BloodWalk

by BloodWalk (lit)

  "How can you do that without warning him he's a suspect?" Irina asked.

  Harry grinned. "Easy. I received an anonymous phone call from a woman saying she'd seen Fowler at Maruska's apartment. I'll say of course it's nonsense, probably some nutcase looking for publicity by accusing a celebrity, but of course we have to check it out to clear him. In the course of it, we'll be checking him against associative evidence from Holle's attic, too." Harry kissed Lien and headed for the door. "I'll call you when I have something."

  "Meanwhile," Irina said, draining her tankard, "we must keep our watcher occupied. Show yourself at livingroom window and on patio, then I think we should rest away from daylight."

  9

  A double thickness of blanket over the bedroom window hardly constituted blackout curtains, but it blocked a good deal of light, making the room at least comfortable. Irina knelt on the floor unrolling an air mattress she had brought in from her car. Dried earth hissed inside as she smoothed it and arranged a sheet and pillow over it.

  Watching her from where he sat on the edge of the bed, Garreth felt urgency throb in him. Time was running out. He ought to be doing more than sleeping. Fowler would kill again today if they did not stop him. How, though? He could hardly have Irina hunting Fowler her way.

  Irina curled up, pulling the sheet around her, and closed her eyes.

  He stretched out on his own pallet on the bed. "You don't approve of bringing in Harry, do you."

  Without opening her eyes she replied, "I worry what we will do when he finds proof against Fowler. Arresting the Englishman will make public his motive for murder. Then either sergeant will be ridiculed for believing such a thing and hunter turned loose, or you, I, and all of our kind will be exposed. She opened her eyes and raised up on one elbow. "Destroying hunters is only way to protect ourselves."

  "There has to be a way of stopping him without killing him or betraying ourselves."

  Irina smiled. The warmth of it enveloped him like a thick, soft blanket. "You are a man of honor, Garreth Mikaelian, kinder toward your enemies than I. Is too bad you could not be with me when I lived near Yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy's estate at Tula. I think you would have enjoyed listening to Tolstoy philosophize on law and justice."

  Garreth started. "The Tolstoy? You knew him?"

  "I attended many of his parties with a friend who posed as my guardian while waiting out some trouble in St. Petersburg. Talk and debate would last all night. Tolstoy's philosophies inspired nonviolence embraced by Gandhi and your Dr. Martin Luther King, did you know that?" Mischief glinted in the violet eyes. "A Russian influenced them." Then the mischief faded. "Is too bad Mr. Fowler has not been influenced by Tolstoy also." Stretching out, she closed her eyes again. "At which thought I leave you to solve our problem with honor, and within your law, if you can. For myself, I am tired and wish only to sleep."

  Garreth turned over. He would have liked to sleep, too; his body ached from exhaustion and daylight. But the clock ticked relentlessly in him, and his mind churned with doubt. Which was more important, law, or finding Fowler? Following procedure took time. Was Irina right? Was he wrong to insist on applying human law to this situation? Would someone else die because of it? He might as well consider that he had killed those other three men. They died because he led the killer to them.

  Garreth clenched his fists. Why had he not realized he was being followed? Was Fowler really that good, or had Garreth just been so preoccupied with his own interests that he had committed the sin no good cop ever should, failing to pay attention to what was happening around him?

  Irina sighed in her sleep.

  He eyed her. There lay another problem. After being so insistent that the only way to deal with Fowler was kill him, Irina had given in far too readily to Garreth. Was she just humoring him until they had Fowler? In her place, he might do that, and then, having found the killer of his friends and bloodkind, he would brush aside the young vampire and his precious law to act as he felt necessary to protect himself.

  Garreth bit his lip. He had to prevent that. Somehow. Restraining Irina was probably impossible, which meant he had to protect Fowler. He grimaced. As a cop he had often stood between a killer and those demanding vengeance, but never before had he been forced to side with one where the price of doing his job could be the destruction of a whole people . . . his own kind.

  Grandma Doyle's voice echoed in his head: I saw you lying dying, and someone laughing like the devil's own above you. His pulse lurched. It could also mean his own destruction.

  He sat up hugging his knees. No, he refused to accept that either Fowler had to die or vampires did. There must be some way to protect everyone.

  The clock on the nightstand read ten o'clock. Sliding out of bed, Garreth put on his dark glasses, then picked up his boots, slipped over to the bureau, and eased his billfold, gun, and keys off it. Moving just as soundlessly to the door, he passed through without opening it, so no sound of knob or hinges would wake Irina.

  His grandmother looked up in surprise from her book as he came into the family room. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

  He sat down in a chair to pull on and zip his boots. "I have an errand I have to run." He dared not look up at them for fear they would read the lie in his face. Enough lives were at risk already; he would not involve them further. "Have you heard anything from Harry?"

  "He called about an hour and a half ago. They found the storeroom as we described it."

  "Good." Standing, Garreth clipped his holster onto his belt.

  His grandmother eyed him. "What kind of errand is it you take a gun on?"

  He made himself smile at her. "Cops feel naked without a weapon. You know that from Dad, Grandma." He pulled on his corduroy coat. "I won't be using it." He hoped. But neither would he go near Fowler unarmed.

  Lien frowned. "Should you go out alone? I mean, Harry knows you're innocent but others like Vanessa Girimonte don't yet and if something happens . . ."

  They had to stay here, safe. He forced his smile into a confident grin. "What can happen? It's just a short trip. I'll be back before you know it." Blowing them a kiss, he headed for the front door.

  10

  Being in the ZX again, the wheel in his hands, the engine snarling, felt wonderful. No matter that it was daylight. Despite driving with half his attention on the rearview mirrors, the mere fact of being behind the wheel himself instead of riding along brought a sense of satisfaction and confidence, of finally being in charge again.

  The question was where to let Fowler catch up. A public place would be safest, at least until he could make Fowler understand the situation with Irina; then they could find somewhere to hide the writer. The place to meet occurred to him almost immediately, a very public one he could expect to be crowded and one he knew every inch of from playing tag with officers from other black-and-whites at three and four o'clock in the morning on slow watches.

  Garreth frowned at his rearview mirror. Unfortunately the writer was not driving a car as conspicuous as the Continental he had had in Baumen. The tan Colt he had rented here looked-deliberately, no doubt-like hundreds of others on the street. A tan subcompact had fallen in behind him a couple of blocks from Harry's house, but he no longer saw it. He had turned onto a busier street, though, and if he were being tailed, Fowler could be tucked out of sight several cars back.

  His pulse jumped as tan appeared in his outside mirror. A moment later he let his breath out. The passing vehicle was a station wagon. Checking the traffic directly behind again, he decided there was indeed a tan car back there. Telling any more about it was impossible. The two intervening cars prevented him from seeing the tag and the driver showed as only a silhouette.

  The matter shortly became academic because the car turned another direction midway across Golden Gate Park.

  With the thickening of traffic on Fulton north of the park more tan cars appeared . . . falling in behind, passing, weaving through traffic, turning off. Which made it difficult keeping track of a
ny particular one. That grew still more difficult as Fulton neared the Civic Center and traffic continued increasing. Garreth resisted the impulse to make a series of turns and see which cars stuck with him. He would know soon enough if Fowler were really following him.

  To make it easy for any tail, both to follow and hide in traffic, he took a straight route on major thoroughfares . . . Fulton to the Civic Center, then north on Van Ness until he could turn east to the Cannery. But anyone following him was on their own finding a parking place. The best Garreth could do after locating one for himself was walk very slowly into the Cannery complex.

  That was easy. The bright sunlight weighted and battered him. He felt like he moved through molasses. Oh to be taking refuge in blissful darkness. Barring that luxury, a heavy rainstorm, or better yet, a peasoup fog, would have made today more pleasant.

  Then abruptly the drag of daylight became a minor matter. Glancing over his shoulder he spotted the face he had been looking for. His pulse jumped. Fowler wore a dark wig, mustache, and horn-rimmed glasses, but he was still unmistakably Julian Fowler.

  Garreth sucked in a long breath. The chase was on in earnest now.

  The red brick complex sprawled out like some vast Florentine palace. He kept moving through its courtyards and arcades and across its bridges, pausing to browse through a shop here and take brief refuge in the shade of a tree there, stopping to chat with an artist doing pastel portraits, then a musician playing her guitar in one of the courtyards. He asked directions to shops so Fowler would see the people pointing.

  Covert checks over his shoulder via shop windows found Fowler sticking with him. The writer kept changing his appearance, putting on and removing the glasses, sometimes with, sometimes without a tweed roadster cap.

  Garreth took another breath. Time for the fox to catch the hound.

  He strode along an arcade and around a corner to a flight of stairs. There he quickly vaulted over the railing to drop down onto a bridge below, startling shoppers and tourists, then raced across the bridge into another arcade.

  From the shadow of it he watched Fowler stop short at the top of the stairs, dismay spreading across the writer's face as he realized he had lost his quarry. Inaction lasted only seconds. Face tight with anger, Fowler plunged down the stairs and raced along the arcade, one direction then the other, and finally across the bridge. By that time Garreth had retreated into a shop.

  "May I help you?" a clerk asked.

  Garreth glanced around at the display of women's sexy undergarments. "Just drooling."

  Fowler hurried past the shop door. Garreth waited for several more people to pass before slipping out. He fell in behind two couples, using them to screen him from Fowler.

  If Fowler felt frantic, he did not show it. The grim set of his mouth had vanished. Except for turning every few seconds to scan the arcade or pausing to lean out over the balustrade and peer at arcades opposite and courtyards below, he might have been just another shopper.

  Garreth waited until a turn in the arcade left a quiet corner, then quickly circled the two couples and closed on Fowler. "What are we going to do with you, Dr. Van Helsing?"

  Fowler whipped around. As his face registered recognition, consternation evaporated, giving way to a watchful stillness in the pale eyes. Eyes like ice. "I beg your pardon?"

  If Garreth had had any doubts about Fowler before, the question wiped them away. He knew that voice. He had heard it hundreds of times before, in a dozen accents in both sexes, across the table of an interview room and during field arrests, always the same . . . even, controlled, but not quite able to hide its mocking undertone, its catch-me-if-you-can arrogance. He eyed the writer with angry satisfaction. You're dirty, Fowler, and now your ass is mine.

  He dropped his voice so only Fowler could hear it above the guitar music coming from the courtyard below. "My pardon is one thing you'll never have. Your appetite for blood is bigger than mine. Those men couldn't tell you where Lane was no matter what you did to them. They didn't know."

  The ice-pale eyes focused on his glasses. "Why are you so sure? Because you do?"

  Garreth suddenly felt very glad they stood with a crowd moving past them. He savored the eddying currents of perfumes, sweat, food odors, and blood scents. "Yes. You've seen her, too, though you didn't realize it. She was in Baumen, in the cemetery."

  That startled him out of his complacency. "The cemetery!"

  Garreth grimaced bitterly. "Ironic isn't it. You followed me here and tortured and killed to find her . . . for nothing. She's already dead."

  Fowler's face hardened. The pale eyes narrowed. "I don't believe you."

  "You saw the grave. It had rose bushes on it."

  Garreth waited for a sag of defeat as Fowler realized he had wasted those three lives, and his. Instead the writer's eyes narrowed still more. In a low, almost casual voice he said, "You're a bloody liar. You're just trying to protect that . . . creature." He jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

  You goofed, man, a voice murmured in Garreth's head. Screwed up royally. Fowler looked so rational he had forgotten he was dealing with a looney tune. The man had spent most of his life hunting Lane . . . planning revenge, dreaming of it. Of course he refused to accept that it might have been pointless.

  Garreth reached for his glasses. This needed more persuasive methods.

  At the same time Fowler's hand came out of his coat pocket.

  Every alarm in Garreth kicked into action. Weapon! He lunged for the wrist.

  The writer held not a gun, however, but a small bottle, the pump type used as a purse-size perfume container. Pushing Fowler's arm up made no difference. Fowler was already depressing the top. Mist caught Garreth full in the face.

  Suddenly he could no longer breathe. The air congealed in his lungs. Garlic juice!

  Backing against the arcade balustrade he clawed for the turtleneck of his shirt. A part of him recognized the action as useless. It never did help, but he tried anyway, reflexively, in panic, struggling to suck in air.

  Several passers-by stopped. One woman started toward him.

  Fowler reached him first, catching him under the arm and groping for Garreth's coat pockets. "Christ, Sid; don't tell me you've come away without the bloody atomizer again." He looked around at the woman. "He has these asthma attacks when he's upset. He'll be right in no time once he's had his medication. You shouldn't be so touchy, though, Sid; it was just a joke. Come on. Let's get you back to the car and sorted out."

  Fear spurted in Garreth. No! Only, he had no breath to say it aloud, and no strength to do anything but struggle to breathe. Maybe he should just collapse.

  The grip under his arm held him on his feet, though. Fowler half dragged, half carried him through the Cannery, chattering all the way. "Hang on, Sid; don't panic. We'll be back at the car before you know it. I do wish you'd remember to carry your atomizer all the time. Maybe Heather ought hang the thing around your neck. Where's she got off to, anyway? Come on, come on; do I have to carry you all the way. Try to walk, can't you? Do you know how embarrassing this is? I daresay it looks like I'm abducting you or something. We'll be lucky if some copper doesn't stop us."

  Fat chance. Through reddening vision Garreth saw people turn to stare at them, but no one questioned or interfered.

  His chest ached from the effort to expand it. His lungs felt as though they were about to burst. Unconsciousness could be only seconds away. It was incredible that he had not passed out already.

  "Thank god we're almost there," Fowler rattled on. Garreth could barely hear through the thunder of blood in his ears. "We'll have you set right straightaway. But one more of these attacks of yours, Sid, and I swear you can bloody well count me out of sight-seeing with you and my sister again."

  Near the street, Garreth's chest loosened. Air! He wanted to gasp in relief and gulp it in. Instead he forced himself to breathe slowly. If Fowler did not notice he was recovering, he could jump the son of a bitch. He hoped. The hammer of sunlight o
n top of suffocation left him shaky and wrung-out.

  "Hey ho, Sid old son, here we are." Fowler propped Garreth against the car. "Let me just find the key and we're off."

  Garreth tensed. Every breath came easier. A few more and he would be breathing normally. Then he would take the bastard.

  "And here we are." Fowler held up the key. But he also had the perfume bottle palmed in the same hand, and before Garreth could move, squeezed a second round of garlic mist into Garreth's face.

  Anger exploded in Garreth. Not again! Choking, he clawed for his gun.

  Fowler caught his wrist and twisted the weapon away. "Naughty, naughty:" He released the cylinder, flipped it out, and dumped the bullets in a smooth, one-handed motion. "We won't be needing these." The cylinder back in place, the gun went into Fowler's coat pocket. "Now, shall we get on with it, with no more foolishness?"

  Why did the incident give Garreth a feeling of déjà vu? Oh, yes. He had also tried to draw on Lane when she had him pinned in that North Beach alley drinking his blood. With no better results, he remembered bitterly.

  Unlocking the car, Fowler shoved him in. Garreth huddled in the seat listening to his lungs creak and his heart slam against them with the strain of fighting to breathe.

  Fowler climbed in the other side and started the car. "I'm sure you're uncomfortable. Suffocation is a terrifying sensation. At least in my personal experience it has always been a most effective method of persuading people to share information they might refuse to otherwise. You needn't worry about passing out or dying, however. Your kind doesn't. You only feel as though you're about to. Endlessly." He backed out of the parking space. "We'll finish our chat somewhere quiet. You still haven't told me where Mada is."

  The words brought a terror totally apart from the panic caused by not being able to breathe. Déjà vu indeed. Fowler would never appreciate the irony of it, but he was an echo of the woman he wanted to destroy. Another victim of Lane's excesses. And as in the alley with Lane, Garreth was completely in his captor's power. Helpless.