by P. N. Elrod
But Slaughter might have followed me from the Yards. I’d checked for tails, but he could have managed and tracked me as far as the office. My car was right out front.
“Gordy?”
No jump of surprise. Gordy stood and turned like a machine, raising his gun to my chest level. His eyes were empty; his whole face was empty. I dove in fast and grabbed his arm. The big .45 boomed twice, blasting craters in the plaster before I could wrest it from him, He tried to get it back, but I gave him a hefty gut punch to distract him, shouting his name right in his ear.
He didn’t quite double over. I had to pop him again, harder. That did the trick. His knees hit the floor, but he still made a single-minded reaching motion for the gun. I shouted at him again, this time making eye contact.
“Listen to me, goddammit!”
He halted in mid-motion, then wavered. I took a breath to calm myself, backing away from my anger and fear, then:
“Wake up, Gordy! Come out of it. You don’t hear him anymore.”
He blinked and shook his head like a drunk, but awareness flooded back. “Jeeze, Fleming—what the hell. . . ?”
I sagged. “That goddamn little son-of-a—” The sudden shock of adrenaline trying to pound a hole in the top of my skull vented itself in multi-colored phrase. Gone was every shred of sympathy for Slaughter. If he’d been in front of me I’d have killed him then and there. Gordy was right; I was wrong, almost fatally wrong.
When coherency returned, I apologized to Gordy for getting rough.
“No problem,” he said, slowly boosting into the chair. “But you didn’t have to use a sledge hammer on me. I just wanna know why. How come I’m here?”
“Weasel-boy got to you.”
“Who?”
“Slaughter sent you over to drill me.” I held out the gun. He gingerly took it and sniffed the muzzle. He looked at the holes in the wall.
“Who’s Slaughter?” Gordy asked.
I wasted a moment gaping at him.
Oh, crap. “You know what day it is?”
“Wednesday.”
“Try Thursday night.”
“I lost a whole damn day?” He never raised his voice. Any other man would be smashing furniture. “How the hell—”
“Hypnosis.”
He was fighting to believe me, looking around the office, unable to explain how else he’d gotten here. “Like what you do?”
“Exactly like what I do. There’s another vampire in town, and he made you forget all about him. I can find out more, but I’ll have to put you under myself.”
He thought about it. Taking his time. “Then I’d remember this guy?”
“Yeah. It would come back to you normal in a week or two—if he lets you live that long. You need to remember him.”
“You won’t make me quack like a duck? I saw a guy on stage do that.”
That caught me off-guard. “Uh—no, promise, scout’s honor.”
His head wobbled, indication that I’d amused him, and he marginally relaxed. “Okay. What do I do?”
This was a hell of a lot of trust on his part. I was strangely uncomfortable with that. “Just sit there. . .”
It didn’t take long to jog the whole business from Gordy’s memory.
After our cozy chat over the Stockyards fence Slaughter had turned up at the Nightcrawler not long before dawn. He’d located Gordy and put him under, then gave him careful instructions to go to a place called the Escott Agency. There he was to wait and shoot me as soon as I showed myself in the evening. Afterward, he was to return to the Nightcrawler as though nothing had happened.
I made sure Gordy remembered everything when I woke him up.
“Little son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered.
It was unanimous. “Simple but effective. If you got caught for my murder, you’d take the fall, and never know why.”
“If I’d shot you, you wouldn’t have died. Ain’t that right?”
“A metal bullet hurts, but isn’t enough. Slaughter doesn’t know how hard we are to kill or what weapons really do the job. Good thing he didn’t ask you.”
“Then we show him how it’s done.”
I was all for it.
“Is that yours?” He indicated something on the desk.
I’d left my fedora there in case Escott returned early from his trip so he’d know I was using the tobacco shop bolt hole. On the blotter next to my hat lay a shiny new hunting knife, the big one made famous by Jim Bowie. Some ancient Roman could have used it for a sword, the damned thing was of a similar size. It was out of its scabbard, ready to hand for. . .
“I think we can reasonably assume Slaughter knows how it’s done,” I said, feeling sick. “That’s not yours? You sure?”
Gordy frowned at it. “I would never bring a knife to a gun fight.”
True. He knew better. “Then Slaughter got it for you to. . .what, full dismemberment or just cut my head off?”
“Either way, you’re out of the picture.”
“But he doesn’t know I’d just vanish and heal if shot with a metal bullet. You wanna check what’s in your piece?”
He removed the magazine and ejected the round in the chamber. We examined the bullets. They were normal, straight from the factory. No tampering and not a sliver of wood in sight.
“He doesn’t know everything,” I said. “I can thank Bram Stoker for getting it wrong.”
“How’s that?”
“At the end of the book they stabbed Dracula with metal, and he turned to dust. Slaughter must have thought shooting would do the same for me, but if there was anything left—”
“Let’s skip that part.” Gordy checked his watch. “I’ve been here all day. Derner’s gonna be nuts.”
Derner was one of his office lieutenants. He answered the phones when Gordy was away, which almost never happened.
“Fleming. . .”
I correctly read the tension on Gordy’s face and pointed toward the back. He trundled off to use the washroom. The toilet was flushed and water ran. When he came back the sweat was off his face and he seemed more alert. He rubbed his stubbled chin, looking annoyed. He invariably presented a clean-shaved face to the world.
“Damn, I need coffee,” he said.
He never made offhand remarks like that. It told me just how shaken he was inside.
But his hand was steady as he used a handkerchief to polish prints off the rounds and put his gun back together. While he did that I found the two empty casings and pocketed them. Escott liked a neat office. I glanced at the bullet holes; those would have to be patched before he got back. I had a feeling this was not an incident I’d want him to know about.
I was itching to look outside, but didn’t dare and stopped Gordy from having a gander. “Slaughter might be watching.”
“Hell.”
It wasn’t likely, being so soon after sundown, but neither of us wanted to risk that he had found a temporary resting place in some nearby attic or cellar. He’d have gotten up at the same time as I and could be watching from the street to see how things progressed for his puppet.
“Wanna bet that he’s going to be all set to give you fresh orders? Maybe take over your operation?”
Gordy shook his head. He went into the back room, which was still dark. His shadow wouldn’t show against the blind as he checked the street from there, lifting a slat by only a fraction.
“Don’t see nothing, for what that’s worth.”
“Not a red cent. We’ll have to play this out, just in case.”
“Why bother? Let’s just go after him.”
“He’s too hard to catch. He finds out we’re onto his game, he vanishes—literally—and leaves town to set up someplace else. He’ll kill, if he hasn’t already. His next target could be you. He might hypnotize you again. He seems to like controlling people.”
Gordy nodded, accepting the possibility. “Then he’ll be at my club. Can you do anything?”
“I got an idea. . .”
* * *
/> Gordy drove himself back to the Nightcrawler. That he’d left behind his usual driver and strong arm again indicated Slaughter’s not-too-subtle influence. I made a more clandestine exit via the tobacco shop in the next street, wafting invisibly past the last customers. One of them shivered when I brushed too close and joked that someone must be walking over his grave.
I have never thought that observation to be particularly funny.
Outside, I streamed down the sidewalk until I found what seemed to be an alley at least a block away and there went solid. I felt naked without my hat, but had left it behind in case Slaughter dropped in to check on things. The idea was to make him think Gordy had succeeded.
As extra insurance, I’d put Gordy under again, priming him with the story that I’d turned to dust upon expiring. Dracula had done so, after all. Never thought I’d be grateful for such inspired misinformation.
Hailing a cab, I got a ride to the Nightcrawler and had the driver drop me in the building’s rear alley. I paid him off and vanished, aiming for Gordy’s private suite, ghosting up the side of the building to ease through the wall. I didn’t like how it felt going through bricks and mortar, lathe and plaster, but it beat the brittle resistance of glass.
If Slaughter saw me in this state, the game was up. There was no way I could tell where he might be, either, whether he’d been watching Escott’s street or gone on to the club. Gordy was of the opinion that Slaughter would swagger in by the front door and park himself in the big chair behind the desk all set to take over. I had no reason to disagree.
It struck me that Slaughter could have mistaken my position in the scheme of things, thinking that I was really in charge of the Northside territory. It would never enter his head that I’d be hanging around out of friendship. Slaughter would judge me by his limits; he sure as hell wouldn’t have any friends: only enemies and people he could control.
Feeling the general shape of the area around me, I thought myself home safe. Materializing, I sagged with relief. It was where I’d been aiming to wind up: a large, pitch-dark closet. Without even a faint outside source of light I was as blind as anyone else given the circumstance and struck a match, careful to hold it clear. If I singed any of Gordy’s custom-made suits, he would not be happy.
In the seconds before the match burned down, I found what I wanted: a sawed-off shotgun high on a back shelf. Gordy assured me it was still loaded with some special shells he’d made up. We’d used it once before to deal with a vampire, and the memory was anything but pleasant. My fingers shook as they closed over its chill weight.
Wood can truly damage us or guarantee a kill. You just have to know to use it, whether it’s a stake in the heart, a club to the skull, or small beads loaded into a shotgun shell. On a normal human, the latter would probably do less damage than rock salt, but for guys like Slaughter and me, it’s a slow, ugly death. Press both barrels against the chest and pull the trigger. Messy, but effective.
Maybe I wouldn’t be able to do it. I’d killed before: by accident, in cold blood, and in the madness of rage. I wasn’t proud of myself, and on those rare, awful days when I was stupid enough to get caught away from the protection of my home earth, the bad dreams ate through my helpless brain like acid.
Slaughter was bad news, but was he worth another dent in my already battered conscience? Perhaps all he needed was an almighty scare and some sense beaten into him. That I could do and no problem.
However, Gordy would want him dead.
In such matters Gordy was usually right.
* * *
Ears flapping, I eased open the closet door. It was clear and quiet, but the next room over was Gordy’s palatial office, and there I heard activity, but not conversation. I pressed against the wall. At least three people, two of them breathing: Slaughter, Gordy, and one of the strong arms? That wasn’t right. We’d agreed to keep this party exclusive. Slaughter may have added a third guest.
Then one of the breathing persons released a long, delicious moan of gratification. The timbre was female, and I thought I understood what was going on, having enjoyed the pleasure myself, both giving and receiving.
Hugging the shotgun close, I bulled invisibly through the wall. When I went solid, pure shock froze me for an instant.
One of the cigarette girls lay on the couch with Slaughter sprawling over her. He’d pawed the top half of her brief costume away, and buried his mouth deeply, greedily in the soft part of her throat. She moaned again, turning it into a sigh. Her face was toward me, eyelids squeezed shut, her arms wrapped tight around him. She was glowing, absolutely glowing from the pleasure of being murdered.
Across the room stood Gordy, hands to his sides like a soldier at silent attention. He should have been oblivious to the scene, but there was a terrible awareness in his expression. He’d been ordered to watch; he’d been ordered to do nothing. He looked at me, hope and fury in his white-rimmed eyes.
I couldn’t shoot Slaughter without risking the girl. Had to move fast, he was draining her dry. I had to hold him in place to keep him from vanishing. On Gordy’s desk lay a metal letter opener, thin bladed, fragile, not too sharp, but effective with enough force behind it.
Swiftly swapping the shotgun for the letter opener, I closed on Slaughter just as he began to rise to see the source of the noise. Blood smeared his lower face. The whites of his eyes were gone, suffused with blood from his feeding. They flashed scarlet in flat-footed surprise.
I drove hard with the blade, slamming it into his side as far as it would go, then broke off the handle.
Shrieking fury and pain, he staggered to his feet, clawing at it. I grabbed his arms above the wrists and tried to twist them behind him. The metal imbedded in his body kept him from vanishing, but he was still capable of a hellish fight. We danced around the room, wrecking furniture. I kept him busy, waiting for Gordy to snap out of his spell and grab the gun. I yelled his name hoping that might work. He was still rooted in place the next time I spun around.
Slaughter clawed at the letter opener, but the metal stub left sticking from his flesh was too short to grab. I punched a fist against the side of his skull. Any other man would have dropped, the bones caved in, not this guy. It slowed him, but he didn’t stop trying to break free.
I dragged him toward the desk, toward the shotgun.
Roaring, he threw himself in the same direction, trying to get me off balance. I was too used to dealing with ordinary humans, not anyone with strength equal to mine. He tore one arm free and managed a solid, gut-bruising punch that made me grunt, then went for the gun, falling bodily on it.
His other arm wrenched from my grasp. He had the gun. I tried to lock him up in a full nelson, but he shifted us in a clumsy waltz until he faced Gordy.
“Lay off or I scrag him!” Slaughter snarled, the barrels centered on my friend.
He’d follow through. Gordy’s eyes told me as much. I broke off the wrestling hold and slapped both hands around Slaughter’s skull. Then I twisted hard and sharp. I’d never done it before, wasn’t sure if I even got it right.
But I heard and felt the awful wet cracking of bone and cartilage giving way to brute force. Slaughter made a sick gagging noise and abruptly turned into dead weight. I let him fall. He dropped straight down like a brick, his only sound now a grunt as the air left his lungs. He lay on his belly, but his head was turned halfway around, blood red eyes staring at me.
I slumped relief, but for only an instant, hurriedly pulling the gun from under Slaughter’s body, then checked on Gordy.
He was still stuck in place, the hypnotic influence unbroken. I went over, not sure what to do, and settled for looking him square in the eye. “You can move again. It’s okay.” I didn’t think I’d gotten through but he rocked back a step, then shook into his normal posture, then seemed to swell.
“Jeeze,” He whispered staring past me. “Jeeze, that bastard. . .”
I’d never seen him truly angry. He always held it in behind a stone face. I anticipat
ed an explosion. God knows he was entitled. I got out of the way and went to check on the girl. He glared down at Slaughter for what seemed a long moment, then straightened and turned toward me.
“She okay?” His voice was calm as always, but I heard his heart booming, almost filling the room.
I pressed a clean handkerchief against her neck wounds. They were larger than they had to be and still freely bleeding. Slaughter had missed tearing fatally wide anything major in his greed, but it was likely more a matter of luck than care. “She needs a doctor.”
“I know someone,” said Gordy. “This shit. Is he dead? All the way dead?”
With no heart or lungs working, there was no way for me to tell. I’d played possum a few times and gotten away with being taken for a corpse. Slaughter might be doing the same. Or he could be immobile from his injuries, unable to move, and—with the letter opener in him—unable to vanish and heal. I’d been in that position as well, and its dire helplessness was the worst. All you can do is scream within your mind until insanity brings a kind of ease, until death finally comes.
We don’t die fast. Maybe it’s the price we pay for the life we get after cheating death the first time.
“I don’t know,” I said. “There’re ways to make sure.”
Gordy reached behind and pulled out the Bowie knife in its scabbard. He’d tucked it under his belt before leaving Escott’s office. He placed it carefully on his desk and shot me a look. “Then we make sure.”
* * *
While I trussed Slaughter up in another room, Gordy saw to a doctor, who wanted to know the cause of the girl’s strange injury. Gordy told him a crazed customer went nuts and bit her, which was close enough to reality. He said the customer had been dealt with and would not be returning and the man wisely left it at that. Later, I’d have to have a private talk with the girl and make sure she only remembered what we wanted her to know; for now, Gordy and I had other things to do.
He knew how to dispose of inconvenient bodies. I’d been with him on only one such expedition, taking care of another vampire’s corpse. We would do the same again, with me along to make sure there was no sudden revival of the body. About an hour later, after a brief phone call to arrange a truck and a boat, we were on our way. Slaughter’s corpse was to be dumped so far out in the lake that even the fish would have trouble finding him.