Shrouds of Darkness

by Brock Deskins

  Technically, they are not explosives. I left those at home. I thought a light load would be sufficient tonight. And yes, I do have a permit not only for the grenades but I am also a certified demolitionist and have permits to obtain and use all manner of construction-grade explosives that I then turn into non-construction related devices.

  “I sure hope you have those permits on you,” Castillo continues. “Our computers have been real slow lately and it could take a couple days to retrieve them from our database.”

  She was really enjoying this. She knows she can never get me for the two corpses bleeding all over the floor but she can still put me through hell. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s done it to me. Castillo takes personal delight in stepping behind me and snapping on cuffs far tighter than would be deemed appropriate.

  I am saved from further abuse, both verbal and physical, when Will practically leaps the last few stairs and slams his Gucci briefcase down on Yuri’s table, nearly toppling the mobster’s glass. No big deal, it had long been drained dry.

  William Stepanek, my lawyer. As crafty and utterly immune to a nagging conscience as any man I have ever met. That’s what makes him such a good defense lawyer, which in turn makes securing his services so damned expensive. But I despise inconvenience more than I like money so I am willing to trade the latter for the former.

  I don’t know if it is intended or not, but Will seems to purposely look precisely like the sleazy rich guy he is. From his patent leather shoes to the silk shirt unbuttoned far enough to show several gold chains and a patchwork of graying chest hair, his ensemble makes him look part lawyer, part seventies porn star.

  Will seems completely immune to the glare that Yuri gives him for his abruptness and releases the gold clasps on his leather attaché case and begins laying out several documents.

  “Here is my client’s permit for the handguns, one for the knife, and here is the one for the non-lethal suppression devices.”

  I watch as detective Castillo’s face contorts in anger and frustration. She hates Will almost as much as she hates me and that is an accomplishment worthy of a trophy.

  “Now, if you will kindly remove the handcuffs from my unlawfully detained client.”

  Castillo has had enough and snaps at the small man. “He is a suspect in two murders and you expect me to let him go because he has a permit to carry the murder weapon? Are you out of your rotten, little mind?”

  If she hopes to intimidate my lawyer, she is bound for disappointment. Will hands his cell phone over to Castillo. I can see that the line is open as he passes the expensive device across the table.

  “I have taken the liberty of calling your captain and explaining to him the circumstances of my client’s involvement. This was verified to him by a statement from one of the uniforms downstairs after talking to several witnesses.”

  After a few yes sirs, the angry detective drops the phone onto the table.

  “How the hell do you sleep at night defending scum like this?” Castillo asks in disgust.

  “On two-thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and firmly wedged between two gorgeous bimbos,” Will replies without missing a beat or a hint of shame. “Granted, two is just an average.”

  My lawyer grabs my hands and inspects my wrists. “Oh this looks a lot like bodily injury resulting from police brutality,” Will exclaims as he snaps several photos of my bruised and creased wrists with the camera on his phone.

  Castillo steps within a few inches of my face and the smell of smoker’s breath is almost over-whelming to my sensitive olfactory receptors. “One of these days your slimy little lawyer is not going to be there to save your ass. You will slip up and neither he nor any of his powerful friends will be able to keep me from strapping you into that chair where I will personally throw the switch and fry your ass.”

  “Awe, does this mean I’m not invited to your Cinco de Mayo party?” I ask with my most infuriating smile.

  It is all I can do not to laugh as the detective’s face contorts in barely suppressed fury. “I’m Puerto Rican you stupid son of a bitch, not a damn Mexican!”

  “Oh, now this is awkward,” I reply innocently as I face Angel. “Aren’t you Mexican, Angel? It sounds to me like she is really offended that someone would think she is Mexican, like they are inferior or something.”

  I take delight in watching Castillo’s anger at me deflate like a ruptured tire in humiliation. “Angel, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” She turns back towards me. “You fucking prick!” she shouts as she storms away. “Bag that murder weapon as evidence. At least we can get that out of his hands for a few months!”

  “Self-defense weapon, thank you,” Will sings out at her retreating back as he places my various licenses back into his briefcase.

  I can hear her downstairs screaming at the uniformed officers, venting her frustrations at every tiny imperfection, real or perceived. Angel lets out a long breath he has probably been holding for several minutes.

  “Why do you do that? She already hates you without you throwing gas on the fire. I have to ride with her you know.”

  “That fire is so out of control by now it doesn’t matter what I do,” I reply with a soft shake of my head. “Besides, it’s so easy and so much fun. Is it just me or is she even a bigger bitch than usual?”

  “Come on, Leo. She’s my partner and a good cop. Cut her some slack.” Angel sighs once again as he shakes his head. “We were at another scene near Classon and Willoughby when we got the call to come here. Fucking bodies—parts of bodies—everywhere in an alley on the other side of the borough. Most disgusting thing I ever saw.”

  “Mafia?” I ask, thinking that normal street violence was usually swift and reasonably clean.

  “It looked more like animals got them. A pack of wild dogs maybe. Pit bulls would be my guess, but whether they were torn up before or after they were killed will be up to the forensics team to figure out.”

  Will snaps his case shut and shakes my hand. “I thank you for your services, Leo. My Manhattan penthouse thanks you and my new boat thanks you. I should make you a punch card. For every nine times I keep you out of prison the tenth one is free. I better print a few of them.”

  “Are you going to prorate that?” I ask as I carefully squeeze his outstretched hand so as not to crush the delicate human bones.

  Will looks horrified at this suggestion. “Are you kidding? I’d be working for you for free until I retire! Besides, I have my eye on this sweet little Beach King turboprop.”

  Crisis averted, Will descends the stairs and exits the club, completely unimpeded now that some order has been established. Angel asks Yuri and me a few more questions before letting us go just as the forensics team and a pair of coroners shows up.

  I retrieve my trench coat as I walk Yuri out of the club and to his car where a uniform is just finishing up asking his drivers some routine questions. Thor, as I refer to the big Slav, snaps to attention and opens the rear door of the classic Bentley. Yuri settles heavily into the soft leather seat and looks up at me through the open window.

  “That man with the beard. He moved very fast but you were faster. You stepped in front of that bullet. Never have I seen anyone move that fast. Many things I see tonight I do not like.”

  Again, Yuri gives me that suspicious look I saw earlier and I try to deflect it as best I can. “Adrenaline can give a man some pretty good reflexes. Like I said, thank God for vests.”

  Yuri looks at the spot where I took the bullet but I have already donned my trench coat and there is nothing there to see. Even if I hadn’t, there would be nothing to see other than another ruined shirt I’ll have to burn. With a noncommittal grunt and a flick of his finger, the sleek car pulls away from the club and into the slow-moving traffic.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I’m too tired to go hopping rooftops back to my home and it’s not as though there are so many buildings close enough together that I can casually go where I want like Spiderman, so I
regretfully descend the steps of the nearest subway entrance. The flickering of the florescent lights and the stench of human existence is almost nauseating.

  Despite the late hour, there is still an active nightlife going on below the streets of New York as well as above. I keep away from the milling human zombies that darkness has drawn out from whatever hole they hide in during the day, pressing my back against the far wall as I wait for the next train to show up.

  In a recessed alcove, a couple thugs are shaking down some guy that was foolish enough to be picked off from the herd. I know I’m not the only one that sees the crime in progress, but they care about as much as I do and do nothing about it. I’m sure it’s largely based on the fear of becoming a victim themselves, but it goes deeper than that. Humanity has become inured to violence, noticing and caring only when it happens to them or someone they care about. Or whenever the television tells them they should care like when a pretty little white girl goes missing.

  I have no fear of these pathetic parasites but I still do not intercede. I may be super-human but I am no superhero. I just don’t think I can pull off the whole wearing tights look. One of the muggers notices my attention to their activities and thinks for a brief second that I may provide another means of quick cash. A forceful glare is enough to make him think again and he turns back to his cohorts and their current victim.

  I’m glad this one is smart enough to realize I am not to be trifled with. I am not in the mood to walk to the next station after flinging his body onto the tracks. That is sure to get me another visit from Castillo and I’m really not in the mood for that.

  I find to my relief that the train is sparsely populated and I am not forced to sit next to some stinking bum, or worse, some old sow determined to share her life story with me. My sour demeanor is usually enough to keep most people at a distance, but there is always that special person that is so twisted up in their own head that nothing short of tearing their arms off will bring them out of their fantasy world.

  It’s not a long ride and I am still replaying tonight’s events through my head as I climb out of that dank subterranean passage and walk the short distance to my dwelling.

  Tommy was trying to convince Yuri to allow him to expand his drug trade into Yuri’s territory, promising only to sell the crap that the Russian did not and give him a thirty percent cut of the profits. Yuri was doing his best to politely tell the little squint to fuck off when Tweaker and Furball arrived on scene.

  I have an excellent memory for detail and I freeze frame each of the faces of my attackers in my mind, studying each one for the tiniest clue. My first instinct is to pin it on a setup by Hanako. A subtle cue, perhaps a wire, that let them know to come in and kill Yuri if negotiations were not going his way.

  I quickly discard this notion as I flip between the faces of my three suspects. The assassins caught Tommy unaware and his surprise and fear were genuine. Tweaker and Furball were set on killing both mobsters at the table with no regard for bystanders.

  It was a major hit by someone with enough resources to hire a mongrel. The most likely scenario is a rival family, perhaps someone new, trying to carve out an empire of their own after removing the competition. A new player taking on two established crime lords at the same time? It seems unlikely, but I stopped underestimating human stupidity long ago.

  I’ve been around a long time and I am familiar with most other players with territory butting up against Yuri’s. Some are larger and stronger but are content to let Yuri run his business as he is not an expansionist and is fairly benign as far as Mafioso go. They know him as an honest dealer and are content with having him as a neighbor.

  This leads me back to a new entity, picking a smaller operation as its target to take over. But it was two targets, and although few would miss Hanako’s ninja clan, some would take offense to new competition. My conjecture is getting me nowhere so I shelve my thoughts until my mind is clearer and I return to my lair.

  I live in a large, brick building that had once been a factory of some kind that turned out wrought iron for things like fences, gates, and decorations. I make my home in the main floor of the building while I keep my office upstairs. A sign pointing to the external steel stairway directs people to it and warns them not to try my front door.

  Heavy steel bars cover the few high windows and the door itself is half inch steel. Had the mission at the Alamo been similarly built, Davy Crocket and his crew could have stood off the entire Mexican army. Sucks for them.

  The sturdy door squeals on its hinges, it’s a feature, not a sign of my neglect, and makes a heavy clanging as I pull it shut and set the hundred pound bar in its cradle to secure it from the inside. Nothing short of heavy explosives will gain anyone entrance and the door leading to my office is of similar quality.

  I strip off my ruined jacket and shirt and casually toss them into the forge that once smelted iron. Now its only purpose is to dispose of things I do not want found. A quick look at my wound shows little more than a puckered red weal and that will be gone by morning.

  I cross the dark, cavernous interior of my home to the corner that serves as my kitchen—a kitchen that consists of nothing more than refrigerator of bagged blood, a sink, and a gas stove that I use to warm up my sack lunches. I forego heating a pan of water that I would normally use to warm my meal and sip it right out of the bag like some kind of macabre Capri Sun.

  I sit down in my recliner, one of the few pieces of furniture I own, and once again replay my evening’s escapade. I chase the possible reasons of the attempted hit around and around and finally concede that it may just remain a mystery to me. With any luck, someone will make another attempt and perhaps then I will have enough pieces of the puzzle to begin putting together a clear picture. I don’t know why I bother myself with something I’m not even being paid for. I guess I just like to figure out puzzles, especially ones where I shoot people.

  I decide that I have spent enough time in useless conjecture and give the wooden arm on the side of my chair a pull, laying the back down and kicking my feet up. Vampires have no physical need for sleep, but after suffering serious injury, we often relax and enter a sort of meditative trance so that the body can focus most of its energy on healing. I do just this and sink deeply into a relaxed state.

  I enjoyed sleeping when I was a human and I still cling to that habit like a wino onto his bottle of Ripple. Somehow, it makes me feel more human, almost like I am alive again. Why I want to feel like something I have convinced myself that I despise is beyond me. I refuse to contemplate the meaning or significance of such a mindset.

  *****

  I find myself inside the dark confines of a grass hut in the sultry, nighttime air. Just beyond the flimsy walls of the single-room dwelling lays a dense jungle that has gone preternaturally quiet. It is the type of silence that only the greatest of predators can create by the power of its presence.

  In stark contrast, the scene inside the hut is utter chaos. A woman of Asian heritage is screaming and chattering away in her incoherent babbling. I assume she is begging for her life. She and I are the only ones inside. Correction—the only ones alive. Another correction. She is the only one alive. I died nearly fifty years ago yet I still go on. I am a walking nightmare.

  I see her huddling against the far wall amidst the bodies of what I assume is her family. I take another step towards her and she screams with renewed effort. Perhaps she cries for help. There is no one to come. Even if there is another soul left alive in the tiny village, which there isn’t, I made sure of that, there is nothing they could do.

  I smile in evil glee as I approach, wearing nothing but a suit of blood like a second skin. My clothing surrendered to the decay-inducing climate of Vietnam long ago. Besides, I am an animal and animals have no need of such human trappings. I need no food, no sustenance from this wretched creature. I have already gorged to over-flowing a dozen kills ago. This isn’t about the need to feed. Not a belly hunger anyway. It is a need to feed
the animal I have become. I need to feed that longing for power and control that rages with a thirst that I can never slake, but oh, how I try.

  Just as my clawed hand reach out for that slender throat, I bolt upright from my recliner with a ragged gasp. The strangled cry from my nightmare echoes through my home as if the dream scream had followed me into wakefulness.

  I stagger to my kitchen and splash cold water on my face. I scrub hard enough to leave my skin raw, but some blood can never be washed away no matter how hard I scour it. That blood has seeped through my pores and into my very soul.

  As I search for my phone, I curse myself for allowing myself to slip that far into sleep. I knew better, I knew the dreams would come, especially after a double feeding, but I did it anyway. I think I do it to punish myself. That’s what my shrink says, but they’re all quacks so what do they know?

  I fumble with my phone but manage to press the buttons in the correct order despite my palsied hands. Looking at my shaking digits only serves to make me angry at my apparent weakness.

  “Dr. Morison,” I say into the phone before the person on the other end can ever mutter out a “who the hell is this.”

  Dr. Stanley Morison is my shrink and one of the few living people that know of the existence of vampires. I was referred to him shortly after becoming a Sheriff for the Council. He is trusted but carefully watched in case he suddenly has a change of heart and feels the need to warn the rest of the world of the danger that walks amongst them.

  “Leo?” comes the answer from the other end. “Jesus, do you know what time it is? You’re lucky, I’d tell my most my clients to call my office in the morning and hang up on them.”

  “Most of your clients won’t eat you in a moment of pique,” I reply.

  Stanley disregards my threat. “We both know you are not going to eat me. Bad dreams again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me what happened tonight.”