The Vampire Chase

by Stephen Mertz

  It would be interesting to see what they did with it.

  Madison folded that morning’s edition of the Chicago Tribune which rested on the seat beside him and pushed himself lazily to his feet. With paper in hand he ambled down the aisle toward the bar beyond the partition. No one seemed to notice his leaving.

  Keith Terrance was situated behind the small bar in the process of fixing himself a gin and tonic. The hefty drummer glanced up as Madison slid onto the stool across from him. An oversized hardbound book was open on the bar top, pages up. Madison lifted it to read the spine. The Satanic Bible appeared in gilt lettering.

  Madison set the book down.

  “Looking for new song material?’ he asked.

  “Just reading,” said Terrance. “Name your poison, promo man. This one’s on the house for the pushing around I gave you in the dressing room last night.”

  This was the first time Madison and Terrance had confronted each other since the backstage ruckus at Soldier Field the night before.

  Madison’s expression was unfriendly.

  “I remember it the other way around, Keith,” he said. “You’re the one who took the knocks, remember? Give me a soda.”

  Absolutely no reaction registered on the drummer’s broad face. He reached beneath the bar, came out with a bottle and popped open the top. He set it before Madison alongside a glass. Madison ignored the glass. He took a long pull from the bottle. When he set it down he realized that Terrance was staring at him. Still no reaction.

  “You don’t think much of getting along with people, do you, Madison?”

  There was a trace of accusation to the question.

  “I told you last night, I just don’t think much of prima donnas,” said Madison. “You want to forget what happened last night? Okay, we’ll forget it. But let’s keep the facts straight. I’d hate to have to refresh your memory with another demonstration.”

  When the reaction finally came it was without warning.

  Terrance’s arm flashed with a speed that belied his size and the bottle of Pepsi flew from the bar, thumping loudly against the opposite wall. Terrance’s face twisted into something ugly.

  “I’m tired of trying to get along with you, bastard,” he snarled. “Seems to me like you’re the one with a chip on your shoulder. Who the hell do you think you are, turkey? I take bastards like you apart for exercise!”

  “Save it for the mirror,” said Madison.

  He opened the copy of the Tribune to an inside page and slid it across the bar between them until the edge of the paper crinkled against Terrance’s bearlike chest. Terrance glanced down irritably—and seemed to go on Holiday. His eyes narrowed in on the small article which Madison had previously circled in red.

  “What is this?” he growled.

  Madison’s voice was cold and even as he asked, “Care to tell me where you went last night after the party, Keith?”

  Terrance reread the address in the article, then looked back up. There was some new emotion flickering way back in his eyes, but Madison wasn’t sure what it was.

  “You followed me,” the drummer said dully. “What is this, a shakedown?’

  “That girl the article is about, the one who was murdered,” said Madison. “Was she a pickup, Keith? Did you meet her last night or had you known her before?’

  “I’ve got a better question,” growled Terrance. “Why should I tell you? What were you following me for? What the hell are you doing on this tour anyway? You’re no promo man. I smell a cop, and that’s the worst kind of smell.”

  “That’s three questions,” said Madison, “and you’re a little slow. Brocchi decided I wasn’t a promo man last night.”

  “Yeah, he told me, but I wasn’t sure,” said Terrance. “I suppose you saw him at that chick’s house last night too?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Then you know that he hauled me out of there and that the girl was alive when we left. She saw us to the front door. Lee kept his taxi waiting while he went in and got me.”

  “Maybe I didn’t see everything,” said Madison, emphasizing the last word.

  Terrance nodded, his hands knotting into ham-like fists on the bar.

  “Lee was right,” he said. “A lousy narc on the make. Only things didn’t work out and now you’re trying to hang a frame on someone else, is that it?”

  “Maybe you’d better explain that, Keith.”

  “Explain, hell! What happened, man? Did you go in to have a talk with her after you saw Lee and me take off? She was a nice piece. I oughta know.

  Maybe you like your work too much. Some cops are like that. Maybe things got out of hand.”

  Madison kept his surprise to himself. Keith Terrance possessed a quick mind beneath that Cro- Magnon skull. The drummer had ad-libbed a perfectly plausible interpretation of the physical evidence at the scene of last night’s murder.

  “That’s good, Keith. But I wasn’t responsible for that girl’s death, and if it means anything, I don’t think you were either.”

  The drummer’s eyes grew speculative. The hands were still fists.

  “Who do you think did kill her?’ he asked. “Someone on this tour?”

  “I don’t know,” Madison replied truthfully. “But I’m going to find out. And you don’t have to worry, Keith. Lee was just flying off the handle when he showed up and dragged you out of there last night. Mrs. Madison didn’t raise any narcs. I’m into copping a buzz as much as anyone on this plane.”

  “So, who are you, man?’

  “Let’s just call me an interested party.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Terrance.

  There was nothing even closely resembling trust in the response. Madison decided the hell with it and moved on to a new subject.

  “Jeremy tells me that you and Mick write the lyrics for the band’s songs,” he said. “He says all of the occult stuff comes from the two of you.”

  "I write the lyrics,” said Terrance. “Sometimes when I’m stuck for a word, Mick will help out. But it’s my material. Those are my lyrics.”

  “I get the picture,” said Madison. “You write the lyrics. But you don’t really buy all that Satanic crap, do you?”

  Terrance didn’t take offense.

  “I take what I want from it.”

  “Like what? I’d really like to know.”

  As if he were onstage, the drummer didn’t miss a beat.

  “Like the knowledge that I’m a complex being with a full set of emotions,” he said. “When they bury me, when my time comes I want to go knowing that I’ve lived! That I’ve experienced each of my emotions and passions to the fullest. That I haven’t short-changed myself. That’s why they were given to me. Labels like good and bad have been invented by spiritual eunuchs who don’t have the guts to live on the edge, at the height of their passions. What I’ve learned from my studies of the occult and the teachings of Lucifer has freed me from sharing their fear. Baudelaire once wrote—”

  The guy showed no sign of slowing down. “Spare me the quotes,” interrupted Madison. “That sounds more like Leopold and Loeb than Baudelaire anyway, and you know what happened to those two wingdings. That trip only takes you one place, Keith. Up against someone a little heavier who thinks the same way. Or against someone who might just decide to take you out of the picture on general principles.”

  “It’s been tried,” said Terrance evenly.

  “That girl last night wasn’t the first woman to drop dead on a Screaming Tree concert tour,” said Madison. “How far would you go for thrills, Keith? Would you go to the point of taking a human life? How sick are you?”

  Terrance didn’t answer the question directly.

  “I was loaded when you took me in the dressing room last night,” he said. “I’m straight now. I think you need to be taught a lesson, Madison. Carving my initials in your face is one sensation that should be a real pleasure!”

  The articulate spokesman disappeared, and the Cro-Magnon man was back. He didn’t waste any
more time on words. He didn’t waste any more time, period. He came around the bar. He reached into a pocket, producing a small object in his fist. He flicked it and a seven-inch blade seemed to appear from nowhere, the blade glinting evilly.

  He started forward in a low crouch.

  Madison’s reaction was immediate and instinctual. His hand dipped beneath the left lapel of his jacket. When the hand reappeared, it held the .44 Magnum, hammer back.

  Keith’s momentum carried him forward until he was halted by the muzzle of the gun pressing against the center of his sloping forehead. Then he froze, not moving a muscle. Tense, knowing how close he was to death. The knife dropped.

  The only sound in the small lounge was the constant dull humming of the jet engines through the craft’s shell. They seemed louder now.

  Keith was still in his crouch, but his arms had spread even wider apart, away from his body to indicate submission. The paleness of his face resembled the underbelly of a fish.

  “Whoa—” He was working hard to keep from shaking and only half succeeding. “Put that thing away, man! I was only rough housing...”

  The moment held like that. A frozen sliver of time. The smell of fear was thick in the room.

  Finally, Madison stepped back, easing down the Mag’s hammer but keeping the drummer covered. He slowly backed up toward the archway leading back into the passenger compartment. His unblinking eyes had all the life of crushed ice. But he was reading the drummer and there was no mistake.

  Terrance knew how close he’d been to joining his beloved Lucifer, for sure.

  But the drummer was also animal enough to sense that he was to survive this confrontation. Carefully, he stooped and retrieved his knife, folding and pocketing it.

  “Why don’t we try it one more time and play fair,” he suggested. “I put up the sticker, you put away the heat.” His huge fingers were clenching. “I want to take you apart bad, Madison.”

  “Who the hell said anything about playing,” Madison told him. “This is work, Keith. All work.”

  “You never did say what your work was,” Terrance reminded him, his self-assurance returning by the second. “If you’re not a narc...what are you?” Madison’s eyes grew cold.

  “I could be an avenging angel,” he said with no trace of humor. “I’ve come for someone on this tour, Keith. If you did have anything to do with that girl’s death last night, get your affairs in order.”

  Terrance opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment Lee Brocchi stepped through the archway. Something in the atmosphere of the room tipped Brocchi off immediately that things weren’t right even before he saw the gun in Madison’s hand. He saw something in Terrance’s expression. Then his gaze shifted, and he did see the gun. He uttered a gasp of surprise and darted a hand toward the left lapel of his own jacket.

  Madison flicked the Mag back to Safety and holstered it.

  “Relax, Lee. I was just showing Keith a few gun tricks. Quick draw stuff.”

  Terrance was enough of a performer not to miss his cue. All the tension seemed to flood from his animal-like body and he returned to behind the bar like a gracious inn keeper.

  “What can I fix for you, Lee? How about you, Madison?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll sit this one out,” said Madison. He brushed by Brocchi and passed through the archway back into the cabin proper. Brocchi followed him and caught his arm in a tight grip just beyond the archway. The others were still up front, lost in their video cassette.

  Brocchi’s face was tight with rage.

  “What the hell was going on back there?” he snarled. “I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by while you—”

  Madison yanked his arm free.

  “You’re damned already for putting up with that line of jive for as long as you have,” he said. “By the way, why did you lie to me about where you went last night?’

  “You mean after I left the party? Why should I lie about that? I was out drinking with Mick, like I told you.”

  “That’s not the way Keith tells it,” said Madison. “He says you trailed him out to the near North Side of Chicago last night. He says you pulled his ass of some girl’s bed because you thought I was a narc or some similarly undesirable type, out to make a bust.”

  As he listened, Brocchi’s anger seemed to dissipate. It was replaced by wariness.

  “Why don’t we go back and talk this over with Keith?” he suggested.

  “You talk it over with him,” said Madison. “I find the guy a bore. And since you are going back in, ask him to show you the article I circled in today’s Drib. It’s on the bar. I think you’ll find it real interesting reading.”

  He turned his back on the road manager and returned to his window seat, across and two back from Laura Bates who still seemed to be dozing.

  As he gazed once again out into the endless blue and listened once more solely to the high keening whistle of the craft’s engines, the trace of a smile curved his lips. Keeping things stirred up, yeah. Keep everybody on their toes. The status quo was that there was no status quo.

  Someone would show their hand before the band left Kansas City. Madison had his eye on all of them, waiting for the break. Waiting for the sign.

  And just keep stirring...

  Next on the list was The Screaming Tree’s lead vocalist and bassist, Mick Adamson. Madison’s smile soured to a grimace as he remembered the passionate clinch that Mick had gone into with Laura the night before in the Chicago-hotel parking lot. He suddenly realized with a reapproving shock that he’d been putting off confronting Mick because of what he’d want to do to the bastard. Laura was another man’s woman by marriage. Madison was willing to recognize that and expected other men to do the same.

  Madison diverted his mental flow from carrying that line of thought any further. Keep the emotions out of it, Madison. When the emotions flame up and take over, some of the other senses dull. This is a killer you’re trying to nail. His next victim could be you.

  The gang up front by the video machine had replaced In Concert with Star Trek and seemed to slowly be coming to life. Connie managed to glance back and meet Madison’s glance. The connect held just long enough for Madison to know that she was on the job. Then her attention moved back to the show. Beside her, Jeremy Bates was slumped down as if he didn’t give a damn about the space opera on the machine, but that there was nothing better to do so he was stuck. Beside him, wiry, compact Mick Adamson was a study in contrast, hunched forward off the couch, his full attention riveted on the video drama, oblivious to everything else.

  It would hardly do to question him now in front of the others. So, Madison spent the remainder of the flight reviewing and trying to make sense out of what had happened. The conversation with Terrance was a puzzler. It suggested a hell of a lot more questions than it answered.

  When Madison had told Keith that the girl last night wasn’t the first woman to drop dead on a Screaming Tree tour, Terrence hadn’t even questioned him about what he meant. As if Terrance was damn well aware of the string of murders that had trailed the band across the globe.

  And Arn Shapiro had thought he was the only one who’d figured out the connection.

  Was Keith Terrance as astute as Arn Shapiro?

  Or was Terrance a psycho who liked to rip open women’s bare throats and revel in their blood? Was that how he knew what Madison was talking about?

  Someone was going to tip their hand in Kansas City. Madison was willing to bet on it. And yeah, it could be Terrance.

  There was only one reason why Madison had told Terrance that he didn’t suspect Keith of the girl’s murder in Chicago last night. If the drummer thought that he was not under suspicion, he would relax and that would give Madison more room to swing in this investigation. And Madison had a feeling he could use all the breathing space he’d be able to get. Things could get very tight, very quickly. In addition, if Terrance wasn’t the psycho, he might even try to lend a hand and dig something up on whoever was doing the slau
ghtering.

  Madison hadn’t even been thinking of that angle when he’d originally gone back with the Chicago Tribune to confront the drummer, and now his smile returned as he decided that, despite some of the new questions it had raised, it had been a satisfactory conversation overall after all.

  Yes sir, he was doing a fine job of scrambling these people’s minds.

  Application of the final touch came only after they had landed in Kansas City.

  Madison knew K.C. to be an old, ugly town, but none of that was apparent from the airport. They had left the storm pattern. The midday sun beamed down a refreshing, warm glow, a happy change from the raunchy mugginess of Chicago. A breeze was blowing as they debarked the plane and walked toward the two waiting limos, and as the breeze ruffled his hair, Madison experienced a thankful gladness to be at least this far west. Another eight hundred miles and he’d be home in Colorado.

  Ever-smiling Jeremy Bates and his Laura and Connie Frazer started for one of the cars, Jeremy and Connie avidly discussing the shows which Laura had napped through. Madison fell in behind them.

  Keith, Mick and Brocchi were climbing into the other caddy. But at the last minute, Keith detached himself from them and caught up with Madison, as Madison, the last one to his car, was just about to climb in.

  Brocchi leaned out from the first limo. “Hey, Keith! I thought you were riding with us. We’re all tired, man. Let’s go!”

  Terrance ignored him. He looked at Madison and spoke with his voice low, dangerous.

  “I still want to know why you followed me to that girl’s house last night,” he growled. “Tell me why you followed me. Now.”

  Brocchi’s voice called again from the other car. “Come on, Keith! Let’s roll.”

  Madison nodded toward the road manager.

  “I don’t know what you and he spent the rest of the flight talking about,” he said to Terrance. “But he’s the man to fill you in on that angle.”