by H. T. Night
“What does that mean?”
“She calls herself a slayer.”
“A slayer?” I said. “As in dragons?”
“No, as in vampires.”
Gladys blinked slowly, but didn’t look away. I think my mouth might have opened, but no words came out. Finally, I nodded.
“You mean like in Dungeons & Dragons,” I said. “Or that World of Witchcraft, or whatever it’s called. A slayer is like her—what do they call it?—her avatar?”
Gladys smiled gently. “I’m not sure I understood half of what you just said, Mr. Spinoza, but what I do know is that she really thinks she’s a vampire slayer.”
“Do you have her on any medication?”
Gladys shook her head. “She won’t see a doctor, and won’t go to school.”
“So she just stays with you?”
“Yes.”
I thought about that. “How did you meet her, Gladys?”
“Veronica just...appeared at our house one day. Bloodied and in a horrible mess. She always refused to talk about where she came from or what happened to her. But I later understood her parents had been in a horrible accident.”
I rubbed my temples. If I had known that by putting a simple ad in the Yellow Pages I would be meeting the world’s whackos, I might never have gotten into this business.
Not true, I suddenly thought. Getting into this business was something I had to do. Needed to do. Looking for the missing was, in fact, the only thing I could do.
I asked, “Are you on medication, Gladys?”
“Many,” she said, smiling. “But not the kind you’re thinking of. I assure you, Mr. Spinoza, everything I have told you is true.”
“And this girl is sixteen?”
“Give or take a few years.”
“What does that mean?”
“She would never tell us her exact age.”
I thought about that. “When she appeared at your house, did you report her to the authorities?”
“She warned us that if we did, she would run away and we would never see her again.”
“And you didn’t want her to run away.”
“No. It was so...nice having someone in the house with us. Jack is in a wheelchair, you see, and she was always so helpful, even from the beginning.”
“You enjoyed her company,” I said.
“We loved having her around. She was a breath of fresh air, despite...despite her problems.”
“Problems?”
“You know, typical teenage stuff. Always sad, depressed. Of course, back then we didn’t know why she was so sad and depressed. But later we figured it was about her parents. We didn’t ask her too many questions. She didn’t like questions.”
“And you didn’t want her to run off because you liked her company.”
“We loved her company. We loved her. She was like a real granddaughter to us.”
“Do you have any kids, Gladys?”
“One. But we do not speak anymore. She disowned us decades ago. All over a fight. One single fight.”
And now she did weep again, although softer than before. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, which squeaked under my considerable weight.
“Veronica was our last chance to do it right, and she was our gift from God.”
We were silent. Outside my office window, the streets of Los Angeles weren’t silent. I studied Gladys. She seemed sane enough. But I have been fooled before.
She went on, “Since we didn’t know her exact age, my husband and I agreed that she was at least eighteen, and so we felt comfortable about not reporting her. Of course, we would have preferred to contact the proper authorities, or her parents, but she wasn’t giving us many options. In the end, we wanted her safe and well fed and properly cared for.”
I nodded, wondering if Veronica’s best interests were really being considered. I looked down at my notes. “And Veronica has lived with you for the past three years?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
“Sometimes? What does that mean?”
“It means that sometimes she disappears for a few days and nights.”
“Days and nights?”
“Yes.
“Where does she go?” I asked, and already I was dreading the answer. My feelings of dread weren’t unfounded.
“Hunting vampires,” said Gladys. She said the words so calmly, so conversationally, so pleasantly, that I nearly burst out laughing. Hearing the words “hunting vampires” come out of this sweet, elderly lady nearly made me question my own sanity.
Maybe I’m the one going insane.
“That’s what I get for asking,” I said, mostly to myself. Gladys looked at me curiously.
“Excuse me?” she said.
I waved off my comment. “Never mind. So when she’s not out hunting vampires, where do you think she really goes? A boyfriend’s house? Parties? Weekend drinking binges in Vegas?”
Gladys shook her head to all of the above. “No,” she said. “I believe she really hunts vampires.”
“Of course you do.” I took in some air. I nearly asked her to leave my office. Nearly. “And she’s been missing a week?”
“Yes.”
“How long does it usually take to hunt a vampire?”
“Three days, tops.”
“Of course,” I said. “So this latest vampire hunt is lasting longer than usual.”
She nodded and reached a shaking hand into her purse, removing a badly wrinkled and very used tissue. Crazy or not, Gladys was a woman in need, and my heart went out to her. It always did. To everyone. I may not always be able to voice my concerns or sympathies, but I did the next best thing. I helped people with my actions. I knew in my heart I would help her. One way or another, I would give this crazy old woman peace of mind.
“Mr. Spinoza,” she said. “Veronica was a gift from God. An angel, if you want to know the truth. What she’s involved in, I don’t know. How she became involved with it, I don’t know, but I love that girl, and I need someone to help me find her.”
I sat back and steepled my fingers in front of me. I had two pending cases sitting on my desk. Both were cheating spouse cases. Oh, joy.
I had, of course, already made my decision.
“I will do all I can to help you, Gladys.”
She nodded and smiled and cried, and finally I was able to force myself to stand and walk around the desk, and give the old woman a deep hug.
Chapter Two
I was sitting with Detective Hammer inside a donut shop on Glendale Avenue. Hammer seemed right at home in a donut shop, and I told him as much.
“Very funny, asshole,” he said.
Hammer and I had been working missing cases together for the past few years, ever since I got into the business and had made finding missing children my specialty. Hammer was a lead detective at the LAPD Missing Persons Unit, and he was damned good at what he did. I happened to have a knack for it, too, and we made a good team.
We had also become friends, which is a rarity in the private business. Mostly, cops looked at us private dicks as irritants. Not to mention, I rarely, if ever, went out of my way to make friends, which was partly due to extreme shyness, and partly due to my desire to just be left the hell alone. The fewer the people who knew me, the fewer the people who could remind me about what a fuck-up I was.
Anyway, Detective Hammer and I were sitting in the far corner booth, which gave the detective a good view of the glass door, and the donut case behind me.
“How come I never get to watch the door?” I asked.
“Because you’re not a real cop,” he said.
“How do I know you’re really watching?” I asked. “And not just planning your next donut?”
“Because I’m a highly trained detective in the LAPD. I can do both,” he said. “So far, the coast is clear, and I’m thinking I’ll have a maple bar next.”
And he did just that. A moment later, he returned with said donut and a chocolate milk.
I said, “Whe
n you’re done with that, there’s cubes of sugar over there that you can snack on.”
“Maybe,” he said, and I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. “So which case are you working on?”
I told him about it, although I left out the part about Veronica being a vampire slayer. Which was probably for the best, since I wouldn’t have been able to say it with a straight face, anyway.
Hammer nodded and took a bite of his donut. “The runaway who’s been living with the old couple.”
I nodded.
“We put this case on the back burner,” he said. “We’ve got more important things to do than look for a runaway who ran away again.”
“Or so it seems.”
“She’ll turn up alive and well, trust me. Probably out on some party boat in Havasu. She’ll come back to the old folks when she’s partied out.” He finished his donut and sucked on his fingers. “Anyway, to put the old lady’s mind at ease, I told her to go see you, since you’ve got nothing better to do.”
“That, and I happen to be the best.”
“Maybe, maybe not. There’s a guy here in town who gives you a run for your money. An old guy. Looks a little like Elvis.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“Tell me about it. Anyway, he’s pretty good, too. Maybe better than you.”
“That’s one thing I don’t mind being second best at. Maybe he and I could touch bases sometime.”
“Sure,” said Hammer. “I’ll give you his number. Then you and Elvis can solve crimes together—call yourselves Starsky and Hubba-Hubba.”
“When you’re done clowning around,” I said, “maybe we can think about finding a missing girl. And I don’t give a shit if you think she’s just another runaway. Even so, runaways find themselves in more shit than anyone. She needs help, no matter.”
“Fine. Quit busting my balls.”
“Did you do any work on this case?”
“Enough to know that it looks like she skipped town.”
“What else do you know?”
“That’s it. I told grandma to put together as much information as possible on the girl and to give it to you.”
“She did.”
“Then you now have twice as much info as we’ve got.”
We were quiet. As Hammer was about to bite into his maple bar, his bristly mustache sort of quivered in anticipation.
“When you eat,” I said, “Your cop mustache quivers like a randy mouse.”
“Does it do it in a sexy way or a creepy way?”
“A disgusting way.”
“Probably why my old lady never sleeps with me.” He wiped his mouth. “Did Gladys mention, um, anything else to you?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Something, you know, odd?”
“Maybe.”
He said, “You ask me, she’s off her rocker.”
“Maybe.”
“You got anything else to say other than maybe? And if you say maybe again, I’m going to go ape shit on you.”
I grinned. “She might have mentioned something about the girl being into some weird goth shit.”
“No, it wasn’t weird goth shit,” said Hammer. “And might have and maybe is the same fucking word, asshole.”
I grinned again.
“What did she tell you?” I asked.
“That the girl was some sort of a vampire slasher.”
“Slayer,” I said. “Vampire slayer.”
“Thank you for clearing that fucking up,” said Hammer. “Now I can rest well tonight knowing I have it fucking straight.”
“So what does your gut say about this case,” I said. In this business, instincts were everything, and we often asked this question to each other.
Hammer, for the first time in quite a while, looked legitimately perplexed; his mustache even sagged a little. “I’ll admit, it’s weird enough that it’s worth looking into, which is why I sent the old lady your way.”
“That, and because I’m the best.”
He ignored me and went on, ticking points off on his fingers as he spoke, “So, this girl Veronica shows up at the old lady’s door one day, bleeding and hurt, but won’t tell Gladys where she’s from or how old she is, and warns the old lady not to call the cops or she’s gone. The old folks are so desperate for excitement in their pathetic lives that they happily take on this degenerate.”
“Way to look on the bright side,” I said.
“There ain’t no bright side to what I do,” he said.
“I do it, too,” I said.
“But not as good.”
“Go on.”
He said, “So they take this girl in, treat her as if she’s their own for a few years. Meanwhile she disappears every now and then to hunt werewolves.”
“Vampires.”
“Whatever. Look, someone here is clearly nuts.”
“Nuts or not, we have a missing girl, who’s most likely a minor.”
“I still say she’s a runaway. A runaway of a runaway is low priority for a prestigious law enforcement agency like the LAPD.”
“But not for me.”
“Do I really need to answer that?” he said. “Anyway, since you get paid to do this shit, you’re the lucky bastard who gets to look into it further.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Lucky me.”
Also available at your favorite ebookseller:
The Body Departed
A Ghost Story
by
J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
1.
I stepped through the wall and into my daughter’s bedroom.
She was sleeping contentedly on her side. It was before dawn and the building was quiet. The curtains were open and the sky was black beyond. If there were any stars, they were lost to the L.A. smog. The curtains were covered with ponies, as was most of the room. A plastic pony light switch, a pony bed lamp, pony wallpaper and bedspread. Someday she would outgrow her obsession with ponies, although I secretly hoped not.
A girl and her pony. It’s a beautiful thing.
I stepped closer to my sleeping daughter, and as I did so she shifted slightly towards me. She mewed like a newborn kitten. Crimson light from her alarm clock splashed over her delicate features, highlighting a slightly upturned nose and impossibly big eyes. Sometimes when she slept her closed eyelids fluttered and danced. But not tonight. Tonight she was sleeping deeply, no doubt dreaming of sugar and spice and everything nice.
Or of Barbies and boys and everything in-between.
I wondered if she ever dreamed of me. I’m sure she did at times. Were those dreams good or bad? Did she ever wake up sad and missing her father?
Do you want her to wake up sad? I asked myself.
No, I thought. I wanted her to wake up rested, restored and full of peace.
I stepped away from the far wall and glided over to the small chair in the corner of her room. We had made the chair together one weekend, a father/daughter project for the Girl’s Scouts. To her credit, she did most of the work.
I sat in it now, lowering my weightless body into it, mimicking the act of sitting. Unsurprisingly, the chair didn’t creak.
As I sat, my daughter rolled over in her sleep, facing me. Her aura, usually blue and streaked with red flames, often reacted to my presence, as it did now. The red flames crackled and gravitated toward me like a pulsating static ball, sensing me like I sensed it.
As I continued to sit, the lapping red flames grew in intensity, snapping and licking the air like solar flares on the surface of the sun. My daughter’s aura always reacted this way to me. But only in sleep. Somehow her subconscious recognized, or perhaps it was her soul. Or both. And from this sub-conscious state, she would sometimes speak to me, as she did now.
“Hi, daddy.”
“Hi, baby,” I said.
“Mommy said you got hurt real bad.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Mommy said that a bad man hurt you and you got killed.”
“Momm
y’s right, but I don’t want you thinking about that right now, okay?”
“Okay,” she said sleepily. “Am I dreaming, daddy?”
“Yes, baby.”
We were quiet and she shifted subtly, lifting her face toward me, her eyes still closed in sleep. There was a sound from outside her window, a light tapping. I ignored it, but it came again and again, and then with more consistency. I looked over my shoulder and saw that it was raining. I looked back at my daughter and thought of the rain, remembering how it felt on my skin, on my face. Or, rather, I was trying to remember. Lately, such memories of the flesh were getting harder and harder to recall.
“It’s raining, daddy,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Do you live in the rain?”
“No.”
“Where do you live, daddy?”
“I live here, with you.”
“But you’re dead.”
I said nothing. I hated to be reminded of this, even by my daughter.
“Why don’t you go to heaven, daddy?”
I thought about that. I think about that a lot, actually. I said, “Daddy still has work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
“Good work.”
“I miss you,” she said. “I miss you so much. I think about you every day. I’m always crying. People at school say I’m a crybaby.”
“You’re not a crybaby,” I said. “You’re just sad.” My heart broke all over again. “It’s time to go back to sleep, angel.”
“Okay, daddy.”
“I love you, sweetie.”
“I love you, too, daddy.”
I drifted up from the small wooden chair and moved across the room the way I do—silently and easily—and at the far wall I looked back at her. Her aura had subsided, although some of it still flared here and there. For her to relax—to truly relax—I needed to leave her room entirely.
And so I did. Through the wall.
To hell with doors.
2.
I was standing behind him, reading the newspaper from over his shoulder, as I did every morning.