Caxton and Lu got out of the car and approached the housing unit. She could hear thumping music coming through the drawn curtains and thought she could even smell pot smoke. She waved at Lu to cover her, then stepped up to the door and pounded on it. “Open up,” she shouted. “Federal agents.”
There was no answer. She hadn’t really expected one—the music inside must be playing at an ear-shattering volume, if she could hear it so clearly through the building’s insulated walls. She hammered again and again at the door, and stabbed at the bell over and over. Finally she heard someone moving around inside. She stepped over to the nearest window and tapped on the glass with her collapsible baton.
“Shit!” someone said inside. “Did you hear that?”
“Come on,” Caxton shouted. “Open this door!”
The music stopped abruptly. Caxton pounded on the door again. Finally someone came to the door and peaked out. It was a young man, just about Simon’s age, with a mop of black curls falling to his shoulders. His eyes were deeply bloodshot and they had trouble finding Caxton’s face. “What?” the boy asked.
Caxton sighed. “Scott Cohen? I’m Special Deputy Caxton, and this is Special Deputy Benicio. We’re here to talk to Simon Arkeley. Can we come in, please?”
The boy licked his lips. He appeared deep in thought. Caxton tried to remain patient and calm, but she knew if Cohen didn’t step aside in a second she would physically remove him from the doorway.
“Um, okay,” the boy finally said. “Wait. Are you cops?”
Caxton shoved past him through the door. “Federal agents,” she said, gesturing for Lu to follow her.
“I’m not sure if I should let you in,” Cohen said, but it was already too late. Caxton was inside.
The room beyond the door was a kitchen, with a dented and scorched countertop and badly painted cabinets. The refrigerator was decorated with a poster for an organization called NORML, which showed an oversized hemp leaf. She came around the side of the counter and saw a framed M. C. Escher print on the wall. The rest of the lower floor was taken up by a spacious living room with a tan shag carpet. Numerous spots on the carpet had been burned down to round, black-edged holes, perhaps by dropped cigarettes. There was a gigantic sofa, on which a boy who had to be Murphy Frissell lay passed out or sleeping. There was a forty-inch flat-screen television, switched off. On a coffee table sat a collection of glass and plastic bongs, as well as numerous butane lighters and mini blowtorches of the kind used to make crème brûlée—or to keep a crack pipe lit.
Caxton scanned the corners of the room looking for shotguns or pistols or, for that matter, swords—she’d seen enough residences exactly like this one to expect the bizarre. There was no sign of any weapons, however.
Cohen had followed after her like a puppy, his hands up in front of him as if he were surrendering before she’d even charged him with anything. “Where is he?” she demanded. Before Cohen could ask who she meant, she said, “Arkeley. Simon Arkeley.”
The boy looked around the room, his face scrunched up. “He’s not here,” he said, and Caxton’s heart fell. Then his eyes opened wider. “He must be upstairs, then. Is he upstairs?”
“Let’s go see,” Caxton said, and nodded at Lu. “Scott, you stay here.”
The boy looked at her very hard. “Okay,” he said.
Caxton wondered what on earth Simon could be doing with these losers. He hadn’t struck her as a serious drug user when she met him. Still, that encounter had been very brief and she supposed she could have been mistaken.
The stairs were at the far end of the room. She mounted them slowly, unsure what to expect at the top. She could see a wisp of smoke curling around the light fixtures up there and she drew her weapon. If Simon was up there smoking pot he might react badly to sight of law enforcement.
He solved that problem for her by coming out of the door at the top of the stairs and glaring down at her. Simon was alive, she saw at once. Alive and unhurt.
It wasn’t too late.
“Mr. Arkeley,” Lu said, “I hope we’re not disturbing you, sir.”
“Not at all,” Simon told him. “Hello, Trooper.”
Caxton gritted her teeth. “It’s Special Deputy now.”
Simon nodded. “I suppose we have to talk. Come on up.”
40.
Caxton turned to Lu at the top of the stairs. “Keep an eye on the two down there. They’re probably out of commission, but I don’t want them leaving until I say it’s okay.”
Lu nodded, but he grabbed her arm before he went back down. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said, frowning.
Did he expect her to beat information out of Simon? Or maybe just violate his civil rights some other way? For the moment she didn’t feel the need to break any laws. Not as long as Simon was still okay. She followed the boy down a short hallway to a bedroom.
Two mattresses lay in opposite corners, lying on the floor with no frames to support them. The walls were covered in posters for jam bands and deceased rock stars. Clothes were strewn around the floor and a pile of pornographic magazines was stacked neatly in one corner. Blue, slow-moving smoke filled the ceiling and made all the objects in the room indistinct. It came from a silver mixing bowl full of smoldering herbs on the floor.
Simon sat down on the carpet next to the bowl in an easy lotus position and gestured for her to do the same.
She preferred to stay standing. “We figured out the trick you pulled with Linda, obviously,” she said.
“I figured you would, given your reputation. I just wanted enough time to escape. Of course, that was hours ago,” Simon said. His eyes were closed and his head tilted slightly back.
“I got a late start this morning and just got into town. So you’re not going to help me out, are you?”
His shoulders rose a fraction of an inch. “I’ve done some research. Law isn’t my thing, normally, but when your underlings showed up to harass me I looked into my options. I can’t actively interfere with your investigation. Beyond that you have no power over me—I don’t even have to answer your questions if I don’t want to.” He opened his eyes. “And I don’t want to.”
Caxton smiled. “Why not?”
He only smiled in return.
“I could bust you. I could drag you down to the local station house and have them book you,” she threatened.
“Really? On what charge?”
She waved a hand through the smoke that filled the room. “Drugs.”
Simon turned his head from side to side. “Actually, no, you can’t. No one in this house has broken any kind of drug law. I see by your face you don’t believe me, but if you search this place from top to bottom—and I don’t doubt you would—you won’t find so much as a stem or a seed of any illegal drug. This is where I come when I want to smoke Salvia divinorum—the sage of the seers. Which isn’t illegal at all.”
“Not yet,” Caxton said. “The legislature is working on it.”
“But until a new law is passed—well,” Simon said, and smiled again.
Caxton knew about the drug. It was still legal in New York state. In Pennsylvania, too, though her state had a reputation for its very tough drug laws. Salvia was a plant from Mexico that had been used for thousands of years by the Indians there in their religious ceremonies. It was also a potent hallucinogen, and in recent years it had become quite popular with bored suburban kids who used to do LSD until the old suppliers of acid had all dried up. In small doses salvia produced a fifteen-minute high with visual effects. In very large doses it produced stupor and unconsciousness—which explained the behavior of the two boys downstairs.
“What do you see when you smoke it?” Caxton asked.
Simon shook his head. “I used to believe it would open me to other states of consciousness and I would learn something useful. It never really worked. I haven’t smoked any of it tonight.” He used a glass stick to stir the burning herbs in his bowl. The embers flared into new life, then died down to orange c
oals again as a new wave of smoke lifted into the air. “This,” he said, “is white sage, Salvia apiana. It’s used in purification rituals.”
“Done something you feel guilty about?” Caxton asked. “Need to clean up your aura?”
“I came here because it was a refuge away from prying eyes.”
“Those eyes were watching out for you,” Caxton said. “I’m only here to protect you. I’m not sure why you’re fighting me so hard. You must know what your father’s been up to. He killed your uncle, then your mother—”
“Yes, of course,” Simon said, smiling, though his voice had lost some of its ethereal quality.
Caxton thought of Dylan Carboy and the facial tic that had given him away when she mentioned his notebooks. It looked like Simon had a chink in his armor as well. “He tried to kill your sister.”
“I didn’t know that.” Simon cleared his throat. “You saved her, right?”
“He did kill one of her friends. Nice girl, a mute. Raleigh’s roommate, actually. He drank a little of her blood, but mostly she was just in the way.”
“Stop.”
“Tore her to pieces, so we had to get a leak-proof body bag—”
“Stop it!” Simon shouted, jumping to his feet.
Caxton just shook her head. “Getting a little sick to your stomach?” she asked. “I know the feeling, all too well. Help me, Simon. Help me stop him before he kills anybody else. Before he tries to kill you. Or is that the plan? Have you been in contact with him recently? Has he offered to make you a vampire like him? Did you say yes?”
Simon’s face twisted and darkened with rage. He opened his mouth to speak, but then a violent shudder wracked him from head to foot. It left him swaying slightly, but the blood had gone out of his cheeks. “I think,” he said, finally, “that I don’t want to talk to you any longer unless my lawyer is present.”
Caxton’s heart sagged in her chest. “That’s your right,” she said. She couldn’t resist adding, “Does that mean he has contacted you or—”
“Enough, Special Deputy,” the boy said. “I’m going home. I’m tired.”
“Okay,” she said. “Who’s your lawyer?”
The boy reached into his pocket and took out a nylon wallet on a chain. He opened it up and fished out a business card, which he handed to Caxton. Interesting, she thought. Not a lot of twenty-year-old college students have lawyers on retainer. She decided he must have gone to the lawyer recently, after finding out he was under surveillance. If he’d gone to that much trouble, she wondered what he had to hide. She went to the doorway and called Lu up to meet her there. She handed the card to the Fed without even looking at it. “Call this guy,” she said. “Tell him to meet us at Simon’s apartment, tonight. If he complains or says it’s after hours, tell him his client is being hounded by the police.”
Lu stepped out into the hall to comply.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Caxton said, “and wait for your lawyer there, alright?”
The boy lowered his head. She turned to Lu, who was on hold. “You stay here and keep an eye on this place. If we could find it this easily, a vampire probably can too. If Jameson shows up, you know what to do.”
Lu nodded. “Sure. Run like hell.” He stepped aside to let Caxton and Simon out of the room. They headed down the stairs together and outside into the cold of the parking lot. She half expected him to refuse her ride, but when she opened the door of the Mazda he climbed in without complaint. They drove back to his apartment in silence. At his front door he said, “I don’t want you to come in. You can’t come in unless I invite you in, not legally.”
“That’s an interesting legal question, since I’ve already been inside,” Caxton said. “Let’s ask your lawyer when he comes.”
Simon scowled at her but didn’t slam the door in her face when she came in, and at the top of the stairs he actually held his door open for her. Inside he shed his winter coat and sat down hard on the cot. Its springs squealed noisily. “Are you going to watch me undress?” he asked.
Caxton waved one hand at him. “Keep your clothes on. In fact, why don’t we pack a bag?” She went to his closet and took down a small black suitcase from the shelf at its top.
“Why, am I going somewhere?”
“Pennsylvania. Harrisburg, I think,” she said. “That way I can keep an eye on you and your sister at the same time.”
“I don’t think so.”
She shrugged and started packing, folding up shirts neatly and then laying them in the suitcase. She had very little time left, she knew. As soon as the lawyer showed up there would be no way on earth to compel Simon to come back to Pennsylvania with her. She needed to get him riled up again. Get him scared. She looked around inside the closet for pairs of pants.
“Leave my stuff alone,” Simon said, testily.
She shrugged again and sorted through the clothes he had on hangers. There wasn’t much, just a few nice shirts and a powder blue suit. The same suit he’d worn to Jameson’s mock funeral. It was probably the only suit he owned, she thought. She picked up one sleeve and let the linen material run through her fingers. That suit—
No. It couldn’t be the same. That was too—her brain flip-flopped in her skull. If she was right, if that suit matched the other one, the one in the picture, it made things a lot more complicated. But maybe it made one thing dead easy.
She turned around and looked at him, really studied his face for the first time. Then she walked toward him, reaching toward her belt.
“Are you going to shoot me?” he asked. His tone was trying for sarcasm, but it hit fear on the way there.
“Unh-uh,” Caxton said. Yeah. She was sure, she decided. That suit was the same color, the same light blue. She opened a pouch at her belt and took out her handcuffs. “I’m putting you under arrest.”
41.
“What is this about?” Simon demanded, a few hours later. “What are you charging me with?”
He looked scared. She had hauled him down to the local police station and then handed him over to the officers there to be booked and processed. He’d been photographed, fingerprinted, strip-searched, and shoved in a cell with a bunch of drug offenders and petty thieves, then left there to stew for a while. He looked very scared.
This was the first she’d seen of him since they’d arrived. She’d spent the intervening time discussing her investigation with the local police chief and checking her email. She had to be sure.
When she was ready—or maybe, to be honest, a little while after she was fully ready—she had him brought up from cells and put in an interrogation room. As they went, it wasn’t the nicest interrogation room Caxton had ever seen. There was one table topped with Formica, brown and black with generations of cigarette burns and coffee stains. There were two chairs, which sat side by side—the room wasn’t big enough to allow the subject and the interviewer to sit across from each other. There was a reinforced staple in the wall, to which Simon had been attached by a pair of handcuffs. It was high up on the wall so that the video camera in the corner of the ceiling could see where Simon’s hands were at all times.
Caxton leaned back in her chair. She had a manila envelope containing a few pieces of paper. She drew one out and read:
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at interrogation time and at court. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”
She looked up at him expectantly.
“Fuck you,” he howled. “Tell me what’s going on. I don’t have to take this. I can walk out of here right now if you don’t charge me.”
Caxton shook her head no, with a sad little smile. “Charges? Alright. Let’s pick one. How about trespassing in a government building? Or maybe the theft of evidence in an ongoing criminal investigation. Then there’s impersonating a police off
icer. Shall I go on?”
“You don’t—you don’t have any evidence,” he said. His eyes were shiny with fear.
Good. If she scared him enough he might agree to enter her protection.
She sighed dramatically and said, “You have the right to remain silent. Any—”
“Fine,” he said, stopping her. “Yes, I understand. Just tell me what this is about, damn it.”
“Your suit. Your powder blue suit.”
He squinted at her. “I wore it to that stupid funeral. That’s the only time you’ve seen it.”
She shook her head again, then reached into her envelope and drew out a computer printout on glossy photo paper. It showed a man wearing a light blue suit, standing at the entrance of the USMS archives.
Simon’s eyes flicked down to the photo but didn’t linger there long enough for him to have taken a real look. “That’s not me. You can’t even see the face.”
“You think that’s all I have, this one picture?”
“I—I won’t talk until my lawyer arrives.”
“That’s fine,” Caxton said. “That’ll give me time to check your fingerprints against the ones we found on the crime scene.” It was a bluff, but an easy one. The man in the photograph wasn’t wearing gloves. He would almost certainly have touched some surface, maybe a doorknob or a countertop, while he was inside the archives.
“Hold on,” Simon said.
“Once we get a match, I really don’t think I’ll need to ask you any more questions. We can just drop you in a holding cell and wait for trial. You’ll be safe enough there while I go find and kill your father. Of course, there are a couple of things I’d really like to know, but fine, you want your lawyer, you get your lawyer. Lu finally got hold of him a little while ago, and he said he would be here in the morning.” She put her papers back in the envelope and started to get up. “You can spend the night back in the holding cell until he arrives.”
Vampire Zero: A Gruesome Vampire Tale Page 21