by Trisha Baker
Jimmy had collapsed by the bar. Charles picked him up, and took him to the couch. "Save your strength. You'll need it to help Meghann."
"How do you know if she's even alive?" Jimmy asked bitterly before lapsing into semiconsciousness.
Charles thought transfusions might help Jimmy—at least keep him alive until they found out what had happened to Meghann. He went to the refrigerator, to get some pints for the mortal, and then cursed his own stupidity. He was so used to simply drinking any blood that he almost killed his patient with carelessness.
Charles shook Jimmy awake. "Jimmy, what is your blood type?"
The man squinted at him. "Huh?"
"Your blood type… A transfusion will make you feel better."
"O negative."
"You're sure?"
"Uh-huh." Jimmy rolled over and drifted back to his half dream, half memory. Fortunately. Maggie and Charles were too scrupulous to read minds. Charles had no idea what had happened that afternoon…
Jimmy had pulled a pillow over his head in a vain effort to shut out the noise, but the pounding on the front door just wouldn't stop. So finally he staggered out of bed, down the stairs, and over to the door.
"Who is it?" Jimmy asked while Max barked and snarled behind him.
"Jones." Andrew Jones was a private investigator Meghann had hired to try and find any information on Simon's whereabouts.
Jimmy opened the door and stepped out on the porch. The sun was irritating the hell out of him… He covered his eyes with one hand. "You got anything?"
The ferret-faced man tried to peer around the open door. "Where's Dr. Cameron?"
"She's not around. What news have you got? You know she said you could leave any information with me."
"I didn't want to see her… This information is for you." The ugly little man smirked. "For a price."
Just the thought of smashing this asshole was making Jimmy feel better. He grabbed the sleazy dick by the collar. "Tell me whatever the fuck you know and I won't kick your ass. … There's your price."
Jones squawked, but reconsidered fighting when Jimmy raised his fist and Max growled. "OK, already. I just thought you'd like to know your girlfriend hasn't been completely honest with you."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Well, she sends my agency on this wild-goose chase for property. And she never bothers to mention that she owns her own multimillion-dollar estate."
"What the fuck are you babbling about? The only house Maggie owns is this one."
"Not according to this." Jones reached into his briefcase and handed Jimmy a deed of property.
While Jimmy skimmed it, the annoying PI kept talking. "I got curious, so I put her name through the computer. And sure enough, Meghann Cameron inherited that mansion ten years ago from her father, Jack O'Neill. He paid the gift tax, and all the property taxes since. Is your girlfriend married? I thought Cameron was her maiden name."
Jimmy put a hand on the porch railing to steady himself. Of all the… When he'd been looking for any alias Simon Baldevar might have been using, it never occurred to him that the bastard might be using Maggie's name. Jimmy studied the deed. This was for some house in Manhasset. This had to be Simon's resting place!
Jimmy felt a hand shaking him. "What is it?" he mumbled.
"It's time for your transfusion. Come on, I've set up a small surgery upstairs." Charles prayed the transfusion would work—Meghann would never forgive him if he did nothing and allowed her lover to die.
Jimmy leaned on Charles, and mulled over his plan. He knew Charles wouldn't approve of what he had in mind. But his head spun with the possibility that he'd finally have a chance to help Maggie.
Tomorrow, while Charles slept, Jimmy would investigate the place. It was worth a shot. Finding Simon there, Jimmy would stick a stake in his heart and end the whole thing. Now he was relieved that Maggie hadn't transformed him. It wouldn't be a vampire helping her with Simon—it would be a mortal, during the day.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
« ^ »
Jimmy consulted his map and drove along Shelter Rock Road, trying desperately to stay awake. He'd already had one near accident this morning when he nodded off behind the wheel, and had to pull into an abandoned storefront parking lot for two hours to nap. He was losing time—it was already ten o'clock in the morning.
He examined the tree-lined road; it was an isolated area. Jimmy was thankful Lord Baldevar hadn't decided to live in some gated, heavily protected neighborhood. Excuse me, sir, why do you want to enter the town? Well, you see one of your residents is a wicked vampire, and he's got my girl. Yeah, right, Jimmy would find himself back in the nuthouse.
The dirt road led him to a brick whitewashed wall with an elaborate iron gate in the center. Jimmy stopped the car, and took his rifle from the front seat He removed the safety, then held it out in front of him. Hard to explain to passersby, but better than being shot by some damned familiar of Lord Baldevar's. Then he grabbed a burlap sack from the backseat, got out of the car, slammed the door, and inspected the entrance. From the gate, he could see nothing but trees and grass—the house must be situated farther back.
There could be no question of hopping the wall—its elegant facade was completely ruined by the barbwire running along the top. A vampire's main goal was to discourage daytime visitors. Any professional thief would take in the wire, the alarms attached to the iron gate, the video surveillance, and decide it would be too risky to break in.
Jimmy heard a small, almost imperceptible click. He whipped around and saw a small swatch of black in the tree directly above him. Reacting on pure reflex, he aimed the rifle at the black and squeezed off three shots.
A man fell out of the tree and thudded to the ground, screaming in pain; his rifle fell a few feet from him. Jimmy ran over and kicked it away before the guy could reach for it. "Jones!"
The PI glared up at him, moaning and screaming. Jimmy inspected the damage—he'd gotten the guy through the shoulder and one shot took him in his right thigh. Not life-threatening but certainly painful—and the private eye wasn't in much condition to bother Jimmy anymore.
Jimmy glanced at Jones's rifle—he had heard the man removing the safety. How the hell had he heard that? Jimmy's sense had improved dramatically since that thing bit him. Did that mean he was a vampire, or becoming one? Well, he'd been able to see himself just fine in a mirror this morning—and the thought of drinking blood made him ill. But on the other hand, those transfusions were like magic—migraine and fatigue aside, at least he was up and around. So how close was he to becoming a bloodsucker?
Jimmy put the barrel of his rifle to Jones's head. "Start talking."
"Fuck you!"
Jimmy wrapped his finger around the trigger. "Do you see anyone around, asshole? I could kill you and stuff you in the trunk, nobody's gonna know. Or I can shoot you in the stomach and leave you here with no medical attention."
Jones was clutching his wounded leg. "What do you wanna know?"
Jimmy was cautious. He didn't know what Jones knew. What would happen if he started babbling about Simon being a vampire? "Why are you working for him?"
Jones didn't need to ask who he meant. "Look, it's nothing personal. But out of nowhere, this rich asshole shows up. I don't know how, but the guy knows everything about me. He knows who I owe—who's about to break my fucking legs because I've got fifty thousand in gambling debts. And poof—he pays off everybody! And all I have to do is—"
"Kill me, right?" Jimmy grinned humorlessly. "What did that asshole tell you about Maggie?"
"Nothing," Jones said sullenly.
Jimmy whacked the butt of his rifle against the wound in Jones's thigh.
"I mean it!" he squawked, gasping with pain. "That guy didn't talk to me about anything… All he did was hand me that damned deed."
"When?"
"He gave me the deed a week ago. Then, two nights ago, he calls me up and tells me to give it to you…
only you. He was real specific about that I had to give it to you during the day; I couldn't bring it by at night. Then I was supposed to watch the house today until you arrived and then kill you. Jesus, what did you do to the guy anyway?"
Jimmy considered what he had just learned. Baldevar must have called the PI after Renee caught him, and before the asshole trapped Maggie. How did he know everything would go his way? Jimmy sighed—did that matter? He'd disabled Jones, and now he was going into that house to kill Simon.
He hauled Jones to his feet, ignoring the agonized protests. "You're not hurt that bad." He dragged him over to the alarm and camera. "Who else is here?"
"Nobody."
Jimmy pistol-whipped him across the face.
"I mean it!" Jones yelled, clutching his bleeding nose. "That fucking camera is a trick. I don't get it—guy's got stuff in there worth millions and his alarm ain't even hooked up to a security firm or the cops. It doesn't make sense."
It made sense to Jimmy—and convinced him Jones had no idea what Simon Baldevar was. You wouldn't hook your home up to a surveillance team if you never wanted anyone around during the day. No telling what they might see…
Jimmy dragged his hostage to the alarm. "Punch in the combination."
Without argument, Jones put in the code and the iron gates swung open.
"Any dogs?" Jimmy asked him.
"Five."
"You know how to make them heel?"
"Uh-huh."
When they were about twenty feet on the property, the Dobermans came running over, snarling at the pair. Jones screamed, "Obsequor!" and they became still.
Jimmy wondered idly what obsequor meant… some weird demon thing, or maybe Latin? He hoped he got a chance to ask Maggie. He made Jones show him where the kennel was, and they locked the guard dogs up.
Jimmy took a look at the estate—a rose-brick manor house with two wings flanking the center structure.
Nice-looking, but so desolate. Jimmy couldn't shake the weird feeling that he was at the ends of the earth. It was stupid—there were other mansions around, a town a few miles away. But once he set foot on Simon's property, he felt completely alone.
Jimmy tried to shake off his unease, and made Jones open the front door. In a way, Jimmy was glad he'd found the guy—no need to break in the house, waste time trying to disable locks. Because without Jones, the front door would be about the only way to gain entry. Although the beautiful manor house had elegant French doors and deep, wide windows to allow in sunlight, every single one of them was protected by steel interior locking rolling shutters. You could not break through those shutters; Jimmy had encountered them before and had convinced Maggie to buy them for her house. He had no doubt now that Simon (and that must mean Maggie too) was in this house. The place was a goddamned fortress, and who but vampires would need to make sure that not even the smallest ray of sunlight could enter the house during the day?
With Jones's aid, the operation was going almost too smoothly. No need for his breaking-in tools, his glass cutter; his extensive knowledge of alarms wouldn't be called upon today. Goddamned asshole of a vampire might as well have put out a welcome mat. Something about that thought made the skin at the back of Jimmy's neck tighten, but he couldn't figure out what was making him uneasy.
When they entered the foyer, the dark, oppressive atmosphere made Jimmy feel like he was inside a crypt.
Jones turned around. "So what now?"
Jimmy ordered him to lie on the floor facedown with his hands behind his head. "I'm gonna tie you up."
Jones started shaking. "Come on, man, I did everything you asked me to—"
Jimmy ordered Jones to open the bag and get some rope. Biting his lip, the PI did as he was told, gave Jimmy the rope, and lay facedown on the floor.
Jimmy put the barrel of the rifle to the back of his head and fired. Jones's body convulsed once, and then he was still. Jimmy fired again to make sure he was dead.
Then he collapsed on the floor, not caring about the blood rapidly flowing out of Jones's head. He had just killed a man in cold blood. Ordering him to lie down like that—did he think he was Gary Gilmore? Well, maybe that guy did it that way for the same reason Jimmy did—he didn't want to see the person's face when he killed him.
Jimmy had killed before when he went vampire-hunting, but that had been different. Some guy and girl came at him with guns, and he shot them first But Jones—the guy had been wounded, and he just killed him anyway. Jimmy was beginning to understand why Maggie was so sad—how the hell did she deal with killing people to stay alive?
Then again, Maggie didn't kill people anymore—said she hadn't done that since she left Simon. But how did she deal with the memories of all the people she had slaughtered? Maybe it was different when you were a vampire—maybe your conscience didn't hurt as much. No, Maggie was disturbed. Anyway, what choice had he had? If he just tied the guy up or even knocked him out, he'd have to spend the whole time he was searching for Simon worrying about Jones waking up. And that prick hadn't been some innocent bystander—Jones would have killed him if given the chance.
Jimmy pulled himself up, looking down in distaste at his blood-soaked clothing. If he were a vampire now, would it fascinate him? Would he lick every drop off himself? There was a disgusting thought. Jimmy was starting to have second thoughts about being a vampire. What would it be like to drink blood, to never see the sun again?
For God's sake, Delacroix! Why don't I try imagining what it's going to be like to never see Maggie again? Now stop this stupid moping and find the goddamned vampire!
OK, Jimmy thought to himself. What's the most logical place for a vampire to hide during the day? He started hunting for a door leading to a cellar or basement, trying to ignore the sudden dizzy feeling he had.
In the kitchen, he found a wooden door with a dead bolt barring entry—Jimmy simply blasted the lock with his shotgun. He glanced down into the thick darkness leading below. It made the funereal atmosphere of the house seem like blazing sunlight. Jimmy got his flashlight and started walking down the rickety staircase cautiously.
He could not see anything except what the small circle of light from his flashlight illuminated. Jimmy hated to admit it, but the pitch blackness was frightening him. His heart was in his throat—any second he expected something to reach out and grab him.
"Fuck!" There was a wet patch on the stairs and Jimmy went flying. He lost the flashlight, and his sack, laden with heavy vampire-slaying implements, landed smack on top of him.
Fortunately for Jimmy, the cellar floor was dirt. If he'd taken a header onto a cement floor, he'd very likely have a concussion. Then he could just lie here unconscious until the vampire woke up and found the tasty mortal snack waiting for him.
Jimmy pulled himself to his knees, groping in the dark. He hadn't fallen very far; he could still see the light (what little there was) from the kitchen and he started crawling toward it, dragging his bag along with him.
His hand connected with a soft lump and then Jimmy felt something slither across his hand. A bug of some kind—no, wait a minute. He kept his hand in place, becoming aware of the bone beneath the rotting flesh, the putrid odor, and the unbearable sound of maggots hatching from a dead body…
My hand is on some goddamned corpse was Jimmy's last rational thought. Then instinct took over, the need to be out of this dank hole with a feeling of evil all around him. Screaming like a banshee, Jimmy turned and ran as fast as he could to the promise of sanity coming from the dim light of the kitchen.
Jimmy took the stairs two at a time, only breathing normally when he stepped back into the kitchen. He staggered back into the living room, trying to ignore the still bleeding corpse on the floor. I can't go back down there, he thought. Not even for Maggie can I face that fucking place. I don't know what the hell is down there, and I'm sure as hell not facing it with no light. For all I know, he's got it booby-trapped… I could step into shards of glass, have battery acid pour down off the ceiling…
Why did he suddenly feel so tired? Was it the scare he'd just had? He thought that transfusion had patched him up, but now he felt awful. He was nauseous and his head was throbbing—he was having trouble focusing. All he wanted to do was rest. Jimmy forced himself to walk to the curving staircase leading upstairs, and then he collapsed on the fourth step. Just a little rest, he thought tiredly, just gonna rest my eyes for a few minutes…
Jimmy snapped awake. Jesus Christ, how the hell had he fallen asleep? He consulted his watch with the glowing dial: 5:20 in the evening. Shit! Shit! Shit! Sunset might not be until 7:04 P.M., but Maggie told him vampires could rise as early as one hour before sunset Goddamn it—that only gave him about forty minutes.
Fear propelled him up the staircase. There were about ten rooms on this floor—all locked. Jimmy cursed—now the asshole decided to be cautious. Jimmy used a credit card to jam the old-fashioned locks.
Five rooms, and he had gotten nowhere. Jimmy might want to rescue Maggie, but he was running out of time. It was already 5:40. Jimmy promised himself he would only search this floor. If he didn't find the vampires—better luck next time. Maggie wouldn't want him to die at Simon's hands.
At the end of the corridor, he struck pay dirt He slipped his card in between the lock and door. There they were on the bed—Maggie and Simon Baldevar. Jimmy flipped the light on and consulted his watch—5:50.
Jimmy's heart was in his throat—they could wake up any second. Then what? Could Maggie help him out—and what if Simon woke up before her? What if she lay there, completely oblivious to the fact that he was being slaughtered?
Stop wasting time, he told himself. Pray Simon is a late riser. Jimmy got his stake and ropes out of the bag. First thing Maggie taught him was restrain the vampire's feet and wrists—they'll be surprised if they wake up and you can use those precious seconds to drive the stake in. So he'd tie the bastard up, then shove the stake in his heart, and chop off his head.
