BloodWalk

by BloodWalk (lit)

  Fowler had spotted the Book Circus while they were working their way around the block back to the car and dragged Garreth in. "Call it professional curiosity, or vanity." He grinned at Garreth. "I want to see which of my books they carry."

  Looking around as they entered, Garreth wondered if they would be able to tell. The store consisted of three houses joined by doors cut through the common walls. Book shelves covered every available inch of wallspace, floor to ceiling, even along hallways, up staircases, and under windows. Tables of books and revolving racks also filled the center space in bigger rooms. The sheer abundance left Garreth dizzy.

  A clerk drifted over while they stood staring around, wondering where to start. "Is there something in particular you were looking for?"

  "Books by Graham Fowler," Fowler said.

  The clerk had nodded briskly. "Those would be in Mystery and Suspense. That's up the stairs and the last door on your right. Paperbacks are in the same room. If you collect Fowler, you'll also want to see our British editions. His horror novels have never been published in this country. Go through that door on the left, clear through the room and the door on the far side, then up those stairs. The first door."

  They visited both rooms. Looking over the British editions, Fowler grimaced. "Good god; they have everything. Doctors bury their mistakes, barristers argue about them, and politicians deny them, but the indiscretions of a writer's youth haunt him on bookshelves forever."

  Garreth eyed the titles. Ones like Shadow Games and Winter Gambit sounded typical of spy thrillers, but others had a ring of horror: Nightoaths. Wolf Moon. Bare Bones. "Which are the indiscretions?"

  "You don't really think I'm daft enough to say, do you."

  Garreth reached for one called Blood Maze.

  Fowler blocked his hand. "Have you considered there might be sound reasons American publishers don't want my horror? If you want a book let me choose something."

  Now Girimonte reached out a long arm to take the books Fowler had picked out. "The Man Who Traveled In Murder. A Safe Place To Die. A Wilderness Of Thieves. I've read the last one and some of your others. They aren't bad, though you do have a thing about tall, long-legged women." She pulled out the bookmark the clerk at the cash register had tucked into the book. "The Book Circus, Union Street." She tapped the ash off her cigar. "That's a bit off the path. City Lights is handier when you're running around North Beach."

  Harry, Garreth noticed, had said nothing since coming in, had just poured himself coffee and without adding cream or sugar, moved over by a pillar and stood drinking the coffee, listening. Garreth's gut knotted. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he remembered Harry drinking black coffee.

  Garreth looked around at Harry.

  Expression inscrutable, Harry said, "A Union Street book store is in the neighborhood of the Philos Foundation, though."

  The knots tightened.

  "The what foundation?" Fowler said.

  "The Philos Foundation, where you went this afternoon using aliases and asking for the daughter of a friend of Holle's and a staff member who died several years ago."

  "Did we really?"

  Garreth winced. Shut up, Fowler; you're only making things worse.

  "Come off it!" Girimonte slammed the books down on the desk with a pistol-shot report that brought detectives whirling toward the sound and Serruto tearing to the door of his office. "While we were there a secretary came in to ask the receptionist if the copier serviceman was still in the building. The receptionist knew nothing about any serviceman. So the secretary described him-a tall, good looking Englishman, she said-and the receptionist said, `I remember him, but he wasn't here about copy machines. Where did you see him? After I told him Corinne Barlow was dead he left . . . until he came back to tell the skinny little blond guy in the sunglasses that his car was slipping downhill.' Skinny little blond guy in sunglasses running around with a tall Englishman." Girimote stared at Garreth. The scent of her cigar circled him.

  "Takananda!" Serruto's voice cracked like a whip. "I want all four of you in my office."

  They trailed in under the stares of the entire squadroom. Garreth held his back straight and his chin up.

  With the door closed behind them, Serruto motioned them to chairs, sat on the edge of his desk, and looked them each over, eyes narrow. "All right, Takananda, tell me about this."

  Harry finished his coffee and set the cup on the desk. In a flat voice he said, "We were going through Holle's address book in a routine check of his acquaintances for quarrels and enemies. The Philos Foundation was one of the entries. It turns out he served as chapter president."

  "I heard the part about the secretary and the copier serviceman. Then what?"

  "As the situation appeared suspicious, Inspector Girimonte and I proceeded to interview all Philos staff members in the building. According to them, while the 'serviceman' was locating the photocopiers, he made idle conversation, asking the various staff members if they knew a 'friend' of his he thought 'used to work there,' a tall, striking red-haired woman named Barber."

  "What was the other man doing?"

  "Keeping the receptionist busy talking about this daughter of a Philos VIP in Geneva so she wouldn't realize the Englishman hadn't left the building," Girimonte said. "We figure the Englishman asked the questions because given a choice between those two,"-she tipped her head toward Garreth and Fowler-"who would you talk to most readily?"

  Garreth bit his lip. With luck they would never consider that Fowler had been given the task because questions about Lane did not matter while those concerning Irina did.

  Serruto stood and moved around his desk to his chair. Sitting down, he leaned back. "Did you enjoy playing detective, Mr. Fowler?"

  Fowler met his gaze coolly. "Suppose I deny being there?"

  "We'll just invite the receptionist to have a look at you."

  Fowler frowned. "Lieutenant, I fail to see what we've done that's so reprehensible. We just lent assistance to-"

  "Lent assistance:" Serruto leaned forward in his chair. "When did your status here change from observer to investigator?"

  Fowler stiffened.

  "And how is it you see nothing wrong in assisting a man who may be involved in three murders with a line of investigation he has conducted without informing official investigators, an investigation he has conducted with all possible secrecy, in fact?"

  Fowler stared at the wall behind Serruto.

  The lieutenant sat back again. "So . . . I hope you learned everything you needed for your book because . . ."-his voice went glacial-"this little stunt has just cost you all your privileges in this department."

  Folwer's mouth thinned. "I doubt you speak for your entire department, lieutenant. We'll see what your superiors have to say about this."

  "Fine. Talk to them." Serruto smiled thinly. "Then I'll tell them how you've gone about researching your book and abusing our hospitality."

  The anger died out of Fowler's eyes. "No. That . . . won't be necessary:" Glancing at Garreth, he grimaced. "Sorry. We did have a good go at it, though, didn't we. There are no hard feelings, I hope, Lieutenant." He extended a hand across the desk.

  Serruto ignored it. "Goodbye, Mr. Fowler."

  Fowler shrugged. "Goodbye, Lieutenant."

  When the door had closed behind the writer, Serruto swiveled toward Garreth, mouth set in a grim line.

  He already sat board-stiff in his chair. Now Garreth fought to breath. The air had suddenly become suffocatingly thick with the smells of blood and cigar smoke. At least fear kept him from feeling hunger . . . fear less of what Serruto might say and do than of having Harry here to see and hear it. Even now his old partner's face did not manage to be quite inscrutable enough to hide the anger and pain behind it. And there was nothing to say in defense. He had broken promises to limit himself to riding along. He had lied this morning about what he intended to do with the day. Had lied by evasion minutes ago about where he and Fowler had been. Worse, he had
lied to Harry.

  I Ching missed the point today. The danger in floundering ahead was not personal but what his actions did to other people he cared about . . . shattering trust, destroying the last vestiges of friendship. Lane chuckled in his head. That precious bridge of yours may not go down inflames after all, lover. I think you've just dynamited it.

  "I warned you, Mikaelian," Serruto said.

  Garreth looked down. "Yes, sir."

  "But you wouldn't-take off those damn glasses! I'm sick of looking at my own reflection when I talk to you."

  Slowly, Garreth pulled them off. Light slapped at him. He winced. Logic said that exposing his eyes could not increase the pressure of daylight on him, but it felt that way. He gritted his teeth against the drag.

  "And look at me. I want to see your eyes."

  Garreth focused on a point past the lieutenant's ear. It would not do to inadvertently hypnotize Serruto to a friendlier attitude in the presence of two witnesses to wonder at the sudden change.

  Serruto leaned forward, elbows on the desk. Steel rang in his voice. "Now talk to me, mister. Explain yourself. Tell me why I shouldn't consider you a prime suspect in these murders and arrest you."

  The tightness of Garreth's throat made talking difficult, especially maintaining a calm tone. "Because you don't have any hard evidence, no witnesses, no associative evidence that can put me at the scene of any of the murders. More than that, they're clumsy murders. If I can break into Holle's house so slickly, do you see me being careless enough to leave obvious evidence of torture and to kill those men under circumstances that implicate me?"

  Not even Girimonte rebutted that.

  Serruto pursed his lips. "So . . . the question becomes, what do we do with you then? This Lone Wolf Mikaelian crap is over! Terminated. Finished." He punctuated the words with a stabbing finger. "But I can't just pack you back to Kansas-even if I could be sure you'd go-because if there's no hard evidence, there's also too much circumstantial evidence to ignore."

  "I wouldn't go, no. Not until this thing is settled." Garreth folded and unfolded the temples of his glasses.

  Girimonte ground out her cigar in the big glass ash tray on the lieutenant's desk. "If you really wanted this case solved you'd be working with us, sharing your information instead of hiding it from us."

  How did he answer that without more lies? He put back on the glasses. "There's nothing I can tell you." Not without giving away too much about myself in the process.

  She snorted. "Nothing you will tell us, you mean. Evasions and half-truths are nice strategies . . . not-quite-lies that still avoid the truth. You use them expertly, but then, you've had lots of practice from using them in the rest of your life, haven't you? Just like my sister."

  His chest tightened. "Your sister?"

  "She was like you. That's how I recognize what you are. I've seen all the little tricks before, especially the ones for dealing with meals."

  The air petrified in Garreth's chest. She had figured it out.

  "What do you mean, recognize what he is?" Serruto snapped.

  There was no way to run, nowhere to run to. No escape, I Ching had said. Garreth braced himself.

  Girimonte shook her head. "It's personal, nothing to do with the case. But one day soon you and I will talk, Mikaelian. The problem has to be dealt with."

  All the relief he felt with the first part of her reply to Serruto vanished beneath a flood of cold. She had spoken of her sister in the past tense. Could Grandma Doyle have mistaken the eye color of the woman deadly to him?

  She lit another cigar. "Sorry for the digression, Lieutenant. You were wondering what to do with Mikaelian. Why not call him a material witness?" She drew on the cigar and blew smoke toward Garreth. "That gives us the perfect excuse to keep him under surveillance and on a short leash . . . without some lawyer screaming that we're violating his civil rights."

  Serruto's brows hopped. "Thinking truly worthy of a future chief." He leaned back, lacing his fingers together behind his head. "All right, you're a material witness, Mikaelian. Any objections?"

  "Does it matter if I have?" Garreth said bitterly.

  "Of course. If you'd prefer that I find a charge to book you on, I'll accommodate you." When Garreth said nothing to that, he turned toward Harry. "He's already your guest, Takananda. Will you hold the leash? I want it short. I don't want him out of your sight."

  Harry sucked in his lower lip. Garreth wondered if he were going to say he would just as soon have nothing more to do with his ex-partner. Right now he must be angrily regretting ever having invited Garreth out from Kansas. After a moment, however, Harry said in a flat voice, "Count on it, sir. Until this is over, it'll be like we're handcuffed together."

  9

  By unspoken agreement, Garreth and Harry banged into the house tossing one­liners at each other . . . despite a ride home in strained silence. The effort was wasted, though. The tightness of Lien's face told Garreth that she already suspected something had gone terribly wrong between them.

  She made no attempt at light conversation, either, just gave each a fierce hug and said, "Your tea is in the family room. Don't bother to help me set the table. Sit down and relax."

  They sat down and reached for the teacups in silence. Lien must have had a bad day, too, Garreth reflected. She had forgotten to put rum in his tea, though he smelled it in the steam off Harry's tea. Not that he minded. Now he could actually drink the tea. The warm liquid eased the edge on his hunger, if not the knots of misery in his stomach.

  True to her word, Lien reappeared in less than five minutes. "Dinner's ready. But, Garreth, dear, I hope you won't mind that I've put yours in the kitchen. I need to talk to my husband alone."

  That was fine, except for the scent of shrimp fried rice filling the kitchen, making him simultaneously ache with longing for some and nauseated at the thought of it lying in his stomach. But both longing and nausea vanished abruptly seeing what Lien had set out on the counter for him. Nothing but his thermos and a tall pewter tankard. And a note: There's no point giving you a regular serving which you'll just leave untouched on the plate. Go ahead and have what you will eat.

  He sat down hard on a stool. Lien had written him many notes over the years, but never one that brusque.

  He filled the tankard from the thermos and sat sipping the blood, but it tasted sour as dead blood. Lien had tired of him snubbing her cooking. Harry no longer trusted him and along with Serruto thought he had killed Holle, Maruska, and the Count. His bridge had blown up indeed. Nothing remained of it.

  There were other bridges, though. The voice on Christopher Stroda's suicide tape played back in his head: "I'm about to jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. If my body is found, please cremate it and scatter the ashes. I want nothing left of me. Mom, Dad, please forgive me for doing this to you. I know it's going to hurt you and spoil Christmas . . . but I can't face another family mob scene . . . all that gaiety and togetherness . . . and food. What I'm doing isn't your fault. It's no one's fault, not even Melina's. All she wanted was to save my life. But it's trapped me on the other side of a chasm from everyone I love, with no way to ever rejoin you, and I can't bear the loneliness. Goodbye."

  Garreth swirled the blood in the tankard. Maybe Stroda was right. The price of forever was too high. Even Lane dreaded the loneliness. How many vampires secretly welcomed the stake even as they screamed at the pain? How many, like Stroda, committed suicide? Nothing about Bodenhausen's death suggested anything except an accident, but had Corinne Barlow accidentally swerved into the oncoming traffic, controlled by reflexes schooled to driving on the lefthand side of the road, or was it a deliberate act of self destruction?

  Lien banged through the swinging door from the dining room and dumped a load of dishes on the sink. "That man! He's obviously in anguish, but he won't talk to me and he won't hear anything I have to say."

  Garreth tensed. Would she ask him what was going on?

  "No, I won't try to pry out of you what's wrong.
That would only aggravate things, I'm sure."

  He started, staring at her.

  She smiled and reached out to pat his arm. "Don't look so panic stricken. I'm not reading minds, just the expression on your face." She turned back to the sink, reaching for the faucets. "Of course, if you want someone to talk to, I'm always here."

  "I know. Thank you." Like Stroda's family, she wanted so much to help, never realizing that the problem lay beyond even her compassionate understanding. He changed the subject. "Did Harry show you the book Fowler gave him?"

  "Yes. That he would talk about. You have one, too?"

  He nodded, then faked a yawn. "I'm bushed. I think I'll go on to bed. Say goodnight to Harry for me."

  In his room, he locked the door and stretched out on the bed with Fowler's book. It would pass the time until Harry and Lien went to bed.

  It would have, that is, if he had been able to concentrate. He could not. Stroda's tape replayed in his head over and over. No matter how many times he read the print before him, all Garreth saw was a tortured figure arcing off the Golden Gate bridge in a parody of a swan dive. After an hour all he could really say about the book was that Fowler had written a very accurate description of a second-story burglary. The man obviously did his research.

  Then a new character appeared, a woman . . . tall, red-haired, fascinating. Goosebumps rose on Garreth's neck and arms. Maybe Fowler had another image in mind, but Garreth could only think: Lane.

  From Lane his thoughts jumped to Irina. Where was she? Planning another murder?

  A rap sounded on the door. "Garreth?"

  Harry's voice. Slowly, Garreth went over to the door and opened it. His stomach dropped. What was wrong now? He had never seen Harry look so acutely embarrassed before. "What's-" he began, and broke off.

  One glance at Harry's hand answered the question. He carried a key. Holding it up, he said, "I-I just wondered if you needed to use the bathroom anymore because-damn it, Garreth, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to lock you in."