by P. N. Elrod
“That’s crazy.”
“Why deny it?”
Because it was weakness. Show that, and they ate you alive.
“You wanted details concerning your death, but with it came the ugly facts about the life you led. That’s why you let Jack know certain things. You craved the truth but knew there might be consequences. If at some point you remembered and turned back into what you’d been, then you’d need someone who could keep you in check. Who better than another vampire?”
Gabe stood and walked out of the cabin, his knees shaking. He scooped more snow and pressed it to the white patch, but the agony wouldn’t stop. His head felt too full. Sleet ticked down steadily, freezing, leaving a crust on everything. It stung his face, clinging to his eyebrows and lashes until his vision blurred.
He sank onto the icy step, holding tight to the porch support post. He wanted the cold to take him, freeze him solid so he wouldn’t have to think or feel. Maybe Escott could simply bury him again, let the earth cover and blot him out forever.
He heard Escott’s step behind him. The man passed by and stood in the blowing sleet, finishing his cigarette, letting it fall to the snow. “This way,” he said, heading toward the trees.
Gabe felt too dizzy to walk, but made himself move.
Escott stopped on the other side of the black mound, looking down at its cross. “You weren’t even meant to be here.”
“Why is that?” Trying to distract himself out of the pain he searched for anything familiar, anything that would spark his memory.
“Miss Cabot said Ramsey scavenged the place for something with which to weigh your body, planning to sink it in the river.”
“Not bury me?”
“He changed his mind when he found this grave ready and waiting.”
Gabe looked up. “What?”
“You heard.”
“But who put it here?”
“You’re being unnecessarily obtuse, Mr. Kroun. You dug it yourself.”
He just couldn’t see. “Why?”
“For her body when you were finished with her.”
That was too much. “No. Absolutely not.”
The wind swept his words into empty darkness. Bare branches clacked around them, sleet hissed, and the pine boughs made sad music.
But from his last visit he recalled the familiar feel of a shovel in his hands. The blade cutting into the earth, regular as a machine, he was used to such work, took enjoyment from it.
Now he knew why.
Just as Sonny had murdered his wives, Whitey Kroun would murder his little hired humdinger…
He sagged, unable to deny, unwilling to accept. Ice crept down the back of his neck. He didn’t want to know any more. This was too much.
Shivering, he turned toward the cabin.
Escott stood blocking the path. “Not yet. There is still a debt to pay.”
Gabe spread his hands. “But I don’t remember!”
“If you did, I’d kill you myself.”
“How can I be responsible if I don’t remember?”
“Your victims do.”
That hit Gabe as hard as one of Sonny’s slaps. “Wh-what?”
Escott pointed.
He rubbed sleet from his eyes. Peering, half-expecting to see Ramsey’s ghost drifting between the tree trunks, Gabe only saw more snow. There were footprints wandering here and there in the clean drifts. Escott had been exploring, but his tracks were filling in.
“There and over there and that one…” Escott said, still pointing.
Gabe couldn’t see anything but trees and snow and—
God…no…
The many layers of white fall covered several low mounds scattered over a wide area, softening their lines, but their shapes were unmistakable.
No…no, no, no…
Gabe staggered back, blundered against a trunk and held on to keep from falling. He turned away, doubling over. There was nothing in his cramping belly, but it twisted inside out regardless. He retched and gagged, staggered a few more steps, then doubled over again, unable to stop. He coughed bloody spittle, choking.
“Kroun!”
No more. He had to get away from that voice, that name, away from this hellhole.
Sleet blinded him. He kept going.
His legs seemed on fire as he slogged through deeper and thicker snow. The burning surged upward, tearing into his chest. It closed with a rush over his head, cutting off the wind. He leaned into the flames as they started to tug him down. Blistering hot, yet exquisitely cold. He was going to hell where he belonged.
Then something strongly grabbed one of his arms and, half-pulling it from the socket, hauled him back from the flowing abyss. He had no strength to fight. His feet tangled, he tripped, and abruptly body-slammed against rocky ground.
He lay stunned, blinking sluggishly, eyes swimming. Tears or melted sleet, he couldn’t tell.
Escott stood over him, panting from some recent exertion. He was soaking wet and cursing, the invective aimed at Gabriel.
“On your feet, you idiot,” he finally snarled.
Gabe dragged himself upright. He was soaked, too. He’d run himself straight into the river. “Why’d you stop me?”
Escott pointed again, up the easy rise, past the cabin, toward—“Those women—they had families, friends, people who need to know what happened to them. That is your debt. You will pay it before you leave this life.”
It was insane…how could Escott expect him to—
“We’ll sort something out.”
Was he a mind reader? “You’re gonna help me?”
“I’m helping them.”
“Why?”
“Someone has to. Whitey Kroun was a very sickening fellow, perverted, dangerous, without conscience, and thoroughly deserving of his fate when it overtook him.”
Dizziness washed though him again. No more, please…
“He died far too quickly and easily for his crimes.”
He scrabbled for more snow, pressing it to the spot of agony on his head. It burned, gradually cooled, and left his fingers white and numb.
“Then you rose from the ruins. Tabula rasa—a clean slate.”
“Not so clean.” With flaws. So many dangerous flaws.
“But I believe you want to do the right thing. You just don’t know how.”
“’S crazy.”
“You saved my life, Mr. Kroun. If you will allow, perhaps I can help save yours.”
Gabe had forgotten the hospital, what he’d done for a stranger. Things made better sense now. He began shivering again, more violently than before. His clothes were freezing to his skin. Escott looked no better, but still waited for a reply.
Gabe didn’t know what was expected for a moment, then understood. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
Escott gave a nod and held out his hand.
But I can leave. He could do that. Just walk away. He could bolt and disappear himself quick enough. Leave the state, leave the country.
But maybe…maybe this would make the pain go away.
He had to chance it. No plan. Deal with whatever came, whenever it came, and hope for the best.
He put his hand out and sealed his deal with another madman.
“It’s cold, Mr. Kroun, we should leave.”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not him anymore, never again. Gabriel. Gabe’s fine.”
21
FLEMING
DUGAN’S hideout was the last of four similar small houses on a narrow road that continued south through empty fields; in the distance were enough lights to indicate a town. The two farthest houses showed lights, the nearest was dark. He’d picked a great spot for privacy.
To the north was Chicago, its glow against the clouds unmistakable and reassuring.
Mindful of how Dugan had acquired his last lair, I looked for graves and was thankful when nothing obvious presented itself. There was a rickety shed in back, empty, dirt floor undisturbed, a faded FOR RENT sign leaning against one side.
The house itself was empty of furnishings except what he’d apparently brought himself. He must have gone legit to better keep his head down.
Putting the revolver on a kitchen counter, I gave myself a preliminary wash in the big sink, getting most of the blood and grime off my face and arms. The water was even hot.
He’d been intent on bathing, too, before my interruption. The bathtub had water in it, but it was draining away around a leaky plug. I quelled an urge to fill the thing and dive in.
His shaving things were balanced along the edge of the sink. I felt my beard, considered for less than a second, and left. I didn’t want to touch any of his stuff if I could help it.
First things first, I found the rest of the blood supply he’d brought for me in the fridge: a dozen quart milk bottles filled to the brim. I snagged one and drank it straight down. My healing and the fight had taken it out of me, and even after my drink I still felt a general weariness.
That, I told myself, would fade with time. He’d given me his worst, and I’d beaten him. Maybe tomorrow night I’d get the shakes or cringe at a bad memory, but I’d worry about it then, not now.
Next I had to clean things other than myself, and it wasn’t easy going back down into that damned basement. It stank of blood and terror. I made an effort not to breathe the rusty sweet stench.
The table must have been brought down in pieces; it was that big. He couldn’t have managed it on his own otherwise.
The two rods stuck up as I’d left them, one with the handle broken off. I looked underneath to see how he’d worked it and saw that there had been a reason for the threading.
The lower part of the rods extended about a foot and a half below the table, and he’d filed the ends to points, the easier to pierce my arms. There were two thick metal squares with half-inch holes drilled in their centers firmly screwed to the underside of the table. Each rod went through that hole, held firmly in place with thick nuts and washers. Without the plates to spread the load, I might have been able to pull the rods out from the wood. Hideous, simple, and it worked.
I wanted to burn the table, but that would not be practical. Instead, I removed the rods, leaving the table with the holes and reinforcing plates as a mystery for anyone who happened to come down here next. The rods, rope, and my packet of earth went into the car. I kept the butcher’s apron out.
The basement had a cement floor with a drain and over in a corner was a faucet. Cold water, but it did the job once I found a bucket and an ancient mop. I threw water over the table and swabbed it down, on top and underneath. My blood had soaked into some spots, but given time would turn into unidentifiable stains.
After the table I threw water on the stairs and floor, mopping them down. The porous cement would not scrub clean, but most of the red stuff went down the drain, and the place looked less like a slaughterhouse. The mop head remained bloody however much I rinsed it, so it would also go in the car.
Upstairs, I swept up the broken glass and put it in the bucket. I carried his radio, toolkit, and the bottles of animal blood to the car. He had a crate in the trunk, and the bottles fit neatly into it with no chance of spilling. This must have been how he’d carried them in the first place.
I searched his suitcase, finding bundles of money, spare clothes, newspapers, and most of a ream of writing paper, but nothing to indicate his identity.
On his writing table was a bottle of his favorite green ink ready to refill his favorite fountain pen.
In his neat, machinelike hand, he’d covered one sheet of paper with personal observations about his experiment—me. I didn’t care to read more, and found matches left forgotten in a kitchen drawer. I crumpled his latest thought into a ball, and gathered up all the origami animals, carrying them to the kitchen sink.
They made a nice blaze for a few long minutes. I unfolded and fed them in one by one until the green was consumed by black, then crushed the ashes to dust. Running water flushed the last of his poisonous thoughts away for good. The sink had a scorched area, but that would be someone else’s problem.
I squashed his clothing into the suitcase with his shaving gear, the paper and ink—everything he’d brought—and put it in the car, keeping one of his shirts. I used it to rub down every surface in the house I could remember touching and a few more besides just to be careful. I used it like a glove to pick up the revolver again, wiping it, too, then thoughtfully switched off the lights. The doorknobs got a final swipe as I went outside.
My arms were still bare, what with the sleeves having been cut away, but I didn’t feel cold. I’d worked up a good sweat from all the work.
There was one last job to do, and I’d allowed for the fact that I might not be able to finish it.
Dugan lay flat on the ground next to the grave he’d dug.
I’d shot him. He was dead.
For now.
I didn’t know if he would stay that way.
After all the blood he’d drained from me, I sure as hell wasn’t going to take any chances.
I looked at his corpse, and all I could feel was relief. Guilt, regret, fear of being caught, even satisfaction—all the varied emotions that people experience when they murder another human being weren’t there for me. I was only relieved that it was over.
Maybe that meant another piece of my soul was gone, burned away like his writing. Or maybe I was in some kind of shock.
Then it was a relieved kind of shock.
I dropped the revolver into the hole and tossed the shirt aside in case I wanted a rag for later.
His shovel was on the ground next to a pick he’d used to break up the tough earth. He was no expert at grave-digging, but he’d made it and the smaller hole very deep. All the energy and strength he’d taken from me had had to go somewhere.
I stooped and got the shovel. It still had the price written on the handle in grease pencil.
Last job.
It was a bad time to stop and think, but I realized I didn’t know just how to do what needed to be done.
One short moment of consideration later, I turned him on his face. His body was flaccid and oddly heavy. Was it already repairing that bullet hole in his heart? I had no sense that there was anything left of him. There is an awful emptiness to the dead. You expect them to notice and react to your presence. It’s unsettling that they don’t.
Of course, it’s even more unsettling if they do.
Two-handed, I raised the shovel and brought it straight down like a guillotine blade on the back of his neck. It sheared through the bones and flesh, biting into the earth beneath. His head did not roll away. Appalled that I’d even thought of it, I had carefully banked snow around him to prevent any such motion.
There was, not surprisingly, a great deal of blood. Much of it leaked into the ground, but a lot splashed onto me. I’d put on the butcher’s apron, though, tying it low to cover my legs and shoes.
I kicked his body into the longer hole. It landed chest up.
Snapping the pick handle in two over one knee, I vanished, went down in the hole long enough to ram half of the splintered length of wood into his heart, took off the heavy apron, and shot swiftly clear.
Solid again, I quickly stumbled away and threw up.
My legs gave out. I fell on all fours in the snow, heaving and whooping and finally sobbing, though my eyes were dry. The emotional reaction caught up to me sooner than expected. I rode it out like a storm, letting my body have its way so I could eventually function again. On an intellectual level I’d done what was necessary, but certain horrors are harder to deal with than others.
Nausea anchored me in place for some time, blotting out even the cold, wet snow as I lay curled on the ground, groaning and miserable.
Once more I conjured that perfect summer day, but it was less perfect now. The stock-tank water was uncomfortably cool, and gray clouds crowded in, dulling the blue sky. Bobbi and Escott were nowhere in sight.
My doppelgänger loafed under the shade tree, hands in his pockets,
his expression sympathetic.
For the first time it occurred to me that doppelgängers in legend were supposed to be evil things. They brought calamity, chaos, and worse to those unlucky enough to see theirs.
Maybe he was the real Jack Fleming, and I was his doppelgänger.
The other me gave a sardonic snort, shaking his head, showing a brief grin.
“Don’t be a pill,” he said, then walked away.
I blinked awake. What the hell did that mean?
Ah, crap, I’d think about it later. I was freezing.
I scattered snow over the mess I’d made and went back to the long hole. Dugan’s body was still in it, showing no signs of resurrection. I shoveled dirt in, enough to discourage scavengers, then regarded the smaller hole.
Clearly he’d dug it as a place to bury my head when the time came. It would be easy enough to toss his in, but I felt a reluctance to do so. There was no excuse not to use it, but from there I went up against an unexpected streak of superstition.
I had a nightmare picture of Dugan’s body blindly lurching from its grave to go digging up its head.
That would not happen…but sometimes it’s okay to give in to a mild case of irrationality. If it makes you feel better, why not?
My irrationality was sufficiently strong that it gave me the stomach to slam the sharp end of the pick through the back half of Dugan’s head. Can’t say I felt better, as the nausea returned in force, but the action removed all doubts that Dugan would somehow revive. His ghost might haunt me, along with the sound his skull made when the bones shattered, but everyone else was safe.
I shut the impaled remains in the rickety shed along with the swabbed-down shovel. In a couple days I’d call the cops and complain about intruders in the house and a bad smell coming from the shed. Of course they would be revolted by the headless corpse and the obvious violence that had taken place, but that couldn’t be helped. They would eventually identify Dugan from his prints or what was left of his face and unofficially close a few files.
Someone would have to make an effort to find his killer, of course. That was of no concern to me so long as they didn’t come knocking on my door. If that happened, well, I had plenty of friends who would provide me with an alibi, no questions asked.