Underground Vampire

by David Lee

  Melmick was an ardent Plantagenet rehabilitationist and, she knew from painful experience, this was mere prelude to his favorite topic: Shakespeare, apologist of the Tudor political order.

  The detective, professionally acquainted with gobbledygook, interrupted, “That’s all well and good, but what caused this damage?” A question she knew a lot of cops would be asking as Oliver kept feeding. In her pocket her phone vibrated.

  Melmick took the interruption with studied grace, waited for the detective to stop interfering and picked up with the alleged murder of the cousins in the Tower. Arabella settled in to watch; rarely did you get two this evenly matched. The detective started turning pink above the collar, flushing to rosettes on his cheeks. Knowing she had only a moment of distraction, Arabella opened her lunchbox, slipped on gloves and began snipping at tissue. “What the hell,” blurted the detective, “are you doing?”

  “Gathering samples,” she replied, as Melmick, finished with the cousins, diverted to Anne as Lancastrian impostor wife.

  Command authority slipping away, the Detective turned on Melmick demanding an opinion as to the cause of the damage. Drawn by the scent of conflict, the lounging cops pushed forward into a tight circle around the table. She ignored the one behind her pushing too close as she leaned over the corpse snipping samples. Melmick launched into the proclivity of farm animals, particularly hogs, to kill and devour their keepers. Melmick made pigs eating Humans as boring as his English history lesson.

  Fed up detective held up his hand, saying, “This guy left work at Columbia and 4th and was dumped in an alley about four blocks away. Are you saying he was kidnapped by a hog in the middle of downtown, killed and eaten by the pig with no one noticing?” The cops laughed on cue and pushed tighter. “Then the pig carried him four blocks and put him in an alley?” The detective knew his audience and milked the pig angle for all it was worth.

  Astounded that the detective drew such a conclusion, Melmick said, “Of course not, whatever gave you that impression?”

  Sensing the penultimate moment had arrived, Arabella plunged the big needle into the victim’s heart, eliciting oohs and ahhs from the cops. The detective, completely befuddled with Melmick, shouted, “Who the hell are you?”

  Pulling the needle from the chest and transferring the blood to her lunchbox, Arabella turned to the detective and, pointing at the stiff’s groin, said, “That’s a big one don’t you think?”

  “What, what?” he blustered.

  “I’d say it’s a keeper,” she observed, taking a closer look. “Say, didn’t you used to work vice?”

  The dark one against the wall started laughing and Arabella thought that was a good sign, at least one of them wasn’t a complete prick. Meanwhile, the detective flushed purple up across his cheeks until his forehead turned to molten lava and it looked like his hair might burst into flames.

  The cops pushed in to get a better view of the dead guy’s penis, which was actually shriveled purple in death and not that impressive, but the cops didn’t seem to know the difference.

  “Here, take a close look and tell me what you think,” like she was discussing whether to keep a trout or throw it back.

  The detective stood in the circle of flunkies, face crimson; he tried to speak but could only gargle.

  “I’ll leave you fellows to decide, you will let me know, yes?” Turning, she headed for the door, the cops parting before her. Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket.

  She fixed the face of each person present in her mind; where she could, she captured their eyes for a brief moment. Oliver would keep eating and killing and these officers would keep showing up at crime scenes; it was vital that she recognize them and more important that they see her as familiar, somehow a part of the investigation.

  The tall Latino-looking cop standing alone in the back stepped forward to open the door for her, whispering, “Actually it looked a little undersized but I’m not really a specialist like the rest of these guys.”

  The Detective barked, “Ortega, what are you doing here, aren’t you supposed to be on the street?”

  “Your email said be here, so here I am.”

  “I’m taking you off the email list,” the Detective said, comfortable again with someone to bully.

  Leaning close to his face Arabella caught his eye without capturing his mind and whispered, “Lucky you.”

  “And while you’re at it, Ortega, why don’t you show our guest out and you keep going too.”

  Smiling, Jesse nodded her out the door.

  He tried to chat her up walking beside her down the hall, but at the elevator she somehow maneuvered him in and as the doors closed she remained in the hall, waving “Good bye.”

  Her phone vibrated again and, walking to the street, she pulled it out and selected the message: ‘Disturbing patterns of blood distribution.’ The text was from no one. She typed ‘thank you’ into the reply box and hit send; there was no response. The Trogs were on it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Ortega sat at the bar watching Finkelstein pour a draft for a guy in a suit, maybe an attorney slumming lunch. The file he’d read was like everything else about this non-case, confusing, with scant evidence, fewer facts and a lot of unanswered questions. The only thing for sure were bodies, dead ones with, as they said in the reports, throat lacerations.

  “I read the file,” he said, as Finkelstein approached, “I met Malloy, he said hello.”

  Finkelstein said, “Yes I know, he called.”

  Ortega registered the fact that Malloy and Finkelstein had talked and resisted the impulse to ask what they talked about, what Malloy said about him, what Finkelstein said to Malloy.

  “Like I said, I read the file. There wasn’t a lot in there other than those two,” jerking his head toward the wall behind him, “I don’t understand how that is Malloy’s brother, the dates don’t match up.”

  Mr. Finkelstein stood there oblivious, old hands, gnarled from a life of work, flat on the bar.

  “That one,” said Jesse, pointing at the picture, “died a very messy death but the file was incomplete, probably the worst investigation I’ve ever seen.”

  “I believe that Sergeant Malloy investigated the death of his brother. Perhaps you should discuss any shortcomings with him,” said Mr. Finkelstein.

  Finkelstein could turn into a right prim little skid row barkeep when he felt like it, thought Jesse, as he contemplated telling Malloy he did a crap job of investigating his brother’s death, deciding there was no future down that road.

  “How’s about that drink you promised me?’ said Ortega.

  “Malloy said you quit drinking,” replied Finkelstein.

  “Malloy doesn’t have anything to do with my drinking,” said Ortega, his voice edged with resentment. “I decide when and where I drink, so pour me a boilermaker,” he ordered, slapping a handful of bills between Finkelstein’s hands.

  Finkelstein stood there mournful as a basset hound that couldn’t find his biscuit, “I’m sure he said you quit drinking. Maybe I made a mistake; you want I should call Malloy and ask him?”

  Ortega looked at the money on the bar as Finkelstein turned to the rotary phone next to the ancient cash register. Finkelstein dialed the first number and Ortega listened to the primitive clicking of the dial rolling back.

  “No need to bother Malloy, I’m sure he’s got better things to do today,” placated Ortega.

  As Finkelstein hung up the receiver and turned back to the bar he said, “Yes, he is an important man and it’s better not to bother him with trivial matters.”

  “You and Malloy good friends?”

  “How so?” replied Finkelstein, suddenly engrossed with rearranging the five-gallon jar of pickled eggs prominently displayed next to the Klondike cheese.

  Ortega watched fascinated as olive-tinted eggs bobbed in green juice, like eye bulbs of an alien residing on the back bar of your friendly skid row tavern. “You have his phone number memorized,” said Ortega, “that’s rare
these days; no one knows anyone’s number anymore.” Finkelstein looked at him with a ‘what are you talking about’ look on his face. “You know, cell phones, you can’t remember numbers anymore, modern technology, maybe it hasn’t gotten here yet,” he babbled, pulling his cell phone out and shoving it into Finkelstein’s face, like he was demonstrating shiny beads to the stone age tribe he’d found undiscovered in the middle of Seattle.

  “This phone was used by my grandfather, my father and now me. It’s the bar phone. You know how difficult it is to keep a rotary dial? They have to maintain equipment just for this phone. Tried to pay me to take it out, then threatened to turn me off if I didn’t upgrade. Had to pull a lot of favors to back ‘em down, but I still got my phone.”

  Finkelstein reached into his pocket for the latest offering from Apple, which made Ortega’s phone look like a brick. “This is the one I like; I manage inventory, order supplies and do the financial reporting on this, and it’s got an app for Torah. Here, look at this,” he beamed as he pushed buttons until the screen was filled with incomprehensible Hebrew letters.

  “Oh yeah,” said Ortega, befuddled by the text, “so you got Malloy in there?”

  Finkelstein put away his phone and drew himself up to his full five foot four inch height and looked to Ortega like he was about to launch into a dissertation. To forestall the lecture, Ortega said, “I mean it’s amazing that you still remember numbers. It’s kind of a dying art these days, don’t you think?”

  “Sergeant Malloy’s phone number is in my head,” he said. “Some things are important.”

  Would that be his office number or his personal number, you know, his cell?” Ortega asked, as casual as he could manage while he sipped the coke and tried to pry into Mr. Finkelstein’s and Sergeant Malloy’s personal business. “I mean are you guys friends or what?”

  The Finkelsteins and the Malloys have a long and treasured relationship, at least as far back as my grandfather. His father attended my bris and was an honored guest when I first read Torah at my bar mitzvah. The present Sergeant Malloy was also in attendance,” replied Mr. Finkelstein.

  “Oh,” said Ortega, “so you two are buddies, well why didn’t you say so? What’s a bris?”

  “Did you read the file,” asked Mr. Finkelstein, ignoring his questions.

  Ortega said, “The file didn’t have a lot of information and Malloy didn’t tell me anything. All I know is the two patrol cops were attacked and one died from savage wounds to his face and neck. They were chasing someone down here and caught up with them in an alley. It all happened about two blocks from here. What’s interesting is what’s missing.”

  Finkelstein considered for a moment then, “how so?”

  “Two cops are attacked for no reason on the streets of Seattle, one is killed, the other mauled and there is nothing in the file.”

  “Yes, so, you have a point,” a pedantic little prick.

  “The point is the Seattle Police Department doesn’t like it when their officers get attacked, let alone mauled and killed.”

  “I see.”

  “No you don’t, the file should be about three feet. It isn’t, it’s barely sixth grade term paper thick.”

  “Why is that,” asked the suddenly sincere Mr.Finkelstein.

  “I don’t know,” replied Ortega, “And while you’re telling me what you know, be sure to explain how Malloy is the dead guy’s brother and still around after all these years.”

  “I know about the Monsters,” said Finkelstein, “the Monsters are scary; you are referring to a bureaucratic mystery.”

  “I’m guessing you know what happened to them and you think something’s going to happen now, so why don’t you tell me everything you know.”

  Mr. Finkelstein leaned over the bar, looming into Ortega’s face and whispered, “Monsters live under the City.”

  “Monsters under Seattle,” Ortega snorted. “Are you crazy?”

  Finkelstein’s bony fingers wrapped around Ortega’s wrist, clutching harder than Ortega would have thought possible. “We foresaw this; they are back; you have been chosen to destroy them.”

  “There are no Monsters and there’s no bogeyman under the bed,” said Ortega, “Is this a joke Malloy cooked up with the boys at the station?”

  “How many bodies have turned up with their throats torn out?” said Finkelstein, staring into Ortega’s face with the intensity of a madman. “How many?”

  “Several,” he grudgingly conceded, “San Juan’s, Everett, now several here.”

  “I hope you can count, Mr. Policeman, because there will be more, many more.”

  “Tell me,” said Ortega, “tell me what you know.” Maybe there was something that would get him out of the doghouse. Wouldn’t that be something, he fantasized, they stick him in a dead end and he catches a serial killer. They’d have to take him back, take him back, give him a medal and promote him. He’d be a hero.

  “It’s starting again,” said Finkelstein, as he limped his way to the front of the bar, shooing the lawyer back to work and locking the door. Returning, he motioned toward the back saying, “Come, I will show you.” He led Ortega past the restrooms to a backdoor, which opened onto stairs leading down into a dark basement.

  “Come, come,” he urged as Ortega paused at the top of the stairs. “What are you afraid of? One old man; what kind of hero are you; what did they send us; must be a mistake.”

  Mr. Finkelstein clumped down the stairs, sinking into the dark basement with the familiarity of old age. At the bottom his hand found the familiar switch and, turning it, illuminated wooden stairs ending at a plank landing turning left into an ominous room. The light was a bare bulb hanging on twisted electrical wire. The staircase was dirty pine nailed together. The treads bowed from generations of rough soles scraping their way up and down. A single four by four post was nailed to the side of the stairs, wobbling when he touched it. He let go and kept going. Behind him the door swung shut on an old twine tied to a sash weight connected to the door by an eye bolt screwed into the wood. Pausing halfway down the stairs he joked, “OSHA hasn’t been down here, have they?” Finkelstein ignored him.

  The basement was the original Blue Anchor from before the Great Seattle fire of 1889. Post fire, the City sluiced dirt from the hills to fill in the streets, raising the streets to the second floor. Now the original bar had become the basement and the second story was street level. Finkelstein’s great grandfather moved upstairs, keeping the basement in use for gambling, drinking, and private matters of the heart while the upstairs catered to patrons comfortable with societal constraint.

  Through the original front door and windows the old sidewalks still fronted the buildings, making a secret passageway leading along the row of basements. The sidewalk was walled in on the street side, making a claustrophobic passage lit from above by glass embedded in the concrete when they laid the new sidewalks. He went out the door into the walkway. Overhead the ceiling was the rough underside of the sidewalks, with light from Seattle filtering through the embedded colored glass.

  Finkelstein followed him out saying, “After the fire my grandfather reopened the bar here,” pointing at the basement, “then the city put up these walls and filled in the streets so that the second floor became the first floor. They raised the whole area one story, leaving all this. We moved the bar upstairs and used this as a private club. During prohibition upstairs was a grocery and this was the bar. Now, this is where we study.”

  “Study?” asked Ortega, “Study what?” still figuring out the geography of the subterranean world.

  “The mysteries of the book,” replied Finkelstein.

  “Come look,” he said excitedly, pulling Ortega back into the old barroom. Charts filled with arcane symbols were pinned to the walls; the windows, Ortega noticed, were covered in translucent paper lettered with unbroken rows of strange markings. Peering closer, Ortega said, “Are these words? Sentences?”

  “Of course,” said Finkelstein, “what else?”
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  Staring intently, the letters and marks seemed to squiggle about as if they were living beings, small and distinct, precise bits of living information reaching out to him, the data beginning to squirm on the page, backlit by violet light from the corridor.

  “How do you read this? It’s just letters, no words no periods.”

  “Perceptive, you grasp the problem. The ancient texts, the originals, you must decipher letter by letter into words, into sentences, into paragraphs, into a complete text to understand; it is not for everyone.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “What seized you are the words of Metatron, the archangel speaking the beginnings of man.”

  Ortega tore his gaze from the windows and, looking back, again saw that the letters weren’t moving. He shook himself to clear his head.

  “Somewhere in here,” Mr. Finkelstein gestured all about and Ortega noticed for the first time manuscripts, vellums, papyri, codices, pottery shards and even, he noted, books, “is the answer.”

  “What’s the question?” said Ortega, picking up a rolled skin bound with a blotched ribbon.

  Finkelstein took it from him before he could undo the tie, saying, “Fourth century, very fragile, we try not to handle it,” reverently carrying it across the room to set it on a shelf.

  On the floor was a complex diagram of geometric figures containing and surrounded by circles composed primarily of triangles and cubes, with each point originating at the center of a circle. Ortega became either nauseous or dizzy, he really couldn’t tell which. His mind seized on the lines and began, of its own accord, tracing from point to point until he had no locus and traveled through the sacred geometry, captive to its gravity.