BloodWalk

by BloodWalk (lit)

  The housekeeper frowned. "Why?"

  "To check the storerooms for forcible entry. It appears now that a human, not Irina, killed Mr. Holle, and he, or she, had to come in somwhere."

  The housekeeper's tight smile said: I told you Miss Rudenko couldn't have done it.

  She led the way up to the attic. Garreth kept track of Grandma Doyle behind him, but he quickly saw worrying about her was wasted effort. The stairs had Lien and the housekeeper breathing harder than they did his grandmother.

  In the attic the housekeeper unlocked the padlocked bolts on the storerooms. Nothing had been disturbed in the first. It lay silent, untouched . . . smelling of dust and sea air. The latch handle at one side of the window ran parallel to the sash in the locked position and all of the window's six panes proved to be firmly in place. To Garreth's relief, neither was there enough dust on the floor to show footprints from his previous visit.

  From the doorway of the second storeroom, it looked as he remembered, too. Except, he realized a moment later, that in the window the pane by the latch seemed slightly smaller than its companions. Moving over for a closer look, he saw why. Black electrician's tape lapped the edges of the pane on the outside. Using his pen, he pushed on the middle of the glass. It started to give.

  The housekeeper's eyes widened.

  "It's been cut," Garreth said, "then taped back in place so a casual glance wouldn't spot the damage." A faint circle on the glass showed where a suction device had been attached, first to pull the cut pane loose in one unbroken piece and then to hold it while it was taped back.

  "You think Mr. Holle's killer did it?" The housekeeper frowned. "But the door-"

  A quick examination of the hinges found what he expected . . . scratches at the top where a screwdriver had been worked in to pry up the hinge pin. He pointed them out to the women.

  "What do we do now?" the housekeeper asked.

  "Pray we find this devil," Grandma Doyle said. She stared at the window, eyes focused on something invisible. "If we don't catch him tomorrow, someone else will die."

  5

  Lien set him to grating carrots while she and Grandma Doyle worked on the rest of supper. Wrapped in the warm scents of food and the women's blood, sipping blood from a pewter tankard while he fed carrots into the food processor, Garreth's mind churned like the blade of the machine. A day to find the killer when he had no case against anyone. Evidence from the storeroom window might help, though. I Ching was right; he could not work alone. But he needed fellow professionals. However much they wanted to help, Lien and his grandmother had no experience with murderers and he would be irresponsible to risk their lives. It was time to trust friendship and confide in Harry.

  He fed another carrot into the food processor. "Lien, Grandma, I'm telling Harry everything tonight."

  Lien stopped stirring to glance around at him. Instead of the smile of relief and approval he expected, she bit her lip.

  He eyed her in surprise. "What's the matter?"

  She sighed. "You're right; you need to tell him. I . . . just wish I could feel more confident that-"

  "Feel more confident that what, honorable wife?"

  All three of them whirled, startled. Harry stood in the kitchen doorway.

  Lien ran to kiss him. "You're home almost on time for a change. What a lovely surprise. Garreth, I guess we can feel confident enough to set the table after all."

  Harry held her off at arm's length to eye her skeptically. "That serious tone is about setting the table?"

  She raised her brows. "Considering how often the dishes develop cobwebs before you show up-"

  "It wasn't about setting the table," Garreth interrupted. "I'm sorry, Lien, but this has to be done." He emptied the tankard and set it in the sink.

  "Garreth," his grandmother said in a warning voice.

  He ignored her. "Harry, Lien is worried how well you'll take learning why I've been acting the way I have."

  "Oh, I think I can't handle it. You underestimate me, honorable wife." He gave Lien a hug and shoved her back toward the stove with a slap on the rump. Crossing to the work counter, he took one of the carrots waiting to be fed into the food processor and bit off a chunk. "I already know, in fact. Van told me this afternoon."

  Garreth blinked in disbelief. Could Harry, too, really be accepting it so calmly?

  Harry chewed the carrot. "I don't know why you didn't say anything before. There's no need to suffer alone, Van says. It's nothing to be ashamed of, though I can see why you might not want your father to know. He'd probably take it personally, as a reflection of some weakness in him."

  Grandma Doyle sniffed. "Wouldn't he though."

  "Can we leave Dad out of this?" Garreth said irritably.

  "He never needs to know," Harry said. "Van told me all about her sister. There's treatment. You can be cured."

  Garreth blinked in astonishment. "Cured! Treatment?" In his peripheral vision, he saw the women staring, too. "What treatment?"

  Harry glanced at each of them with a puzzled frown. "A combination of medical and psychiatric therapy."

  In dismay Garreth realized they could not possibly be talking about the same thing. "Harry, exactly what did Girimonte say my problem is?"

  The almond eyes narrowed. "Anorexia, of course. What else?"

  No wonder Harry reacted so calmly. Garreth sighed. "I'm afraid Girimonte doesn't have it quite right. I'm-"

  "Before dinner is no time to be getting so serious," his grandmother interrupted. "It spoils the digestion." She smiled sweetly. "Sergeant, if you'll be good enough to take yourself out from underfoot, I'll bring you the tea your lovely wife tells me you like to have when you come home from work. Garreth, finish grating those carrots if you please. We'll all talk later."

  Whatever "later" meant. Not during dinner, Garreth discovered. Between them, Lien and Grandma Doyle kept the conversation firmly on light subjects. Not after dinner, either. Then they insisted on watch­ing television, though Garreth could not believe either had any real in­terest in Miami Vice.

  "Grandma. Lien," he said during a commercial. "May I see you a minute?" In the kitchen, out of Harry's hearing, he demanded, "What are you two doing? We're under the gun for time, and we need Harry."

  Her forehead furrowed. "Yes, but . . ." She sighed. "He won't believe you if you just come out and say you're a vampire. He has to be eased into it."

  The phone rang.

  "I'll get it!" Harry called from the other room.

  Garreth ran a hand through his hair. "We don't have time to ease him into it. Tomorrrow this turkey will kill again, Grandma's Feelings say. Tomorrow! Maybe you underestimate him, Lien. You accepted-"

  "It's for you, Garreth!" Harry called. "An Irina Rudenko."

  Garreth snatched up the kitchen extension. But said nothing to Irina just yet. Harry's breathing came over the line from the family room extension. "I've got it, Harry."

  "I'd like to speak to Miss Rudenko, too," Harry said. "Miss Rudenko, I'm Sergeant Takananda of the San Francisco Police. We're trying to find who killed Leonard Holle. I wonder if you can answer a couple of questions."

  "About Mr. Hone?" the voice on the far end of the wire said in a tone of disappointment. "Is that purpose of call? What a bummer."

  Garreth blinked in astonishment. Only the accent remained Irina's.

  The tone went petulant. "Meresa said there was this cute blond guy looking for me. Takananda doesn't sound like a name that belongs to anyone blond."

  "I'm the blond one," Garreth said. "Garreth Mikaelian."

  "Mikaelian. Mikaelian." She rolled the name around as though tasting it. "Are you guy who kept trying to catch my eye at performance of Beach Blanket Babylon last Saturday?"

  Harry said patiently, "Miss Rudenko, this is important. How well did you know Mr. Holle?"

  She sighed. "Jesus. I didn't know him. I mean, I knew him, but I didn't know him, if you know what I mean. He's a friend of my mother. They both work for Philos Foundation. I don't kn
ow anything about who killed him. What a horror show. Do we have to talk about it? I'd rather talk to you, blondie. Where do I know you from?"

  "You don't," Garreth said, and swore mentally. What a time to have to play games. Hang up, Harry, please, so I can talk to her. "A mutual friend suggested I look you up."

  "Yeah? Who?"

  This version of Let's Pretend could have been fun under other circumstances. Irina played it very well. "Does it matter?"

  She giggled. "Nope. Hey, let's get together, say in Japanese Tea Garden, twelve or so, our time? See you then, blondie."

  She hung up before either Garreth or Harry could say anything more. But nothing else needed to be said. She wanted to see him and had made an appointment. Garreth grinned in admiration. Harry would interpret it in human terms . . . twelve noon. Our time, she said, though. Vampire time. Midnight.

  From the other extension, Harry said, "Okay, meet her, but take along a tail, and steer the conversation around to Holle. She might tell you something she wouldn't me."

  Garreth smiled grimly. "I certainly will find out what she knows about Holle's death." Until then, he would go along with Lien and his grandmother and not confess to Harry. If Irina did know something, maybe they could clear up this case without official help. Then there would be nearly a week more to break the truth to Harry before his vacation ended.

  6

  Night robbed the Tea Garden of the color Garreth remembered from walks here with Marti. However, even reduced to the grays of his night vision, and a liming of silver from the setting half moon, the garden retained its elegance and serenity. Scents remained, too, an assault of floral, plant, and water odors filling the night. Slipping along a bamboo railed path, Garreth realized this was the first time he had visited the garden since Marti died. Perhaps it was just as well he had come by night, when it looked so different from what he remembered.

  He shifted the carrying strap on his thermos to the other shoulder, wondering if he should have taken time to fill it on the way here. Except there might still be people around the stables.

  The last of the moonlight vanished, leaving only his night vision to see by.

  "So," said a voice at his elbow. "There was garlic in male prostitute's apartment. Why is that something we need to discuss?"

  Garreth jumped. How did she keep sneaking up on him, especially since he had been watching since he left the house for anyone following him? Her dark slacks and sweater left her invisible to the human eye, but he should have seen or heard her. What if she had been the killer? Irritation at himself sharpened his voice. "Because it means some human, not a vampire, killed your friend Holle and the others."

  She reached out to run her fingers across a great stone lantern. "Of course. Such became obvious to me once I knew you weren't guilty."

  "How?"

  "Nichevo. Never Mind." She turned away, moving down the path ahead of him to an arched bridge, where she leaned on the rail and stared down at goldfish moving in gray flashes through the reflecting pool below. "Is not your concern."

  He exploded. "The hell it isn't! Look, honey, you may know I didn't kill anyone but there are plenty of other people, some of them cops, who still think I did! And they're going to go on suspecting me until they find someone better. So if you know anything, I'd sure as hell appreciate being told what it is."

  She hesitated, then still staring down into the water, sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry. Is impossible. Is too dangerous."

  He frowned. "I've dealt with vicious and dangerous killers before. This one can't be any worse. He's still only human. You point me in his direction. Harry and I will arrest him and the law will take care of him."

  Irina turned, frowning, but a moment later, to Garreth's irritation and discomfort, the scowl dissolved into laughter. She swallowed the whoop almost immediately with an appology. "I'm sorry." Was she? Amusement still lingered in her voice and gleamed in her eyes. "Such innocence." She reached up to touch his cheek, then withdrew the hand as he backed away angrily. "Please, I'm sorry. I don't mean to offend. Is just that I never cease being astonished by this age's blind belief in law as an instrument of justice. For of course this matter is one beyond your 'law'."

  His gut knotted. Echoes of Lane rang in her words. "No," he said. "There's law or there's only anarchy. Everyone must be responsible for their actions and answerable to other people for them."

  The experienced eyes looked up at him from the smooth, adolescent face. "Oh, I agree, but they cannot always answer in a court of law. The danger is not so much to you personally, Garreth, as to both of us. To all of the blood. Even as young as you are in this life, can't you see what we have? This killer knows we exist and stalks us, and our friends. He broke Leonard's neck, not only to prevent him rising again in case he carried the virus, but from hatred of one who would befriend us."

  "So he's a vampire hunter," Garreth said. "He's still just a man."

  She hissed. "Just? No. Holy Mother, no. In the past year three friends of the blood have been murdered in this same manner in Europe, and all three were intelligent, experienced, alert people who survived times when people actively believed in and hunted us. Dominic escaped the arena in Rome, the Spanish Inquisition, and innumerable witch hunts. Yet this hunter managed to destroy him. Now do you see why I want you away from here? You're too . . . naive to fight him. And what if you should succeed in capturing him? Punishing him through your legal system will only make public why and what he kills, and you will have helped him destroy us all. Garreth, leave hunter to me."

  Cold ran through him and sat in icy lumps in his gut. "I can't. The law you don't believe in won't let me leave. So you might as well use my help. Who knows? My training might even come in handy. Tell me about the killings. Is there clue at all to who's doing them?"

  She glanced around. "Let's walk. We've stood in one place too long."

  They walked, following the paths winding through the garden. Irina said nothing more for nearly five minutes, then with a sigh: "I talked to people who knew my friends. They could tell me little, but they did say that shortly before each death, my friend had talked to a tall, fairhaired man. One had mentioned to a companion that man asked for a red-haired woman who traveled with Irina Rodek in years just before Second World War. It was obviously Mada, or Lane, as she calls herself here. That is why I came to San Francisco, to warn her, and to warn our friends against talking to anyone asking for Mada."

  Garreth felt as though a fist sunk in his stomach. "Was the man an Englishman?"

  She whirled to stare up at him. "I don't know. No one I talked to had spoken with him personally." Her eyes narrowed. "There is an Englishman Leonard said is working with your police friends, the one who came with you to Foundation offices yesterday afternoon."

  "Julian Fowler." Quickly, he told her everything about the writer. "But . . . I don't know that any of it means anything. There's no obvious motive for him killing anyone, and certainly no proof against him."

  Irina pursed her lips. "If he were a hunter, hatred of us would be sufficient motive, but this man has a specific quarry."

  "Madelaine Bieber," Garreth said. "He's very open about it. Would he be if he wanted her for more than the book he claims to be researching?"

  Irina smiled thinly. "If he's clever. Hunter who killed my friends has shown himself very clever." She paused. "I think we need to know something about this Englishman."

  Garreth nodded. "The library should have entries on him in books like Contemporary Authors."

  Irina pursed her lips. "I know better source which will not raise our killer's suspicions if he manages to follow us. Come. My car is parked by Stow Lake."

  7

  Irina headed her little Honda north.

  "Do you have much trouble renting cars and hotel rooms?" Garreth asked.

  She snorted. "Of course not. I refuse to suffer inconveniences of being a minor. My papers identify me as twenty-one and when necessary I can make up to look the age or older. I suppose I
should be thankful that devil Viktor did not see me at thirteen or fourteen. Ah, here we are." She pulled over to the curb.

  Garreth blinked dubiously at the building before them. "How do we find biographical information on Fowler at the Philos Foundation?"

  "Is simple. Watch."

  Irina swung out of the car, climbed the steps to the porch, and rang the bell.

  "May I help you?" a voice asked.

  Irina looked up. "I would like to come in."

  Now Garreth noticed the small, round eye of a camera winking at them from the roof of the porch.

  "Does your mother know you run around at this hour of the night?" the voice asked chidingly.

  "Natalya Rudenko knows everything I do. Open door, please."

  The door buzzed. Irina pushed it open. Yelling a greeting to a face that appeared at the top of the stairs, she led the way to Holle's office and unlocked the door. "That is to make us look normal. This, too." She switched on the light.

  For the first time he saw her in color. She had violet eyes indeed . . . deeply, richly purple as pansies. Except when they reflected ruby red.

  She switched on the computer to one side of the desk and sat down at it. Her fingers raced across the keyboard . . . calling up a communications program, Garreth realized, reading the screen prompts.

  He eyed her in surprise. "You know computers?"

  Without looking up, Irina replied, "Is a matter of necessity, as is learning to drive an automobile and fly an airplane. Altering electronic records is becoming only way to change identities. Hasn't Mada taught you-" She glanced up then, and sighed. "No, of course not. Is like her to bring you into this life and abandon you without bothering to teach basic survival skills." She turned back to the keyboard and typed rapidly. "Mada avoids use of advanced technology anyway, an attitude which will undo her eventually. One cannot cling to era of one's birth. When this problem of vampire hunter is solved, we must see that you're given proper-ah, there's what I want . . . a literary database." She typed some more, then turned away. "Searching out and transmitting data will take a while. Several fresh units of whole blood have been 'discarded' in shelter refrigerator. Shall I go after one?"