"

  He leaned against the car, smiling fondly at her. "What did the sage have to say?"

  "The hexagram was number twelve, Standstill. It says that heaven and earth are out of communion and that all things are benumbed."

  He bit his lip. That was certainly true enough for him.

  "Inferior people are in ascendancy but don't allow yourself to be turned from your principles. There are change lines in the second and fourth places, advising that a great man will suffer the consequences of a standstill and by his willingness to suffer, ensure the success of his principles. However, acting to re-create order must be done with proper authority. Setting one's self up to alter things according to one's own judgment can end in mistake and failure."

  Garreth listened soberly. "What else? The change lines make a new hexagram."

  "The second one is number fifty-nine, Dispersion." She smiled. "It suggests success, especially after journeying and, of course, perseverance. Persevere, Garreth, and be true to yourself. And don't forget about us."

  He had hugged her hard, promising to keep in touch. Lien, Harry, San Francisco, and his family seemed so far away from these Kansas plains he drove across now that they might have belonged to another lifetime, but I Ching lingered with him. Persevere. Yes, he would, to the end of the earth and time . . . whatever it took to find Lane. That threat of failure if he set himself up as judge bothered him, however. It smacked too closely of the warning regarding powerful maidens. He was not making himself judge, was he? He only intended to find her and take her back to San Francisco.

  The highway entered Dixon. After asking directions, Garreth found the high school. As he was climbing out of the car outside the small building, the warm wind struck him. It had some of the same qualities as a sea breeze, a pushiness, an aggressive wildness, a singing contempt for the land and that which crawled there. It buffeted him, bringing the scents of fresh-watered grass and dusty earth, and pushed him up the steps into the building.

  He located the office, an expanded broom closet bearing the word OFFICE on the frosted glass panel of the door, and the principal, a Mr. Charles Yoder. Yoder listened to his story with interest.

  "People are more and more interested in their roots these days. I'll be happy to help you if I can."

  What he did was take Garreth to the Board of Education building and down a steep set of stairs to a dim basement. There they hunted through file envelopes stacked together on metal shelves and through ancient metal and wooden filing cabinets. A secretary joined them eventually. "Graduation pictures? I know I've seen them somewhere . . . a whole stack of them."

  They finally located the pictures on a top shelf, all still framed, the glass so dusty as to render the sepia-toned photographs behind all but invisible. The principal went back to the high school, leaving Garreth and the secretary to bring the pictures up into the light and clean them. But when all that had been done, and Garreth compared the picture of the girls in the 1930 to 1940 classes with his mental image of Lane Barber, he found no match.

  The secretary wiped at a smudge on her nose "I'm sorry," she said.

  Garreth shrugged. "It would be almost unbelievable to find the right town first off, wouldn't it?"

  Still, he would have liked that much luck. Now he had to check all the high schools in the area, both to maintain his cover and on the slim chance that even if the letter came from Dixon, Lane's family lived somewhere else in the area.

  "I met a Bieber in San Francisco," he said to the secretary. "Madelaine Bieber. She was a singer. I wonder if she came from somewhere around here, too."

  "Madelaine? The name doesn't sound familiar."

  He dropped back by the high school to thank the principal and managed to work in the remark about the singer with him, too . . . but with no more luck. The name meant nothing to Yoder.

  Back in his car, Garreth spread the Kansas map on the steering wheel and studied the area around Dixon. He had time yet today to visit another town. Or maybe two? Was it possible to cover three a day? A whole cluster of
towns sat at no more than ten-mile intervals and he needed to work as fast as possible. Every day depleted his dwindling cash reserves still further.

  He started the car and headed down the road west toward the next town.

  A name on a map did not necessarily mean a town there, Garreth discovered. It could indicate no more than a gas station and a grain elevator-a row of huge, melded columns which he found an odd but fascinating structure. There had once been a real town, but it had dried up over the decades until just the elevator remained, a massive tombstone to mark its passing. The former town had once boasted a high school, too, in that bygone era, but the records had disappeared into limbo. The best a withered old man tending the gas station could suggest was for him to check the county seat.

  "They might've moved the town records there."

  Garreth visited the county courthouse and the local high school, as long as he was in town-but the county clerk knew nothing about any school records transferred from the defunct town. She advised checking back the next day.

  The high school had its records, but they were not immediately available, either. They, too, suggested that he come back the following day.

  Tomorrow. Garreth sighed. Why always tomorrow? Lane's mother had to be elderly, and if he did not find her soon, he might be in the same position he had been in when looking for the manager of the Red Onion, with only a grave to question.

  Gloomily, he wondered at the real chances of finding Lane this way. Between dead towns and lost records, he could so easily miss the traces of her. And then what would he do? Question every Bieber in the area? Word would certainly find its way back to her then, and knowing a hunter had come this close, she might stop communicating with her family and disappear forever.

  On that depressing note, he headed the car back toward Hays.

  11

  One nice thing about bad days, Garreth reflected ironically, was that something else always came along to offer an alternative worry . . . in this case, hunger. The four quarts of blood he had collected to keep him fed on the way east were gone. Tonight he needed to find a new source of food.

  Rinsing out his thermos in the washbowl of his motel room, he considered the possibilities. He had already concluded that rats would not be as common in a small town as along the Embarcadero, a fact he faced with mixed emotions. As much as he detested being dependent on rats to live, at least he knew where and how to hunt them. He knew nothing about jackrabbits and prairie dogs, the two comparable species he most associated with the plains, and after driving across this country today, he wondered whether the creatures could be considered a viable alternative. Not one rabbit had appeared anywhere near the road during the drive, nor had he seen a single sign of a prairie dog town. The sound of distant and not-so-distant barking told him the town supported a canine population, but he still found himself reluctant to use dogs. People cared about them.

  Outside, the sky blazed scarlet, then darkened. A series of violent cramps doubled him, goading him into action. Garreth headed for his car. He had learned to hunt rats, after all, by hunting them. Why should rabbits be any different?

  The highway took him out of town almost immediately. Somewhere north a few miles, he turned off the highway onto a graveled road and pulled over. On both sides of the road lay rolling fields. He studied them, alert for any signs of life, but nothing moved. Still, it must be there. The night wind brought him a faint scent of something warmly blood-filled.

  Garreth considered the fence around the pasture on his side of the road. Instead of planks, four taut strands of barbed wire enclosed the pasture. He tested the ends of the bars with a cautious finger. Sharp. Crawling through the fence could ruin his new jeans, not to mention putting holes in his hide. Then it occurred to him that a fence presented less of a barrier than a gate across a pier entrance. With a sigh for his mental slowness, he moved through the fence.

  Once inside and walking across the pasture, he found plenty of life, mostly mice and quail, too small to do him good. He literally stumbled over the quail. They leaped skyward around him with startled cries and a storm of wings. Ahead, though, a rabbit leaped out of the brush and bounded up a rise, frightened into flight by the panicking quail.

  Garreth followed cautiously, just close and fast enough to keep the rabbit in sight while he waited for it to halt. Once when it zigged across in front of him, he dropped to a crouch and waited motionless until the rabbit turned away again. The stalk gave him a vague sense of déjà vu, which turned to amusement when he identified the reason for the feeling. He laughed silently. See the ex­cop shadowing the rabbit. Isn't it nice he can put his training to good use?

  Moments later Garreth gave thanks he had not gone flat out in a footrace after the rabbit. It disappeared over the crest of the rise, and when he followed it, he found himself face-to-face with a cow that loomed huge as an elephant and pale as a ghost in the twilight brightness of his vision. If he had been moving fast, he would have run head-on into it.

  The cow snorted in surprise.

  Garreth backed away. He had better get the hell out of here.

  Then he stopped, nostrils flared, nose filled with the blood scent that the wind had brought him at the pasture fence. He stared at the cow. Cattle had blood, too . . . in great quantity. If Lane could drink from a man and not kill him, would a cow even miss a quart or two?

  On the other hand, could he control a cow as he did rats? This one seemed docile, but he knew nothing about cows, had, in fact, never been this close to one before. Did they often grow so terrifyingly large?

  Another doubt assailed him, too. Could he find a vein? That neck was far thicker than Velvet's had been.

  The cow snorted again and lowered its head. Garreth sensed that he must either act or retreat. He licked his lips and wiped suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans. Moving enough to catch the cow's eye, he focused on it. "Hello, friend. Listen to me. Stand still for me. Don't move."

  The animal's eyes widened, showing white rims that glistened in the night. Its ears wagged.

  "I need a little of your blood, enough to feed me. It won't hurt." He kept his voice low and even.

  The cow relaxed visibly.

  So did Garreth. "Lie down for me. Lie down."

  The white rims still showed around the cow's eyes, but its legs began to sag, the forelegs folding first, followed by the hind ones. Its nose dropped to touch the earth.

  Still talking, Garreth moved toward the cow. He reached out and gingerly touched the massive head. The hair felt warm, soft, and curly under his fingers. The cow did not flinch or resist. Murmuring soothingly, Garreth knelt and moved his hand back along the head past the ear, toward the throat. He probed the neck behind the jaw, searching for a pulse.

  He found it, beating strong and slow. Keeping the fingers of one hand on it, he pushed at the thick shoulders with the other. "Roll," he said softly. "Lie flat."

  With a sigh, the cow did so. Garreth, still on his knees, bent over the outstretched neck and, extending his fangs, bit where his fingers touched.

  But found only flesh and the barest taste of blood. Not again! He wanted to scream in frustration.

  The cow twitched. Panic boiled up. Garreth needed all his willpower to control it. He thought frantically. The pulse throbbed under his fingers; he smelled the blood running hot under the pale hide. It had to be in there somewhere. He made himself try again, biting in a slightly different position.

  This time blood spurted. The twin gushers filled his mouth. After his usual refrigerated diet, its heat startled him. He nearly let go. But the driving hunger in him quickly overcame surprise, followed, however, by more frustration. Despite its heat and volume, the blood still did not satisfy him, only filled his stomach. He sat back, holding thumbs over the punctures with longing snarling in him. Tears of fury gathered in his eyes. No. It isn't fair! Blood is blood. Why isn't this enough? Why do I never stop wanting human blood?

  The cow lay quiescent, its eyes closed, snoring. Garreth removed
his thumbs. The punctures had stopped seeping blood. A handful of earth rubbed into the hide covered the marks. Then Garreth stood.

  The cow opened its eyes and rolled onto its chest, but made no further attempt to stand, just closed its eyes again. Still, Garreth eyed it as he backed away. It was a very large animal. He did not turn until he was over the hill, then, once out of sight, he ran . . . partially to put distance between himself and the huge animal, partly in a vain attempt to run away from the longings racking him. But there was enjoyment, too, in the nighttime strength and energy clamoring for release.

  He ran, his lungs and heart pumping. The ground streamed beneath his feet as power surged through him. Soon exhilaration drowned all other thoughts and he gave himself up to the unthinking joy of motion. He had never been able to run this fast before!

  The fence stretched ahead. Should he stop for it? Hell, no. He hit it without even slowing down-wrench-passing through like the night wind.

  At the car he stopped and to his delighted astonishment, found his heart and breathing barely above normal. He whooped. At this rate, he could run for miles without even trying. What a kick.

  Headlights found him there beside the car.

  He froze in their glare, throwing up an arm to shield his eyes. The action came reflexively but even as his forearm rose between his eyes and the lights, Garreth realized it served another purpose as well, to keep the driver of the car from seeing his eyes reflecting red.

  The lights halted as the car stopped. A door opened.

  Not being able to see who climbed out of the car, Garreth assumed the worst-a drunk or bully who thought a man alone on a country road made easy pickings-and prepared to fight. Since resigning, he had had to stop carrying a gun, but tonight's run had given him some hint of the strength his vampire change had brought him, and between that and police hand-to-hand combat training, surely he could tie any assailant in knots.

  "Howdy," a voice said from behind the lights.

  Garreth heard the hard edge of authority beneath the amiable greeting. He lowered his arm enough to peer over it at the shape of a light bar on top of the car. Relief swept through him. No drunk or bully but a local cop. Then, remembering times on patrol with a few partners before Harry, he wondered if he might not have been better off with a drunk or bully.