by Max Turner
“Yeah. I know I was supposed to keep it a secret. But—I couldn’t hide it from her. It just felt wrong.” Luna pulled her foot up on the swing and rested her chin on her knee.
“Do your parents know, too?”
She took a long time to answer. “Not really. My dad knows what’s wrong. And he knows he can’t fix it. He tried a full blood transfusion, but it didn’t do a thing. I guess the infection gets right into the cells.”
I nodded. “Ophelia tried that with me. I used to have to get them every few months. God, I don’t miss that.”
“No. It was terrible. And he was crushed. He was so hopeful it would make all of this go away. But there’s no cure, is there?”
I shook my head. “If there was, would you want to take it?”
She took a deep breath. Her answer took a while. “I’m not sure.”
“But your father would want you to?”
“Definitely. My mother, too.”
“What about Suki?”
Luna’s head tipped to one side. “No. She’d rather be like me. Like Charlie. We talk about it. Joke about it. She stays up like I do so we can spend time together. Then she crashes and sleeps twenty hours in a row. It’s driving my parents crazy. They fight all the time now. My dad . . . I imagine it must upset him a lot, having two daughters with problems he can’t solve. He spends his entire day helping other people and he can’t even help his own family.”
I fell back into the swing and let my head slip down against the backrest. My stomach was a bed of thorns. It honestly felt as if I’d swallowed a cactus. I’m sure it was guilt. The mess Luna was describing came right back to me, and my decision to involve Charlie with my problems. If I’d stayed away, he’d be at Stony Lake right now, teaching sailing to kids with Suki and Luna. Instead of having to sell their cottage, Dr. and Mrs. Abbott would be up there, too, a picture-perfect American family.
“Is it serious?” I asked.
Luna took a deep breath. She put her fingers in her hair and combed it away from her eyes. Right away, it fell back. “I hope not.”
“I hope not, too.” I pushed my feet down against the porch to get the swing moving. I was hoping it might help unknot my stomach. It didn’t work. I started feeling seasick.
“Are you all right?”
I didn’t know what to say. With all the trouble I’d caused everyone else, it didn’t seem right to say that I felt terrible inside, that I was feeling sorry for myself. Everyone else deserved sympathy, not me.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, “just as soon as I get out of jail.”
Luna started to laugh. Our conversation had been so serious, I was a bit surprised to hear it.
“Of all the boys to fall for, I had to choose a vampire who ends up in jail. Boy, do I know how to pick ’em, or what?”
— CHAPTER 11
VISITATIONS
Time is deceptive. Chain a guy to a chair in the police station and five minutes feels like five hours. But put the same guy on a porch swing with the girl of his dreams, and five hours passes in a heartbeat. Before I knew what was happening or why, Luna started to disappear. I remembered what Ophelia had said about getting stuck. I panicked.
“Quickly! Take us back to school.”
Luna’s eyes were starting to close. She was like a ghost now, slowly fading. I shook her shoulder gently. “Look at me,” I shouted. “Take me back to your classroom.”
Her eyes fluttered open. I could see the swing right through her body. “Your test,” I said. “You still need to take your test.”
That hit a note. The cottage and lake faded. Luna and I were sitting on a desk. She was reclined and falling asleep.
“Young man,” said a voice. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
I felt something poke my shoulder. I turned. The teacher with the vest and thinning hair was jabbing me with a ruler.
“You make a mockery of the education system.” He poked me again.
“Ah, sorry, but you managed that on your own.” I reached past him to the window—the small shimmering patch I had left in the wall. The rest of the room was blurring. I pulled the window open as Ophelia had done in my dream, and I slipped through just as the teacher jabbed me one last time in the shoulder.
I woke up. Officer Lumsden was prodding me through the bars of my cell with a baton of some kind.
“Oh. I thought you were dead.” He said it as if he was disappointed to learn otherwise. “On your feet.”
I asked him why I had to get up, but he didn’t answer. My wrists and ankles were still chained to my waist. My hands had fallen asleep and were starting to hurt. After moving unfettered through my dream, and Luna’s, it was frustrating to be inhibited in this way and was a reminder of how much trouble I was in. I rose awkwardly and looked around. My fingers went all pins and needles. I clenched my teeth and waited for the feeling to pass.
A young boy about my age, maybe a little younger, was being admitted. I don’t know why I had to be awake for this—maybe they didn’t want me snoozing. I felt that I was on display. I probably was. The boy looked as if he was ready to have a nervous breakdown. I wondered what he’d done to get himself in trouble. I listened carefully to what the men were saying. All I caught above the rattle of my chains was that he’d stolen his neighbor’s Porsche. Then Officer Lumsden signed him in, and an older guard with a mustache led him down the hall. His eyes were so wide and frightened, you’d think he was being marched to the electric chair. He slowed a bit as he walked past and looked in at me. The moment we made eye contact, the guard prodded him gently with a short baton.
“Hey! You keep your eyes to yourself, understand?”
I’m not sure which of us the guard was talking to.
The boy was taken to the farthest cell in the row. The officer waved him in, then locked the door.
“That kid down there is dangerous,” he said in a quiet voice. “A cop killer. He’s going away for life. You’re lucky. You could have killed someone tonight. Then you’d be in the same boat.”
I heard the boy swallow. He glanced my way again.
“Don’t even look at him,” the officer hissed. “Understand?” The kid nodded. Then the guard walked back with his baton out. It clacked against each bar in the row of cells. When he reached Officer Lumsden, he stopped.
“What is it with these rich kids?”
“Boredom,” said Officer Lumsden. Then the phone rang. He picked it up and pressed a button next to the display. “Lumsden here.” After a few seconds, he said, “Okay . . . sure thing.” After hanging up, he looked straight at his colleague and made a face as if he’d just been canned. “You won’t believe it, but that kid has a visitor already.”
“Are you surprised?” the older officer asked. “The way parents bubble-wrap their kids these days. Mommy and daddy to the rescue. It makes me sick. Like they don’t want him to be accountable. They probably have a high-priced Toronto lawyer who makes my salary in a day. So he gets off with nothing.” The guard followed this up with a thorough description of where, exactly, he wanted to place his foot.
“So the kid’s spoiled. He’s still a saint compared to this other one.” Officer Lumsden nodded in my direction.
“Yeah, keeps things in perspective, doesn’t it?” The older guard scowled, stroked his mustache, then buzzed himself out. As he turned, I noticed he had a gun holstered to his waist. Officer Lumsden didn’t have one. I wondered why.
Officer Lumsden went back to his seat and picked up his clipboard. A minute or so later his phone rang and he pressed a button. I heard footfalls coming from around the corner. The older officer reappeared with the kid’s visitor a step behind. I rose and stood at the bars of my cell to get a closer look. Something about the smell wasn’t right.
The two stopped at the set of bars closing off the jail from the rest of the police station. Officer Lumsden buzzed them through and I got a good look at the visitor. He was tall, even without the top hat, and was tottering on his feet as if the
ground were heaving beneath him. He looked half-alive. His face was covered in short stubble, and his long hair, a mix of black and white and gray, was tangled as if a bomb had just detonated in his face. He was wearing a long, filthy overcoat. Worst of all was the reek of sweat and booze that preceded him into the hall. The older officer with the mustache started frisking him and had to turn his head away to breathe. The visitor seemed indifferent. He glanced around the jail. His eyes were pale blue, as if someone had bleached out most of the color.
I knew who he was.
I met John Entwistle last year when he stole a police cycle and crashed through the front doors of the Nicholls Ward. Then he helped me escape in a Ford Mustang—also stolen from the cops. This set off a series of unfortunate events that led to that night. He claimed to be the oldest vampire in the Western World—over six and a half centuries. It was hard to believe. He didn’t look a day over two hundred. But he was supposed to be dead, firebombed by my uncle Maximilian. I realized when I saw him that he must have been the vampire from the river, the one Charlie and I had seen with the fence post.
He was plastered. He swayed on his feet as if he might collapse under the weight of his stovepipe hat. I felt as if I were looking at a ghost. I kept expecting him to acknowledge me in some way, to say something to dispel my shock, but he didn’t.
“You here to see the Mowry boy?” Officer Lumsden asked.
“Yeah, I need to find a good car thief. I need a lift to Argentina. I hear they don’t extradite.” The old vampire gazed to the far end of the hall where the young boy was being held. “Yeah, that’s him.”
Officer Lumsden wrote something on his clipboard. Then he handed it to Mr. Entwistle, who put his signature on it. His hand was unsteady.
“You a relation?” Officer Lumsden asked.
“No. I’m his mentor.”
Officer Lumsden shook his head back and forth. The old vampire started forward. “Wait,” the officer told him. He reached out and stopped Mr. Entwistle with one hand. The other hand snatched a paper bag from the inside pocket of Mr. Entwistle’s coat. “How did you get through with this?” Lumsden removed a bottle of whiskey from the bag and whistled in surprise. Then he opened a drawer of his desk and put the bottle inside.
“Do you have a coat check?” Mr. Entwistle swayed forward. The two men collided.
Officer Lumsden pulled his head back from the horrible smell that erupted from Mr. Entwistle’s mouth and snapped, “Watch it.”
Then he stood aside to make room for his colleague, the man with the mustache, who was to accompany the old vampire down the hall. I was still standing against the door to my cell.
The older officer had his baton out again and tapped it against the cell bars. He nodded for me to move away. “Back up.”
Mr. Entwistle starting backing up.
“Not you.”
The old vampire stopped. He was only a few feet away, but he pretended not to see me. Either that or he was seeing double and didn’t know which version to look at. He took an unsteady step, then he fell down right outside my cell. His face crashed awkwardly into the bars. Something slid across the floor and hit the toe of my shoe. He was hacking too loudly for anyone else to notice. Without looking down, I stepped on it to keep it out of sight. It was thin. A coin maybe. Then he stood up. He was still swaying, but his eyes were clear and bright.
“I saw you trip me,” he shouted to the guard behind him. “That’s police brutality.”
The older man just rolled his eyes. “Move along.”
But Mr. Entwistle didn’t budge. He squinted, then pointed at me. “I know you. You’re the guy who murdered Everett Johansson.”
“That’s enough,” said the escort. “Keep moving.”
I looked over at Officer Lumsden to see what he was making of all this. He put his coffee down and grabbed the telephone on his desk. At the other end of the hall, the young boy was on his feet. Recognition was in his eyes. And fear. I would have bet my last night of freedom that he’d seen Mr. Entwistle before.
The old vampire started hacking as if he were going to drop dead. I wondered how he could be that drunk. Booze, I guess. He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with the back of a glove. It was filthy. He would have been better off using the bottom of his boot. Then he glanced at me and winked.
“And you broke into that house and didn’t even steal anything. All those priceless antiques. I don’t care if he was a friend of yours, you could have made a fortune. Kids these days . . . Useless . . . You’re worse than that Porsche-stealing vagrant down the hall.” Mr. Entwistle’s voice rose as he spoke.
I glanced quickly at the kid, who blanched and looked away.
“Don’t worry, neighbor,” the old vampire shouted, pointing a finger. “I’ll get to you in a minute.”
The escort swung his baton forward. It extended like a telescope into something the length of his arm. “Back upstairs,” he said to Mr. Entwistle. “You’re not visiting anyone tonight.”
Officer Lumsden stepped away from his desk. Meanwhile, Mr. Entwistle looked back at me and shook his head as if he were totally disgusted.
“I hope they throw the book at you, boy.” Then he turned to the two guards. “As a thief and a murderer, that kid is a total failure. I tell you, when they stopped strapping kids in school, this country went straight down the tubes.”
He gave me one last look, then stumbled past both officers to the barred gate. He stood there, waiting for them to buzz it open, then bent over and started gagging as if he were going to throw up. Officer Lumsden glanced over at me, then pressed a buzzer to open the door. Mr. Entwistle gripped it by the bars and started pulling it toward him. A second later, he stumbled backward and fell to the ground. It ripped the bars of the gate right out of the wall.
“Oops.” He stared at the ruined mess of twisted metal in his hands. “Made in China—I’d bet my hat.”
Officer Lumsden put his hands over his head. Parts of the ceiling and wall pulled away. It filled the hall with dust and bits of concrete. The escort recovered sooner. He swung with his baton. Before it made contact, Mr. Entwistle dropped the gate, spun, and grabbed his arm. Then he tossed the man up against the wall. The old vampire kept a hand on his chest and forced out all of his air. The officer started to wheeze, then passed out. Mr. Entwistle eased him down. Then he kicked the ruined bars against the wall, walked over to the desk, opened the top drawer, and smiled.
“Almost forgot my booze.” He took out his whiskey. “Hard to stay drunk without it.”
Officer Lumsden reached under the desk. I heard a click. When he looked up, the surprise on his face was comical. Mr. Entwistle was holding a gun. He must have taken it from the other officer. How he did it without my seeing, I have no idea.
“Not a good idea—bringing guns down into a jail.” The old vampire was suddenly sober. “All kinds of vermin down here. You never know what might happen.”
Officer Lumsden put his hands up slowly. “Now don’t do anything foolish.”
“A bit late for that, wouldn’t you say?” Mr. Entwistle waved the gun at me. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
I lifted my foot. Underneath was a key. I bent down and picked it up, then undid the cell door and waddled into the hall.
— CHAPTER 12
ESCAPE
Mr. Entwistle reached into his coat and pulled out another set of keys. When Officer Lumsden saw them, I thought he was going to fall over. While he gawked in despair, Mr. Entwistle undid all three of my manacles. Then he stepped aside so I could make my exit, but not before turning down the hall to address the kid in the far cell.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Shawn, taking advantage of an elderly man.”
The boy, Shawn, stood and grabbed the bars of his cell. He looked as if he was about to have a meltdown. “But you told me I could take it,” he shouted. “You told me . . .”
Mr. Entwistle paused. “Did I . . . ? He scratched the side of his head with the gun barrel.
“You know, I think you’re right. I did tell you it was all right to take it. That must explain why I gave you the keys. Sorry, neighbor. I take back what I said—and all that stuff about your parents, too. I guess I’ll have to drop the charges.” Then he turned to Officer Lumsden. “Don’t even think about calling up or setting off an alarm.” He waved the gun for emphasis.
“Pull an alarm. Are you out of your mind?” Officer Lumsden said. “You’re on closed-circuit TV. There’s cameras all over the place down here. Everybody in the station can see you. They’ll bust down here in about two seconds.” He still had his hands up. He pointed one at the ceiling where two cameras were glued to both of us.
“Sneaky. I usually charge an arm and a leg to make a television appearance.” Mr. Entwistle raised his hat to the cameras, then turned to me. “Do I need to say it?”
“Say what?”
“Run!”
I bolted past the broken gate and down the hall. What else could I do? My life had become too absurd to make any rational decisions. We rounded the corner. About a dozen officers were waiting at the bottom of the stairs. They were moving forward cautiously, guns out, all decked out in gas masks and bulletproof vests. The first two were carrying big see-through shields. A can of tear gas came bouncing down the hall. I started coughing. An officer started shouting from behind the shield men. He was holding a megaphone.
“Drop the gun. Down on your knees. Hands behind your heads. This will be your only warning.”
Mr. Entwistle came to a stop right beside me. I couldn’t see much else. I was hacking and my eyes were useless. Billows of yellow gas filled the air. The wall of police officers ahead of us became one big smear. I got down on my knees and put my hands on my head. I was getting good at this. In an instant officers were in front of me with shotguns. They were looking for Mr. Entwistle. He’d disappeared.
Several more cans of tear gas bounced down the hall and the two officers beside me started coughing. Their masks were gone. One got upended. The other turned and shot a cloud of bullets into the wall behind me. Another officer stepped forward, then flew into the air as if he’d stepped into the basket of an air balloon. I could barely see. The other officers were shouting at one another: “Where did he go?” and “What the . . . ?” and finally “Who’s throwing that tear gas?”