by Tim Forder
The police started cuffing the five, with the help of additional police who had arrived right behind the EMS. The EMS finished preparing the little girl for transport to the local hospital. Isabella announced in a voice loud enough to be heard within the projection booth overhead, “Those not assisting the police or the EMS please find a seat. Once the emergency personnel are gone, we will continue the movie.”
As the little girl was being carried out on the stretcher, the lead EMS stopped to tell Isabella, “The child has a sizable bump on her head. She is already showing signs of coming around, so I believe she will be alright.” Following the EMS was the tear-stained mother, with the father taking up the rear. Isabella stopped him for a moment. “Please feel free to return for a movie on us. Perhaps I might suggest you leave your daughter at home or bring her to an appropriate family movie during the day.” If looks could kill, Isabella would be dead. With a quick glance in the direction of the police, she could see him fighting the temptation to respond verbally. Instead, he continued out without any verbal retort.
With the ambulance sirens disappearing in the distance, the theater lights went out and the movie continued. Back in the office, Isabella continued the tedious paperwork. Until...
Again she was interrupted with, “Boss, we have a blade runner.” (Blade runner meaning a crazy with a knife.)
Rushing past Ben, into the theatre for the second time this night, Isabella found the movie stopped and the lights on, again. A man was standing off the rest of the moviegoers off with a good-sized folded knife, blade out and bloody. Just great, whose blood is that? Looking around, she took note of another movie viewer in his undershirt with an outer shirt wrapped around his hand. She looked back at Jeff, and asked, “Has 911 been called?”
“Yes, boss.”
The crazy with the knife started yelling, “That knife expert doesn’t know a knife from a toothpick.”
In her best calming voice, Isabella asked, “What knife expert do you refer to?”
“Why that joker of a so-called knife expert in the movie, that’s who. I’m far better than that joker on his best day.”
Walking closer to the blade runner, she stated, “Sir, I’d be willing to bet you’re right. I personally have not seen this movie, so I could not truly say. You do realize this is only a movie...”
“A movie I paid $4 to see ... this farce.”
“Sir, if you put that knife away and walk out with me, I will gladly give you back your money and give you a free ticket to another movie of your choice.”
He replied with a challenge as if he had not heard her words, “I’d like to see you remove this little knife from me.”
She could easily make a move on the blade runner except that Jeff was standing in the way. What is he doing, playing hero to a crazy with a knife? I’m going to have to have a word with him, later. For now, Isabella ordered, “Jeff, back off.”
Obeying, Jeff started moving backward, not taking his eyes off the crazy, just in case the blade runner decided to strike ... and the crazy man with the blade did.
With Jeff still in Isabella’s way, the blade runner charged forward with his knife arm fully extended, heading right for Jeff’s chest. Just as the knife blade pierced Jeff’s shirt, it came to a deadly and complete stop.
Isabella put such a vise grip on the blade runner’s wrist, that the crushing of bones might have been heard if it wasn’t for the blade runner screaming in pain, a scream that preceded the snapping of his bones.
When the blade runner’s knife fell to the floor, Isabella ordered, “Jeff, get the knife.”
Jeff did as he was ordered and sirens could be heard rushing to the theatre for the second time this night.
While one of the EMS cleaned up and bandaged the movie viewer with the slight cut to the hand, another saw to splinting the crushed remains of the blade runner’s wrist. The police then escorted the blade runner to the local hospital by ambulance. Before leaving, one of the officers made it clear that they were not happy with the bone-crushing injury to their prisoner.
Isabella just answered sheepishly, “I guess I just don’t know my own strength.” The show continued while Isabella buried herself in her office to dig into the paperwork, always the paperwork.
The way this night is going, I am so pleased that this is a single movie billing night.
After closing down the theatre for the night, it was time to go hunting, possibly because of the sight of blood on the knife or the smell of the blood-soaked hand, it did not matter. What mattered was that it made this girl hungrier than usual for fresh blood, so the hunt was on.
Isabella was starving for a nice fresh dinner. Maybe tonight she’d go bar hopping and with luck find a meal that would take her home for dinner. In other words, she could not bring her dinner to her domicile, her human-filled home, but to her dinner’s home and the place of his/her demise. This was definitely not a snack night. Tonight someone was going to die for her dinner. Within her dinner’s domicile this could be more casual, relaxing dining. If she played her cards right she could leave her dinner remains behind without any clues as to who the killer was.
Chapter Sixteen
Christmas
It’s Christmas Eve and I have no choice but to take the night off, the theatre is closed. If only I could have gotten a chance to talk to management. I bet if we would have opened for business on Christmas, we would have had enough seasonal losers to fill this theatre even on this so-called holy night. Management had put out a memo a week before closing and then left town for the holidays.
Isabella pondered. With the Poisner house all decked out for the holidays, and all the excitement of this being baby Elian’s first Christmas, staying home was not an option. Maybe I’ll go bar hopping in D.C. in an area that’s new to me, go exploring for dinner. Very possibly I can find some lonesome meal that will take me to his place for some nice quiet holiday dining. I don’t mean a dinner of spiced eggnog and turkey, unless it’s a human turkey.
When she left her room, it only proved her point. The living room and dining room were gaudy with flashing and non-flashing Christmas lights, bright, shiny Christmas decorations, and cheerful foolery of all sorts.
When she saw that constantly moving Santa Claus doll again in the window, it made her stomach turn. I can’t say which is, worse that constantly moving Santa doll, or the moving doll of Dracula they had in the window for Halloween.
Diana, seeing Isabella, interrupted her play with Elaine and called out, “Isabella, you’re just in time to say good-night to our little bundle of joy.”
“Good night Elaine, pleasant dreams.” When she heard Isabella’s voice, Elaine, as always, responded with wailing. I should have known better. Maybe I could give that “little bundle of joy’ a nice crib death for Christmas. Put her and her constant screaming at the sound of my voice out of my misery. Hmmm.
“Yep, time for bed. She must be getting over tired.” As Diana happily rushed crying baby Elaine to bed saying something to her about getting to bed so Santa can come, Isabella pondered that her magic must not work on such a young mind. Seeing that Jack was now the lone occupant of the couch, she noted that Jack looked self absorbed. Oh, yes. This is his first Christmas without eyesight. The least said to him the better. I’ll just sneak out while Diana is busy with the baby.
Once outside, she thought, I can’t get over how warm a Christmas it is, not unlike New Orleans. When I relocated north, I was so looking forward to seeing a white Christmas again. I haven’t seen a white Christmas since my time in Europe. Well, I’ll go find some interesting Christmas dining.
As she started heading for the metro, she saw Eric. I guess I’m going to have to be neighborly.
“Hi, Isabella. Merry Christmas,” Eric called out from the front steps of his place.
He sounds drunk ... already. I looked past Eric into the living room window. No Christmas tree, no Christmas decorations at all ... odd. “Eric, where’s your wife and little boy?”
; “Wife and my boy are with my mother-in-law, or should I say mother-out-law.” With a laugh at his own bad joke, he continued, “Ever since we got married, my wife goes to her mother’s place to spend Christmas Eve sleeping in her old room so she can spend Christmas morning, not to mention the rest of the day, with her mother. Of course I’m not invited.”
“Yes, I remember you mentioning that you and your mother-in-law don’t get along. She hates you for taking her only daughter from her in marriage, correct?”
Shaking his head drunkenly, Eric answered, “You got it. ...”
“But for Christmas? Have you even tried to reconcile with your mother-in-law?”
“For my baby boy’s first Christmas, I suggested to my sweet old mother-in-law that, for the baby’s sake, we should bury the hatchet. You know what she said?”
“Can’t imagine.”
“She asked if I had a hatchet so she could bury it into my head.” Eric paused to let that sink in.
Sounds like my type of woman. She fought off a grin.
“Please excuse my manners. Would you like some heavily spiced eggnog?” He showed off the more than half empty gallon plastic jug with the label “EGGNOG’ clearly in view. Eric continued proudly, “I spiced it myself, I did.”
“No, thanks. It’s a little early for “spiced’ drinks for me,” she answered.
“Ah, yes, you don’t drink ... liquor.” Eric drunkenly snickered.
Now what did he mean by that?
“So Miss Isabella Báthory. Who do you plan on drinking tonight?” Eric drunkenly asked proudly puffing out his chest, “Who do you plan on drinking tonight?”
She rushed up to Eric faster than any human possibly could, and faster than anyone could have seen. Isabella planted her face in front of Eric’s face, made eye-to-blood-shot-eye contact with him, and enthralled him. “Eric, you are too drunk to remember this conversation. You did not see me tonight. Now go to sleep.” No sooner said than done. Eric collapsed on the stoop and started snoring. Thinking that his poor wife must be sleeping quieter tonight, Isabella picked up Eric as if he was a child and carried him into the house. She walked around the living room couch and dumped him on it. The jug of eggnog never left his hand. She removed it from his grasp and placed it on the coffee table. Looking at the jug she noted that not only did the sickly light yellow contents look totally unappetizing, but she could not begin to see how she could have even gotten the dreadful smelling liquid past her nose. She could not decide what was worse, the smell of eggs or the horrid smell of the cheap liquor within.
Looking back at him sleeping, she thought, Eric, I really hope I heard you wrong. Heard you wrong twice, but it’s unlikely. Out loud she said, “It’s a good thing you’re Jack’s best friend, or this night you would be my first Christmas dinner after that remark you made. Despite being Jack’s best friend, you just may have become a problem that I will have to deal with.” That thought brought a slight pang of regret and loss over dear Celeste. It turned out that Celeste wasn’t even missed enough to be a problem for the police. It would seem that I was the only one to miss sweet-tasting Celeste.
Just then Eric moved his head to the side displaying his neck, almost daring her to take a bite out of him. It was tempting, but Eric was not worth the chance of losing her happy day respite. Besides, it was too early for such a heavily-drunken dinner. She left to the unpleasant reverberation of Eric’s snoring.
Once down in D.C., it was no problem finding a pub open for the holidays. With her predatory heightened sense of smell, all she had to do was follow her nose. With each block she left behind, the scent of drunken sweat and strong liquor of a local pub in full action got stronger until she came within glowing lights that announced “Budweiser” and “Mil...” (Only part of that sign was lit). It was interesting that the bar’s name ... American Girl ... was not lit up. While it sounded busy, it did not sound busy with Christmas joviality. Just the place to find a lonesome, fresh Christmas dinner.
Noting how deadly quiet the rest of the block was, she crossed the street and walked in. The atmosphere of stale cigarette smoke made the place look like a London fog had floated in. If the smell of stale cigarettes wasn’t bad enough, add to the olfactory system the invasions of smells of various liquors fighting among themselves, and then mix in the stink of unwashed bodies, and morning applied deodorant that failed to survive the night.
While fairly busy, the place was as quiet as a graveyard except for the juke box playing some sad song she’d never heard before and would have been happy not to be listening to now. This was definitely the “Bah, Humbug” crowd. This was such a group of losers that finding a nice Christmas dinner was going to be like hunting for virgins in a nunnery. That brought back memories of joy both fitting the Christmas night, while not fitting a Christmas night. Hungry to the point of nearly starving to death after escaping my castle prison, I stumbled onto a convent full of nuns, an assembly full of virgin women, a feast fit for a starving vampire. Only later did I ponder how my helpers failed to find such a cache of virgin blood for my baths, but then, I only found this secluded, out-of-the-way structure by misfortune. What a night of screams and sweet crimson meals that night was.
She forced her mind back to the present. Looking around, it appeared that she had her pick of two biker bums with their own biker broad, or at another table there were three street types who hardly looked old enough to be in a bar. At another table was a suit with his tie hanging low and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He was displaying a tasty neck. Being along, he was a good possibility, but being the suit type, he probably had a nice apartment—possibly too nice, one with a doorman who could give police a description of his last guest after she left her dinner remains behind. She turned her attention on the other possibilities. There were two men at the bar who looked interesting. Both looked the type to be easily enticed sexually, then she could toss in a little last minute fear of death for the spicing. In the corner was a worn out looking whore who looked as if she was more into drinking than looking for a john. “John” reminded her of her short career as a street walker who was paid in blood. The gothic outfits she used to dress in were so cliché. But the hip, edgy outfits had made it easy to open negotiations for sex for blood payments. Eventually, she even had returning customers who did not even require her to “put out” for their blood. They just got off by becoming blood donors, but one does get tired of only snacking and not enjoying the fill of a full meal.
It was time to reel in that next full meal. She decided to take a seat at the bar and see who took the bait first.
“What’s your poison?” a tired bartender asked.
“Poison?” Isabella asked.
“What do you want to drink?” the bartender restated annoyingly.
“Bloody Mary.” She would not be drinking it, but if things went well, she would not be around long enough for the untouched drink to be an issue.
Just after the bar tender delivered her fake-blood concoction, she heard, “Can I buy you a drink?” When she turned toward the voice, it was the suit from the table. It didn’t take long for him to come over from his table. I would have bet one of the other men sitting at the bar drinking would have been the first to take the bait.
“I have one thank you.” Let’s not look to eager, play hard to get–a little.
“Yes, I see.” Sitting down next to her, he continued, “Let me introduce myself. I’m Phil Bowman. Seller of kitchen appliances. I have been here for some time now, and let’s face it. This place is a real dump.”
Isabella noted the unfavorable reaction of the comment from the barman working in earshot. He could not have disagreed too much as he continued cleaning drinking glasses with an unsavory looking rag, “I have much better wine at home than this guy sells. Let’s go to my place, where we can enjoy a nice bottle of wine and a warm fireplace...”
When he said that, he placed his hand on hers and added, “Your hand is cold. You could use a nice warm fireplace. I bet you�
�re from the south and not used to this northern weather, even though it is unusually warm right now. Am I right?”
I’ll just smile a little and look back at the drink I’m not drinking. She deliberately hesitated in answering. Let’s play with this mouse a little.
“I have some real music at my place, from Sinatra to Meatloaf.”
She just smiled to give him a feeling of a possible victory to come.
“Look, lady, I have a bed that not only heats but vibrates and can move like a real water bed. What do you say?” A note of desperation was slipping into his voice. If I don’t reel him in some he might slip the hook.
“Do you have a doorman?” I asked coquettishly.
“Well, no. My apartment is not that fancy. But it did at one time, so I’m told.” Hope was slipping back into his voice.
“How far is your apartment?” I was getting ready to sink the hook in, like my husband taught me while introducing me to his fishing hobby.
“It’s just three blocks around the corner.” He was beginning to almost glow with the possibilities running through his mind.
“Let’s go.” Isabella noted that her dinner was already starting to season nicely.
The apartment really was very nice. As Isabella walked in, she first noted the fireplace as the center point of an entertainment center that contained a TV to the left with an impressive looking stereo system just over the TV. To the right of the fireplace was something of a library of hard- and soft-covered books. To her right was a kitchen nook and on the nook was a wine rack almost full of various wine bottles. Well, at least he had not lied about having wine to drink. The wine rack’s quality and richness was of no concern to her. She was really not here to dine ... on wine.
“Would you like to get comfortable while I get the fire going? Then I will pick a nice wine for us to enjoy”
I can smell your juices flowing already, Mr. Phil Bowman. Dinner is simmering.