Praise for Stephen Mertz
“One of my favorite writers … a born storyteller … Enjoy!”
--Max Allan Collins, NYT Bestselling author of Road to Perdition and the Quarry series.
“One of the best adventure writers of our time!”
--NYT Bestselling writer James Reasoner
“Stephen Mertz just keeps on getting better, each novel more dazzling in story and style!”
--Ed Gorman
Also by Stephen Mertz
Night Wind
Devil Creek
Blood Red Sun
The Korean Intercept
The Castro Directive
Hank & Muddy
Cold In The Grave
The Moses Deception
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The Vampire Chase
The Steve Madison Mysteries
Stephen Mertz
The Vampire Chase
The Steve Madison Mysteries
Stephen Mertz
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2018 (as revised) Stephen Mertz
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Ave
Las Vegas, NV 89122
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
eBook ISBN 978-1-64119-538-6
Paperback ISBN 978-1-64119-539-3
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
A Look At Fade To Tomorrow (Steve Madison Mysteries)
Also by Stephen Mertz
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About the Author
For Eagle Park Slim
The Vampire Chase
1
The power was with him, stronger than ever now.
It raced through his body, sending him higher than any drug ever could. It was always this way after a concert. The piercing, multi-colored stage lights. The hammering, high-powered waves of sound from the banks of amplifiers. The screams from out front. They seemed to ignite the raw energy humming through his veins, pulsating, screaming - out for release.
And the release had to be sexual.
But then there was the other need. It too had been building. It didn’t come as often as the sexual craving, but it was always near, waiting to take possession of his very soul. Waiting to answer the call. The call had come to him this time, as always, onstage. The strongest of a kaleidoscope of sensations swirling around and through him amid the pounding, well-trembling assault of Rock in full fury.
It was Lucifer’s call to do Lucifer’s bidding, and he had learned long ago how useless it was to ignore the call or to fight it. There was only one recourse. To obey. The need must be fed; satisfied.
With blood.
The girl with him now was perfect.
Perfect for both needs...
She was a groupie. One of those wasted young ladies—this one barely out of her teens—whose world is the motel bedroom and the backstage area of rock concert halls. She had passed inspection on all counts. Height, about five-eight. Breasts, small with a natural upward tilt. Long, flowing blonde hair framing a fairly pretty, stoned, slightly stupid face. All packaged in pure rock world tack. Plenty of makeup, plenty of feathers and beads, and clinging, gaudily hip clothes that advertised everything she had.
They’d met only an hour before at the backstage party following The Screaming Tree’s Tuesday night concert. It had been the last gig of a two-day, three-concert booking, and when they filed offstage he’d been more than ready to get loose.
The party had been one of those spaced-out, almost surreal affairs. People. Questions. Noise. Movement. With all of them—the promoters, the media reps, the record company affiliates, the groupies and the hangers-on—dying to meet the stars. And all the stars knew was that another show was wrapped up. It was time to get crazy for a while, to let off steam before catching the jet to the next city on the tour. It was no secret in the industry that if you wanted a booking completed as contracted, you held off the parties until The Tree had finished their last show. Then, anything went. But before that you ran the very real risk of having three dudes too blown out to play that last show. It had happened more than once.
So, he’d met the chick at this post-show party where the dope and booze had flowed as freely as ever. Getting lined up with her had been no problem. That’s what she was there for.
She came on with the standard rap about how she loved the group, how she had all their albums, how she was enjoying the party. It had taken ten minutes for her to get around to mentioning that she had a place not far away where they could be alone with a waterbed and plenty of dynamite smoke if he cared to leave the party.
They went to her apartment and blew their heads out completely with some Vietnamese weed which, she said one of The Loose Goose Band members had laid on her. Then they proceeded to make incredible love.
Sex was purely physical, animalistic thing for him tonight. It was the only way it could be, once Lucifer had spoken. The one time he’d thought about a girl while they were making love, before he killed her, it had stayed with him, haunted him, for weeks. So, no, he did not think of this one—Lois, she said her name was—as they screwed. He did not think of how close she was to dying.
She had excused herself and he was alone now on the waterbed, smoking another joint. Soft, old-time blues drifted from the cheap speakers of her stereo. They’d balled to the whirling, pumping rhythms of Disco, but the record had run out and she’d placed this one on the turntable on her way' from the room. He gave the impression of total exhaustion, but he hardly heard the music..
She returned to the bedroom, smiling. Nude and natural, without the wild clothes, she seemed almost like a blonde child.
The idea only excited him further.
She knelt on the waterbed and it swayed beneath them. He offered her the joint. She drew a hit and offered it back, but he shook his head. She extinguished the joint in a nearby ashtray and regarded him warmly.
“That was some far out loving.” Her voice matched her looks. “Whatcha thinking about?”
“Just tired. Worn out.”
“Was it good, baby?”
“It was good,” he said, his voice sounding small in the dimness. “Please, hold me.”v
“The waterbed moved some more as she made herself comfortable. She slid an arm beneath his neck, drawing him to her. There was the natural, musky scent to her of a woman after loving. That was why he waited. He loved the way they smelled then. The scent was usually the last thing he remembered...
She was mothering him, his head in the crook of her arm. The candle beyond her flickered, its light casting the pulsation of her jugular vein in a warm glow. She curled her fingers idly through the strands of his hair as the old black man on the stereo moaned his woes.
“Do you like blue
s?” she asked lazily.
He didn’t respond. The time had come. He drew his face closer to her neck. His chin rubbed across one of her breasts and the nipple grew erect. She purred as she felt his warm breath travel across her throat. He turned onto his side. She could suddenly feel his new, mighty erection pushing against her. She giggled.
“Well,” was the last conscious thing she ever said, “I guess we don’t want to talk about music, do we?”
The last thing she ever heard was the snarling groan he emitted an instant before he killed her. A groan from the pits of Hell.
His relaxed body became electrified, galvanized, as Hell’s lid lifted, and he became one with the awesome, primal force that exploded from the depths of his mind to the surface of reality. His heart slammed against his ribcage with a maniacal beat that no drum solo could ever hope to match.
For you, Lucifer—blood—the blood of living, breathing flesh—offered to you by your servant—to you, Master of Darkness—to you!!!
His mouth closed over her jugular. His teeth snapped. The girl’s body arched violently, yanked taut. Nails raked his back spasmodically. The exciting pain washed over him. She gasped once, her lips curling back over teeth in a rictus of surprise and horrible agony. Wide eyes screamed silently, already glazing in the light of the candle.
The blood burst from her like a geyser. He drew back until the pressure subsided.
Presently, he rose and used her shower. Then he dressed, not looking at what was left of her, sprawled across the still rising and falling waterbed. He was already in the process of easing what had happened from his mind. It was never difficult, as he’d been surprised to learn after the first few.
No one saw him leave either the apartment or the building. He walked ten blocks like a man out for a stroll, then hailed a cab. Twenty minutes later he was back at the party. The backstage area of the concert hall was still jammed with drunk, stoned, loose, laughing wild people.
If anyone had missed him, they didn’t say so.
2
“Steve, Arn will see you now.”
Steve Madison turned from gazing out the thirty-fifth story window above Manhattan. He was a well-structured, five-foot-ten. His hair, worn too long for New York, the drooping moustache and the western denim—all proclaimed that here was an out-of-towner. Yet there was about him the easy confidence, the quiet strength beneath the surface of nonchalance and the smooth grace of movement of a man who is at home anywhere.
“Thanks, Connie,” he said to the receptionist.
He stepped past her desk and entered Arn Shapiro’s private office.
Shapiro was second-generation music business and proud of it. His father and an uncle had migrated with their families from the slums of Poland to the slums of America as an alternative to Hitler’s ovens. They’d originally gone into the tavern business, had done well, and this had somehow led to the recording and marketing of records by the artists who performed in their club. The marketing had been local at first, but in I955 a black Rhythm & Blues singer gave the Shapiro Brothers’ JumpTown label its first national hit, and many more had followed. Irv and Stan Shapiro were gone now. In fact, the family no longer had any ties at all with JumpTown although, as the subsidy of a large oil corporation, it was still a thriving concern catering to the jazz audience.
But the music business was still in the Shapiro blood. Or “the game,” as Arn liked to call it. After Bill Graham, Arn Shapiro at thirty-seven was the most powerful booking agent/promoter in the world of rock today.
He rose from behind his broad desk and came around to greet Madison, his right arm outstretched He was a meaty, but in-shape guy, his hair a hard, wiry black, a bit on the eccentric, windblown side, with barely noticeable traces of silver running here and there. He was dressed in a natty black pinstripe.
His handshake and manner were cordial yet firm.
“Steve, good to see you. Have a seat. Care for a drink first?”'
His left arm circled Madison’s shoulder. Madison allowed himself to be led to a chair.
“No thanks, Arn. Too early. I just flew in.”
“Not too early for a smoke. Or some coke.”
He wasn’t talking about tobacco. Or soft drinks. “Too early for me,” Madison said. He took the seat and watched Shapiro return to his desk. “It was a long flight, Arn. You said it was something that couldn’t wait.”
Shapiro cleared his throat. There was a folded newspaper laying on his desk. He nudged it forward.
“I want you to read something. Page seven, third column, halfway down.”
He sat back and waited. Madison took the paper. It was yesterday’s Cleveland Plain Dealer. He thumbed through it to the specified article. Crime news must have been played down in Cleveland. The inherent sensationalism of the story was disguised beneath the simple heading: Girl’s Body Found He read the story through twice. There wasn’t much to it, wordage-wise. No more than a few paragraphs. A young woman had been found dead by her friends in her walkup apartment, about ten- thirty that morning. The girl’s name was Lois Bandy. It was a vicious murder. Her throat had been ripped apart. The body had been nude, stretched across her waterbed, and there were no signs of a struggle. It was a sex crime.
Madison refolded the paper, placed it back on the desk.
“You do it, Arn?”
Shapiro made a face.
“We got trouble, dammit, and I didn’t call you all the way back here from your damn mountains to go wiseass on me.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Shapiro emitted a long, tired sigh. “What do you know about The Screaming Trees?” he asked.
“What I read in Rolling Stone and the trades. They out kink The Sex Pistols and Alice Cooper on record and outdraw them in concert too. They’re the one big act you haven’t been able to book on the tube and there are even some cities that won’t touch them. They’re into an occult trip. Black magic, devil worship, all that crap. They’ve got one of the raunchiest stage-shows around. Mick Adamson, the lead singer, has been arrested twice for indecent exposure during performance. And the kids love it. It’s rebellion, I978-style. Announce a tour and you’re guaranteed of every gig being sold out before the tour begins. Enough?”'
“Enough except for. the biggie. But I can’t blame you for missing that. I just put it together myself five minutes before I called you last night. About ten minutes before I had the worst ulcer attack in my whole, goddamn life!”
“I didn’t think you sounded your usual cheery self,” Madison said dryly. “But I figured it was just the connection. So okay, Arn. You snapped your fingers and here I am. What’ve you got?”
Shapiro rose and moved to the tall window behind his desk, gazing out and down like a man contemplating a quick exit from everything, including his millions.
“I’m just guessing,” he said, not turning. “I maybe way off beam. It may just be crazy coincidence. But I don’t think so.”_
Madison nodded to the newspaper. “You think one of the boys in the Tree had something to do with that?”
“It doesn’t add up any other way.”
“You haven’t been into hallucinogenic lately, have you, Arn?”'
Shapiro returned to his chair. Madison couldn’t remember ever seeing him this uptight before.
“I generally book the Tree on three tours per year. That might sound like a lot when people like the Stones or Dylan are doing one in three but hell. When you’re hot, you’re hot. Those boys are riding a gimmick. All that occult shit. But people are still interested in it. When they start losing that interest The Screaming Tree is dead. So, I keep them busy. They’re working an American tour now. And the night before last they played Cleveland.”
“There’s got to be more to it than that.”
“There is.” Just thinking about it seemed to make Shapiro’s face twitch. He touched his abdomen. “Jeez, these ulcers!”
“What makes you think the Tree’s involved with that girl’s death, Arn?”
&
nbsp; Shapiro sighed.
“Because it’s happened before,” he said. “But seldom enough and far apart enough, that no one’s made the connection.” He slapped an open palm down on the desktop. The sound of flesh on wood echoed in the spacious office. “But I’ve made the connection, dammit, and I want something done about it!”
“You pay me to get things done,” Madison said. “But I must be a little slow on the uptake this morning. You’re saying that what happened the other night in Cleveland has happened before on Screaming Tree tours? That girls have been wasted like that when the Tree was in their town?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. It doesn’t look so good, does it?”
“How many times has it happened?”
“The girl in Cleveland was the fourth. I started getting ideas after number three but...hell, you know how it is.”
“Yeah. It’s a million-dollar act.”
Shapiro didn’t miss the sarcasm.
“It’s also a wild ass crazy idea that could be full of shit,” he snarled.
“Don’t try to talk yourself out of it this late in the game,” said Madison. “You already paid my air fare back here. So, you think one of the boys in the band has a taste for blood, is that it?” His mouth tightened in distaste. “Count Dracula, meet rock ’n roll.”
“I get the papers of any city in any country where one of my acts is playing,” said Shapiro. “It’s probably the only way anyone could make the connection. The first time was in Amsterdam about a year-and- a-half ago. Six months later it happened again L.A. Three months after that I booked them on a British tour with Fleetwood Mac and it happened again, in Manchester. Now, Cleveland. And it’s always the same. A hippie, a groupie chick, a nobody. Dead with their throat open from ear to ear.”
The Vampire Chase Page 1