by P. N. Elrod
“So…how’s Cicero these days?”
“Shut up, Whitey.” Mike looked ready to burst, there was so much inside him wanting to get out. Give him time…
But the minutes went by. Nothing. Michael’s hands worked inside his coat pockets, making fists, forcing his hands open. It was a mannerism he only ever fell into when they were alone.
He thinks he’s still dealing with the son of a bitch he’s always known. Not me. Who do I need to be to get answers?
“Where’s Broder?” Gabe asked, checking both ends of the alley again.
“Maybe he’s pounding the bullet dents out of that car he took the other night.”
That was unexpected. “He told you.”
“Yeah. He told me.”
“After he drove us off the road things got a little hazy. What’d he say?”
But Mike clammed up.
“Oh, come on. What kind of arrangement have you got that someone like Momma Cabot can call Broder whenever she wants?”
“You stay away from her.”
“Why?”
Mike shook his head.
“Is that why you gave Fleming the green light to keep me in line and no reprisals?”
“He told you that?” He stopped making fists and took his hands from his pockets.
“Your voice carries. Why do you want to kill me, Mike?”
No reflections on the glasses now, Michael’s blue eyes were wide open and for an instant showed a mix of anguish and guilt. He shut it down. “I don’t want to.”
“But you wouldn’t much mind if someone else did the dirty work. What problem gets solved if I’m gone?”
Michael shook his head again.
“I know it has to do with that damned cabin. You were there.”
“I was never there,” he stated, voice like a razor.
Gabe had hit the nerve he’d wanted. “I went up. I saw the blood, and I found Ramsey’s body.” He searched for further reaction, but Mike had turned to stone. “I’d like to hear your side.”
He was taking a different kind of risk now. The man Gabe had been before his death would never have said anything like that.
“My side?”
“What happened there.” Gabe pulled out the .22, holding it flat on his palm so it wouldn’t be mistaken for a threat. “Is this yours? Or Ramsey’s?”
“What is it?”
He can’t see in the dark. Gabe crossed now, opened the driver’s door, and put the headlamps on. Mike followed him to the front of the car, staring down at the rusted weapon in the harsh glare. They made fine targets, the pair of them.
“Not mine,” he said. “That’s your kind of gun.”
He was probably right. There was every chance that Gabe had been in the habit of carrying a small-caliber shooter with the numbers filed off. He could throw it away after a kill. Okay, that just meant someone had taken it from him.
“And this?” He drew the amber vial out next, holding it between thumb and index finger.
Mike looked and dismissed it. “What do you want from me?”
This wasn’t going the way it should. What had been conclusive up in the woods seemed ridiculous here. Michael should be angry and defensive for being caught out, not like this. Unless…
“Then it was Broder. He’d planted stuff. What was his angle? Kill me and Ramsey, then move up the ladder? Is that where that bastard Mitchell got the idea? Or did you order it from the start?”
Mike showed his lower teeth, eyes blazing. He raised one hand, fingers skyward as though to grab something. His fist finally closed on air.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry, Whitey. I promised Ma I’d look after you, but it’s too much now. I can’t do it anymore.”
In the last two months, Mike had never spoken of his mother. All Gabe knew about his stepmother was her name and the official records concerning her death. Sonny had made such a vicious job of his second wife’s murder that they’d thrown him into an insane asylum instead of hanging him.
Mike had been fifteen at the time; Gabe had become his legal guardian. Why was it that—
“No more,” Mike whispered. Hands in pockets again, briefly. He pulled a gun out, the one Gabe had reloaded himself the previous night.
“Hey, wait!” Gabe backed clear of the lamp glare. He didn’t know his brother that well, but this was completely wrong for him.
Mike fired. His aim was off, and Gabe dodged. The bullet noisily took a chunk from the wall behind him.
Instinct said to run, but insanity took over. Gabe dove forward and tackled him before he could get in a second shot. They hit the pavement and rolled in wet filth. Mike fought to win, was quick as a snake, not pulling a single dirty punch.
But the fight was finished in seconds. He just didn’t have the same speed and strength. Gabe made his one hit count, and that was all she wrote.
He pushed himself off the dazed Mike, cursing a blue streak for the situation. He’d had enough. It was time to haul the kid into the club, put a light in his face, and bust his brain open.
He heard someone grunt, and after a moment realized he was on the ground again, facedown. What the hell—?
Gabe tried to get up and the movement set off a fireball in his head. Hideous blinding agony struck him flat.
Dimly he heard heavy footsteps, Broder’s deep voice asking a question, and Michael’s faint and groggy reply. Scraping sounds, a groan, the slam of a car door.
More steps. This time Gabe heeded instinct and went perfectly still. Not difficult; the pain had paralyzed everything but the urge to scream. He choked it off.
Pressure on his throat. Broder was feeling for a pulse. Getting none, he pushed up the back of Gabe’s overcoat and suit coat, grabbing his belt. One-handed, he lifted and pulled Gabe’s limp body along like a heavy suitcase, the man was that strong.
A gun went off. It made quite a roar within the confines of the alley. Three shots at least, so close together that they could have been from a machine gun.
Broder dropped his burden. Gabe forced his eyes open. Filling his view was one wheel of the Studebaker, inches from his face.
Another shot.
Broder was in the car, gunning it to life. The wheel slipped, grabbed, and spun away. The Studie departed, its open trunk lid bouncing, then slamming into place as the car screeched out of the alley.
Gabe dragged himself upright. He hurt too much to be doing anything so stupid, but anger was running the show by then. He staggered, using a wall for support, working his way toward the street. If they knew he was alive, they’d come back. He wanted a shot at Broder.
Behind him a car horn honked an irritable warning.
Now what?
He pressed out of the way as the Hudson tore past in pursuit. Escott was at the wheel. Eyes wide and blazing, he glanced once at Gabe, showing the mirthless grin of a crazy man, and kept going.
15
FLEMING
DUGAN held the shiny-clean scalpel rock steady between his fingers, looking down with that damned permanent smile that had never before reached his eyes. They glinted now. He was a truly happy man.
“You know what comes next,” he stated.
I had no way to brace against it. I’d been to the brink and over. I couldn’t go there again.
Eyes shut, I gave up.
My mind slipped away and hid in that perfect summer hour, adding more detail. The cool water contrasting with the hot breeze, shade tree overhead, sunbeams streaming through the leaves, birdsong…good, good, but I needed company.
Leaning against the tree was Escott, coatless, shirtsleeves rolled up, waistcoat unbuttoned, no tie. He sipped lemonade from a tall glass, his attention on the green fields around us. He looked surprisingly at peace.
Bobbi was in the stock tank. She held me, kept me from sinking. She wore a skin-hugging swimsuit…I couldn’t fix on the color. It kept shifting from red to blue to yellow, sometimes black. None of them seemed right on her, but this was the first time I’d ever seen her in sunlight.
It made her blond hair glow and set off the green sparks in her eyes.
She smiled like it was the world’s first day and bent to kiss me. I felt her lips and knew if she stayed with me I would be all right.
Something stung my left wrist, kept on stinging, harsh as a wasp.
I held fast to my illusion for a few more precious seconds, then had to see what hurt.
It was and was not what I’d expected.
My wrist hung out past the edge of the table, and Dugan had sliced into it, but not to strip away flesh. He was hunched over holding a glass under the wound, collecting the blood.
My initial shock and disgust were overwhelmed by elation. He wasn’t going to skin me, just drain me dry. That wasn’t as painful. In the end I’d just fall asleep.
As deaths went, it was the best I could expect.
I smothered my relief, but while one part of me celebrated an easier passing, another part seethed with blind fury for what he was doing. I tried to pull away, but of course the metal held. The hot shock was more remote this time. My body was slowing down in reaction to the blood loss. I could feel my strength literally rushing out.
Dugan’s smile was genuinely warm. “Things got so very interesting the other night, didn’t they? The hospital. Your friend was so sick. I was there.”
How…? One of the reporters? But they’d left. The only other one…
“You are quite the catalyst for calamity, aren’t you, Fleming? First that actor shot, then your partner hurt. What a terrible beating he had. I troubled to get close to your little group, and it was just too easy. You’re all so tidily wrapped up in your concerns. You looked right at me once, but didn’t really see. No one notices a humble janitor with his bucket and mop.”
He had that right. Too late now to feel stupid over it. The wig, thick glasses, and a big mustache to hide his distinctive mouth had done the trick.
“Such a remarkable event transpired that night. The whole hospital was gossiping about the dying patient who was made to drink blood, then had a miraculous recovery.”
The cut inside my wrist healed shut, leaving a welt that would fade if I lived long enough. The glass he held was a laboratory beaker with measurement lines up the sides. He’d drawn off at least a cup of my blood. Much more than that had dripped to the floor when I fought to get free. I was dizzy from the loss.
He straightened, sniffing the contents of the beaker.
“How generous you were to save his life—and letting me know for certain how to change mine for the better.”
I wanted to smash his smile to the other side of his head. Underestimating him…not smart…damned stupid in fact.
His self-absorbed ramblings…I’d not paid them the proper attention. Now they made sense; he hadn’t been lecturing just to hear his own voice. I understood now.
He wanted to turn himself into a vampire.
Dugan correctly interpreted my revulsion. He leaned in close. “Remember when we first spoke in your office? I told you then I wanted you for a very simple experiment—nothing that would offend your sense of morality. You should have listened.” He thumped a finger sharply against the rod. It made my arm twitch, tearing the skin again, and more of my life leaked away. “All I wanted then was for you to get into one of the larger banks for a modest withdrawal. They wouldn’t have missed it, and it would have been of considerable help to me. But you had to be difficult.”
God, I was so hungry. Bloodsmell was everywhere, and I couldn’t touch it. I had to fight to stay focused.
“I realized there would be no effective way to control you; therefore, my best course of action was to acquire your abilities myself. I did a bit of research, but there is appallingly little information available, and much of it is suspect. However, your friend’s misfortune gave me all I really needed.” He lifted the beaker. “I’m estimating that it will take three nights to effect the full transformation. The folklore is in general agreement on that point, though it’s mixed up with religious nonsense. Now you know how long you’ll be here. Once I’m like you, I will let you go—I know you don’t believe that. You dealt me some very shabby treatment, but really, I was never your enemy.”
I’ll carve that on your gravestone.
“Be assured, I’ll have a long head start before you’re set free. I know you won’t be persuaded to a sensible neutrality toward me, but I truly have nothing against you. You’re no different from any other animal succumbing to instinct. You lack the capacity for—”
“Ya want in the union?” I asked. My voice had turned reedy. It was hard to draw in enough air to speak. “Why dint ya say so? I’da put th’ word in.”
“You waste yourself.”
No doubt. I needed him to underestimate me.
“And you can’t even see it. But you have my word: three nights, and I’ll let you go. Oh—your friends won’t miss you. I repaired the damage made when I broke into your little lair. I also left a suitably misleading message with that detective fellow’s answering service. They’re under the impression that you’ve gone off to do a bit of thinking. Exasperating, perhaps, but they won’t look for you.”
Would Escott question that? Or Bobbi? The way I’d been acting lately…
“This won’t be pleasant for either of us, but I will be civil to you for the duration. Once this is over, you’ll never see me again, and that should be some consolation.”
Dugan raised the beaker to his lips and took his first taste. It must not have been to his liking, to judge by his expression. He had to force himself.
He drank all of it, which was more than was needed. A sip would do the job—if it worked. I stared the way you do at a car accident. It’s bad, but you can’t stop until you see the worst. What would it be, a dead body or a dying one? I was the one dying, though. I’d lost so much life, and he was drinking away the rest.
Yet as I lay there, weak and starving, I began to laugh, very softly.
He’s got it wrong.
I used up what little strength remained, laughing.
If he thought me insane, well and good.
His eyes were strange, very bright. It would be hard getting him to think I was crazy. He was so far gone himself.
“What is it?” he asked. Suspicion from him now. I had to be more careful.
“You…”
“What?”
Huh. Had to finish it, give him a reply. Something to mislead. “You…look funny, Gurley Hilbert.” I trailed off drowsily. Not an act—I was shutting down the same as I did at dawn.
He disliked the distortion of his name, but his smug smile returned. I hoped that meant he thought himself to still be fully in control of this two-legged animal. Hell, he was in control, but it wouldn’t last. He’d made a big mistake letting me get so weak.
“That pettiness doesn’t matter to me. You don’t see that I…I don’t—”
Then he abruptly broke off, falling from the chair, whooping and gagging.
Drinking blood is not something people just do. There’s only so much an ordinary human can take before getting sick. Even with my change making the stuff taste good, it had taken months before my mind got used to the idea itself and accepted it. How much worse was it for this fastidious, fancy-pants society swan. You can’t think too much on the process, and Dugan was obsessed with his intellectual superiority. Whatever was going through his mind…he’d have to quash it thoroughly. Odds were he’d find it impossible. Minds like his had no off switch.
But was his reaction a result from taking blood in general or my blood in particular?
Until that miracle in Escott’s hospital room, I’d have bet on the former. Not so sure anymore. A vampire’s blood had saved a sick man from dying, but what would it do to a well man? Make him healthier?
No matter. The bastard’s got it wrong.
This had happened to me before, but the woman who’d forced me to change her had gotten the ordering right. If Dugan had somehow made me drink his blood first, and then taken from me, I’d have
been worried. He’d left out that step. We were both in strange waters with this variation.
I wasn’t going to tell him about it, either.
Pyrrhic victory to Jack Fleming, maybe.
He moaned, but it sounded more like ordinary disgust than physical pain. Escott hadn’t reacted, but he’d been unconscious.
If I could just lift up a bit to see what was—
Then my eyelids suddenly closed on their own.
Death’s own silent chill seized my body.
A relentless progress, feet, legs, trunk, it was like being buried in snow, very snug, very final. I’d been through this before, too. Didn’t like it, but better than getting skinned.
I’d expected this, but still felt a hurt surprise.
My death would mess up Dugan’s plans. Cold comfort, but serve him right. He didn’t understand how vulnerable I was to blood loss. He’d ignored things while I bled. He had literally talked me to death.
I sought that summer day, and it flooded around me, sweet and warm. Bobbi held me safe until it was time to drift free.
It was very like those moments when I went invisible, but even that formless state had weight, keeping me bound to a physical world. Now I shrugged it off, lifting above myself, wonderfully light.
The clay I’d left behind was in poor shape. The face had gone terribly gaunt, fingers curled into grasping claws, outstretched arms so desiccated that the shape of the bones showed through the gray flesh. He’d been through much pain, but that was finished now. No more suffering for him, the poor bastard. The me that floated above him was unsure of what to do next now that having a body was of no further importance.
The other man in the room finally got off the floor and went to check on the remains. No amount of shouting or slapping of the face would animate that corpse.
The man rushed out of my field of view. I kept staring at me, reluctant to say good-bye. Once I left, that would be the end of it. No more ties to this world. No more…
Bobbi—she won’t know what’s happened.
That wasn’t anything I could fix. What was done was done. I had to go soon.
I can’t just leave her.
I hesitated. And thought. And thought some more.