by Ray Garton
"They're afraid," she said. "Very afraid. Both of them." Almost a full minute passed before she spoke again: "They're ... together. But..." Another thirty seconds of silence passed. "That's all I can get. There's nothing else right now. It's all dark."
The phone rang. It was an old-fashioned ring from a real bell, not the electronic chirping that came from most phones.
Mrs. Dupassie got up and went to the phone over the bar. "Hello? . .. Castlebeck. Why aren't you here with those two young women?" She looked at Davey and Keoph as she talked. "All right, Castlebeck, all right. Calm down before you have a stroke, you fucking sperm whale. Do you know anything about them? Who took them?" She puffed on her cigar as she listened. "You hear anything, you'd fucking well better call me, you understand, you fat fuck? I don't suppose I have to remind you that you still owe me a lot of fucking money." She smiled and nodded her head. "Well, it's about time. Now you remember, you hear one fucking word about those two women—what?... One is a mortal, one is a vampire. The vampire has strawberry-blond hair, the mortal auburn hair. They've been taken. You hear one fucking word about them, you call me. If I find out you didn't, I'm gonna sic Norman on you, understand?"
She hung up the phone and turned to them. "Well, Castlebeck doesn't have them. If he did, he would've sent them back already." She giggled like a little girl. "I love putting the fear of god in him. I make him shit his pants."
"What do we do, Mrs. Dupassie?" Davey said.
"We should go to the police," Keoph said.
"Lotta vampires in the police department," Mrs. Dupassie said. "They work the night shift all over town. You go to the cops, you're liable to get somebody who covers for the brutals. There are quite a few of them, in fact. You might end up getting yourself into trouble."
"Well, we can't just stand around waiting!" Keoph said, almost shouting.
"You don't have much choice at the moment," Mrs. Dupassie said. "You don't know who took them. You may hear from them, you may not. If they were taken by brutals, and we know they were, they'll be letting us know what they want soon."
"Will you keep trying to pick something up again?" Davey said.
"Sure I will, Davey," she said. "I'll call you the second I come up with anything."
"Thank you," Davey said. "I've got a couple people I can talk to. Come on, Gavin, let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"To see someone I know."
They left Mrs. Dupassie's apartment, went back to the Mercedes, and got in.
"I was researching a script about five or six years ago," Davey said as he started the car. He eased out of the parking spot and drove away from the apartment building. "One of the characters was a car thief, and he had to sound like he knew what he was talking about. We wanted him to be as authentic as possible, so I started asking around among my friends—did anybody have a car thief in the family, or know someone who might know a car thief? Well, someone put me in touch with someone who put me in touch with Isaac Krieger. He was a retired car thief, among other things. Actually, I shouldn't be so glib about the other things. This guy also did time for arson and serial rape. A registered sex offender. I had a very tense dinner with him one evening, my treat. He seemed ... well, intense, and I was always afraid I was going to say something to offend him, maybe set him off. But once you start him talking, he comes out more, and—well, to be honest, he comes off like a nice guy. Comes off as one. Which is, you know, a little suspect if you take into consideration his record."
Davey turned right on Ventura Boulevard, and they left North Hollywood.
"So this guy Isaac talked to me," Davey said, "and answered all my questions about being a car thief. Then he started asking me questions about writing movies. He was very curious about the business. ‘I've seen a lotta shit,' he said. ‘I could write me a movie, I think—if I knew how.' In exchange for talking to me, I offered to acquaint him with the screenplay form and give him a few tips about writing within it. So I helped him, and he told me stories about his life of crime. He hung out with what I suspected to be brutals—although he was a mortal—because his friends were more vicious and sadistic than he was, judging by some of his stories. I asked him about his friends once, and he smiled and said, 'They're vampires.' He acted like he was joking, but I knew he wasn't. I'd seen it before—he knew what they were, and that was part of the reason he hung out with them. He found them to be cool. I'm surprised one of them hasn't turned him yet, or at least bled him dry. They have no loyalties, no boundaries. The brutals, I mean. Anyway, I don't know what Isaac is up to because we haven't talked in a couple years, but he's very connected and seems to know a lot about what goes on at night. He might have heard something, or he might hear something, that could be helpful in finding them."
Keoph put his right elbow up on the edge of the door and put his hand over his mouth, tapped his fingers on his cheek, stroked his chin.
"If it's any consolation," Davey said, "I'm sure Casey will do everything she possibly can to protect Karen."
Keoph nodded. "That's true. I'd almost forgotten she's a vampire, too."
"She can deal with them a lot better than Karen can, and that gives them both a better chance of surviving."
"What, uh, what are the chances they'll kill them?" Keoph said.
"If their intention is to kill them," Davey said, "then they're already dead."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Burgess called Denise's cell phone again.
"Marty, stop calling," she said when she picked up.
"Please come home, Denise," he said. "The sun is down."
"Marty, if you don't stop talking like that, I'm never coming home."
"Come on, Denise, don't say that."
"Did you do something about that smell?" Denise said.
He sighed. "Not yet. The smell is necessary, Denise. I'm very disappointed that you refuse to believe what I'm saying."
Burgess heard Denise's mother in the background: "The stuff he writes, it's no surprise he's got mental problems."
"Is that what you've been doing over there?" he said. "Sitting around talking about my mental problems?"
"Look, I'll be home soon, okay?" Denise said. Then she severed the connection.
Burgess made himself a screwdriver—it was his third. He usually only drank the hard stuff on weekends, but he was on edge.
He sat around and watched television for almost an hour. Shortly before ten o'clock, he heard the Roadster pull into the driveway. He got up, went through the kitchen, and out to the garage, just as the door slowly began to roll up. Denise's headlights hit him and made him squint. There was a light mounted above the garage door outside that was activated by a motion sensor, and the car had set it off. It's light washed over the Roadster.
As she started to drive into the garage, Burgess heard a flapping sound growing closer, louder. Something big and dark swept down on Denise from above and plucked her from the convertible. It was something as big as a man, but with large dark wings. The creature pulled her from the car as if she weighed nothing. She screamed, but it was cut off abruptly as she was carried away. Burgess heard the flapping of wings fade into the night.
The Roadster continued to roll slowly forward into the garage with no driver. Burgess hurried over to the car, got in, and parked it in the garage. When he got out, he rushed out of the garage and looked around outside.
"Denise?" he called. "Denise!"
The only sound was the chirping of crickets.
Burgess said, "Oh, my god."
Isaac Krieger had not changed since Davey saw him last. He was a short man with a deep tan, and his face had been badly scarred by acne. His eyebrows were faintly joined above the bridge of his nose, his eyes deep-set beneath them. He wore a T-shirt with the sleeves torn off, showing off the tattoos up and down his muscular arms. His brown hair had thinned out a little on top. He was in his late forties.
Davey had decided to check the Corner Pocket, a pool hall in Sherman Oaks where he had first met Krieger. Sure enough, Kri
eger was there, playing pool. Davey and Keoph waited for him to finish his game.
"Remember me, Isaac?" Davey said.
Krieger smiled and said, "Course I remember ya. 'Sup?"
"I wanted to ask you some questions," Davey said. "Can I buy you a beer?"
"I never turn down free beer." He turned to the bar and shouted, "Hey, Cam, Pabst for the three of us." To Davey and Keoph, he said, "Let's go to a booth and sit down."
They went to one of the booths against the wall and Krieger sat across from Davey and Keoph. Davey introduced Keoph, but said nothing more about him.
Krieger said, "I was thinking about looking you up, Davey."
"Oh? What for?"
"I finished my first script," Krieger said. "I was wonderin' if you'd take a look at it and tell me if it's any good."
"Sure, Isaac, I'd be happy to."
"Really? That's great. But I want you to be honest. I won't learn anything unless you're honest."
Davey smiled. "Don't worry, I'm always honest. Isaac, we have a problem. My wife and Gavin's partner have been kidnapped. We have reason to believe it might have been pulled off by people like ... well, like your friends. Have you heard anything about it?"
The waitress brought their beers, then Krieger leaned forward and said, "No, haven't heard anything. What makes you think it was vampires?"
"Gavin and his partner were investigating them."
"You're the one doing that?" Krieger said, turning to Keoph. "I've heard talk about it. They've been upset lately because someone was investigating them. That's all I knew about it, though, until now."
"Who is them?"
Isaac shrugged. "Vampires. They talk. No one in particular, just the word on the street. The, uh ... what's that word? Zeitgeist." He smiled proudly. "Yeah, it's just been in the Zeitgeist."
"Isaac, can you keep an eye open for me? I'd appreciate it if—"
Keoph's cell phone went off in his pocket. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and put it to his ear. "Keoph," he said. He frowned as he listened. "Please, Mr. Burgess, calm down, I can't understand what you're saying."
Davey heard the voice at the other end come sharply from the earpiece.
"I don't know, Mr. Burgess, I don't know what—no, don't do that, don't call the police. It's not safe. . .. Okay, give me your address."
A minute later, Keoph folded the phone up and put it in his pocket. "My client's wife has been taken," he said.
"Oh, god," Davey said. "This just keeps getting worse by the minute." He turned to Krieger again. "Isaac, will you do me a favor? If you hear anything about two women, Casey, a vampire, and Karen, a mortal, will you let me know?" He gave Isaac a description of each woman. "If you hear a word about them, will you call me?"
Krieger shrugged. "I might be able to do that, but... look, dog, I can't be gettin' myself into trouble with my friends."
"Don't worry, you won't." Davey took out his wallet and removed from it a business card and a twenty dollar bill. He took a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote his cell phone number on the back, then handed the card and the bill to Krieger. "Call me anytime, day or night. Have a couple more drinks on me."
"Yeah, yeah, okay, bro," Isaac said. "Thanks."
"We've got to go now," Davey said as he stood. "Thanks for talking to us."
They left the Corner Pocket and got into the Mercedes outside.
"Where does he live?" Davey said.
Keoph gave him the address in Topanga Canyon.
They said nothing as Davey drove, remaining silent with their own thoughts.
Davey felt ready to come out of his skin over the loss of Casey. He could not imagine life without her. He had to get her back.
"It's not safe to talk to the police, Mr. Burgess," Keoph said at Burgess's house.
Davey said, "Some of the police are vampires who cover for the brutals. Going to the police would be too much of a risk. Unless, of course, you did it during the day. That might not be as risky."
They stood in the living room, where Burgess paced, wringing his hands.
"They took my wife, too," Davey said. "And his partner, Karen."
"They,'ve got them all?" Burgess said. Davey and Keoph nodded.
"Jesus, what am I going to do?" Burgess said breathlessly.
"There's nothing you can do at the moment, Mr. Burgess," Keoph said. "We're going to do all we can to find them."
"That's it? I mean, that's all you've got to tell me, that you're going to do all you can?"
"Mr. Burgess," Davey said, "do you have something that belonged to your wife? A personal item she usually kept with her?"
"Her purse was in the car," Burgess said as he turned and led them into the dining room. Denise's purse was on the table.
"We've got a psychic working on this," Davey said, "and it would help to have something of Denise's to give to her, so she'll have something to work with."
Burgess went to the table, rummaged through the purse, and finally pulled out a red hairbrush. "How's this?" he said.
Davey took the brush. "This is perfect." To Keoph, he said, "Let's go back to Mrs. Dupassie's."
Keoph turned to Burgess and watched him pace. "I'm very sorry about this, Mr. Burgess."
Burgess stopped pacing and turned to Keoph. "Find her and bring her back to me, and I'll pay you the full amount I was going to pay you before the investigation was canceled."
"I'm going to try to find her, anyway, Mr. Burgess. I don't need money for that."
Mrs. Dupassie held the brush in her left hand as she hugged the purses to her on the table. Her eyes closed, she sat there for a minute before speaking. She frowned above clenched eyes.
"I'm getting .. . something, but. .. it's all dark. There's definitely a connection, but nothing's coming through but fear, the same fear I felt before." She released the purses, put down the brush, and leaned back in her chair. "I'm still not getting anything. But I'll keep trying, Davey."
Davey said, "Thank you, Mrs. Dupassie."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The lights came on and a moment later, someone came into the room. The light was blinding to Karen at first, and she raised her hand to cover her eyes.
"All right, let's go, ladies," a large woman said. She was tall and big-boned, with frizzy dark hair and a skillet-flat face.
Karen and Casey were led out of the room naked. They went down a hall of doors, and each door was numbered. Karen wondered if the building had been a hotel at one time—it looked like one.
Karen felt groggy as she shuffled down the hall. The woman led them to an elevator. In the car, she pushed a button, and the elevator started going down. She did not speak. Karen was afraid to speak. She covered her breasts with her upper arms, and held both hands together over her pubis.
Casey stood with her arms at her sides, frowning. She looked angry but tired, with heavy-lidded eyes.
When the elevator reached the basement, the door opened and the big woman led them out into a concrete corridor with grey walls. Overhead, exposed pipes ran along the corridor.
The woman turned right, opened a door, and led them into a grey room that contained what looked like two dental chairs and a large couch. There was a round drain in the center of the room's floor.
"Wait in here," the woman said. "Sit in the chairs."
The woman left the room and closed the door.
Karen and Casey sat down in the chairs and looked at each other for a long time without speaking. Finally, her voice thick, Casey said, "I'm afraid they're going to torture us."
"Why?" Karen said. "For what?"
"I don't know. Prepare for the worst."
Karen leaned forward, put her face in her hands, and cried quietly.
"Please don't fall apart now, Karen," Casey said. "I need you to hold yourself together, okay?"
Karen sniffled and tried to stifle her crying.
The door opened and a tall, slender man in a black turtleneck, black slacks, and black shoes, carrying what looked like a black do
ctor's bag, entered the room. He had longish shiny white hair, and pink eyes in his deathly pale face. He was followed by the big woman who had led them to the room earlier.
"Secure them," the man said. He had a German accent and it came out, Secure zem.
The chairs had straps on them, and the woman fastened them, first across Karen, then Casey. She strapped their arms to the armrests.
The man put his bag on a small stainless steel table and opened it. He removed a pair of garden sheers. He squeezed the handle and the blades hissed together a couple times, snapping closed with a sibilant metallic snick.
"I am going to ask you a question," he said to Casey. "If you do not tell me the truth, I will cut off your little toe. I will make my way through all your toes unless you tell me what I want to know. And then I'll start on your fingers."
Karen was unable to control herself. She began to shiver in her restraints and tears rolled down her cheeks.
The man said, "Now, with whom do I start?" He smiled and his pointed finger moved back and forth between them as he muttered, "Eenie meanie minie mo ..." He ended on Karen.
"No," she whispered.
The man rolled a small stool over to Karen's chair and sat down on it. He picked up her right foot at the ankle and put the clippers to her little toe. Karen tried to pull her foot free, but his grip was iron.
"Whom have you told?" he said.
"What?" Karen tried to stop crying. She coughed a few times and took a deep breath. "What did you say?"
"Whom have you told?"
"About what?"
"About us. About your investigation. Whom have you told?"
"No one. I've told no one."
The albino squeezed on the clipper's handles and the blades closed on Karen's little toe. Karen screamed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hold it just a second," a fat man said as he burst into the room. He spoke with firm authority. "Whatever you're doing, stop."
"I beg your pardon?" the albino said as he stood and turned to the fat man. "Oh, it's you, Mr. C."