The Vampire Files, Volume One

by P. N. Elrod

“Ten minutes, maybe less.”

  “There was no phone in the warehouse. I would guess they made the first call to prove they had her, secured her, and made the second call. Then they hurried to the warehouse to wait for you.”

  I lurched out of the chair, ready to put some holes in the walls, but hugged my chest instead. It still hurt. “Gaylen may have died by now. She wouldn’t wait.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’ll be like me, if it happens.”

  “Not like you.”

  “It won’t be just her. From her talk she’ll be trying to change Malcolm, too. If it works for him, they’ll be the kind of monsters Braxton was after.”

  “You told me that acquiring this condition is difficult and there is no way to tell until after death.”

  “That’s how I understood it. I’m thinking that it might work for Gaylen since it worked for Maureen. Malcolm I don’t know about, but it’s better if we include him as well, just to save us from any surprises.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  There was one more thought left unspoken. If Bobbi were still alive, they would be keeping her as a food source. Oh, God.

  The phone rang, I reached it first, but let Escott do the answering. Gordy was on the other end. Escott had once told me I had no real idea of the grip and influence the mobs had in Chicago. It must have been pretty strong—he had an address.

  “I’m coming over,” he said. “You got some iron?”

  Escott said yes, but I shook my head and asked for the earpiece.

  “Gordy, this is Jack. If what I think has happened has happened, guns ain’t gonna work, at least not on one of them.”

  “So what can we do?”

  “Can you get some shotguns?”

  “No problem.”

  “And some extra shells?”

  “No problem.”

  “And one more thing . . .” I told him what. Escott’s brows went up in surprise and interest.

  Gordy considered and again said: “No problem. I’m sending some boys over to watch the place ’til we get there. Sit tight ’til I come for you.”

  Almost as soon as we hung up it rang again.

  “Hello? What? Oh, yes.” He passed it to me.

  I answered thinking it was Marza.

  The masculine voice was a jarring shock. “Jack, I want to talk with you.”

  “Dad?” Oh, hell.

  “What kind of trouble are you into?”

  “Trouble? What’s the matter?”

  “That’s something you can tell me. The cops were by here just now wanting to know where you are.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “Hell no. Not until I know what’s going on. They wouldn’t say and your mother’s throwing a fit, so start talking, boy.”

  Hell and damnation. “Dad, this is just some kind of a mix-up to do with those two con men.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I suddenly felt six years old again with Dad towering over me, ready to get the razor strop. I had to consciously shake off the image and remember I was thirty years older and a lot taller. “Okay, what happened is that the little guy Braxton got shot and killed, and the kid thinks I’m involved, so he sent the cops to look me up.”

  A long silence.

  “That’s the truth, Dad. The kid saw me in the same building. They were following me to make trouble, and then someone bumped off Braxton. The kid got knocked out. He saw the killer, but not the killing. He knew I was there so he gave my name to the cops, and yours, too.”

  The language that followed heated the lines up, and then he repeated the story to Mom, who began groaning in the background.

  “Look, why don’t you pick up one of the Chicago papers? They’re full of the whole story—”

  “I did. It’s the ‘Studio Slaying,’ isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “What were you doing there, anyway?”

  “I went to see the show.”

  “Why couldn’t you have seen the show on the radio?” he said illogically. “What are you going to do? Are you going to the cops?”

  Double hell. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this whole thing stinks.”

  “You’re damn right it stinks,” he agreed, his voice rising.

  “I mean I need some time to get things straightened out.”

  “What things?”

  “It’d take too long to explain. If my boss thought I was really involved with this I could lose my job, and I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “And I don’t want the cops coming around here again.”

  “I know. Look, could you just hold off giving them this number?”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shit!”

  “Dad, I’ve got good reasons for staying out of this, but I can’t go into them now.”

  He growled, hemmed and hawed, but in the end decided he could even if he didn’t like it. Then we said good-bye.

  I put the earpiece back. “This is ridiculous. The kid sicced the cops on my parents to try and find me.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “What a pain in the ass.”

  “Well, at least you have a father willing to help you.”

  “Yeah. I guess I’m going to have to talk with the kid and make him change his mind about me.”

  “Though it would seem the damage had been done. I do admire the way you did not quite tell all the truth and yet avoided a direct lie.”

  “Yeah, it must be all that journalistic training,” I said, beating him to the punch line. “Except that bit about losing my job.”

  “I suppose if it came down to it, you could say that I am your ‘boss.’ Technically I am, at least on certain occasions, and you are correct; if an employee of mine turned up in this sort of mess, I would not understand.”

  “Tell me another one.”

  11

  WE were ready when Gordy pulled up and touched the horn, but the weather wasn’t the best for a long trip. Though I had a raincoat and Escott loaned me a hat, neither one was going to be much protection against a sky that had split open with a vengeance. I didn’t like it and felt a sharp twist inside because it had been raining out on the lake like this the night I’d been killed. Such associations were hard to ignore.

  Escott and I recognized the car; it was the same one that belonged to Slick Morelli, Gordy’s deceased boss. It also stirred up bad memories, but it was just a car, so we got in. Escott sat in front with Gordy and I shared the back with some hard lumpy things. “Careful with that stuff,” Gordy cautioned.

  The stuff was covered with an old blanket. I pulled it back and Escott turned around to see. They were all from different makers but had the same basic look; sawed off, double-barreled, and at short range, appallingly deadly. Gordy handed me an oddly light cartridge box.

  “Check this and see if it’s what you want. They’re loaded with ’em.”

  I opened the box, got a cartridge, and pried open the end with a thumbnail. The contents spilled into my palm. Less than a quarter inch in diameter and dull brown in color, there was just enough light to see the grain pattern in each one.

  “They look like beads,” I said, noticing the tiny holes drilled in them.

  “That’s ’cause they are beads. One of the girls at the club had this necklace. They gonna work?”

  “If they’re wood, they’ll work, but only at short range.”

  “They’re wood. We’ll probably have to go for point blank, then.” Escott looked uncomfortable. Gordy noticed.

  “You know how this could end up; stay in or get out,” he said in an even tone.

  Escott locked eyes with him a moment, then put his hand over the seat for one of the shotguns.

  It was enough of an answer for Gordy. He gave me an up-and-down. “You look like hell, Fleming.”

  That was his way of saying hello, how are you. I shrugged. “Where are we going?”


  He started the motor and shifted gears. “A house on the south side. Any of the guys down there catch my boys in their territory they might get annoyed, so keep your eyes open. What kind of iron you got?”

  “This,” said Escott, pulling out a huge, odd-looking revolver. It had a ring in the butt, which tagged it as an army gun to me. The cylinder had a kind of zigzag pattern to it and it looked like the top part slid back, as though for an automatic. It even had a safety. I’d never seen anything quite like it and neither had Gordy.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “A Webley-Fosbery ‘automatic’ revolver.”

  “Maybe someday you can explain what that means. How ’bout you, Fleming?”

  “This shotgun’s enough for me.” I tried to sound confident, though I hadn’t really held a gun since the armistice. “Did Charles tell you they’ve got a sawed-off, too?”

  “Yeah, but the range on ’em’s not so good.”

  “It’s good enough to kill.”

  “So duck.”

  Pressing deep into the backseat, I inhaled a lot of air and slowly released it. My nerves were turning up with some sharp and useless edges, mostly because of last night. It’d been a long time since I last felt so physically weak, and it was unsettling.

  We slipped through the nearly empty streets. Some stores and a few bars were open, their customers huddled inside near the comfort of the lights. Now and again a face could be glimpsed framed in a window, eyes raised to the sky. Rain crashed down against the roof and bounced from the hood.

  “Lousy night,” Gordy commented. It occurred to me he was showing some nerves as well in extraneous conversation.

  “Quite,” agreed Escott, making it unanimous.

  It got worse. The wipers were doing their best in a bad situation, but there was just too much water coming down. Gordy slowed the car, muttering. A few blocks later we hit a clear patch and made up the time, then he took an abrupt turn, parking halfway down a long, empty block behind another car. He got out to talk to the men waiting in it and returned.

  “That one,” he said, his eyes pointing to a white house half-hidden in trees. All we could see was part of its wide front and a couple of brick pillars supporting the porch roof. There were no lights. “No one’s been in or out. They think it’s empty.”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “Stay in the car while I go look.”

  “But—”

  “Let him,” said Escott. “He’s very good at it.”

  I got out, leaving the gun, and strolled casually on the sidewalk until I was even with the trees. The area was quiet, with only two other houses back at the corner where we had turned. No curious eyes were on us, the rain had sent everyone inside to listen to the weather reports on the radio. It was a good location: private, fairly isolated, and still close to the city. They would feel safe bringing Bobbi here. I wanted them to feel very safe.

  The wind kicked up and tugged my coat. The storm cell we’d driven out from was catching up, and I felt wet enough already. I stepped under the dripping trees and melted in with the shadows. I kept enough solidity so the wind wouldn’t blow me away, but was virtually invisible, at least to night-dulled human eyes.

  The front windows were dark and the curtains drawn. It looked as deserted as Gordy’s men had reported. Around the side, one of the bedroom windows was raised a few inches. I eased close and listened, but the rain interfered with any sounds within. There was screening to keep out the flies and curtains as well, but not the kind you could see through. I moved around to the back of the house.

  We’d found the right place. I recognized the panel truck parked next to the open and empty garage. I sighted on it, vanished completely, and floated over, re-forming with it between me and the house. The motor was cold, the key gone. The front interior was clean but there was a box in the back; a box about five and a half feet long, a foot high, and two feet wide. I lifted the lid and was not surprised to find three or four inches of dirt lining the bottom. What was disturbing was the clear imprint of a body in the earth.

  Gaylen had not waited a moment longer than necessary. I wondered if she had killed herself or given that task over to Malcolm.

  Going back to the house, I went from window to window, shamelessly peering in, but with no results. They were all closed, except for that one, and the curtains were firmly drawn. I found one unobscured basement window, and it looked like a discreet place for us all to slip inside.

  When I returned Escott and Gordy were anxious for even negative news. “Malcolm’s car is gone, but the truck’s out back. Her box of earth is in it—it’s been used.”

  Gordy didn’t like my tone. “Whaddaya mean ‘used’?”

  “He means that these guns and the shells in them are no longer a mere precaution, but a necessity,” explained Escott.

  “She’s a vampire, then?”

  “Yes, and every bit as potentially dangerous as our friend here.” Gordy looked at me, considering the possibilities. I didn’t look particularly dangerous, but he knew from experience I at least had endurance.

  “She will appear to be about Bobbi’s age now,” I said. “Maybe younger, and she could kill either of you without even trying. These guns give us a chance against her at night, but only a chance. If you get a clear shot, don’t hesitate; I can promise she won’t. If you miss and it looks bad, do whatever you can to get away, and let me handle her.”

  “Are they in the house?”

  “I don’t know. It looks deserted. If it weren’t raining I’d be able to hear something inside.”

  “We shall have to break in, then,” said Escott. “But quietly.”

  “I’ve got a window picked out, but I want someone to back me up while I’m checking the joint.”

  “Just lead the way.”

  Loading our pockets with shells, we took the guns, concealing them under our coats as Malcolm had done at the radio station. I cautiously led them around and pointed out the window. Gordy let out a startled “Jeeze” when I vanished and re-formed inside. The catch was a rusty mess and nearly broke off in my hand when I twisted it free and pulled. As it was, they had to push from the outside while I dug my nails deep under the painted-shut framing. There was a sharp crack and a creak and it opened. We all stopped moving and listened, but no one came down the stairs to investigate. When it was wide enough, Escott came through feetfirst, and as soon as they touched the floor he pivoted around to get his shotgun.

  “Come on, Gordy.”

  His eyes went around the opening. With him next to it for comparison it looked a lot smaller. “Are you kiddin’? I’ll watch things out here ’til you can get the back door open.”

  Escott nodded. “Very well, we do need a rear guard.”

  Rain spattered our faces, and above Gordy’s huge frame the sky burned with lightning. The thunder that followed seconds later made me wince from the sheer sound, and even Escott paused and frowned.

  “Lousy night,” Gordy muttered, showing his nerves again.

  I told Escott to stay in the basement while I looked upstairs, and left him in charge of the guns. He didn’t argue.

  The basement door was hanging wide open, which was a bad sign to me. Most people keep theirs shut because a large opening into a dark pit makes them uncomfortable, but only when they’re home. The door led straight up to the kitchen.

  No one was there, but they had been. The table, counters, and stove were all stacked with dishes, pans, and leftover food; a small garbage pail by the back door had passed the point of no return some time ago. I held still and listened, but the rain on the roof acted like so much radio static.

  The back door was locked. I didn’t want to chance any noise letting Gordy in, he’d have to wait awhile longer.

  The kitchen opened onto a dark living room. No one was hiding in the corners. In the middle of the floor stood Gaylen’s discarded wheelchair.

  I went back, passing Escott, who waited quietly near the top of the steps with a shotgun ready in
his hands, his brows raised in a question. I shook my head and pointed down the hall to the bedrooms and went there.

  The first door on the right was the bath, the second a small empty bedroom. The bed was unmade and women’s clothing decorated the floor and furniture. A crumpled mass of fabric on a chair looked like the flower-print dress Norma had worn last night. It was still damp and smelled of the river.

  The door to the second bedroom was shut. I pressed my ear to it. Even with the rain, I was certain to hear anyone on the other side, but the wood was thick and the thunder made me jumpy. I vanished, slipped through the door, and clung close to it while trying to substitute extended touch for sight.

  On the right was something large and square, perhaps a bureau; on the left, space for the door to swing and another square object. Ahead was empty space. I could hear, but only in a muffled sort of way, and by then I was imagining sounds. I had to see what I was into and tried for a partial materialization.

  Standing out starkly on the walls and ceilings were red splashes—a lot of them. My eyes dropped to the body on the floor. She was on her back, half-covered with a bedspread, her legs tangled in its folds. The red dress still looked new, the bloodstains blending invisibly into the bright color.

  Blood was everywhere.

  Everywhere. There was no head.

  I must have made a noise or been too long. I was dimly aware of Escott quitting the basement and approaching. I had no memory of leaving the room, but he found me on my knees in the hall next to the open door.

  “Jack?”

  I blinked. I was staring very hard at a corner where the wall met the floor. There was dust in the crevice. I had to look at that and concentrate on it or I would see her instead.

  He stepped carefully past me and turned on the bedroom light.

  “Don’t.” The word came out of nowhere. It was wrong to put light in that room; light would make what was there real.

  He flinched, caught his breath, then looked back at me, but my mind and eyes were focused on a meaningless detail to keep the unacceptable at bay. The light went out and he remained still for a while, getting his breath back to normal. After a time he stepped away from the door.

  “Come on, Jack. Come with me.”