Half Past Hell

by Jaye Roycraft

  Kilpatrick leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face as if it were clay to be molded. Vall waited.

  Kilpatrick dropped his hands and looked at him. “They didn’t want me to say anything to you yet.” He took a deep breath. “It’s started. All hell’s breaking loose in the city. Every copper’s been called up. The squids in Little Transylvania . . .”

  “The sucklings.”

  “Yeah, sorry, the sucklings saw Main’s press conference. They also saw video footage carried live of your body being dragged out of the burning building by the Tac rescue team. Apparently you’ve become the sucklings’ hero over the past couple weeks. Anyway, they didn’t appreciate seeing your Clawed-up body on TV, or hearing that the synthetic blood had been deliberately poisoned. They’ve taken to the streets, Duvall, and it’s safe to say none of the recalled blood is going to make it back to the bottler.”

  “Bloody fucking hell.” A hero? Him? Never in his three hundred years had he embraced the notion of being a hero, this side of the curtain of life or the other. A hero was the last thing he wanted to be. No, correction. A martyr is the last thing I want to be.

  “That about sums it up. They started by throwing the bottled blood into the street. Then they started tossing ‘em at passing cars, houses . . . the mayor’s house has already been hit by about two dozen bottles of blood.”

  Vall failed to be bothered by that particular image. A little well-placed vampire graffiti was nothing compared to what Vall knew would come. “Any killings yet?”

  “There’ve been a few isolated attacks, but no deaths yet. A curfew’s been called into effect. The coppers have been told to establish a presence, but to exercise restraint. Those out in violation of the curfew get a verbal warning first.”

  “And after the warning, what?”

  Kilpatrick gave a tired shrug that only emphasized how much his shoulders were sagging.

  “Yeah, I can figure the rest. Well, dawn’ll be here in a few hours. Hopefully nothing will happen before then.” He never thought he’d consider dawn to be a blessing, but right now he did. “You should get some sleep. Is DeMora waiting for me?”

  Kilpatrick nodded. “Yeah. He and Wallace are right outside.”

  “Send them in. Let’s get this thing over with.”

  The initial interview was brief, as far as Bureau interviews went. Butler came in and informed him that because the officer-involved shooting resulted in deaths, there’d be a lengthier interview later with Internal Affairs and a representative from the police union. Duvall didn’t care. He’d told DeMora and Wallace the truth, so he didn’t fear future interviews, but neither was he excited about union representation. The fact that for a few hours someone would be concerned with his rights was laughable in the face of everything else that was going on.

  Lawrence Main came into his room next, and he came alone. Vall thought he’d be taller. He also thought that Lawrence Main would impact his feelings, considering how much the man had impacted his life. The former Senator, in the peace process years ago, had helped mold Vall’s present world, and now, like a child bored with his play dough creation, had squeezed that world until it was misshapen and full of holes. He was a powerful man, an influential man, a builder and a destroyer. And he was the father of the woman Vall had bedded and bled. And yet Vall felt nothing when he walked in. No hate, no fear, no respect, no disdain.

  Maybe it was because Vall was tired. Maybe it was because his body, in its pain, felt like it was being ripped apart instead of mended together. Or perhaps it was just that after bullets, blood and fire, nothing much could faze him.

  Main cleared his throat. Unlike Kilpatrick, his collar, shirt, and tie were all still buttoned up and knotted to perfection. No doubt he had an assistant to attend to such matters. “This is not for the media and not for the police department. I’ll be saying a lot more to them later on. This is just you and me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  The man’s throat rumbled again in distress. “First I’d like to thank you for saving my daughter’s life.”

  Lawrence Main sounded like he was trying to cough up a hairball. It tended to negate any sound of sincerity that might have been present. Vall answered accordingly. “I was just doing my job.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, then, thank you for doing your job well. I’d also like to apologize for what I said to you before you went into that building. I was upset, to say the least, and very afraid for my daughter, but it was wrong of me to say what I did.”

  What sort of deluded world did Main live in? Did he really have no idea what he’d done? “I appreciate your words, but with all due respect, I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. I’m a master. I have no need for synthetic blood. But there are thousands of sucklings out there trying to live in the world you created for them, and you’ve betrayed every one of them. I know you don’t care about a few dead vampires, but what you’ve done has put us on the brink of another all-out war.” The words were filled with as much diplomacy as Vall could muster, but his apathy toward Main was quickly stirring to anger.

  “I don’t deny any of what you’ve said. I don’t expect your forgiveness, or that of any of the night person community.”

  God, how he hated that term. It was a thousand times worse than “squid.”

  “Call us what we are. Vampires.” Vall bared his fangs as a reminder. “You have no idea how we hate the term ‘night people.’”

  “Really. Very well, then.” He cleared his throat again, this time with a polite-sounding cough. “I don’t expect vampire forgiveness. But I had reasons for doing what I did.”

  “Do me a favor, and loosen your tie. If you choke on your words and fall dead at my feet, I don’t want to take the blame.”

  Main reddened, and for one brief moment, Vall fantasized about sinking his fangs deep into that well-dressed, politically correct neck and savoring some of that pompous, deluded, almost-but-not-quite blue blood. Better yet, he wondered what Main would say if Vall told him Veronica’s blood had been particularly rich and full of flavor, like a full-bodied wine, intense and almost too heady to be borne.

  “I’ll do better than that.” Main opened the door to the hallway and stuck his head out. “Officer, can you call Lieutenant Butler and have him and his detectives come in here, please?”

  The officer guarding Vall’s room was out of his line of sight, but Vall heard the answering “yessir” with no problem. A few minutes later a horde, like a pack of rats, crammed outside his half open door.

  “I’m ready to make a statement,” said Main.

  “We should go downtown, sir,” replied Butler.

  “No. I want to do this right now. I want Detective Duvall to hear this.”

  The sound of scuffling feet came to Vall, as the rats pushed their noses toward his room, and Butler just as resolutely turned away those whose presence he deemed unwarranted. DeMora, Wallace, Butler, Main, and Main’s personal assistant, a thin young man with the kind of perfect hair that destined him for success in his chosen field, all jammed into the hospital room.

  No, thought Vall. This wasn’t right. “Where’s Kilpatrick? I want Kilpatrick to hear what Main has to say. He deserves this as much as I do.” He hoped his partner hadn’t left the hospital yet.

  There was more shuffling of bodies as Butler squeezed out the door and gave instructions to an officer to find Kilpatrick and bring him here. Ten minutes later Kilpatrick arrived, surprisingly looking somewhat revived. His hair was combed, his suit coat was back on, and he held a fresh cup of coffee at chin level. Steam swirled up to his nose, and Kilpatrick inhaled as deeply and blissfully as if he were a patient on oxygen.

  This time it was Butler who cleared his throat. “Mr. Main, you’re not in police custody, so technically Miranda isn’t required to be invoked at this time, but perhaps it would be
better if you had your attorney present before you make any kind of statement.”

  Main shook his head. “No. I don’t want to put this off any longer. But I do ask one thing. I want police protection for my daughter. I’m not talking about a squad full of rookies parked outside her condo. I’m talking about personal twenty-four-seven protection from the best men you have.”

  Butler’s short hair was muss-free, and his clothes were still buttoned to perfection, but his eyes gave him away. Read the blood, Cade had always taught, and Vall did so now. He noted, as he often had in his three centuries, that whenever humans felt emotion or stress, it was their blood that betrayed them, either in blushing, blanching, racing, or some such manifestation. Butler was disciplined, but his bloodshot eyes revealed his present exhaustion.

  “Well, sir, we’ll do our best, of course, but I can’t guarantee . . .”

  Vall interrupted his boss. “What the lieutenant means is that he can’t guarantee that Kilpatrick and I will be available to guard her, but he’ll assign the best men he can.” It wouldn’t do to waffle now and spout doubts about the Department’s ability to guarantee Veronica’s continued safety.

  Butler glanced his way. Something in his dark eyes spoke to Vall of understanding, and when the lieutenant turned back to Main, Vall was confident they wouldn’t lose Main’s cooperation.

  “Yes, sorry,” said Butler. “It’s been a long night. I can’t guarantee which specific officers, but they’ll be the best available.”

  Main nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I want to emphasize that my decisions were not influenced by money. No amount of money in the world could have coerced me into betraying the peace I worked so hard for.” Main stared at Duvall. “I’m not saying this to justify or excuse what I did. All I ask for is understanding.”

  Duvall looked at Kilpatrick, and their gazes met, but Vall couldn’t tell if understanding would be forthcoming from his partner. Main wouldn’t get it from Vall. Main had betrayed everyone, mortal and vampire alike, who’d fought for the peace, died for it, and spent twenty long years adjusting to it. It was true that the development of the bottled blood industry hadn’t affected Duvall, but other aspects of the peace process had. He’d endured humility at the hands of ignorant meatheads, all in the name of avoiding the flames of another war. No, Main would get no forgiveness or understanding from him.

  Main took a deep breath. “The man who contacted me coerced me into tampering with the product at Nouvelle Aube by threatening Veronica’s safety. I was told in no uncertain terms that unless I cooperated, my daughter would be killed in a horrible manner. Veronica is my only child, and since the death of my wife, Veronica is the most important thing in my life. I could not refuse. Nor could I report this to the officials. I was promised that if I did, Veronica would die.”

  Duvall squirmed under the bed sheet. His regenerated skin burned and itched like he was on fire. Main stared at him again.

  Do you understand?

  Duvall could almost hear Main’s unspoken question in his head, and he wondered if DeMora, the only other vampire present, sensed it as well. He looked at DeMora, but the big vamp merely raised his brows in disinterest. Absolution was for the Church, not the undead.

  Butler broke the silence. “So one man contacted you? By phone? Did he ever give a name?”

  “I think it was one man. He had a rather unique voice. And, yes, he contacted me by phone, and no, no name. Just a nickname. ‘Deadeye.’”

  The cops in the room all looked at each other. “Any of you know a Deadeye?” asked Butler.

  “It’s a vampire,” said Duvall. After all, he’d been dubbed Gray Eyes by the sucklings, who seemed to take more pleasure in making up nicknames than in trying to remember the name of every cop they came into contact with.

  Wallace laughed. “A vampire? No. What vampire would want to kill other vampires?” He looked to his partner DeMora for confirmation.

  “It’s true the sucklings give us nicknames,” said DeMora.

  Wallace raised his arms. “It’s a human cop, then.”

  Vall shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Their names for mortal cops would be a lot more derogatory.”

  Kilpatrick sipped at his coffee. “Like meatball?”

  Butler gave them a look.

  Vall smiled. “Meatball is tame. Lieutenant, bear with me. I have an idea. Kilpatrick, remember out first night together?”

  His tired eyes rolled heavenward. “How could I ever forget?”

  “Pull out your memo book and look up the number of that suckling we interviewed. His name was Roman. Call and ask him. He’ll know, and it’ll be a vamp.”

  The room fell silent as Kilpatrick set his coffee down and pulled out his memo book and cell phone. It took less than a minute for him to find the number, but as soon as he punched in the number, he handed Vall the phone. “Here. He’ll never talk to me.”

  That was probably the truth. Vall took the phone, and a male voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Detective Duvall, Chi-No Police, calling for Roman.”

  “This is Roman. I remember you, Detective. I saw what happened to you on TV tonight.” There was a combination of awe, concern, and confusion in the young voice.

  “I need a favor, Roman. Do you or your friends know of anyone on the street called Deadeye?”

  He listened intently for the next couple minutes, aware that all eyes were on him. “Thanks, Roman. Do me another favor. Tell everyone you can that I’m fine, and tell them to abstain from violence. Give me forty-eight hours to handle things. Trust me.” He disconnected the call. He’d have to trust Roman as well, and trust that the sucklings’ love for gossip would spread his message quickly through the city. He didn’t enjoy adding to his hero status, but it couldn’t be helped. The sucklings needed control and direction, and as far as he could tell, Nestor, like Cade in Chicago, was doing nothing.

  Kilpatrick took the phone. “Well?”

  Vall wasn’t about to say anything more with Main in the room. “Mr. Main, if you and your assistant would step out of the room . . .”

  The flunky turned to leave, but Main grabbed Vall’s arm. “I think I have the right to know who’s been extorting me.”

  Butler came to the rescue, targeting Main with the unwavering command presence of his eyes and voice. “No, Detective Duvall is right. We can’t compromise the investigation.”

  “Compromise!”

  Butler rolled right over him. “The word of one suckling is not judge and jury. We need to build a case against this man, whoever he is, but he has rights of his own, and we can’t forget that.”

  Main’s gaze circled the room, his eyes appealing to each cop like a pair of beggars, but the cops were united on this issue. No cop wanted a civilian mucking up his case, especially a civilian who thought he could throw his weight around.

  “Very well. But I expect to be kept informed.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Butler. He opened the door and motioned for an officer. “Escort Mr. Main and his party to the waiting room. I’ll be with him shortly. And make sure there’re no reporters around.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Butler came back inside and shut the door. “Well?”

  Vall smiled. “It’s Jean Crevant.”

  KILPATRICK DROVE home, thankful that at five-thirty in the morning there was almost no traffic to challenge his tired senses. He’d been relieved of duty to get some sleep, but as beat as he was, his mind kept replaying the events of the night. Jean Crevant. He’d never liked the French squid, who had all the charm and personality of a dead fish, but he still couldn’t understand how a vampire could betray his own people. Butler’s plan was to develop enough probable cause for an arrest, as everyone had agreed that Crevant wouldn’t cooperate in any noncustodial questioning.

&n
bsp; Day shift would do the work, putting together a voice lineup package consisting of nine recordings of nine different voices, including Crevant’s. The recordings would be culled from the dispatch archives. Voice lineups were rarely used, but had been accepted in the past as probable cause. Butler was confident that if Main could correctly pick Crevant’s voice from the batch, the arrest would stick. Kil wasn’t sure how they’d take a vampire into custody, but he was too tired to think about it.

  As he rolled up to his house, he had to park behind three cars that were lined up in front of his walkway. All three had their motors running, and white exhaust plumed from their tailpipes in the crisp morning air. Vultures, he thought.

  As soon as he got out of his car, three sets of reporters and cameramen clambered out and trailed him up the sidewalk like he was the Pied Fucking Piper.

  “Detective Kilpatrick, can you give us a statement regarding tonight’s hostage rescue?”

  “Detective, do you feel that tonight’s events will start another vampire war?”

  He kept walking. “No comment.” It was all he could do to attach a modicum of civility to the two words. He let himself inside, and all his anger evaporated when Candy pressed herself against him and wound her arms around his neck.

  “Oh, John . . .”

  He’d never in his career been so happy to come home after work. He buried his face in Candy’s hair and held on to her like she was the only thing left in the world left to hold.

  “Are you okay?” Her voice was small and muffled against his coat.

  “Just tired, babe.”

  “And Duvall?”

  “He’s fine. I swear he’s indestructible.” He finally loosened his grip on her. “Hey, have those reporters been bothering you?”

  “They rang the doorbell. I didn’t answer.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “John . . .”

  He cut her off, already knowing what she was going to say. “No, it’s not all right.” Pestering him was one thing. Bothering his wife in the middle of the night was something else. But he was too tired to argue, make explanations, or describe the events of the night. Everything except his immediate needs would have to wait, and that meant that quiet and sleep were all that mattered. He peeled off his coat, disconnected the doorbell and turned off the ringer on the phones. After a quick shower he crawled into bed, pulled Candy into his arms, and yanked the blanket up over them both.