by P. N. Elrod
“I can try, but I’ll have to have her full name and description, where she lived at the time, and any other facts about her that could possibly be useful. Have you a photograph?”
“No.”
“A pity, it might have helped.” He shrugged his eyebrows philosophically and changed the subject again. “I’ve been reading Stoker’s book—”
“You have my sympathy,” I said dryly.
“Indeed, it does become turgid in spots, I had to completely skip over the correspondence between the two female characters—such a letdown after those terrifying scenes in the castle. But the idea of the multiple boxes of earth strikes me as very clever, and I came by to recommend it to you. You are quite vulnerable with just the one trunkful.”
“It’s not even that much, but I see your point. I’ve been thinking about that, but putting it off. After all, I’m hardly being chased by Van Helsing. Who believes in vampires in this day and age?”
“Myself, Miss Smythe, Gordy, and anyone else who might notice your lack of a reflection in a mirror or window and think it peculiar. Consider it a safety measure. Suppose there’s a fire, or someone steals your trunk?”
“I’m sold, but where do I stash all this extra dirt?”
He had a ready answer. “I’ve plenty of room in my cellar until you can work out your own places. Are you planning to acquire a second trunk as well? The one you have is a bit large.”
“You noticed. I’ll look around for another tonight and see if I can locate something like a feed sack.”
“What about some canvas bags?” He pulled one from an inside pocket and unfolded it. It was about eighteen inches long, with a rounded bottom six inches across. Around the opening were some things like belt loops. “They were originally made to hold sand, but should work just as well for your earth.”
With that as a clue I realized it was the kind of bag that theaters used to counterweight curtains and stuff backstage. The loops were to be threaded with rope to attach it to lines.
“I have several dozen of these, you’re welcome to them.”
“It’s perfect, but how did you happen to have so many?”
“I have a lot of odds and ends lying about that I’m trying to clear away. I found these while doing some unpacking today. Much of my kit is absolutely useless at the moment, but now and then it fills an unexpected need. It occurs often enough to justify the presence of so much rubbish.”
So two nights later I was in my Buick with three dozen empty sandbags, a new shovel, some rope, and a new trunk. It was smaller than the one I’d initially bought to rest in for the day, which was currently in Escott’s basement. The new trunk was easier to manhandle from the car, and though cramped, it was large enough to hold a body, namely my own. Inside, still in the original feedsacks, was my home earth, which for reasons I did not understand, I was compelled to lie in during the day. The stuff gave me rest and strength and was as necessary to my survival as blood; I could no more question its importance to me than anyone else could question the need for air and water.
I passed through a sleeping little town, one of the many on the road that rolled up the sidewalks at night. The reversed image of the welcome sign was receding in my mirror when the black Lincoln reappeared, this time with its headlights off. They were about a quarter mile back, and if they’d been after anyone but me they would have been invisible in the dark.
That clinched it, they were following me. The idea that they may have had their own brief rest stop and then forgot to switch on their lights was quickly discounted. On a night as black as this, human eyes needed all the help they could get.
Then I wondered if they were like me. That particularly uneasy idea held my attention for several miles before I filed it away for later consideration. It was not impossible, just unlikely.
My original thought that they were members of one of Chicago’s mobs seemed the best explanation. But previous experience with them was in the nature of shooting first and never questioning later, so why just follow me? I’d have been easy enough to overtake on this lonely section of road. A few seconds of parallel driving would be long enough to deliver a .45-caliber greeting from a well-oiled Thompson, and they’d think themselves rid of me. They’d already had the chance to perform such an unsocial action outside Indianapolis. If their game was only to follow, it was becoming annoying, because I don’t enjoy such games.
I kept my speed steady for many more miles, searching my memory for a clue as to who in the gangs would know me, and only came up blank. Perhaps it was some remnant of the Paco mob, or maybe something to do with Escott and that business with Swafford. I was getting more curious by the second.
Another hill loomed ahead and I hoped the far side would prove suitable. I stepped on the gas to gain a little more distance and time and topped the crest with the Lincoln half a mile behind. That would give me plenty of time, if my brakes were any good.
On the other side of the hill, I skidded to a stop and killed the lights, left the motor running, and got out. Standing in front of one taillight and holding my hat over the other to prevent reflections, I waited for them.
They came over the hill, their lights still off. My estimate of their common sense was less than flattering, but the lack of extra glare was fine with me; their faces were now visible.
The one on the left was a scrawny brown chicken of a man in his late fifties, wearing a hat with a brim too big for him. The driver seemed to be of average height, but looked larger compared to his companion. From the look of his pocked skin and wet eyes, he was hardly out of his teens.
Both men saw me at the same time, and both registered the same expression: wide-eyed terror. Had it not been so genuine I would have laughed; as it was I resisted the impulse to look behind me, instinctively knowing that I was the inspiration for their fear.
The kid had quick reactions, he hit the gas, and the Lincoln stormed past, gaining speed from the slant of the hill. I got back in my car and roared after them. Their headlights came on. The following game had been shot all to hell and the high speeds put an end to their stupidity. I left mine off—the starlit landscape was like day to me and I wanted to get close to them.
The older man was turned around in his seat, watching for my approach. I got a good look at his face, which seemed familiar, and then memorized their number plate. They were from New York. That opened up a whole new line of questions as I dropped my speed and settled in to follow them for a change.
The new speculations were as futile as the old—I could think of no one from New York who’d have a reason to be after me. Curiosity was giving way to frustration, with a dash of worry for taste. Their terrified reaction had not been lost on me. I’d seen it before in the faces of people who knew what I was, but that only took me back to Chicago again.
There was Escott, but I trusted him. Besides, these two bozos were too amateurish to be connected with him. The same thing applied to Bobbi. Selma Jenks and her large friend Sled came to mind, but first they’d have to break jail or send someone after me—nope, that was too screwy even for Miss Jenks. The only one left was a mob strong arm named Gordy, but it didn’t fit with him, either. If he had a grudge on me, and he didn’t, he’d handle it himself and much more efficiently.
The Lincoln’s brake lights flickered, held, and then the big car came to a stop, bumping onto the shoulder of the road. I stopped as well and watched to see what they were doing. The kid backed the car off the road and it vanished behind a thick strand of trees and brush. It was just the sort of hideout that state cops liked to use to spring out on unwary speeders. My two friends were going to sit there and wait for me to pass.
I was pretty fed up by now and pulled off the road as well, shutting down the motor. The silence of the country jammed my ears. I got out, not quite closing the door—the slam might have carried to the Lincoln. Keeping low, I quit my car and tiptoed up to theirs.
Their motor was off and neither seemed inclined to any fact-revealing conversation
between themselves. While they waited for the approach of my car, I crouched over their right rear wheel and performed a small operation. After unscrewing the cap in their tire, I located a pebble and jammed it inside at just the right depth and was quite satisfied with the faint hiss of escaping air.
Then I vanished.
It was a useful knack, and on occasions like this it was also fun. I materialized right by the open driver’s window, clamped my hands on the kid’s arms so he couldn’t move to start the car, and asked a reasonable question.
“Who are you guys?”
Sometimes the element of surprise is not a good tactic. If your quarry is too surprised, the reaction you get is not necessarily the one you want.
Close up, the kid looked younger than I thought; his face still had the lingering softness of baby fat. There was a layer of smooth fat all over his body that didn’t suit his years or his sex, and he’d have to lay off the sweets or the problem would get worse with time. Between that and a colorful display of pimples in various stages of development and decay, I didn’t think he was much past eighteen. I’d seen younger thugs, but this guy didn’t fit the mold.
His partner looked the age I guessed, past fifty or so. His hat was off now, revealing a thick growth of greasy hair that was too black to be true. His face had two deep scores on the cheeks, which were repeated countless times on the dry brown skin of his throat. He made me think of Boris Karloff in The Mummy, as though all the water had been squeezed out.
Both men confirmed that they knew what I was, and their reactions were again identical: utter terror.
The kid began yelling and fighting to get away. His legs had gone stiff and he was making a laudable effort at trying to levitate through the roof of the car. If Satan himself had appeared at his elbow in a cloud of sulfur, the reaction could not have been more violent.
His friend’s mouth was wide open in shock. As a side issue I noted the yellow teeth and a number of black fillings. He was making incoherent, panicky sounds, and his hands were stabbing around the car interior, looking for something. He was searching for a weapon, as I found out when, in desperation, he tore off one shoe and began hammering at me with the heel. It was an ineffectual attack. Between the kid’s struggles and my ducking, he kept missing. When he did connect, it was usually with the kid, and that set up a whole new series of howlings.
Loud noises at close quarters make me nervous, but I was game enough to try and last it out. I ended up joining the chorus, shouting at them to shut up. Nothing less than violence would bring that about, as I quickly deduced, and so suited action to thought. I freed one hand and punched out the old guy and his annoying shoe, and he slithered from sight somewhere under the dashboard. The kid freshened his own fight until I stuck a mild fist in his stomach and knocked the breath out of him. He doubled over, bumping his head on the steering wheel, and once again the country silence thankfully descended on us all.
While the kid worked to get air back in his lungs, I slipped the wallet from his coat and nosed through it. He was carrying thirty bucks and a New York driving license bearing the unlikely name of Matheus Webber. There was a small photo of two chubby people, who were probably his parents, a membership card to an athletic club, and a number of business cards from various New York bookstores. I shoved it all back in the leather folder and returned it to his pocket, then opened the door and dragged him out.
He was gasping for air and gray in the face, and I reasoned he must be a sporadic visitor to his club at best. Leaving him on the ground, I reached across the seat to the other guy and pulled him up. His wallet contained a hundred twenty bucks, and said he was James Braxton of New York and the owner of Braxton’s Books in Manhattan. He still seemed familiar, though the name didn’t jog anything in my memory.
Neither of them looked like gangsters.
Matheus was just getting his breath back and seemed likely to bolt, so I caught his collar and tie before he got his legs set and pulled him up against the Lincoln so that we were face-to-face. He stared, lips flapping, and nothing coming out.
“Okay, bub, why were you following me?”
He looked wall-eyed toward Braxton for some moral support but got none. His legs sagged and I had to straighten him up. I repeated my question until it finally penetrated, and then he only looked incredulous. He seemed to think I already knew why. This little act went on for several minutes; me asking variations of why and him blubbering and not giving out any answers. I probably wouldn’t have liked them, anyway. He wasn’t even attempting to lie, it might not have been in his nature. He must have been real cute when his mom caught him raiding the cookie jar.
As with Selma Jenks, I could force a way into his mind that would make him cooperative enough, but decided against it. There was no real harm done and I’d scared them far more than they had annoyed me. I’d try a more reasonable approach.
After saying the kid’s name enough to get his attention, I eased my grip a little when I was sure he wouldn’t try to run. He was as relaxed as he’d ever be with me, which wasn’t much. I pulled out my cigarettes and offered him one.
He looked at it like it was a snake and barely shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”
I nodded agreeably. “It’s a bad habit.” He had some idea that I was an inhuman monster, so I lit a cigarette, because in my limited experience, inhuman monsters rarely smoke. I puffed and blew the smoke out downwind of his face, trying to look harmless. “I’m sorry I popped you and your friend, but things were getting out of hand, don’t you think?”
He bobbed his head cautiously.
“Now, do you know me from somewhere? Do you know my name?”
Reluctantly, he nodded again.
“How do you know me?”
“Mr. Braxton told me.”
“Fine, how does he know me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why were you following me?”
“T-to see where you were going.”
This was getting nowhere fast. “Could you be more specific?”
He had to think that one over, but I waited him out. “W-we were going to see where you went for the day.”
“You mean where I was going to hole up?”
Another nod.
“Why?”
That one was too much for him and he tried to get away. I held him with one hand and advised him to calm down. After a minute he ran out of steam, his legs went like jelly again, and I let him sink down to the running board to rest.
I crouched to be at eye level with him. “You seem to know what I am. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you and your friend planning to make the world a little safer from vampires?” I should have been more diplomatic—his eyebrows were galloping into his hairline again.
“Please . . . don’t . . .” The kid was crying, actually crying, he was that scared. I felt sorry for him and a little embarrassed, and finally pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to him. He stared at it.
“Go on—it won’t bite you.”
He took it, suspicious of some kind of trick. When the trick failed to happen, he finally blew his nose.
I shook my head. “Van Helsing you’re not.”
He stiffened again. “You know about that?”
“What, Dracula? Yeah, reading it is one of the requirements for joining the union. Maybe you’ve heard of us, the International Brotherhood of Vampires. I’m with Chicago Local three eleven.”
He stared. Well, I thought it was funny, but the kid was taking me seriously.
“Matheus—do they call you Matt?”
“No, they call me Matheus.”
They would.
“All right, Matheus, I think you should listen to me very carefully so you can get this straight. You and your friend need to go back to New York and do business as usual. You’re probably a very nice kid—you don’t need to be chasing after vampires in the wilds of Indiana, you’re not cut out for it. You got that?”
Now he was loo
king stubborn. Somewhere deep inside he had a backbone.
“Don’t get me wrong, I think you’ve got a lot of guts to even be thinking of tracking me down. How did you latch on to me anyway?”
“The papers.”
“What about them?”
“Your ad stopped.”
This was a can of worms I hadn’t expected. “Tell me about the ad.”
“It stopped and we wanted to know why, so we called the papers and got your address.”
“How did you know about it? What do you know about Maureen?”
“Nothing!”
“What does Braxton know?” But I was overanxious and the kid clammed up again. I counted ten and tried a calmer voice. “Did he know Maureen?”
“I think so, years ago.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t. But he knew you had been with her . . . that she had . . . had . . . that you might become . . . but we weren’t sure.”
My grip on him relaxed; the muscles felt like water. “Is Maureen alive?”
He shook his head. “No, she’s like you.”
“Is she alive?”
“I don’t know!”
“Does Braxton know?”
“Uh-uh. He said he lost her trail, you were his only lead. When the ads stopped he thought you’d found her or that you’d died. . . .” The realization that he was talking to a dead man must have hit him all over again. He sat with his arms dangling, looking at me with helpless horror.
“How did you get on my trail?”
“Through the papers. We only got into town this afternoon, and spent the day looking for you. We got to your hotel, but they wouldn’t help us, even when we described you, so we waited across the street for you to come out.”
“So Braxton knew what I looked like?”
“Yes . . . but I thought you were a lot older.”
The kid was right. I was thirty-six, but my condition and diet made me look about twenty-two.
“We saw you putting the trunk in the car and thought you were running away, but we weren’t sure—not until you went to the Stockyards, then we knew that you were . . . you had . . .” He gulped the idea down. “We followed you, but when you got on the road you didn’t act like you were running, so we just stayed back and followed.”