by Raisor, Gary
And yet they were coming straight toward him.
Time was running out. It was now or never.
Leon had hoped for a few moments to check the pistol over. It had been in the refrigerator a long time. He didn't have a few moments. With a silent curse, he ripped the door open and shoved the jar containing the pig's feet to the side. Something was wrong with jar. He looked for the .32. Looked at the pig's feet again. Something was wrong. What? It wouldn't register. He slewed the contents of the refrigerator onto the floor. No gun. No goddamn gun.
He slammed the door shut and the room was once again dark. But only for a moment.
The light popped on, throwing the basement into blinding brightness. "Say, this is really nice," Earl said. "Steven and I always stay in motels on account of we do so much traveling. It ain't often we get to see the inside of a real house." He pulled Leon's .32 out of the waistband of his pants. "I didn't think this thing was ever gonna warm up. It damn near froze my balls off."
Leon grabbed the first thing he saw, a pool cue propped against the wall. He swung, caught Earl a good shot with the business end.
Earl whoofed, went down. But he didn't turn loose of the gun. He leveled it at Leon from the floor, holding it shakily before him like an inadequate bribe for an angry god.
Only Leon wasn't interested in him anymore.
The big black man dropped the shattered pool cue and looked past Earl, his eyes drawn to a flash of light on the floor. The jar holding the pig's feet was rolling slowly toward the wall, spilling its contents along the way like a dryer with the door open. Most of what was inside was already on the floor, but one of the shriveled pink nubs was darker than the rest and it had something shiny on it that caught the light. Leon wished he'd gotten the glasses he needed as he tried to bring the jar into focus. Someone had put rings on one of the pig's feet. Now, that was a real stupid thing to do. He would have laughed if he wasn't so scared.
Then he wanted to look away. Because he knew. He knew.
The concrete floor had a dip in it and the jar began rolling backward, coming ever closer to him. He could almost make out what was inside. It was gold, all right, but it wasn't rings. The jar bumped up against his feet, splashing them with coldness, then it began rolling back down the dip.
That was when Leon saw the golden lacquered nails peeking from the brine. "Dorinda," he whispered, and then he started toward Earl with his huge hands curled open. It was apparent he meant to strangle the smaller man, gun or no gun.
Earl began scrambling backward.
"Why?" Leon said.
Steven stepped up behind Leon and hit him in the back of the head with a gardening spade. The metal made a dull, flat, whacking sound. Caked dirt hit the wall.
Leon staggered, but didn't go down
Steven hit him again, harder this time.
Leon grunted, went to his hands and knees. Began crawling forward.
Steven hit him a third time. Blood and sweat shot from the black man's head, splattered Earl.
Steven raised the spade a fourth time, but Leon was through. His eyes showed white and he toppled over sideways, unconscious. The jar that had held his daughter's hand continued rocking back and forth for a while longer, finally coming to rest against his head. It looked as if the disembodied hand were trying to comfort him.
Steven put the spade down. He looked vaguely disappointed that he didn't have to use it again.
Earl hobbled to his feet and looked over at Steven. "Jesus Christ, did you see where he hit me? I can't believe it; he hit me in the ribs! The same ones that kid over in Corpus Christi kicked the other night"
"You still love playing hide-and-seek?" the younger man asked.
When Leon came to, he was tied to a chair and Steven was shooting pool. Earl was eating a pig's foot. "Is she dead? Is Dorinda dead?"
Steven nodded, shot. A ball fell.
"Why did you have to kill her?" The good side of his face was as dead as the scarred side.
"She wasn't a very good pool player," Steven answered, as though that explained everything. "I came to town for a game and I didn't get one. You see, I've got this problem with my temper. I guess I just got a little upset." He lined up another shot. "Besides, I wanted you to know I was serious about getting my cue stick back."
"What's so important about a cue stick that you'd kill a sixteen-year-old girl over?"
"I thought she was seventeen," Steven interrupted. Another ball dropped into a pocket.
"No," Leon answered, "she was only sixteen. She wanted to be an artist when she grew up." He looked at her hand on the floor and then at Earl, who looked away.
Steven stopped shooting and turned his attention to Leon. "You want to know why that cue stick is so important to me? It's because it has something inside it that I need, something that I can't live without. I've got a few spares put away, but not that many." He walked to the refrigerator and pulled out two beers, handed one to Earl. "We came here because I think you know who has my stick."
Earl hobbled slowly over to the wall and took down one of the pictures hanging there. The snapshot was of three guys in the Army, one was Leon, a much slimmer younger Leon, the second guy Earl had never seen before. The third face was familiar—from Leon's pool hall earlier tonight. "We need this guy's name and an address."
"You can go screw yourselves. I ain't telling you nothing."
Glancing at the snapshot, a slight smile tugged at Steven's face. "Earl, did you notice anything odd about this little group here?"
"Yeah, they all look like they put on a lot of weight since then?"
"No, no. There's a black guy, a white guy, and an Indian. What the shit is this, you guys poster boys for racial harmony?"
"We were friends a long time ago, that's all," Leon said. "The Indian's dead. I don't know where the white guy is. He just stops by maybe once or twice a year. He's a hustler, stays on the road a lot."
Steven finished his beer, crushed the can.
"If you go on and tell him where to find the guy with the stick," Earl said, his voice dropping to conspiratorial whisper, "I promise I'll get Steven to kill you straight out. A bullet in the head. No torturing you first. It's asking a lot, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances." He spread his hands. "I can't hold this offer open long so you'd better make up your mind fast."
Leon had the absurd feeling he was talking to a used-car salesman. "Something's been bothering me. You mind if I ask you a question?"
"Sure," Earl said. "What's on your mind?"
"I got the feeling you could see me in the dark and when you came down the steps… they didn't squeak. A cat can't walk down those steps without—"
"Can I let you in on a little secret, Leon?" Steven asked. The scarred head nodded.
"We're not exactly human."
Beer flew from Earl's mouth.
"Did I say something funny, old friend?" Steven asked. He sounded slightly annoyed.
"You killed the guy's daughter, cut off her hand and stuck it in a jar of pig's feet, and then you tell him that you're not exactly human. I think he's already figured that out." Earl tossed his gnawed pig's foot on the floor, turned to the bound man. "What my young friend meant to say is that we're not just a couple of psychos who run around killing people for the fun of it. Well, actually he is."
Steven smiled.
Earl was beginning to sound a little embarrassed. "What I'm trying to say is we're a little less than human… oh shit… show him the teeth, will you?"
"Why don't you do it?" Steven was laughing out loud now. Earl's face actually turned red.
"All right, I'm sorry, Earl. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I know how sensitive you are on that subject." Steven moved around into their captive's field of view, the smile still plastered on his pale face. "Watch this, Leon, you're going to love it." Suddenly from behind Steven Adler's very white teeth appeared a second set of teeth, much longer than the first, curved, and sharp as needles.
Warmness ran down Leo
n's legs.
"God, I hate it when they do that," Earl said, wrinkling his nose.
Steven closed his mouth, cutting off the grotesque smile. "Let's see, where were we? Oh yes, why I want my pool cue back. It's because it has something in it I need. Dirt, very special dirt. It comes from my—"
"Grave," Leon supplied. "You're a…." He couldn't bring himself to say the word.
"Vampire. The word is vampire," Steven finished.
"You can't be," Leon stammered. "You've got a cross hanging from your ear and you're drinking beer."
"You're absolutely right, though I wouldn't call this light shit you drink—beer." Steven emptied the can on the floor and watched it flow toward the drain. "Look, I'm going to make this real simple for you. In the scheme of things there are many species of animal who don't care much for the light of day. They live, they hunt only by night. Why should humankind be exempt?"
"Do you have any children?" Leon asked dully, staring at his daughter's hand.
The question seemed to amuse Steven. "Earl here is my son, in a manner of speaking. But no, we are aberrations of nature and we can't reproduce in the human manner. Think of vampirism as a disease, one that's very hard to catch, but still just a disease."
Leon opened his mouth to say something.
Steven raised his hand, cutting him off. "You've had your turn at twenty questions. Now, it's my turn. I need that name and address we spoke of earlier."
"I can't give him up to you," Leon said. "He's my friend."
"Last chance."
Leon spat in the pale face.
Quick as a cat, Steven bared razor-sharp teeth and Leon felt a sting on his neck.
"Now look what you've made me do, Leon. Didn't I warn you about my temper?" The pale tongue slid over red-stained teeth, leaving them pristine white. "There's one very important thing that popular fiction doesn't mention about us. Do you feel it yet? It works very fast."
Something alien began stirring in Leon's blood, spreading numbness down his arms and legs. Much worse, though, were the horrifying images that began filling his mind. "What've you done to me?"
Pulling back, Steven said, "Tell us about this thief." He touched the face of John Warrick in the picture. "And maybe I'll answer you."
Warm stickiness slid down Leon's neck. Trickled out of sight. When the black lines came to rest against the inside of his white T-shirt, red stains blossomed one alter another as if by magic, an impromptu Rorschach test.
"I keep looking for a bat," Earl commented as he leaned over to examine the stains. "Never seen one yet."
Their voices were fading and the images gathering in Leon's mind were getting stronger. Steven Adler and Earl Jacobs looked more and more like the kids who'd waylaid him on his paper route when he was ten.
The years peeled away.
Bringing back painful memories.
Once again Leon was lying on his back in an alley, the smell of dog shit and rotting garbage in the humid air. His ruined bike lay beside him, two white teenagers stood above him. Their faces were devoid of all emotion except hatred. "My old man says we can't allow no niggers to have a paper route in our neighborhood. We warned you to get your black ass on back to your own side of town. Guess maybe you need a little reminder."
There was a soft snick when the switchblade opened. A knee in the chest, a flash of pain on his face. Blood running down. He kept thinking how mad his mom was going to be because he had ruined his brand-new shirt. "Momma, I'm sorry," he had said, doing his best not to cry. They wouldn't see him cry. Not ever. His hand went to his cheek, trying to stop the bleeding.
Everything was exactly like he remembered on that long ago day. The pain, the humiliation. He could see the wheel on his bike spinning in the bright sunshine, a car cruising past, too far away to help.
Except this time there was one small crucial difference. This time old Mr. Saltzman didn't come rushing out to save him, and the knives kept on cutting and cutting.
Everything got all confused. His daughter, Dorinda, was there and she reached out for him, trying to help him up, but she couldn't. She had no hands. "They hurt me, Daddy," she said, and her eyes pleaded with him for help. She touched him.
He looked down at his shirt. Saw the bloody stains, left by his daughter looked up—into the face of Steven Adler, who was whistling softly while he shot pool. "Bad dreams? Talk to me, Leon, or we can do this again."
Though Leon was filled with shame at his cowardice, he knew he would do anything to keep Steven from touching him again. He told them everything he knew, but he didn't tell them that John Warrick had a family. The image of Dorinda with no hands helped him to hold out.
They seemed to believe him.
"You should've taken our offer and told us where John Warrick was when we first asked," Steven said, placing a hand on Leon's heaving shoulder.
Leon tried to pull away.
"It would have been much easier for everyone concerned." Steven's voice was matter-of-fact, as though he were explaining to a small child why he was being punished. "This isn't going to be very pleasant for you, Leon. You see, one of the side effects of getting bitten by a vampire is that a hallucinogen is released into the blood. That's what you were feeling. Its purpose is to immobilize the victim with fear. Makes it much easier for us to feed. How did it do?"
Leon didn't say anything.
"On the good side, it destroys short-term memory. You won't remember anything about tonight." Steven leaned close. "Time to go night-night, but don't be scared. Daddy always gives his children a little kiss before he tucks them in."
The refrigerator kicked on, kicked off. Then the only sound in the room was a hungry sucking.
After a while, Steven raised from the unconscious body of Leon Francis Wilson. The vampire wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red. "You want a taste or not?"
"I guess so." Earl looked hesitant. His eyes were fixed on the floor.
"What's wrong now?" Steven asked.
"Nothing."
"Come on, what's wrong?"
"I left something in my other jacket."
"Something."
"What?" Steven coaxed.
"Something… all right, my teeth! I didn't bring my fangs with me, okay? Damn it, it's not my fault you turned me after I lost all my teeth!" He looked away, his voice sad. "Cut him for me, will you?"
"Why don't you do it?"
"You know how I feel about knives and cutting people." Earl traced the scar on Leon's jaw. "You didn't have to torture him so much. He would have told you what you wanted to know."
"Kind of like the way old Cates told you what you wanted to know? You remember Cates, don't you?"
"Yeah, I remember," Earl answered. "I remember.
Jacobs had stolen horses for a living in his younger days, but that was a long time ago. Now he was getting old. He had never thought he would live to be old, since the fate of most horse thieves was to finish up on the end of a rope.
The year was 1919—he wasn't too sure about the month—and the meager living he made these days came from peddling snake oil town to town. A man wasn't as likely to be hung for selling snake oil as for stealing horses, though it was still a risky occupation. You might catch a rock thrown by a disgruntled customer if you weren't quick on your feet. A man had to take things as they came.
On the good side, he had a wagon with his name on it; on the bad side, he had a temperamental rattlesnake, the two slowest mules in Texas, and a surly, one-eared dog that wouldn't do any tricks at all.
All in all, he figured he wasn't doing too bad.
He was standing in the middle of what passed for a main street in Jessup, Arizona, trying his best to interest the crowd in a bottle of his elixir. Progress hadn't managed to locate Jessup yet. There was a dry-goods store where you could post a letter if you had a mind to, a Baptist church where you could be saved if you had a mind to, and a saloon if you didn't. Most of the citizenry looked saved, which meant they had no intention of spending
any of their money, unless it was over at the saloon. Some of the farmers kept gazing wistfully in that direction and rubbing their sunburned necks.
Earl's claims for his patented medicine were being met with a great deal of good-natured jeering. Most of the folks were more interested in seeing him handle the four-foot rattlesnake he claimed to own than they were in drinking his medicine, which was mostly watered-down whiskey anyway. He was going to have to pull out the snake soon if he was going to hold on to the crowd, and he hated that. The heat tended to put the snake in a bad mood and he'd already been bitten four times this month. He was feeling more than a little put out and kept glaring at his surly dog, who wouldn't even shake hands.
So far, no one was showing even the slightest interest in buying a bottle of his cure-all.
Already the crowd was beginning to get restless and some were drifting away. His chances for making a sale were getting slimmer by the minute.
Only one thing to do—bring on the snake.
He went to the back of the wagon and lifted out the wooden crate that held the big diamondback. There was an ominous rattle from inside. The onlookers brightened up considerably at this development. Earl was not particularly cheered by the sound. That old snake got bigger and meaner by the day. Maybe someday he would grow large enough to swallow the surly dog. It was the first cheerful thought he'd had all day.
One of the ranchers, a big florid man in a straw hat, was telling anyone who would listen about a preacher he'd seen down in Louisiana who handled snakes. "It was the damnedest thing I ever seen. He had snakes crawling all over him. Said he Wasn't scared at all. Said the Lord would protect him."
"What happened?" his companion asked.
"I guess the Lord must have been busy that day, 'cause one of them snakes bit that preacher right in the face. It wasn't no time before he got all swole up. He died before the sun even went down."
"The snake or the preacher?" a wag in the crowd asked.
Earl started to tip the box over, but he lost his grip and the snake tumbled out onto the dusty street. The old diamondback was thick as a man's arm. Before Earl could get hold of him, the snake struck him on the hand and held on.