by P. N. Elrod
She’d picked up on the cologne.
“James? Please . . .”
This would be tough. I drifted over to a wall and gradually took shape, keeping it slow so she had time to stare, and if not get used to me, then at least not scream.
Hands to her mouth, eyes big, and her skin dead white, she looked ready to faint. This was cruel. A different kind from Bradford’s type of torture, but still cruel.
“James sent me,” I said, keeping my voice soft. “Please don’t be afraid.” She’d frozen in place and I wasn’t sure she understood. I repeated myself and she finally nodded.
“Where is he?” she demanded, matching my soft tone.
“He’s with God.” It seemed best to keep things as simple as possible. “Everything that man told you was a lie. You know that now, don’t you?”
She nodded again, the jerky movement very similar to Abby’s mannerism. “Please, let me speak to James. I must tell him—”
“He knows already. He said to tell you it wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing to forgive. It was his time to go, that’s all. Not your fault.”
“But it was.”
“Nope.” I raised my right hand. “Swear to God. And I should know.”
That had her nonplussed. “What. . .who are you?”
“Just a friend.”
“That cologne, it’s his.”
“So you’d know he sent me. Flora, he loves you and knows you love him. But this is not the way to honor his memory. He wants you to give it up before it destroys you. He’s dead and you’re alive. There’s a reason you’re here.”
“What? Tell me!”
“Doesn’t work like that, you have to find out for yourself. You won’t find answers in a Ouija board, though.”
Flora had tentatively moved closer to me. “You look real.”
“Thanks, I try my best. I can’t stay long. Not allowed. I have to make sure you’re clear-headed on this. No more guilt—it wasn’t your fault—get rid of this psychic junk and live your life. James wants you to be happy again. If not now, then someday.”
“That’s all?”
“Flora. . .that’s a lifetime. A good one if you choose it.”
“I’ll ... all right. Would you tell James—”
“He knows. Now get some sleep. New day in the morning. Enjoy it.” I was set to gradually vanish again, then remembered— “One last thing, Flora. James’s wedding band.” I held my hand out.
She shrank away. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you can. It belongs with him and you know it. Come on.”
Fresh tears ran down her face, but maybe this time there would be healing for her. She had his ring on a gold chain around her neck and reluctantly took it off. She read the inscription one more time, kissed the ring, and gave it over.
“Everything will be fine,” I said. “This is from James.” I didn’t think he’d mind. I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, very lightly, and vanished before she could open her eyes.
* * *
For the next few hours I drove around Chicago, feeling like a prize idiot and hoping I’d not done even worse damage to Flora than Alistair Bradford. I didn’t think so, but the worry stuck.
Eventually I found my way back to that big cemetery and got myself inside, walking quickly along the path to the fancy mausoleum and the grave behind it.
I was damned tired, but had one last job to do to earn Abby Saeger’s two bucks.
Pinching the ring in my fingers as Flora had done at the séance, I extended my arm and disappeared once more, this time sinking into the earth. It was the most unpleasant sensation, pushing down through the broken soil, pushing until what had been my hand found a greater resistance.
That would be James Weisinger’s coffin.
I’d never attempted anything like this before but was reasonably sure it was possible. This was a hell of a way to find out for certain.
Pushing just a little more against the resistance, it suddenly ceased to be there. Carefully not thinking what that meant, I focused my concentration on getting just my hand to go solid.
It must have worked, because it hurt like a Fury, felt like my hand was being sawed away at the wrist. Just before the pain got to be too much I felt the gold ring slip from my grasp.
One instant I was six feet under with my hand in a coffin and the next I was stumbling in the snow, clutching my wrist and trying not to yell too much.
My hand was still attached. That was good news. I worked the fingers until they stopped looking so clawlike, then sagged against a tree. What a night.
I got back in my car just as the sleet began ticking against the windows, trying to get in. It was creepy. I wanted some sound to mask it but hesitated turning on the radio, apprehensive that “Gloomy Sunday” might be playing again.
What the hell. Music was company, proof that there were other people awake somewhere. I could always change the station.
When it warmed up, Bing Crosby sang “Pennies from Heaven.” Someone at the radio station had noticed the weather, perhaps, and was having his little joke.
I felt that twinge again, but now it raised a smile.
* * * * * * *
__________
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP
Author’s Note: In the Vampire Files series I introduced a new bloodsucker to the cast, the unpredictable—and often unstable—Whitey Kroun. This story sold to Moonstone Books in 2009 for their DRACULA AND THE LEGIONS OF THE UNDEAD anthology. In case you wondered, there is such a cave in St. Paul and gangsters did hang out there.
St. Paul, February 1938
Gabriel “Whitey” Kroun drove to St. Paul because it wasn’t Chicago.
In a new town chances were good no one would know his face and thus his reputation. The reputation belonged to the part of him nicknamed Whitey, but he was gone and Gabe was now in charge. He was still getting used to it.
Gabe had few memories of being Whitey Kroun, but counted it to be a good thing. Whitey had been bad company, a real bastard. Gabriel, however, was a nearly blank slate, thanks to the bullet still lodged in his head. He needed to figure out what to do about himself, so he drove to St. Paul, found a hotel, and paid for a week’s worth of thinking time.
But one full evening of staring at the walls gave him cabin fever, not insight.
On the second night he asked the desk clerk about local distractions, preferably noisy ones that closed late. He’d noticed a bowling alley farther up the street. He didn’t know if he could bowl, but the option to find out was there. He might like it. Instead, the clerk recommended a nightclub close to the hotel called the Royal Arms—which turned out to be in a cave.
Well, that sounded interesting.
Local lore had that the place was originally used to grow mushrooms until the owner found more money was to be had in the booze business. A later entrepreneur fancied up the entry to look like a castle, complete with crenellations and fake drawbridge, which was nuts, but the gimmick worked. Business boomed even through Prohibition, and had attracted dubious types like Dillinger and Baby Face Nelson.
Gabe thought he’d fit in unnoticed.
Inside, away from the snow-laced wind, he decided the place would appeal to anyone looking for something different. The natural cave had been improved on, carved more deeply into the side of a massive hill. The barrel-vaulted stone ceiling about ten feet overhead flowed seamlessly down into rounded walls. Except for tables, chairs, and the bar, there wasn’t a corner or sharp angle in sight. It looked like a giant worm had burrowed out a huge cavity for itself, then unaccountably left.
He decided not to check his hat and coat, unsure of how long he’d stay. His shoulders kept trying to crowd his ears, as though reacting to the press of surrounding stone. The room was huge and a heartening number of electric lights made up for the lack of windows, but what if the power failed? However excellent his night vision had become, he didn’t like the dark, which was ironic, but there it was.
For all the
Royal Arms being under the insulating ground, it was gratifyingly loud. The stone walls threw the band music back, forth, and inside out if you counted the echoes. People trying to talk over it added another layer to the din. He liked the distraction.
He pointed toward a table where he could sit with his back to the wall. A cheerful waitress who didn’t see anything odd about that led him over. He ordered coffee.
“What do you want in it?” she asked.
“Sugar,” he said with a smile and wink, giving her fifty cents. “Keep the change, cutey.”
She flashed a bigger smile back and bounced away. He liked the view. Maybe he just needed company, female company. That was a possibility—if this was the kind of place where one could arrange such a transaction. He checked things over, appraising the crowd.
The band was small: a piano player, drummer, and a guy who switched between a horn and a clarinet, depending on the tune. The three played as though it was the first time they’d ever worked together. It’d be embarrassing but no one paid them any attention. The few couples in the room weren’t dancing, absorbed by their own concerns. Other drinkers had the bored air of long-time regulars who had nowhere else to go. Most glanced his way when he came in, but that’s how it always was when a newcomer shows up.
He spotted some familiar-looking mugs, but only because their type was to be found in every town. The odds were that he didn’t know them personally, but Gabe kept an eye open for the subtle and not-so-subtle signs of recognition.
Like the ones coming from the guy over there in the corner with his back to the wall. He was in shadow, which would otherwise have made him invisible to anyone else. Gabriel let him keep his illusion and pretended not to notice how the man’s face tightened, making his eyes go hard and narrow.
Two things would happen: the guy would leave him alone or he’d come over. If he came over he’d either pay his respects or cautiously ask if there was a problem. Gabe would assure him there was no problem and not be believed.
Cripes, I should have gone bowling.
The waitress brought him a cup of coffee and a sugar bowl.
“Can you take a load off for a few minutes?” he asked. “I don’t like drinking alone.”
In his solitude of the hotel room he found the acid from his newly-formed and inexperienced conscience had an easier time of etching holes in his brain, which was annoying. The bad stuff had been Whitey’s doing, after all. He wanted some practice being Gabriel, whoever the hell he might turn out to be. Getting out and about with strangers would help.
She glanced around and slipped onto the chair across from him. “I guess so, it’s slow tonight.”
“One of these guys your boss?”
“He’s keeps to his office, doesn’t like the band we got in this week.”
“I’ve heard better.” Gabe pushed the coffee toward her. “Here, I don’t want it after all.”
He knew he must have drunk coffee in the life he’d had before waking up dead and craving something entirely different, but now it smelled like cigar ashes. She said she couldn’t, but he mentioned it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.
“If you’re sure. . .” She spooned in three sugars, sipped, and apparently liked the result. He wondered if that much sugar would sweeten her own taste, should he get the opportunity to taste her.
He could easily make that happen. All it took was a little hypnosis, one of the advantages of being a vampire. Fix her with a focused look, whisper a few words, and she’d do anything for him. He could lead her outside into dark and freezing shadows and drain her dry. She wouldn’t be aware of any of it. When he was done, he’d leave the body in a drift to let the flying snow blanket her from view. They wouldn’t find her for weeks. That’d be funny.
Gabe’s muscles twitched as though from electric shock, and he had to fight to keep the revulsion from showing. Such sickening ideas were nightmare remnants of the dead and unmourned Whitey. As a human he’d been monster enough, God help the world if he’d survived as a vampire.
That’s not me. I’m not like him.
Gabe was better than that.
He wanted to be, anyway.
Gabe got the young woman’s name—Inga—how long she’d worked at the Royal Arms, and when she expected to go home tonight. She shared a flat with another, she added.
“That’s lucky,” he said, noting that she left out whether her flat mate was friend or lover. “No chance to get lonely. You’ve got someone to talk to.”
“I guess I do,” she agreed. “But maybe I’d like talking with someone else for a change.”
She didn’t get huffy when he mentioned his hotel room might be a good place to have a conversation. He took it as being only fair when she mentioned she’d like more than a forty-cent tip. They settled on a sum and a time to meet so he could walk her over, then she asked if he wanted another cup of coffee. Inga had finished his.
“A glass of water is fine.” He gave her dollar tip for that one, and she seemed to glow a little brighter. If things went well, they’d both have a fine evening ahead.
He smiled fondly after, enjoying the view all over again as she went back to the bar. Inga had dark hair, which was a contrast to her name. He thought she must have some Swede in her, but weren’t they all blond? Were they different from dark-haired girls once the lights were out? He’d not had opportunity to look into it. That had to do with his future, one of the things he’d come here to think over, though he now had a chance to talk it out instead.
He hoped—afterwards, of course—that Inga would be a good listener. He could always pay her extra. Didn’t crazy people give head-doctors lots of money to talk about their troubles? Gabe didn’t want a doctor who would take notes and give advice, he wanted a pretty girl who would lend a sympathetic ear for an hour or two. What she heard wouldn’t matter; he’d make sure she forgot everything before she left. Using hypnosis gave him a headache, but he needed only a few seconds, well worth the risk. She wouldn’t even wonder about the marks on her throat.
His improved mood was spoiled when the man from the shadows came over. He looked down at Gabe for a moment, then sat as though invited. He seemed not to notice when Inga came up with the glass of water. She shot Gabe a nervous look, which told him just what kind of man was across from him. Gabe gave her a brief smile and another quick, subtle wink. He had everything—whatever it was—well in hand.
“Yeah?” he said, just to get things rolling.
“I know who you are. Whitey Kroun.”
Gabe no longer thought of himself by that name. The bastard was dead and good riddance.
“I’m Harry Ziemer,” the stranger announced. He seemed to expect some kind of reaction to that fact. He was solidly built, just starting to go bald. His mud-brown eyes had that soulless cast some guys get when they’ve killed one man too many or hadn’t killed nearly enough. Not a face one would forget, but still unfamiliar.
Gabe had learned early on that the best way to compensate for a memory that didn’t exist was to not respond and let the other guy do the explaining. “Oh, yeah?” A useful phrase, he’d picked it up in Chicago.
“Things are gonna stay friendly and quiet here, no need for you to trouble yourself.”
“Uh-huh.”
“My friends and I are gonna do our deal.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We got an understanding?”
“Whatever you say, Harry Ziemer.”
“Thanks. Whitey.”
Gabe felt a shifting inside him, like the throwing a switch.
He’d just found out something new about his reborn self: he hated that name, but it was still his and he’d not given this bozo permission to use it. He didn’t like the accompanying smirk. He didn’t like the man throwing his weight around as though he owned the world. If he’d shown even an illusion of respect Gabe would have let it go, but he hadn’t.
And, since to some people he was still Whitey Kroun, he could not ignore it.
Ziemer left the tabl
e, returning to his friends. It was no surprise that they were the mugs Gabe had spotted earlier. Of course they’d be armed like their boss. Ziemer’s shoulder rig was blatantly visible through his suit.
Gabriel was also armed, having a revolver in his overcoat pocket. Six shots. If it came to it he could miss twice or—more likely—have two bullets left over.
He had to only look at a target to hit it square; you couldn’t learn that particular talent. You were born with it. Whitey Kroun had been born with it; when he died and Gabriel Kroun emerged, the talent had carried over.
This is nuts. I was imagining it. He wasn’t. . .
Ziemer looked right at him, smirk firmly in place. He murmured to the mugs. They chuckled and looked as well, smiling as though they’d put something over on Gabe so slick that he hadn’t yet caught on.
His long fingers went around the base of his water glass to pick it up. He let it slip, and water slopped over the table. He grimaced and waved to Inga, pointing at the mess. She hurried up with a towel.
“I’ll get you more,” she said.
“Never mind that, cutey. Who’s Harry Ziemer and why is he here? No, don’t look at him, just do what you’re doing and smile at me.”
“He wants to be a big shot. He’s been moving in on things, takes ’em over. Garages, taverns. He’s been loafing here for a week. There’s rumors we’re next.”
“How’s he operate?”
“He talks the owner into signing over the deed.”
“At gun point?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. The owners always get out of town right after. Leastways no one sees ’em again. If Harry Ziemer’s got a beef against you, you should maybe leave, too.”
“You’d think so. Relax, cutey, we’ve got a date.” He smiled, but her walk wasn’t as bouncy when she returned to the bar. Couldn’t blame her. Any time now she could have a new boss or be out of a job or worse. With guys like Ziemer there was always a worse.