by P. N. Elrod
“Plenty.”
“Would he know about ’em?”
“He does. Everybody answers to someone in this town. He can’t just rub me out or he’d have done it by now.”
“Good. He’s made his move, but its success hinges on the cops finding that body and pinning you with the murder, so you have to be missing. That’s a weakness. If the body goes away, his game’s over.”
Brogan’s eyes gleamed. “Maybe, but how do you do it?”
“Well, I could put it back in that truck and drive off, but your name’s on the truck, so that’s not the best plan.”
“What else?”
“Swann. He’s the other weakness. If I take him out of the game will the others keep playing?”
“Kaiser might. Unless I’m gone he’s a dead man. He’s too big to hide. But how the hell are you going to take Swann out?”
“That’s my problem, but I can do it.”
And despite the good word Gordy had put in, Brogan shook his head. “No.”
“Lemme put it this way, your alternative is for me to drive the lady out while you wait for Swann to go after you? What if Swann plans to fire at anything with wheels coming down the drive?”
“My car’s armored.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but one lucky shot is all they need to take out a gas line or cripple the radiator. There’s a gate at the end of the drive, right?”
“If it’s shut, you crash through, you’ve got the horsepower.”
“And if they have a car blocking the way? Swann is one clever son of a bitch, and he knows your weakness: her.”
Again, Brogan did not look at Naomi, though his face twitched from resisting the impulse.
“He knows you’ll do anything to keep her safe and will plan for it. She is better off inside with us than out there with him.”
“Not by much.”
“Better off,” I repeated.
And then just to prove me wrong, I was sure of it—the lights went out.
Naomi gasped again, standing. The firelight illuminated the room just fine for me, but the others were thrown for a moment.
“Get down!” Brogan ordered, his voice booming.
Clapsaddle dropped, so did I. Naomi hesitated, then fell with a little scream. Barrett had woken enough to grab her arm and yank her down. He rolled off the couch, landing with a groan.
I could hear their heartbeats as they waited for something to happen, only it didn’t.
Crouched over, Brogan glided swiftly toward the doors.
I left my gun on the floor and launched at him for a full body tackle. He was fast, but I managed to grab his legs and knock him over. He cursed and kicked, but by then I’d rolled clear and was on my feet.
“They want us doing something stupid,” I said. “Like running into the hall.”
He snarled, then nodded.
“Mrs. Endicott? Has this room got any secret passages or hidey-holes?”
“W-what?” She sounded astonished.
Clearly not.
It hadn’t been a completely idiotic hope. During Prohibition plenty of big houses within a few miles of a coast had built hiding places for illegal booze brought in by rum runners. “All right, crawl over to that corner and get behind the bookcase.”
“Fleish?” she asked.
“Do it,” he said. “Keep your head down.”
It didn’t put her fully out of the line of fire, but she had better cover.
Clapsaddle rose and strode purposefully to the liquor cabinet. I expected him to grab the first thing he could find for a bracer. Instead, he got two seltzer bottles and took them to the fireplace. He gave each a shake, then sprayed the flames. They died noisily, hissing, with steam and smoke rising up the chimney. The room got darker. He took a gun from his coat pocket and sidled to the doors.
“I’ll open the left one,” he said quietly. “I would very much appreciate it if neither of you shot me.”
Brogan crouched behind a chair. I found my gun and hunkered by the couch closest to the door. Barrett, still holding the ice bag to his head, squirmed over to grab a cast iron poker from its rack by the fireplace. With some effort, he pushed himself upright and went to stand unsteadily behind Clapsaddle.
The room would be pitch dark to everyone but us, and we didn’t have that much of an advantage. Little outside light leaked in around those heavy curtains.
Clapsaddle extended one arm and cautiously pulled the left door wide, easing back. The hall without was black, even to me, though I heard movement there.
“Hey, boss?” called a man from the darkness.
“Yeah, Harv?” answered Brogan in a conversational tone.
“You okay in there?”
“We’re just fine.”
“Can we come in?”
“Why?”
“The lights are out.”
“You got a flashlight.”
“I broke it.”
“Borrow Ernie’s.”
“He’s not here.”
“Harv?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Tell Swann to stop being cute.”
Harv failed to respond.
“Ernie?” Brogan called.
After a moment Ernie replied with an uncertain, “Yeah, boss?”
“Whatever Swann is paying you guys, I’ll double it.t>
A long moment went by, then surprisingly Swann himself answered. “Mr. Brogan, your reputation is such that your men doubt they will survive your annoyance with them.”
“You’re the only one who won’t survive, Swann. The rest of you guys get double pay and a free pass. My word on it.”
While negotiations went on and no one was looking, I vanished.
It was a bad idea because I was tired, but someone had to get out there. I worked my way toward the open door and the voices, getting a sense of how many and where they were.
The hall was about ten feet wide, running the length of the house. I should have paid more attention to details on the way in, then I’d know where Swann’s crew would be taking cover.
A breeze too strong to be a mere draft hit me. The front door had been opened. Someone called “come on” in a low, urgent voice, and at least two of them hurried out past me.
Swann continued calmly talking, which I decided was odd, and bet the farm that it was meant to be a distraction. I rushed toward the front, bumbling my way onto the porch. Following their faint sounds, I coasted to the right, skimming along the outside wall of the house, taking another right at the corner.
I went solid, and instantly dizziness kicked my head into the next county. I staggered and fell against the wall, too weak and sick to think straight. The wave of nausea just kept rising. The shakes grabbed my legs, trying to take them out from under.
No time for this, dammit!
Terror is a great temporary cure for most ills, given the right place and time. I caught a flicker of movement in the shadows ahead, and an adrenaline-laden jolt of alarm hit me, propping me up.
It wouldn’t last, but my brain cleared long enough for me to see why Swann was so chatty. Three men were just steps from the parlor’s bay window. Two stood by with guns ready, the third had a bottle with a rag dangling from its mouth. He was trying his best to get a lighter going in the wind. Soon as he set fire to the rag, his pals would shoot a hole into the parlor for him to toss in his bottle of fiery panic.
I could take them all by lifting my borrowed pistol, but the shots might signal Swann that his boys had made their move.
Three to one odds. Not bad, but I was in rotten shape for it. The darkness was on my side, though.
“Pssst!”
They froze; the armed men swung their guns my way. “who’s there?” one demanded.
“Me!” I whispered unhelpfully, waving one arm. “Swann said to lay off!”
“What?”
“Lay off! We got Brogan!”
They marginally relaxed, failing to wonder why, if we’d won, I was still whispering. It got me in
close enough to do myself some good.
Adrenaline, desperation, and darkness: a potent combination in the right hands. I mercilessly pistol-whipped all three before they knew what hit them, then grabbed the firebug and dragged him into the deep shadows under a copse of fir trees. When a predator catches prey he wants to feast undisturbed.
I retained just enough sense to sniff the man’s skin. The blood under it was untainted by drugs. He’d had booze, but not enough to poison me insensible. One quick swipe ripped away the sleeves of his overcoat, coat, and shirt. His throat was more convenient, but risky. It’s too easy to get it wrong; cut into one of the big veins the wrong way and he’d bleed to death in seconds.
Yes, I’d put some cold thought into what would I do if I absolutely had to use a human for food. I’d rehearsed it in my mind. Not pleasant, but better than going for blood in a blind frenzy. I’d done that. Blood taken that way was much too good. I couldn’t have uncontrolled hunger running the show. The soul-eating hangover was too harsh on my conscience.
His arm bare, I bit strongly into the spot below his inside elbow, glad he was unconscious or he’d be yelling blue murder and struggling like a madman. The fangs are sharp, but so is an ice pick. No one wants to meet the business end of one of those, either.
The first taste was the best, the second even better. The third. . .
I made myself count.
That was one of the things I thought out. I’d practiced, filling a beer bottle with cow’s blood and counting how many full gulps it took to empty.
I could do it in six. Sometimes five. Six was enough to take the edge off, but not so much as to do permanent harm to the other person. I’d stop at six.
Difficult to do with cattle blood, a hundred times tougher with stuff taken fresh from an unresisting human.
Five . . .
Which is so much more addictive.
Six . . .
Rehearsal in one’s mind is easier than actuality. You’re able to think about consequences. Promises are effortlessly made; you’re confident in your ability to keep them.
Seven . . .
But caught up in the moment, it’s hard to remember what’s right. I’d killed before. What was one more death?
Eight . . .
I could roughhouse with the best of them. I had the upper hand in strength and speed, and maybe some of the men I’d brawled with tonight would never get up again, but that wasn’t the same as coldly feeding from one like a spider turning a fly into a dry husk.
Nine . . .
And just try telling a drunk he was allowed only one shot and must ignore the open and full bottle on the table. I had been a drunk, once upon a time.
Ten . . .
Bad habits die hard.
Eleven . . .
And humans just die.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
I broke off. Reproaches hammered me. Excuses set up a counter-rhythm.
I’d stretched myself too thin, waited too long. I knew better than to do that.
But it was done. No undoing allowed.
He was still alive. I’d stopped in time.
I hoped. His heartbeat was faster than normal, trying to pump what blood remained. I lay him flat. That might help.
He’d feel like hell, but would walk away from this—if Brogan let him.
Crap, I had to get back—
Someone was sneaking up on me.
Not five yards away . . . stealthy movement and soft breathing. If they’d seen me. . .
You can punch bad guys, shoot them dead, or blackjack them to perdition all night long and no one minds much, but get caught drinking their blood, and it’s the end of the world.
I vanished, it was simple now, and hurried to move behind the interloper to the party. At this point it didn’t matter whose side he was on. That was Brogan’s problem.
Going solid, I had a split second to realize something was off, and that’s what saved Izzy.
I shifted my lunge, slapping a hand over her mouth and wrapping one arm around her small body, lifting her backwards.
She fought, kicking and wriggling, then suddenly going limp and heavy, as though she’d fainted. I didn’t think she was that delicate. She wanted me to loosen my grip and maybe give me the business with that gun she’d kept.
“Isabelle DeLeon, you are the pip,” I said in her ear, my voice low. I kept her mouth covered in case she let out a yell.
She came alive, made a relieved and friendly mmph sound, and when I put her down, she wiggled around to give me a fierce hug. I returned it, hugely relieved and equally annoyed. She shouldn’t be here.
“Keep quiet,” I told her. “We could be surrounded.”
“They’re in that house,” she whispered. “Where the hell have you been?”
“The Casa Loma Ballroom crooning with Bing Crosby. You were supposed to be getting away.”
The next sound she made was less friendly. “Those guys are all over the place. I’ve been hiding and freezing. Where’s Jonathan?”
“He’s safe. He’s inside the house with Fleish Brogan and—”
“That’s safe?”
“—your pal Clapsaddle.”
“Clappie’s here?”
“He called Brogan after we left the newspaper. I’ll tell you later, but for now Brogan and Swann are having one hell of a labor dispute. We’re on Brogan’s side for this round.”
“Does this mean Clappie’s on the take?”
“Euhh. . .no. But you’ll have to talk to him about that—if he gets out of this. How many men are in the house?”
“A lot. I was busy hiding.”
“Smart girl. Keep doing that.”
“You’re bleeding.” She reached toward my face.
I reflexively jerked away, swiping a sleeve over my mouth. “It’s nothing, just a clip. I have to see a man about a dog.”
“Not without me.”
Arguing would waste time. “I need help. Can you watch the back of the house? Brogan’s car is there, maybe a few others besides.”
“Three cars. Big ones. Lots of guys.”
“Right. This is important: find a spot where you can cover the back door.”
“And do what?”
“You’ll know when the time comes.”
