by David Lee
The curbs were high to channel the rain, with the drains cut into the street pavement and up the face of the curb: square cut mouths gaping at the street, the wide metal grates leering at the bare legs passing by. The large Indian cruised down the sidewalk. He passed through the crowds without causing a stir, maintaining a steady course without disrupting anyone.
Oliver stood behind the sewer grate peering at the young woman as she exited the tower on Madison and briskly headed towards Bell Town. Navigating beneath Seattle was easy for him as the People of the Night had long ago connected the sewers to the storm channels, to the utility vaults with pipe tunnels and gas lines, to basements and sub basements interlinked with Tong tunnels dug as escape routes supplementing the original Chinese diggings connecting opium dens, hidden bordellos, gambling halls, hotels and saloons, all beneath the city, some still lit by the glass long ago embedded in the sidewalks above and so admired by the tourists exploring the quainter aspects of Seattle history.
At the moment, he occupied a collection spot facilitating street runoff. Adjacent was an illegal addition added a century ago to increase basement storage area and conveniently sealed when the structure was demolished. The contractor, in accordance with the architect’s drawings, erected a retaining wall sealing the vault from the new building, but leaving it accessible through the original City drainage system.
The excellent system necessitated by the thirty-eight inches of annual rainfall provided an anonymous, unimpeded highway for People of the Night. Since it didn’t really rain, but only misted and drizzled on all but the worst days, the system was rarely filled with water, making it a safe and effective secret transportation grid. It was possible to navigate downtown Seattle in virtually any direction without once touching a sidewalk or street, so interconnected was the Underground. Since his return he’d spent his spare time exploring, first with other hidden denizens of the night but lately on his own.
Tracking her movements, he watched as she crossed at the light and turned left. Scurrying along, dodging raindrops and the occasional puddle she thought only of her friends and drinks and maybe dinner. Caught at a light she paused, hovering at the edge, willing the light green. She turned sideways in her pencil skirt to step off the high curb and angled out of the crosswalk, up and over the curb across the street then down the sidewalk, safe in the dry lane next to the buildings. Across the street Oliver peered out of the next grate, eyes blinking famished, angry red from the gutter. He really needed to feed.
Down the sidewalk she went until another light stopped her at the next intersection. Already fashionably tardy, she wanted to reach the restaurant before the rain started in earnest; looking up the street at the oncoming traffic, she stepped one foot down to get a head start on the last block. Behind her ankle in the drain set back into the curb face, Oliver kept focus on her slim ankle and calculated. If only she would step all the way down and stand in front of the grate, which happened to be a little bit wider than the normal and would fit nicely around her hips, he might just have dinner.
A young trader pushed past the secretary stepping off the curb into the gutter, impatient to be first. A horn blasting down the street automatically pulled every head in that direction as famished Oliver seized the opportunity and, reaching out, snatched his ankles between the polished penny loafers and below the cuffs of his expensive suit trousers and jerked him off balance and through the grate so that, by the time he realized that his nose broke when his face smashed into the pavement, Oliver had already smelled his blood. Abandoning his thought to take the victim to the Underground city to share with his followers, Oliver attacked his neck, sucking and slurping blood from his artery directly beneath the feet of the woman in the pencil skirt, who stood there thinking, wasn’t a guy standing here, what happened to him, as the light changed and across the street she went, deciding on a glass of Chardonnay to start the evening.
The only one who noticed the disappearance was the Indian standing across the street. He marked the spot and casually walked down the street, pausing in front of a flower shop to admire the selection and get a better reflection in the shop window. He saw Oliver sink his teeth into the trader’s neck and the man’s hands come up in a futile effort to ward off his attacker. He watched as Oliver, temporarily sated, dragged the man’s body down the sewer.
Oliver sat in the vault, messy with what was left of the young man, considering his options. Previously a fastidious diner, he found that now his tastes ran more to the savagery of the lion rather than the delicate sip of the hummingbird. The problem was twofold: first, the left over corpse resembled nothing so much as a bloody horror, its neck torn out, bits of flesh strewn about the ground, blood everywhere and; second, Oliver’s face and chest and shirt were covered in what he hadn’t managed to drink or eat.
It was impossible to roam about the City or even the Underground in this condition. In either venue, his appearance would attract immediate attention: from the Humans, horror and the annoying police asking question, demanding answers; from the Vampires, shock and revulsion that he had so obviously violated Clan Law and a call for punishment. The solution was obvious. Society must evolve; no longer would he be constrained by bourgeois restrictions of the Humans or the Clan.
Now, though, he needed a bath and clean clothing; he really needed to remove their clothing before he ate them so he could change on the spot. “How convenient,” he giggled to himself, “like if cows came with clothes; if you needed a suit, you killed that one; a bathing suit, that one.”
He knew that hunting and killing so openly was dangerous. It was only a matter of time before he made a mistake, but the demands of his hunger and the thrill of the chase overcame whatever judgment he had left. That, and he knew the Queen would recognize the signs and know he was back. The thought of her anger that he was openly in her City challenging her, hunting and killing on the streets of her domain, made his digestion better. Soon, she would react, mobilizing her minions and he could start his revenge, picking off first that one then the next till he was on Queen Anne hill and could pay her a visit. That, and he had to admit it was true, he really liked attacking Humans and killing them; worthless creatures, they existed for his pleasure and he would indulge whenever he desired.
The Big Indian moved into the shadows of an adjacent alley and felt under his shirt for the stake taped to his ribs. The strike had been fast, unbelievably fast even by Vampire standards and bold, hunting on the streets of Seattle during rush hour. Taking this one would require all his skill and courage. Closing his eyes to center himself he breathed deeply into his lungs remembering the thick clean smell of the forest. Behind him a door opened from a kitchen and a worker hoisting a garbage pail clanged the dumpster as he emptied the refuse. The hunt for this one would be challenging.
CHAPTER 9
Arabella sat in her apartment waiting for a murder. Far beneath her, piers like fingers reached into Elliot Bay snaring fat ferries scuttling across the sea. Bright sun shone through where sleet grey clouds improbably broke, splashing huge swaths of summer across the waves so that here it was green and there blue. In the far distance the grey of the sky merged with the sea, promising another blow out of the Northwest but for now, at least, the monotony was broken with a hint of the summer to come.
Perched 500 feet in the air, she had the perfect mixture of downtown life, the best view in the city and, most important, anonymity. The building was an office tower built a hundred years ago with a single apartment at the apex. The best part about the building was that the elevators still had uniformed operators, a vestigial past she appreciated.
Protected by a very long-term lease executed years ago in the name of one of her shadow corporations, the apartment provided the privacy her lifestyle required. The rent was paid yearly in advance and she had never had a single communication with the building owner. If anything needed repair she took care of it herself, and her periodic remodels had been accomplished quickly and quietly, due to her willingness to pay
whatever it cost to get the job done at night, quietly and, most importantly, her way.
A succession of investment companies had bought and sold the building throughout the real estate bubble and at each transfer, the purchaser’s lawyers had communicated with her lawyers, and estopple certificates were signed, and lease amendments executed until no one in present ownership had any idea who actually occupied the premises, nor did they really care as the rent was on time and there had never been a tenant complaint.
At the most recent closing, an alarm rang faintly in the brain of the junior associate employed at the buyer’s law firm as he reviewed the lease and noticed the singular absence of a landlord inspection clause or even any evidence in the file that anyone had been inside the leased premises. Dutifully raising the point and having it reviewed by both the junior partner and senior partner assigned to the sale transaction, a letter was sent certified mail return receipt requested to the tenant’s attorneys, a small but prestigious old line firm located in Philadelphia, PA, requesting an inspection of the premises forthwith and demanding execution of the enclosed amendment to the lease correcting what must have been an oversight by previous counsel. In addition, the letter noted a lack of information with respect to the identity of the person or persons currently occupying the leased premises and requested that they be informed forthwith of the occupant’s identity.
Needless to say, the firm was shocked to receive a prompt response by lowly first class mail threatening to retain local counsel and bring immediate action against the landlord if anyone attempted in any way to access their client’s leasehold premises and, further, that the lease would not be amended and to stop communicating with them as they had no desire to incur legal bills on behalf of their client for such nonsense.
The firm received and reviewed the letter, the senior partner and the junior partner scheduled a conference to review and discuss the matter and drafted a Memorandum directing the associate to research statutes and current case authority regarding all relevant points of law. He did so and presented the Memorandum the following Monday, having worked over the weekend.
After a conference attended by the associate, the junior partner and the senior partner, a letter was drafted to the client setting forth the firm’s excellent legal services in discovering the anomalous lease situation, incorporating all of the associate’s research without attribution, and recommending that, if the client wished to proceed to force an inspection, please deposit $25,000.00 as they expected significant opposition from the tenant, referring the client to the enclosed letter from the tenant’s law firm.
And, by the way, the client should be aware that in the event of litigation, the losing party was contractually obligated by the terms of the lease to pay the winner’s lawyers’ fees and court costs. The firm pointed out that while they expected a favorable result the outcome could not, of course, be guaranteed, as litigation was inherently uncertain. A bill was enclosed in the amount of $4,875.00 for excellent legal services to date.
The client read the letter and enclosed memorandum of law, looked at the bill for a problem he didn’t know he had until that moment, and decided to ignore the problem, his lawyers, and their bill and keep collecting rent from the unknown tenant. As far as he was concerned, the mystery tenant was perfect, paid the rent on time and never complained; only the lawyers could see this as a problem.
Arabella stood at the windows overlooking the Port, anxious to start but without a trail until Oliver fed again. The Third Plenum of the Eleventh Central Committee of the Worldwide Vampire Assembly stipulated in the Concordance that no Vampire should feed without the consent of the Clan leader or in certain Designated Zones. Designated Zones varied with the status of conflicts throughout the globe and were currently restricted to certain African sectors, Cambodia having been depleted by war and atrocity and put on the restricted list so that Human society could replenish.
Vampire society wished above all to remain anonymous. While everyone appreciated the taste and texture of a free range Human now and then, under no circumstances could the resident population become aware or even suspect that there were those among them who thought of them as dinner. To be a Clan Leader was to be the supreme authority in a region and so long as Clan activities remained anonymous the Leader was inviolable. However, if activities became public the associated Clans would not hesitate to replace the Leader. That was the Law.
The increase in the attacks on Humans in the Greater Seattle Area were alarming and suggested that more than Oliver had gone rogue. If not contained, the Central Vampire Committee of the United States could become involved and, if it felt the situation required it, remove the Queen from her position as Supreme Leader of the Northwest Clan. So far, the Human authorities had not connected the deaths, murders and disappearances, but Arabella knew that eventually someone would correlate the statistics and certain patterns would emerge, a pattern reaching from the San Juan Islands to the heart of Seattle.
If not contained, the situation could bring in the other Clans, anxious that the situation be resolved and who would not be above using it as pretext for their own expansion. Once they were in the Northwest, the Clans would depose the Queen and administer the lucrative territory and its blood supply for their benefit. Even if Arabella survived regime change, she knew her position would be tenuous, at best. She liked her apartment, she liked the city, she liked her life. She wasn’t moving.
As an independent research scientist, she’d burrowed into city and county morgues and, in this time of budget restrictions, most overworked, underfunded departments welcomed her expertise and assistance. Her position allowed her to serve as an early warning system for the Clan, monitoring compliance with the Concordance by examining any kills that suggested illegal feeding. Occasionally, down and out Vamps unable to pay Clan blood fees or young Vampires lured to the thrill of illicit hunting fed on civilians. Arabella was so successful at making an example of the hunters and encouraging down and outers to move, that there had not been an illegal feed for over five decades.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a newly made punk flexing Vampire attitude, this was an old nightmare come home to square accounts and, while he was at it, kill her. Sitting on her couch, looking out her window, admiring what she’d come to think of as her view, she knew if she wasn’t leaving Seattle then he had to go. First, though, she had to find him.
When the call came from the King County Medical Examiner’s, she was ready and impatient to pick up the trail. Leaving her building she went up 2nd turned onto James then up the hill. She walked fast, briskly passing pedestrians on the steep climbs. A nice soft light bounced from the angled streets creating an easy going tinge softening stress lines in the workers’ faces hustling back to work. At her back, a brisk breeze off the water pushed her up the hill.
The Medical Examiner was located on Jefferson at 9th on the other side of the freeway in architecture admirably suited for death and bureaucracy. Passing through the security apparatus, she ascended to the Department anxious to discover if the kill was a lead or another of the City’s ordinary deaths.
The examination room was packed. SPD lounged around the corpse, ignoring the half-naked torso supine with its tattered throat exposed. One had a big bandage on his nose and whenever he said anything it came out funny, although no one laughed except one cop, another detective she guessed, who lounged against the wall and smiled whenever bandage face honked.
There was no one eating cookies here and there wouldn’t be any bags of blood from the cooler. Downtown was more buttoned up, and she’d avoided infiltrating the agencies, as she didn’t want to land on officialdom’s radar. While her credentials gained her access, her position was tenuous and subject to challenge. She’d subtly used her power to suggest to certain employees that she was beneficial to their efforts and should be granted access to the premises.
The autopsy rooms were in the basement, around the corner from the cafeteria. She stopped to buy a cup of coffee and a glazed
donut. In her experience, evildoers rarely enjoyed snacks in the midst of criminal activity. The coffee was the reason Starbucks was successful. Small bits of the Styrofoam floated to the top. She planned on handing off the donut to the first cop who looked at her.
Inside the exam room, lounging cops blocked the doorway, clogging the room in front of the corpse. Rude and oblivious, the cops didn’t move as she came through the door, so she bullied her way through the mob. Inured by centuries of dealing with police in dozens of countries, she kept moving forward, exerting just enough pressure to move through the clump but not enough to challenge shallow egos.
Popping out of the scrum, she saw a corpse on a table. Young, the dead was Northern European male, white, muscled by regular workouts. Savaged by the aggressive teeth of a predator, the neck was a tortured mess; the corpse sagged, empty of fluids. To free her hands, she handed the donut to a flustered policeman who salvaged his brio by stuffing it into his mouth with a “thank you” mumbled around the fried dough. Next, with the napkin and coffee delivered with a dazzling smile, he politely stepped aside, allowing her to stand beside the corpse in the coveted front row.
Parker Melmick, medical examiner assigned to the case, stood to the left pointing at the neck while a fleshy olive-complected detective bent over inspecting the damage. The detective wore a blue suit a couple of steps above insurance salesman but below successful divorce attorney. Stepping closer, she noted that the dead face was squashed flat like the guy had been smacked in the kisser with a board; correction, she thought, smacked extremely hard in the face with a board. The nose was flat, stretching from cheekbone to cheekbone, and both eyes were deeply black and blue, giving the face the grotesque appearance of a deranged aboriginal mask.
Oliver had made it to Seattle and might as well have taken out a billboard to announce his return, she thought. “What caused it?” asked the in-charge detective. Melmick, natty as always, his bow tie showing above the gown, squinted through the round tortoise shell glasses, drew himself up, took a professorial breath and launched. Arabella smiled to herself, knowing that he was good for at least five minutes of gobbledygook about the exam not being complete, results of tests not returned, preliminary investigations not concluded, all interwoven with Richard III’s demise at the Battle of Bosworth Field leading to the Tudor ascension.
